What a royal pain in the rump you must be, Vixen. Maybe it's that MTHFKR mutation in your DNA.
I no longer think you're a woman. You sound exactly like so many of the PGP men who have graced us with their brilliance over the years.
Guess what. I stay up all night, drinking Coke and eating chocolate. Sometimes I get a $4.00 Margarita at Chipotle, and I couldn't complete a Sudoku for all the money in Bill Williams' pockets.
And yet.....I am right, and you are wrong.
Ponder that.
Chocolate? Did someone say chocolate...?
A Day in the Life of an Imaginary PIP
Awakes to the household sounds of Mom and Dad pottering around getting ready for work. Head pounds, vaguely remembers the night before, hauling himself out of the basement, through the screen door, and then down the porch steps, di Caprio-style, on his stomach, and goodness knows how he managed it, into the car. He had to drive very slowly with one eye shut – the bourbon shots from Dad’s drinks cabinet had given him double vision – managed to get a Big Mac and fries and back home, before the gas ran out.
With one eye, he looks at the time in the bottom right hand corner: 7:20 am and his half-completed tweet under the name ‘@Mad_Dog’ in response to a PGP who’d accused him of not having,’read the court documents’.
‘The kids are innocent!...’ He has written in the most witty way he knows how. He racks his still sleepy brain trying to think of a counter argument and not be levelled with the response, ‘Simpleton!’
But it’s all too much. There are marks on his forehead from where he dropped off to sleep with his head buried on his keyboard, discarded Macdonald wrappers surrounding him and a half eaten pizza slice in the drawer with something green growing on it.
Mom pops her head around the door, ‘There’s some toast and marmalade for you on the breakfast table – ‘
Stops in her tracks. ‘Darling, you look terrible! When is the last time you went out into the sunshine -?’
‘Mom, don’t nag, I am on a valuable mission –‘
‘Son, you are 44 and you used to have such a promising career in the FBI –‘
‘Mom, this is my career: a keyboard warrior. I am protecting truth , justice and, er, the American way from foreigners in a country smaller than the entire state of Californ-i-a. I am helping to make America great again.’
Mom backs out of the room. Dad can be heard hollering in the background, ‘Take out the papers and the trash, or you don’t get no spending cash…’
Our hero blots it all out, until at last the door slams for the last time as everyone else in the house heads for work. Problem with regularly being woken up with just three hour sleep is being unable to give a clever reply to the likes of the PGP without being held up to ridicule.
Browsing, he comes across a tweet, ‘#AmandaKnox accused an innocent man’.
He maximises his Marriott crib sheet page and scrolls down until he gets to PR factoid #101: 'Of course she did, she was interrogated 53 hours without sleep, food or drink, was slapped about the head by police tag teams of twelve, who changed every hour on the hour, especially dispatched from the Rome elite torture squads, designed to breakdown homely
virginal Apple-Pie American girls.’
A notification flashes up onscreen: an email has arrived from ‘Supertanker HQ’ marked, ‘Top Secret’ ‘For Your Eyes Only’. Our hero feels a rush of adrenaline race through his body. They are instructions for the day:
• ‘Damage limitation: There is a positive review for John Follain’s book – all warriors to down mark it and write arguments against in the comments section.
• A few more glowing reviews for ‘Waiting to be Heard’ needed.
• A few more guilters and haters spotted.
• Action plan: Agent 007 to investigate their backgrounds and expose them.
• Agent Zit to write wordpress article defaming hater ‘Harry Rag'. Oh, and keep up the "What a POS Nick Pisa is" twitter campaign.'
It’s all in a day’s work for our hero. He sends a DM to Agent 007 who lives in New Zealand and calls herself @Moana. Her avatar is a fierce-looking
seagxxxx albatross, and chuckles to himself. ‘That’ll wind’em up.’
A good thing about the folks waking him up early, means he gets to have an egg and sausage McMuffin before they stop serving breakfast. With a bit of luck, his welfare check will turn up in the post soon. He climbs out of the basement, wading through the empty wrappers and coke tins, to keep watch for the postman. He keeps forgetting to bow before the picture of the kids he has pinned up on his door.
‘Who turned on the sun,’ he blinks, as he stumbles out of the darkness. Aha! He’s got it. That’s what he’ll respond to that hater. ‘Rudy did it alone!’ Heh.
Onwards and upwards.
