Posts Tagged ‘nepotism’

Capone Science, Capone Faith

January 6, 2014

Fake History capone


The brutal ethnic-cleansing of the Capone people is one of the tragic events of American history. From modest roots in the south of Italy, the Capones went on to create one of the most successful and dynamic cultures the world has ever seen. To better understand this once-vibrant civilization, let’s examine its scientific and religious beliefs.

Capone Science

By the mid-1920s, visionary leaders of Capone ethnicity controlled 54% of the hotels, 77% of the speakeasies, 83% of the brothels, and 87% of the gambling facilities in Chicago. Amazingly, this tiny group of gifted job-creators made up a tiny fraction of the population (.000086 %). This statistical anomaly would suggest that the Capones were genetically superior to non-Capones, Darwin having discovered that survival was about being strong in ways that could be numerically quantified.

The Capone community admired natural selection so much that they named their largest brothel after Charles Darwin himself. Today, the building that once contained Chuck’s Fitness Parlor still exists, but it now houses the well-visited Chicago Museum of Prostitution.

Of course, their public presence lead some small-minded non-Capones to resent the Capone nation’s unrelenting success. The irrational jealousy of the less-civilized created the conditions for many evil purges (le purghe) by racist, Anti-Romanesque monsters like Elliot Ness.

Suspiciously, the persecution came to a violent climax at the moment when the Capones seemed ready to rescue the Federal Reserve from a cabal of what many might call “gangsters.” Just as the Capones were about to realize their potential as a Great People, the economy sank in the late 20s and “the boys” found themselves scapegoated, much like the major bank cartel does in the present age. Successful sub-cultures often prove an irresistible target for a declining society’s suckers and losers.

capone graph

Capone Religion

Capones were model Roman Catholics, contributing millions to various well-publicized charities while simultaneously engaged in the discreet funding of upper-echelon clergy. The Capone people and Roman Catholicism were a natural fit because, as with other Abrahamic religions, the text provides a clear hunter-prey dichotomy: Catholics are the hunters (us), while people outside the faith are prey (them).

The Capones – perhaps miraculously – always seemed to have had the best hunting tools – perhaps they were God bequeathed. And because the ethnically Capone formed the highest class of Catholic societies due to the above-mentioned Science, they granted themselves the exclusive right to hunt other Christian and non-Christian hunters. They policed the police, often buying them outright.

If only others had learned from and imitated the Capones instead of destroying their beautiful culture of education, what a different America we would be living in today.

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WTM and the Coach

September 13, 2009

wtm and the coach


Jesus locks and unlocks his new airplane, sending loud electronic yelps through the village. As he pushes the keys on the remote starter, the repetitive “bleep! bleep! bleep! works like an ear-shattering cry for help, and his freshly plucked face squeezes into a pointy smile.  “This is the kind of therapy I probably need” he says.

The therapy he probably needs is a result of the magazine in his hand. The cover is an illustration of Moe  Silverberg’s  satirical novel I Saw Something Nasty in the Manger. On page 57, the Silverberg-owned publication contains a particularly inflammatory excerpt as its centerpiece.

The latest twist in the FMJ trial scandal is that Silverberg’s newsmagazine is cross-promoting his own scathing fiction story, one which resembles – a bit too closely – the actual people and events in FMJ’s glamorous life. Free Market lawyers are already preparing a libel case, but they can’t really move forward to the litigation stage while FMJ himself is being sued from so many angles. There just aren’t enough overpaid hours in a day.

FMJ is taking other steps – besides playing with his obnoxious remote locking-device – to deal with his trauma. Murray Davidson, Registered Professional Motivational Coach – a paid friend to CEOs worldwide – has been hired to build up FMJ’s confidence during his trials. And Jesus has hired a private investigator to dig up some dirt on Moe.

But he still feels vulnerable and victimized. His bottomless well of pride has been filled with tears, and he just hasn’t been the same old messiah/attention-whore that his self-centered associates know and pretend to love so well.

FMJ tucks a thousand-dollar handkerchief into his Gucci slacks: “Sometimes, in the morning rain, I feel like a useless rich bitch who was born into money and just had to kiss all the right asses to succeed. It’s like I live to exploit other people – to bully them out of their human dignity and their spare time  – just so that I can have an obscene number of useless status symbols to ease my isolation and self-inflicted pain.

I can’t even sing my own fucking songs – I get a million-dollars per concert, and yet I can’t even impress my own family at a karaoke bar. But for $450,000 an hour, I go out there onstage in a few tons of makeup and lip-synch the prerecorded track while strutting around in gaudy costumes. The only original talent in my shows are in the costumes and the financing.”

His Registered Professional Motivational Coach turns to FMJ, and speaketh: “You know, Jesus, I think your main issue is that you just don’t believe in yourself enough. And if you don’t believe in yourself, no one else will believe in you either. Always believe in yourself. Always believe that you are a god among men.”

FMJ will repeat this self-love mantra at least twelve times a day. Doctor’s orders.

I Saw Something Nasty
in the Manger

Mortimer Silverberg
(extracted from Chapter 4;
A Gangbang on Salt Street, p. 68)

Ear-shattering noise from a nearby NASCAR race masks her ecstatic screams as White Trash Mary is serial-nailed by Joseph and his buddies from carpentry school. The percussive engine buzz and rouge-tinted air make everyone hornier and hornier.

She takes another deep hit of amyl nitrate, lies back and enjoys each plunge of the non-stop penetration being provided by five well-built Italian jocks with thick, calloused hands. The drug cocktail makes her numb and giddy – she feels like she’s riding a rotating roller coaster sitting on a fleshy, vibrating prod.

Waking up covered in Italian cum a few hours later, WTM sniffs a fat line of coke off the glass table. She catches a reflection of herself as she vacuums up the energy powder. Pantyless and out of breath, she quickly throws on a make-shift toga and a third layer of mascara, and then jumps onto the jet-ski to go and meet her dealer/fuck buddy in the middle of the Dead Sea.

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Prophet Air

July 1, 2009

fmj prophet air


FMJ nonchalantly balances a Kool Menthol between his ear and euro-gelled hair.

Tracing a line in the dust of the bulletproof window with a finger, Judas looks puzzled: “But Jeez, you already own 400 learjets. Why buy another one you’ll never use?”

FMJ: “Why not buy one more is just as good a question, Judas Buzzkill!

Jesus doesn’t like it when Free Market Judas tries to interfere with the natural rhythms of His Shopping. This is a crisis, and with all the celebrity trials and union mutinies, it’s no time for Consumer Interruptus.

FMJ: “Look Jude, if I don’t buy a learjet every few months, I get depressed. And when I get depressed, entire continents can starve – the entire economy can come down with me. So stop biting the invisible hand.

You’re supposed to be my press attache at this staged confrontation between me and the union-president, Free Market Earl – my second cousin. I’m not paying you to tell me how to live my life – what to buy and sell.”

FMJ rolls his eyes and pops a yogurt-covered date into his gaping mouth.

Judas: “I just think you ought to put off buying photogenic big-ticket products until your trial is over, Jeez. Think what Moe or Bernie Silverberg could do with a pic of this. It could make you look like a bit of a prima donna.”

Free Market Jesus inhales deeply, flaring his nostrils as he exhales.

FMJ: “I haven’t bought any private lakes or polo fields in five years. Jude, I’m not sure I want to live in a world where it’s not safe to buy a learjet when you’re feeling under the weather.”

A tinny electronic remake of Daft Punk’s One More Time blurts out of Judas’s white leather belt as he lifts a razor-cell to his ear.

Judas: “Mary, I have to take this call.”

Jesus flirts with his reflection on the metallic gas cap of the plane as he applies organic lip-balm to his collagen-laden lips. Finally, he finds himself face-to-face with tangible proof of his value as a human being in the form of a gift to himself from himself.


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fmj tag

Greed: It’s the original ideology !

The Meme Police

March 26, 2009

meme police 2


(Please not that this story has been tagged by Mice Media Watch for inaccuracy, inappropriateness, and political bias)

Hungry Farfour is waiting for a vegetarian falafel platter at a cafe in Nablus, when Naomi Klein and Noam Chomsky notice a giant mouse eating alone, and decide to finally meet their most famous Palestinian fan.

“Hi, you must be Farfour,” Naomi says, trying to break the ice like Julie on the Loveboat.

“Oh my gosh. You guys are both famous  writers, aren’t you? Would you like to have lunch and chat a bit?” Farfour does his best to hide his excitement, but he has been out of work for over a year now, his tiny little mouse home has been demolished to make way for a rat colony, and 400 members of his immediate family have been forced to live in an Israeli-funded lab that tests pharmaceuticals and cosmetics.

A Mossad spy – Agent Greenwash – notices the bookish celeb duo chatting with Public Cartoon Enemy Number One, and the spy discreetly plunks himself down at the table next to theirs, disguised as a plant.

Farfour looks perplexedly at Noam, and asks: “Has that potted plant been sitting at the next table for a long time?”

Noam, sensing a bit of tension, quickly makes a joke:  “It’s probably an Israeli news reporter manufacturing dissent, Farfour. Get it? I said dissent instead of consent. Am I clever or what?”

Farfour decides that it is best not to speak loudly as their safety may be in danger, and the group spend the rest of the working lunch silently passing text to each other on napkins.

After a few hits on their table-side bong, he forgets that he has been using the napkins as manuscripts, and wipes some delicious garlic humus off his mouth with an entire conversation about controlling public opinion through media filters.

Noam and Naomi later drove home together with paparazzi following close behind in a black Volvo  SUV – a “We Support the Kiss Army” sticker positioned right above the rear kangaroo bar.

Luckily, the minor kerfuffle with an Israeli spy didn’t stop these two smart kids from North America from posting eye-opening articles for the alternative press about their meeting with this “brave refugee from children’s TV.”

The Fashion of the Christ

March 7, 2009

Fashion of the Christ


Flicking his ashes into a plant, Jesus sneers at Cynthia’s plastic hoop earrings.

FMJ: “What are the tabloids saying about my fabulous trial so far, Cynth?”

She opens a needlessly large magazine and starts reading:

Cynth: “Ari Applebaum of the Nazareth Free Star writes: This will be the Holy Land’s most glamorous celebrity trial. FMJ will make you want to stand up and cheer! ‘ So I guess he’s already decided he likes it before it even starts.”

FMJ: “Don’t read the reviews in the newspaper chains I own! …I want to hear what the other one… that independent guy – what’s his name… Moe Silverberg, I think.”

Memory for detail has been sacrificed at the alter of drugged up celebrity raves and latenight sex in mirror-glassed limos.

FMJ: “Tell me what the film reviewer I don’t own is saying.”

Cynth: “Well, Moe says you’re a criminal and need to be locked up forever to protect the human race from you and your insane greed.”

Jesus exhales menthol smoke from his nostrils:

FMJ: “Fuck, I can’t believe what an antisemitic prick he is, Cynthia. I mean, he actually called me a parasite in one of his columns. If that doesn’t sound like something Goebels would say about a celebrity, then I just don’t…”

The judge loudly calls for order, and signals for everyone stop talking and sit down.

Judge: “Free Market Jesus Horatio Christ III, please rise and take the oath.”

The judge is a family friend of FMJ, and he went to the same cliquey private school as Jesus’s now-separated dad, Joseph.

Jesus places his white-gloved right hand against a beautiful gold plaque with “Division of Labor” carved into it, obviously by a skilled typographer.

FMJ: “In the name of a free market, I promise to say the most cost-effective things that my PR firm tells me to say. Amen.”

The prosecuting attorney then approaches the judge, and quietly asks for an additional five minutes to address new information currently shooting out of a fax machine sitting between an eight-track player and a game of Pong.

focus group

The trial stops once again. As the audience waits to see what the fax says, Free Market Jesus seizes the moment to continue vapidly chatting with his severely-botoxed corporate attorney – Cynthia Popovic – who is now enjoying some take-out falafel and a diet Coke.

Cynthia is still on the same page.

Cynth: “How can Moe Silverberg be antisemitic, Jeez? He’s Jewish himself, isn’t he?”

Jesus rolls both eyeballs into the back of his clean-shaven and lightly talc-ed face.

FMJ: “He’s self-hating, Cynthia! They’re the worst kind of haters! It’s a medical condition or something.”

Cynth: “How do you know he hates himself or the Semites? He’s  only ever written really hateful things about you, not about himself or all the people he does business with.”

Losing both his patience and his capacity to focus on boring non-celebrity-type things, Jesus leans over and opens his silk robe.

FMJ: “Just forget that loser indie media weasel for a second and look at this chest job, Cynth. Fifty-five shekels, and worth every bit. No stubble, no bikini shadow. Plastic pecs, just like GI Joe.”

Cynthia scrunches up her face and leans into his drama queening:

Cynth: “Mary, that’s your fifth chest-wax in two months. Are you sure you’re not just addicted to the pain?”

Jesus smirks, and then – pulls an eyelash to make it curl.

FMJ: “If you think that’s extreme… I’ve got a client who’s had four cosmetic kidney-transplants in the last year and a half. She says new kidneys make her feel fresh and young. I’m running out of orphans who have a kidney to sell me, Cynth.”

Jesus reaches into a box of expensive chocolates and takes out a large, heart-shaped one which he bites into and then freezes as the vanilla cream drips into his gaping mouth.

The prosecuting attorney walks back to his own seat. He whispers to the bowler-wearing hipster seated beside him, and then rises again to begin his opening remarks.

FMJ:“Well, they’ve already lost the Evening Gown portion of this boring pageant,” Jesus hisses to his attorney. “Now let’s see if they can squeeze more money out of me with a guilty-verdict than I’ll eventually get out of them when I counter-sue.”

He winks at his celebrity lawyer, and then sends a remarkably bitchy text-message to the prosecution.

Click for more FMJ

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