To the Honorable President of the United States
Yes, this mission report is !@#$ late. Sue me. I spent all of yesterday and the day before that suffering through one of the worst calamities the modern world has to offer, apart from AIDS, Ebola, and liberal deadbeat Presidents.
That, sir, would be COMPUTERFAIL. And boy did I ever have it in !@#$ spades.
The day started out innocently enough. I was still shaking the cobwebs out of my sinuses from the wild weekend I am pleased to announce I spent at taxpayers' expense. I was also trying to process having to deal with Neo York's finest concerning the dead superhater body that was left behind at the party along with the glitter, burst falsies, and unused condoms.
(And before you get on that ludicrous, chartreuse phone I still can't believe I talked your predecessor's predecessor into putting on your !@#$ desk and call me up to ask, no, we still have no idea who The Flaming Patriot was, or who sent him, or what he was really after apart from trying to kill my gay ass. I've got people looking at his weapon, though. I'll get back to you on that.)
So I did what I normally do on Mondays after the J. Edgar Hoover, which is to say not report in for work unless absolutely necessary. This is, in my view, the smartest thing to do as I am in no shape to handle any emergency more emergent than Belgium declaring war on itself, or Mr. USA getting caught with another dead hooker.
Okay, just kidding on that last one. I always throw things like that in just in case he's in the office and you're reading these reports aloud, like your predecessor did, and, according to my precognitives, your replacement will.
Mornings at the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G are quiet, contemplative things, at least after I've kicked out the previous night's entertainment and convinced myself I'm not in danger of dying anytime soon. Coffee by the gallon and mouthfuls of tjbang sticks have a way of cementing that notion. And once I'm full and !@#$ aware of my immortality, it's time to read my emails, make some video conference calls, and look at the best Thai ladyboy porn than was ever made on the cheap by proud American entrepreneurs. Sometimes all at the same time.
Emails worked fine. Porn worked fine. Alien love god penis worked fine in relation to the porn and some of the emails.
But I got exactly five minutes into the video conference before my computer system seized up, necessitating a reboot. Five minutes later it seized up again, and choked its way through a reboot. Five minutes later it seized up yet again, wanted to repair itself on start-up, and proceeded to seize up during that, too.
I'm sure you can guess where this is going, sir. Sometime after the meeting was well and !@#$ adjourned in my absence, and the next one was horribly delayed, the wondrous computer the American Taxpayers have subsidized for yours truly turned blue, spat up gibberish, and died a horrible death in my arms.
Emergency crews were summoned after METALMAID thought I'd finally chewed one tjbang stick too many. Those who made the mistake of flying up to the penthouse level to rescue my apparently-dying ass were treated to a barrage of withering fire from every gun I had in my arsenal as I cradled the smoking carcass of my beloved Khunying.
I'm told it looked something like King Kong against the biplanes, only with automatic weapons, bewildered rescue workers, and a deflated, porn-denied alien love god penis.
After that frankly sorry display of impotent rage, I began to collect myself, apologize for any damage done to Neo York City's other finest, and decide on my options. The problem with having the day off work, at home, is that I'm not legally allowed to have The COMPANY send over repair technicians. This is all part of that weird, post Computer Hell Plague "all you intelligence people play nice and fair" bull!@#$ we have to deal with now, incidentally.
And I know we've spoken about that before.
So what's a man without a working computer to do? I put on clothes, jump in the flying car, sputter down to Behemart, and pray that I still have the thing under warranty. Of course, when I get there every old biddy and dumb college kid who got burned downloading porn is in line ahead of me, and the Nerd Posse member behind the counter is taking wayyyyyyyyyyy too long to get to me.
Yes, I will admit I started using SPYGOD VISION on people, but it was a matter of national security. America needs me at the helm of The COMPANY and I need my Thai Ladyboy porn and it's as !@#$ simple as that.
Eventually I get to the head of the line, and start trying to politely and precisely explain the situation to the bespectacled nerd behind the counter. He either doesn't know who the !@#$ I am or doesn't care, because I only get a full minute into the technical exactitudes of what exactly happened to my poor, sweet Khunying before he turns into a salesman and tries to sell me on a superdeluxewhoopiedoopie repair and maintenance package that doesn't really address the problem that I'm having.
Of course, I have been warned about this. Behemart's Nerd Posse used to be the best game in town in terms of getting good advice on your computer woes, good work on the problems, and sensible, customer-oriented sales. Sometime over the last few years, their shareholders decided that being nice people was costing them money, and decided to turn the Nerds into !@#$. Now they're just unfun !@#$ worms who want to crawl up your !@#$ and drag money out your nose, and don't give a !@#$ about your problems as long as they make their quota.
Given all that actionable, now-verified intelligence as to their !@#$-rapery, it was very justifiable to use SPYGOD VISION on the little worm and leave him writhing in an imaginary pool of Guatemalan !@#$ Snakes. This didn't fix my computer, but it made me feel really !@#$ good.
(So did shooting up the place on the way out. You'll probably get a few complaints about that. But I swear I only aimed for the Justin Beaver display. Really.)
Of course, you may notice that I am writing you from a computer at home. The solution eventually came to me after a few hours of trying to look at porn on METALMAID's external diagnostic screen, much to her robotic chagrin. I called some SPYGOD SCOUTS from the local troop up and offered them instant promotions if they could fix my beloved.
And wouldn't you know they did? Good kids, one and all. I got them beer, wrote them all promotions, handed out some action badges, and got them the !@#$ out so I could paint the walls.
So I think I've learned something today. And if I didn't, that poor Nerd at the Behemart sure as !@#$ did. With any luck he's applied for a new job toot-sweet.
Anyway, I was going to tell you about what we've learned about HONEYCOMB, but quite frankly I don't give a !@#$ what you know about them, right now, except to know that we're going after them, next, instead of GORGON. Feel free to not tell the truth about that one, too.
Yours
SPYGOD
(SPYGOD is listening to Computerlove (Kraftwerk) and drinking a Phuket Beer. When in doubt, Phuket.)
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