The Illumanti Presents American Idol

Well it looks like someone finally figured out that the Illuminati are pulling the strings at American Idol. So I guess I should fill you all in on what the Illuminati are doing to make this the most boring American Idol season. Ever.

First up, we know how much entertainment you people experience from watching Simon rub his man-boobs, so this season we’ve demanded that he purchase shirts one size larger so he would no longer need to alleviate the chaffing by rubbing himself on live TV.

As for the babbling idiot who sits in the middle… what.. I think… what… smells like purple… you… look… I think… beautiful.  Ahem, we took Paula off her meds and laced her Coke cup with a custom cocktail mixed in a public urinal at the airport by yours truly.  Simon’s in on it and has been instructed to not only allude to her cup being “special”, but also annoy her during the show so she is increasingly confused.

Randy, on the other hand, I really can’t take credit for.  His mind control chip has been out of whack since he was a drummer for Journey and we just haven’t bothered to fix it.  Partly because we’re afraid his “yo, dawg” tourettes will get worse and partly because we’ve been losing a lot of diabetes sufferers during recalibration.  I keep telling the staff to stop making them eat a whole bag of twinkies before putting them in the CALIBRATION CONTRAPTION OF DOOM, but they don’t listen to me unless I hang them by their ears over a raging sea of termites.  Ooh, that reminds me.  Intern evaluations are coming up soon.  I cast thee into the annals my sadistic imagination!

We’ve also been sucking the life out of Ryan, which is similar to what Simon does every night, but this is a lot less fun for Ryan.  Every time he says “This is the best top # EVER,” you can actually see the pits in his eyes where his soul used to be getting deeper and deeper.  And to top it all off, Paula’s incessant blathering is taking up so much time that he’s scrambling to make it up in other places.  Soon, Ryan’s head will implode and we’ll just replace him with a Ryan-bot.

Will you ever be able to figure out when we do this?  Or maybe we already have.

We also demanded changes to seemingly vamp things up.

Hour long results shows are great, aren’t they?  They’re just filled with so little content and so much fluff that you could just puke cotton balls and fart little hopping bunny rabbits, couldn’t you?  Why must it take a whole hour (with commercials) to tell someone their ass is getting axed?  When you were fired from MacDonald’s, did you get to be in a bottom three and then sent home?  No.  But, I quite enjoy forcing these zombies to parade around, have all the bad news from the previous night thrown right back at them, engage in a group sing, only to be told to go home.  But let’s not forget those viewer questions.  We must give those their dues.  The “viewers” that are calling in are mostly plants.  You can tell which ones because they always ask a different question than what is on the screen.  Oh, but we want to mix that up a bit.  Now that all my Illuminati secrets for American Idol are exposed, I would love for an actual viewer to present one question to the call screener, and then actually ask Paula, “Are you drunk?”  I can’t actually sanction such a question, lest I be feasted on by foot-tickling butterflies, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hint that someone outside the organization do it.

We know what sick pleasure you gained from watching egotistical “professional” singers dish out useless or bad advice, squirm nervously while nitwits sing their songs to them, and shoot uncomfortable “get me out of here” glances at the camera.  So we cut back on that.  Besides, the singers felt so creeped out that they had to go home and take a shower afterwards.  I swear that had nothing to do with Paula involuntarily drooling on them when we were trying to get the cocktail proportions right.

At some point, I let a couple of heroin addicted 13 year old girls have at it with some black markers and some blue highlighters and the new stage and opening credits were born. Notice how the new stage feels a lot smaller than the old one thanks to well placed balconies, tucking the band away, etc which all kind of close it in around the contestant.  And we absolutely adore the idea of a mosh pit filled with little fan-bots who can’t even sway to the music.  On something utterly mainstream as Idol, a mosh pit is a mockery of everything a mosh pit stands for – and when you fill it with all the little “I’m doing this because a fifty-year old groupie told me it was cool” rhythm deprived teenie-boppers, you destroy the whole concept of a mosh pit.  Soon, you will all be so afraid of joining in the seriously un-cool mosh pits everywhere that you will happily sit in your seat throughout all kickass concerts.  Sit down, lemmings, sit down.

And I bet you thought that allowing contestants to play instruments would be a wonderful way to showcase their other talents. How naive.  We knew that the weaker singers would hide behind their Idol sanctioned inanimate object and use it as way to hide the fact that they still don’t know what to do with their hands.  That was the whole point.  Otherwise, you’d know that they don’t have a lick of talent.  Well, they do have talents that involve licking, but that’s not exactly something suited for primetime.  Or basic cable.

So, now we come to the contestants.  I could cover the plants, the leaks to the press, the planned eliminations that kept the entertainment value low… but that would give away too much.

Just picture if you will, this final two:  The Wheezing Lizard and the Invisible Woman.

Swishenheimer 766 Meets Tuesday

The hamster lap dancing union, Swishenheimer 766, will be meeting next Tuesday. The aquarium has pulled out as the regular meeting location due to several reasons, including but not limited to: Puffy insisting on riding the beluga whales, Buckwheat leaning his little hamster butt into the piranha tank and teasing them with his tail, that unspeakable act Turbo performed on the squid, Chubby getting the janitor drunk on tequila shots and using his belly as a trampoline, and the improper use of the slingshot to turn Pancake…into well…a pancake. They weren’t able to scrape all of him off the dolphin tank. Flipper’s extremely upset. Or laughing. It’s really hard to tell with dolphins.

Now, I’ve talked the SuperBall factory into giving everyone another chance. So no more stunts like last time. This means that no one is allowed to see how many SuperBalls can fit in their mouth, stomach, or… other places. No more trying to rig the equipment to create SuperBalls bigger than elephant balls – the elephants get jealous. And for the love of the spiteful god, the polybutadiene is not for skinny dipping.

So, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way. Nippy will be be performing the role of the “Lap Leader” and wants to discuss several important issues facing the union members, so make sure you’re prepared to participate at the meeting by reading the following:

Lap dancing requires you to stand on your hind legs, shake your groove thang to the music, and entertain the customer. While this looks quite simple when you see humans do it, it surely is not for the hamster race. Balance is a very tricky thing, and it’s important to use your tail to stop you from falling backwards in a maneuver we fondly call “The Tripod Shuffle.” Be certain to practice this for you may be called on to demonstrate your technique at the meeting and will be subjected to critique. You don’t want to be the guy to fall over backwards into the pit of fire. Yeah, we’re really not going to like you if it’s your fur we smell burning.

Nipple configuration can be quite difficult to properly maintain. Humans are lucky in that they only have two because the legal limit is just that. Consider alternative methods to prevent accidental over-exposure. If your fur is short, your options are few. A little superglue and some trimmed leftovers from your dog’s last shedding can go a long way to prevent fines. Others have chosen to go “clean shaven” and just used duct tape to cover up the naughty bits. As for those with longer fur, there are quite a few options available to you. Human hair care products can be used to manipulate the fur for creative concealment. Just be sure to only purchase products tested on animals, otherwise there may be burning, itching, swelling, lymphoma and, in rare cases, death. Those who prefer the “wet look” will find that the petroleum jelly you already use to achieve said look will aid you greatly in maintaining legal status while performing. If it’s your first time using the jelly, be aware that there is a look beyond wet called “drowned in petroleum jelly”. You want to avoid this as it thins out the fur too much and is really only attractive to a…certain kind of hamster. Speak to experienced “wet look” hamsters for tips on preventing this from happening. Remember to show up at the meeting dressed for success, so to speak. The federal representative, Agent Ping-Pong, will be there to provide preliminary inspections.

Hoarding is the main event of any performance. While a normal hoarding actually involves storing food in your cheeks, it will be impossible to do this while entertaining. The fine art of giving the appearance of hoarding, along with the reveal to the customer is paramount to a successful hamster lap dancer. Before the meeting, do some research on the internet on how to do it – but do not try it without a trained professional. We will have experienced instructors at the meeting to train you properly, as well as long-standing union members to help you out.

So remember furballs, next Tuesday at the SuperBall factory. If you’re late, we’ll feed you to the copy machine.

Franchising Opportunities Available

Do you want to make money? Do you want to be popular? Do you want to go down in history?

Well, the Illuminati can help! Just send your left nut to the address shown on the back of your secret imploder ring, and you’ll receive a packet on accomplishing the above tasks by showing you how to do the following:

• Come up with your own religion, complete with:
  • Spiteful God
  • Sacred Texts
  • Immutable rules not included in sacred texts, but supposedly told to you by spiteful god because you are the chosen one.
  • Paranoid convictions regarding age, sex, work ethic, eating habits, necessary bodily functions, and the ever popular “thought process”
• Recruit members with specific methods of converting the following susceptible personality types:
  • Lonely college students
  • Desperate unwed mothers
  • Loveless geeks
  • Evil grandmas
  • Addicts
  • Religious Zealots (they make great minions)
  • Nutbags (unpredictable, but generally loyal)
• Plan and build your compound using the following techniques and materials:
  • Pre-conceived schematics for bunkers, greenhouses, guard towers, electrified fences, weapon storage units, and residential units.
  • Complete material lists as well as cooperative, Illuminati-approved vendors.
  • Methods to get your followers to comply with the strict building schedule, which naturally includes long days, dangerous work conditions, and frequent casualties.
  • How to purchase the land (on which to build your slice of heaven) through shadow corporations funded by the net worth of your new recruits.
  • Additional financing… wait, we’re not financing your lazy ass. That’s what your followers are for. By the love of the spiteful god, make your idiot followers grow or make something and sell it at ridiculously high prices to the general public. Hint: “organic” is the buzzword of the day.
• Build charisma using the patented “ego stroke” method.
• Keep your followers “in line”, which includes directions on effective random acts of torture.

And if you act today, we’ll throw in the best selling book “7 Habits of Highly Effective Cult Leaders,” and “Super Fun Paranoid Conspiracies.” Both of which will reinforce your god-like status to your minions and will cement your control over your followers.

Ode to an Audit

As you all know, it is the goal of my organization to jerk you around until your little brains crack like a baboon’s backside.  And in the spirit of that, we created the concept of IRS audits.  So, while I was showering the other night, some strange audit-related rhymes got stuck in my head which led to a few more, which led to the below:

Ode to an Audit

Don’t start thinking
We’d accuse you of lying and stuff
When the reality simply is
That we’re just checking up

So let’s schedule an audit
For an inconvenient day
Don’t think about rescheduling
You don’t get a say

So maybe I’ll show up
Sometime around nine
Possibly quarter after
If the location I cannot find

Park me in a corner
With my laptop and calculator
And I’ll ask a lot of questions
With answers I won’t remember later

Your deposits are too high
Your income is too low
Oh wait a second
You refi’d your home

Moving on
To Cost of Goods Sold
The deduction you took
Was really quite bold

So show me the ledger
Pages totaling two hundred seventeen
And the supporting receipts
In boxes one, two, and three

The auto repairs are my next concern
They’re simply way too high
But as you told me twenty minutes ago
The newest truck was made in 1985

So I suppose we addressed the issues
And all that’s left to do
Is discuss all my findings
And all that might be due

But what it all comes down to
The simple fact, however strange,
Is that a week long audit
Resulted in “no change”

If you really love plants…

Have you ever talked to your house or office plants and justify that behavior with the pretense that they can’t hear you? Well, you’re right – they can’t.

But I can.

Go ahead. Take a good long look at your ficus. Sing a couple of show tunes…entertain me. And if you’re an erotofloramaniac…please, stop…before I throw up.

I mean, how else did you think we were compiling all this information on you? Through your myspace page? Sweetie, the Illuminati are not interested in drunken photos of you in compromising positions that you posted, sadly, thinking you look hot. We have far more embarrassing material. Stuff you wouldn’t want to get out. Like that little incident with the swiffer wetjet and the white tiger (you know those animals don’t grow their tails back, right?). Or the time you put a sensitive organ in the dishwasher and not only hurt its feelings, but also permanently damaged the pipes. Or do you think that your secretary is secretly eavesdropping on your meetings, phone calls, and reading your email? Well…she is. But not for us.

But we’re not just using them to keep an eye on you. We’re also using it to keep an eye on the general public. You ever hear those news bits that go “So-and-so went missing in Central Park?” Yeah, how do you think we know that Central Park is where they went missing? Our spies are all around you. Every time you don’t scoop the poop, we hear about it. Every time you goose a 90-year-old woman, we laugh right along with you. And put down the hot dog. No. I don’t care. Put it down.

We initially started this method of intrusion with court rooms. It wasn’t feasible to place enough agents in the room at enough locations to hear everything going on. Plants solved the problem. Now we can hear sidebars, the chattering of teeth as the court employees crank down the heat, the judge scratching his nuts…everything.

And of course, since it worked out so well in the courtroom, we started drafting plants everywhere. And R&D is currently working on ways of integrating submission methods right into the plant so I can send you into a semi-comatose state on a whim. On top of that, I’ve been told that the built-in self-defense methods such as the pepper spray shooter and the grasshopper sniper rifle are just on the horizon. It would have rolled into production last month, except we had a problem with the ladybugs getting pepper spray in their eyes, wandering into the rifle, and accidentally being fired at living statues at the park. It wasn’t pretty.

So next time you water your Japanese Peace Lily, consider that sometime soon, that harmless looking plant may be sending you into a vegetative state. And singing Mariah Carey at the top of its lungs while you’re stuck there… watching and listening for the rest of your natural life.

Payback’s a bitch.

Two lawyers walk into a bar…

While browsing my favorite Illuminati forum this morning, someone once again brought up the relationship between American lawyers and the British government and given that the Queen of England is stopping by later for a spot of tea and a round of paintball…I suppose I should comment.

For those of you without your handbook and secret imploder ring, let me expound the theory as it has been relayed to me by my operatives. It’s quite simple, really. The Bar Association is owned privately with the HQ located in England. This leads to a belief that “Bar” is an acronym for “British Accreditation Regency,” which in turn leads to a belief that the titles given to American lawyers are all related in some way to the royal crown and property rights.

For those of you with the handbook and secret imploder ring, you know that this is not the Official Illuminati story. But again, I understand that not everyone can afford an F550 to haul the handbook around with you all day, so for those who don’t have it:

In the late 1800s there were several laws in effect that prohibited the sale of liquor for all but a few convoluted conditions. This was detrimental to the booming liquor industry and the happiness of your random drunk. Desperation quickly set in, and it was not long before those with the money, education, and intelligence to decipher the legal spaghetti were finding the loopholes necessary to do what had to be done. It was not long after that that the first bar opened. The citizens rejoiced. No longer did housewives have to bear the whining of their husbands after a long day and the husbands no longer had to contemplate murdering their nagging wives.

As a token of the ability to unravel the legal code to do formerly illegal things legally, these pioneers were often referred to fondly as “law obeyers.” After several years of drunks slurring the two words together, they eventually became known to the general population as “lawyers.”

And their services did not end with sloshing up the locals, either. These bars became havens for the average person to ask the lawyers to decipher other bits of the legal code. As a result, these lawyers became very well-versed in certain areas of law – eventually specializing in select areas so that they could provide better answers. Why, if you asked a passerby where to get advice on how to legally park your horse-drawn carriage across a road and charge a toll, well, he’d tell you to walk into the bar on 7th. Need advice on how to marry your neighbor’s mule? Check out the bar on Lexington.

While this had it’s merits, they ran into problems. As the amount of bars increased, it was getting harder and harder to figure out which bar you needed for a given situation. So, on August 20, 1878, 100 lawyers from 21 states met to discuss solutions. The first being that some of the bars had to stop selling liquor because in some towns, not one person could walk in a straight line. The second was to form an association to keep track of all the bars. And on August 21, 1978, 100 lawyers from 21 states got loaded on moonshine and signed a membership agreement to the bar.

The lesser known parts of the agreement entailed setting up expensive schools so others could learn to “lawyer”, building downlines (oh…I’m sorry…”legacies”), and charging for their services.

And that is the Official Illuminati Story of the Formation of the American Bar Association. Remember to check the appendix for the related story of the formation of Alcoholics Anonymous.

You Can Be an Illuminati, too.

April 1st. The one time of year that the general population can screw with each other, much the same way we screw with you. But please keep the following in mind:

• You are no longer allowed to use the “Delusional Contortion Gun”. We now reserve that for the kids at Christmas time.
• Fuzzy handcuffs can only be used in limited quantities. I’m tired of dispatching interns to uncuff the piggies from your bedposts.
• Rum soaked cotton balls are strictly prohibited after the incident last year involving the CEO of a multi-national corporation, three sticks of gum, and a tank. You know who you are.
• Gene Chapman is booked solid for his nude hamburger balloon animal presentation. Has been for weeks. Stop calling.
• The wolverpus is still available for parties and pony rides. Unfortunately, he’s still a bit hungry, so you might want to get insurance on the pony. It’s worth it, though, to see the horse freak out as he drools all over the reigns. But invite him at your own risk. I don’t want to hear about any missing limbs or mauled house pets. Just be happy he doesn’t like the taste of children.
• We are currently missing only one out of the forty-two anti-Irony tanks that went missing last year. If you see it, please contact HQ immediately. Do not attempt to commandeer the vehicle yourself as there still may be a half-crazed CEO with bubblegum at the helm. And you really don’t want to mess with that.
• Interns are still available to those who wish to carry out intricate schemes. Just submit your immortal soul to the PO Box shown on the back of the $1 FRN.
• Worldwide conspiracies still must be cleared through my office. April Fools does not give you a pass on this regulation. Fines for attempting a worldwide conspiracy today will result in punishment including, but not limited to, being lathered with honey and shoved in a water cooler for the remainder of the year.
• The Evil Government Weather Machine is not broken. It’s just overheating from too much use.