Monday, May 9, 2011

5/9/11 - Spies R Us

 Every so often I get !@#$ing asked how you can become someone like myself. I know what they mean, but often veer the !@#$ conversation into uncomfortable territory by telling them everything they didn't want to !@#$ing know about my childhood. The lonely, big !@#$ crushing melodrama of a young boy, growing up in the broken !@#$ing shadows of a greater age and having to teeth on toxic substances while his supposed mother entertained things too !@#$ hideous to recall in the other room, and sometimes the same !@#$ one.

Now, ignoring that none of that !@#$ is actually true, unless you want to count my dad, it makes for a good !@#$ story. And If I'm really lucky, my audience !@#$ing leaves to find someone else to talk to by the time I make it back with my drink.

(I tell the bartender to set me up a big !@#$ triple and take their time. Works like a !@#$ing charm.)

But all that crazy !@#$ about mi familia is just a smokescreen to keep them from getting what they really !@#$ing want to know. And that, son, is "How can I become SPYGOD?"

The answer is "you !@#$ing can't, son. Go be someone else."

And that's the honest truth, son. You can't be me unless you !@#$ing want to get your mind and body !@#$ed with in the name of America, anyway.

They're still doing, it, too, just through more covert means. Like my !@#$ing face on cereal boxes. You can only imagine what that !@#$ does to a person.

But hey, you want to be a !@#$ spy? Well, anyone with the right !@#$ing aptitude can join the Company (that is, the CIA). And if you're really !@#$ good, have insane talents, or are !@#$ing insane, maybe we can get you into The !@#$ COMPANY. But you might as well try to win the !@#$ lottery for all the good that'll do you.

Of course, if you've been in the SPYGOD SCOUTS, that gets you on the !@#$ ground floor right away. But we make you crawl up the !@#$ wall with one hand and no feet to the third floor from there.

(Smart ones learn to use their !@#$ing teeth.)

But let's talk about spies, son. And let's be !@#$ing honest, for once.

Say you get recruited by the !@#$ Company? Well, provided you don't wash out of their !@#$ing training program, or get used for some !@#$ing nefarious purpose while trying to graduate, like poor Bullseye did in that one movie with Scarface, chances are good that if you get a !@#$ job with them, you're going to be a !@#$ing Analyst.

And you know what !@#$ing Analysts do? They crawl up the !@#$ ANAL of some knotty little problem by making !@#$ing LISTS. Over in Langley, they have big !@#$ room after big !@#$room of over-qualified, under-paid desk jockeys !@#$ing reading foreign newspapers, all looking to see if anything interesting about the !@#$ President For Life of Backwardistan tumbled through state censorship.

Day after !@#$ day, month after !@#$ing month, using that skill in fluent Backwardian to !@#$ing compare the delicate prose of whatever poor hack got out of bed !@#$ing early enough to listen to their beloved President ramble about how much America sucks big !@#$ camel humps with the less delicate prose of the guy who was smart, slept in, and just !@#$ing watched it on CNN.

Sounds exciting, doesn't it? No big !@#$ car chases, no fancy cars, no god!@#$ radio wristwatch, no charming companions with suggestive names and a penchant for fighting in their !@#$ underwear. Just a room full of newspapers and a officemate who can't stop !@#$ing farting after lunch.

And that's your !@#$ career, right there. You last long enough, they !@#$ing put you in charge of one of those rooms. And then a couple of rooms. And if you do well enough at that !@#$, maybe you'll be in charge of a whole section, provided you don't get !@#$ing tossed out the moment there's a big !@#$ scandal and the guys at the top decide to !@#$ing clean house.

Glamorous !@#$, huh?

But hey, you want to know who the real !@#$ing stars of the !@#$ show are? Chances are good you already !@#$ing know such a person, but you don't know what they really do because they don't want anyone to know.

And that's because if you did know, you'd want to !@#$ing call someone to turn them in.

That's what your average spy is, son. This overweight, under-appreciated slob named Harold who works at some !@#$ research lab connected to the Government. A couple years ago, he had an incredible night of extramarital sex with someone way out of his !@#$ league, and a foreign government's been !@#$ing blackmailing him ever since. Or maybe they promised him money, or favors, and keep !@#$ing stringing him along with promises of more, or threats of what happens if he !@#$ing stops.

Every day, poor Harold gets up, deep-throats Tums and Maalox, and wonders if today's going to be the day a !@#$ letter at his dropbox is instructing him to steal or !@#$ing sabotage something that will effectively end his career, and maybe even his life. He wonders if he should just come to someone and come clean, but knows his handlers may be !@#$ing watching, and that we'll probably !@#$ing thank him by putting him in a dangerous sting operation, and then try him for !@#$ing treason to say "thank you for your !@#$ cooperation."

Sounds really !@#$ glamorous, huh? Well, that's how this business works. For every idiot you see riding around on a bike with a !@#$ machinegun, mowing down black cars on an endless !@#$ing highway in Baja, there's a hundred Harolds, all funneling useful intel back to the US of A. Their handlers are the sort of people who used to pants nerds in school and light their !@#$ hair on fire while giving them chocolate swirlies. Their handlers' bosses are mean sons of !@#$es who blow up the wrong village for fun.

And that's us, the good guys. You should see how our !@#$ allies and enemies carry on, sometime. They make us look like the !@#$ing Easter Bunny on downers.

So no, you do not want to be a !@#$ spy, son. You want to be !@#$ing ignorant of how these things really work. There's reasons I get drunk on Chateau Adolf, buy thai ladyboy hookers on the clock, and try to !@#$ing kill people by pissing off The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.'s balcony at taxpayers' expense.

I got to look behind the big !@#$ curtain. It's there for a reason.

Don't !@#$ing peek.

SPYGOD is listening to Spybreak (Propellerheads) and drinking Mythos Lager.

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