My name is Julius Tweezer. I am the emperor of that knockout new nation called Tweezerland. It was just formed 14 months ago, July 17, 1998 to be exact. My empire is a Communism. Though it is a small nation, about as big as the evil American state of Delaware, it is very powerful. There is but one city. That city is called Tweezerburg. It is divided into two different sections. One is for the nobles, most of whom are very stupid, and one section is for the poor people. The poor people are very smart, but they don't have much money because they are not allowed into the noble's section of the city, and that is where all of money is. You may ask me, "you said that this is a communism! How are there poor and rich people?" My answer for you is that all comrades are equal in wealth, but some comrades are more equal than others. I used the book Animal Farm to model the society that I am the overlord of. The poor were created not as equal because they live in the poor side of Tweezerburg. You may be thinking about how we got so powerful even though we are so small. The rich comrades are rich because on their side of Tweezerburg is my vast nuclear base. I pay them money to point nuclear weapons at the United States of America. The poor people don't get as much money, because they do the job of creating the weapons, whereas the rich people finish it. I believe that a finished job is better than an almost finished job, so the rich people get payed far more money than the poor. Every Sunday we sing the national anthem. Everybody but me must waste their Sunday because from the moment they wake up to the moment they go to sleep they must sing it. It goes, "Oh, comrade, comrade, comrade, I share my wealth with you, oh comrade, comrade, comrade, I share my wealth with you," repeatedly to the tune of the #1 hit "Dreidel." I remixed on that Hebrew tune just as Puff Daddy remixes on 80's tunes. Did you know that "Dreidel" was #1 on the billboard 200 a couple thousand years ago? Anyway, if I catch a comrade not singing it on Sunday he will no longer be a comrade. I will take his head away from him with the ax that my cousin gave me for my birthday, and put it in my collection of heads. In our national anthem it says something about sharing wealth. The poor people protested that the noble's wealth hadn't been shared with them yet in the 14 month history of our nation, so I made a new law that said that every century the poor will each get a small sum of money from the nobles. That sums up my great nation. It is time for me to go to bed.
Let's talk about Bill Clinton. I hate him. He is anti-Communist. That means that he is not a comrade. Any good comrade hates any non-comrade. Also, he described me once on CNN. He said, "Julius Napoleon Tweezer looks very strange. Both eyes overlap each other. He has a big, stupid looking nose, and his teeth are all of unequal size. Why, he is almost as ugly as my wife."
The thing that pissed me off the most about his words were that they were all true. I look like my brother, and everybody is always telling me how bad he looks. They would do the same to me, too, if I wouldn't kill them.
Once my computer made a picture of me. After seeing it, I smashed the computer and de-comradized it. That's a ritual we Tweezarians do to things we hate. We yell "Haaaar Huaaaaaah!" 10 times, kick it twice, and then it's de-comradized. A month ago, when I went to the USA, I de-comradized Bill Clinton. Maybe that's why I've dreamt about killing him for three straight weeks. Last night, I got a good idea. I decided not to kill him, but to hold him for ransom. I would send one of my most enthusiastic followers, or maybe bribe a secret serviceman, to kidnap him. Then the USA would have to either pay us $1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, otherwise known as one-decillion dollars, or see him die. Nevertheless, I still dreamt of killing Bill Clinton.
With the financial shot in the arm that I would get from capturing him, I could take over Bangladesh, the country next to mine, and expand my nuclear base. I'll try that once the plan goes through.
I was going to pay Motley Anin, if that's his real name, to kidnap Clinton. He is a secret serviceman and he said that it was as good as done - by Friday. Sorry, I wanted an instant job. I fired him. I decided to send Comrade Corey Kinkleburoe. He's the comrade that I trust most. He hopped on my private jet, which has pictures of me all over it, to the USA.
I was watching JNT today. That's one of the channels that we get in Tweezerland. JNT is my initials, Julius Napoleon Tweezer. The others channels are Julius, Julius Tweezer, Comrade Tweezer, Comrade Julius Tweezer, and Comrade Julius Napoleon Tweezer. One other channel is trying to start up, but its name has to have something to do with mine, so it's having trouble coming up with something without being sued because all of the other names are taken. JNT is our equivalent of CNN, and it said that Comrade Corey Kinkleburoe had been apprehended. It said that since the plane had pictures of the person who had kicked Clinton and was pointing nuclear missiles at his house, they had put him in jail. Evil American reporters had gotten an interview with him. This is the way it went.
"Mr. Kinkleburoe, what are your intentions?"
"Haar Huaaaah! Haar Huaaaah! Haar Huaaaah! Haar Huaaaah! Haar Huaaaah! Haar Huaaaah! Haar Huaaaah! Haar Huaaaah! Haar Huaaaah! Haar Huaaaah!" Comrade Corey yelled.
"What are you - OWWW! That hurt! Why did you kick me?"
"I hate you! You are American! You are not a comrade! You are from a nation that takes orders from a de-comradized man, so I just de-comradized you! I HATE YOU!" I must remember to give Comrade Corey an award when he returns. That was a true sign of Comradism, which is the religion we practice here in Tweezerland. It's laws are that a comrade is a believer in communism, and you musn't mistreat a comrade. Any non-believer in Communism must be de-comradized. When you de-comradize non-comrades, you get points. When you de-comradize comrades, you lose points. The points are what get you your next life. If you get negative points, you don't get another life. If you get a low number of points, you get a bad next life. If you get a lot of points, you have a great next life.
Back to the subject of kidnapping Clinton, I sent Comrade Limbally Limbazilly to bust Comrade Corey out of jail and team up with him to capture Clinton. I let him fly to the USA in my reserve plane. It has pictures of me all over it too.
Comrade Limbazilly did a good job. He busted Comrade Corey out of jail, Got all of the inmates teamed up against Clinton, and bust them out of jail, comradized them, which is yelling "Huaaah Haar!" once and patting them on the back twice, and then they are an honorary comrade whether or not they are pro-Communism. If they are anti-Communism, however, it only lasts for a month. Then he hailed a couple of taxis, and told him to drive to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. When Comrade Limbazilly got there, he ran in, only to be checked by secret servicemen. He promptly de-comradized them all, and then the ex-cons held them back while the two comrades ran further. They probably would have been checked by secret service again, but by chance the cursed Bill Clinton was walking by at the same exact moment the ex-cons had stolen the secret servicemen's guns. They said, "Stop, anti communist Secret Service. Don't defend Clinton or we'll shoot!"
"O-o-o-kay, ja-ja-ja-just da-da-da-don't ta-ta-take ou-ou-ou-our la-la-la-la-lives." They all stuttered. They dropped their guns. Then Comrades Corey and Limbazilly took Bill Clinton, and ran out the door. They hopped in my private jet with pictures of me all over it, and flew back to Tweezerland.
They landed today, at 12:19 A.M. They brought Clinton right to my house. "Why do you not like Communism?" I inquired of him.
"Because it isn't Democracy." He answered.
"Democracy? What do you see in DEMOCRACY?!"
"Uh, it means I get to be president."
"AAAAAAAAAH! I did good in de-comradizing you. I shall now ban you from comradeship." That's another ritual we do. When you de-comradize someone, they can always be re-comradized, unless you ban them from Comradeship. To do that you must fooey their cheekies. That is when you put your hands on their cheeks and rub, and recite the national anthem backwards. "You with wealth my share I comrade comrade comrade oh. You with wealth my share I comrade comrade comrade oh," I sang while fooeying his cheekies vigorously.
"For Pete's sake, what are you doing?"
"WHAT IS PETE'S SAKE? WHO IS PETE? FOR WHAT ARE HIS SAKES? I HATE YOU AND YOUR FOOLISH WAYS! I HATE PETE, AND I HATE HIS SAKE! EXPLAIN TO ME WHAT PETE'S SAKE MEANS OR I'LL TAKE AWAY YOUR SAKE!" I hate it when people say Pete's sake. I made a vow on my comradeship right then and there that I would de-comradize and ban from comradeship the next comrade that I heard say "For Pete's sake!"
"Well, Pete is a guy. People like referring to this guy, and, uh, can I call up America? I need to get their opinion on this policy before I tell you." I am no dimwit. I know Bill Clinton, so I wasn't surprised.
"No, don't explain. I'll be calling up the USA," I said. I dialed 1-800-RANSOMS, "Hello. I'm holding Bill Clinton. I'd like to connect to the White House."
"Anything for a fellow ransomist." The guy on the phone said. Soon Albert Gore was on the phone.
"Hello, fool. I call you fool for you are anti-Communist. I'm holding Mr. Clinton."
"May I ask who this is?"
"I am Comrade Julius Napoleon Tweezer."
"Well, Mr. Tweezer-"
"NEVER CALL ME MR., MR. YOU SHALL REFER TO ME AS 'COMRADE' OR YOUR YOU'LL BECOME THE PRESIDENT BECAUSE I'LL KILL YOUR PRESIDENT! Go on, please."
"Comrade Tweezer," He said reluctantly, "What are your intentions?"
"I intend for you to pay me $1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000. But, not everything always goes according to plan, so if I don't get that in the mail by tomorrow you will be the president." That was where I messed up. Instead of calling UPS, who mails money the fastest, Albert Gore called Priority Mail. They may be cheaper, but any fool knows that FedEx is the fastest. I don't think he did that to save money, however. I think he did it to become president, being that he was Clinton's replacement. That was good for me, however. When midnight came I pretended to kill Clinton. That way the USA thought I killed him. Then I locked him up in our jail. I received the $1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 the day after, anyway, and used it to buy a few bombs from Saddam Hussein Jr. I like Saddam Hussein Jr. a lot more than his father. His father was not a communist, as Saddam Jr. is, and his father would never give you bombs. I'm glad the USA assassinated Saddam Jr.'s father. I used those bombs on Bangladesh. I took it over, and used half of it on an expansion of my nuclear base, and the other half on Tweezerville. I decided to keep Tweezerburg the same, but move all of the de-comradized people to Tweezerville. That way the city that I lived in wouldn't be full of people who are anti-Communist. At that time, my life was perfect.
It just goes to show that when a life is perfect, it isn't going to get any better. When I woke up Comrade Benji Bookally said, "Emperade, emperade," that's my name for emperor of the comrades, "the de-comradized Bill Clinton escaped today!"
"Oh no! There is a de-comradized man on the loose! Call Comrade Limbazilly. He got the job done last time." When Limbazilly came in I said, "Comrade Limbazilly, I need you find the escaped Bill Clinton."
"He escaped?! For Pete's sake-" He had said it. He had said "For Pete's sake."
"Haar Huaaaah!" I recited 10 times, and then kicked him twice, for a vow is a vow, and comradeship is comradeship. Then I fooeyed his cheekies and said, "You with wealth my share I comrade comrade comrade oh. You with wealth my share I comrade comrade comrade oh. Comrade Limbazilly, you are to report to Tweezerville right away."
"Yes sir," he said as if his life was over. I needed a new person to capture Bill Clinton, otherwise Al Gore would no longer be president, who, to update you, was doing a terrible job. He was about to turn the USA into an Autocracy. That's right, the USA was going to have an emperor. I think that Bill Clinton heard about that, and that's why he escaped. I decided to hire a professional agent. An agent by the name of Joe Mamma.
"Yo, yo, so watcha wanna do? Ya wanna be brawla's; shot callers, brawla's? Who be dippin' in da' Benz with da'-" Joe Mamma was saying. Don't worry, I had already comradized him.
"I don't want to be a brawler, a shot caller, or a brawler. I want you to track down Bill Clinton."
"Look, yo. I gotta get paid, yo. This brotha has got to get paid."
"Hmmm. I still have money left from the ransom. How does $100 sound?"
"I laugh in pi-ty at ya. You akchally think that Joe Mamma, the agent Joe Mamma, is gonna do a case for $100? Look, ya gotta up the money."
"$100 is a lot of money in America, isn't it?"
"Yeah, maybe back when yo' great grandmamma was livin', but she ain't livin' anymore."
"Oh, fine. I'll give you $1,000 in advance and $1,000,000 when you catch Clinton."
"Sure. You got yoself a deal." Then he walked out of my office finishing up his recital of that Puff Daddy song. He may speak in slang, and not exactly act like a well brought up person, but I've heard good things about him. He's a felons worst nightmare, and soon to be Clinton's.
Joe Mamma told me how he was going to capture Clinton. "Yo, I got a mad idea. I'll go over to this guy I know. He be named Jiggly Goo."
"Jiggly Goo? I don't like the sound of that. Where did he get that name from?"
"Well, don't ask me. He lives in Jamaica. He just sold some computers that had lots of info on them to bail out of jail. Ima find out who he sold them to, and then I can find out where Bill Clinton is."
"Okay, but I'm going."
"Look, either it's that or no money for you."
I was getting bored with life. Everything was the same thing every single day. Wake up, glorify Communism, go to sleep. Wake up, glorify Commism, go to sleep. Wake up, glorify Communism, go to sleep. This would be a change, and since we were going to Jamaica I could spread the word of Communism.
"Fine. You can come. Don't mess me up."
We were on the plane to Jamaica. They had just announced that they were passing out the beverages. "Yo, it's about time! I could be dyin', for all ya know! Quick, hurry up! I'm thirsty! Y'alls be fools, bringin' us our beverages so late!" That wasn't the first time. He had been rude all throughout the plane ride.
"I've asked you once, and I'll ask you a million times, please shut up," The pilot himself had gotten up out of his seat to talk to Joe Mamma, "I'm trying to fly a plane, for goodness sakes!"
"Well, you be doin' a bad job, yo! The way you be flyin' this piece a' shit, yo gotta ask me a lot more than a million times! Man, this flight is BUMPY! How d'ya expect a brotha' to take a nap? Oh, and tell yo people to MOVE IT wid' those beverages!"
"Hmph." The pilot said.
"You should be ashamed of yourself," an elderly lady who was sitting next to us told him. Then she clonked him on the head with her purse.
"YO! Watchoo doin'? Do ya always go around wacking brotha's on da' head wid' that purse of yours?"
"Why do you never appreciate what is given to you? Why do you require more? Why do you not treat others as you would expect them to treat you?"
"Yo, I expect everybody to treat me like treat them. I don't expect them to be kind to me! I go to work every day wid' one thing on my mind. To bust the guy I'm tryin' to. I do my thang, I bust people, get their asses thrown in jail. I don't expect people to be nice to a brotha' that spends his whole life tryin' to bust people, and they shouldn't expect me to be nice to them!"
"Ah, what do you know?" Then she clonked him good again.
When the beverages finally came Joe Mamma said, "Yo, what takes y'all so long? A'right, enough of 'dat. Gimme 25 Fosters."
"Fosters?" The stewardess questioned him.
"Yeah, you know. Australian for beer."
"I don't speak Australian, and we don't serve beer on this plane. Emperor Gore has clearly stated that he doesn't want any alcohol on any plane."
"Oh, I'll bust Gore right after I bust Clinton." Everybody gasped after hearing "Clinton."
"He means his brother, uh, Joe Clinton." I butted in.
"No, I mean Bill Clinton, the ex-president Clinton. I'm gonna find him and bust him."
"Sir, he is dead." Said the stewardess.
"Oh yeah. I knew that. Just that this guy over here, the guy wid' both eyes overlappin' each other, the guy wid' da' big, stupid looking nose, and teeth of unequal size-" he had just cloned Bill Clinton's description of me on CNN while he was trying to make an excuse. Everybody now new who I was.
"Hey, you, you kicked the ex-president!" The old lady said, and then clonked me twice as hard as she had Joe Mamma.
"Owww! And you're telling Joe to be nice!" I yelled.
"Hey, that bunghole killed the president, so let's kill him!" Suggested a passenger in the back row. I turned around to get a good look at him, and saw that he had angry eyes and long dreadlocks.
"Jamal, what are you doin' here?" Joe Mamma asked. The person who I gathered to be Jamal gulped. Jamal was a young man with nonsensical dreadlocks wearing a shirt that said "bunghole".
"What is this, the third time we've met up unsuspectedly? I certainly hope that you haven't gotten in any trouble lately! Now take back what you said to my client."
"I-i-i-i-i-I'm so-so-so-so-sorry." He said.
"Ya see, Jamal and I go back a long time. A couple a' months ago I was trying to bust him for nearly startin' a bigass war, but he got away cuz some UN ambassador thought he was cool. Then, not even a month later I tried to bust him and a couple a' his friends, one for killing BIG, one for obtaining computa's illegally, and Jamal and the otha's for helpin' them, but they blamed it on another friend. I wonder what'll happen this time!"
"Sir, sir?" The stewardess started to ask me.
"Don't 'sir' me! I am not 'sir,' I am 'comrade.' Sir, Mr., Ms., Mrs., etc. are words for anti-Communists. I am a comrade, for I believe in Communism."
"Comrade, what would you like to drink? I said you couldn't have Fosters, remember?"
"Do you understand English? Al Gore stated no-"
"Hold it a minute. . . Al Gore? We're going to Jamaica!"
"No, we are stopping in Florida first. What, you didn't know that?" My life was over. Somebody would probably dial the Miami police on the phone that the plane has, and the police would lock me up in jail.
"Hey, Joe, have you ever hijacked a plane?" I inquired after the stewardess passed by.
"Oh, sure. Who hasn't?"
"Uh, you've gotta do it again. Once I set a foot on American ground I'm dead meat."
"Oh, yeah. You kicked Clinton. Okay, this is all we have to do. Did you see the pilot walk onto the plane?"
"Well, he's very, uh, beefy."
"Beefy? You mean he likes to eat beef?"
"No. I mean he eats too much beef. He's fat."
"Oh. What's your point?"
"Just tell him that there's a guy selling donuts in row 12. He'll be out of our way."
"What about the co-pilot."
"Relax, man. He didn't come on the flight."
"Didn't you here the announcement at the beginning of the flight?"
"Oh, no. I was listening to yodeling. They had Jackly Joobajarra on the little radio thingy."
"You have a sick mind. Anyway, they said that he had gotten delayed at the all you can eat bar in the airport."
"All right, let's go." We ran into the cockpit.
"What are you doing? Ahhhh! It's the ducks! They're coming to get me!" Exclaimed the overweight pilot.
"Yeah. Did you know that a ducks quack doesn't echo? It's freaky, man. They could sneak up on me, and kill me. All of the ducks are plotting against me. They all want to rip my esophagus out of-"
"That's enough." I said.
"Yeah. We just came to tell you that there's a guy in row 12 selling donuts."
"Oh. Uh, I don't think I should go. Well, maybe I should, well, uh,"
"He has strawberry frosted. . ." I said.
"Okay, you take over." He said, and then zoomed out of the door.
"Yo, people, we are in control of the plane. Y'all aren't gonna land in Flawda. We be goin' straight ta' Jamaica." Joe Mamma said into the loudspeaker after locking the cockpit door.
"Yeah. We hope that this doesn't inconvenience you very much. Believe me, if we landed in Florida, I would be very inconvenienced. I repeat, VERY inconvenienced," I added in. Numerous boos came from the passengers. I decided to have some fun, and keep on "entertaining" the people on the plane. I took over the microphone and Joe Mamma piloted the plane. "Everybody, I've decided to help you through this inconvenience with a little yodeling. I began to yodel, and passengers began to scream. "Serves you right, you darn anti-Communists," I thought. Then I got a good idea. I said, 'I'm sorry, but it seems as if your little radios that play music," I pushed a button that said anti-radio, "Aren't working. I'll be providing the music. First up, a Celine Dion medley." I put on my earplugs, and put a Celine Dion compact disc in the CD player that was so thoughtfully given to us by the American Airlines' bigwigs and turned on the loudspeaker. Then I opened the cockpit door slightly and took a look at the passengers. Fourteen were banging their heads on the window, seven were trying to jump out the window, three were screaming 150 decibel screams, one was popping a suicide pill into his mouth, the old granny was clonking herself on her head with her purse, and Jamal had ripped out his dreadlcoks and was yelling bunghole repeatedly. When we landed in Jamaica Joe Mamma and I bolted out the door so as not to be assassinated by the enraged passengers.
We got out and drove to the house of Jiggly Goo. "Hey, bunghole?" Joe Mamma yelled while knocking on the door of a small house. He had explained to me before that he was going to do that because Jiggly Goo would never open up his door to Joe Mamma. Jamal Bunghole was Jiggly Goo's friend, and was coming to Jamaica, so Jiggly Goo would assume that Joe Mamma was his friend Jamal, and open the door.
"Oh, welcome, my compatriot Jamal." He said. Then he opened the door, and gasped.
"Yo, Jiggly Goo, I have one question."
"Well, query on. Just please do not put forth effort to incarcerate me once more."
"Okay, yo. I only wanna know one thing. Who did you sell all yo' computer stuff to?" "Oh, my computer data. I disposed of it to a conscientious chap by the appellation of Cozhwa." Jiggly Goo said.
"Where does the guy live?" Joe Mamma asked.
"Oh, he resides next door." Jiggly Goo said. We walked out the door to the house that he was speaking of.
"Yo', open up." Joe Mamma said while striking the door.
"No! Go away!" One of the voices from inside said.
"FINE! HAVE IT Y'ALLS' WAY!" He said. Then he picked up a small pebble on the sidewalk with a sharp point. He threw it very fast, much like Mariano Rivera of the Yankees, and it made a hole in the door. Then I heard a scream from inside.
"Aaaaah! I'm bleeding! There is a pebble stuck in my neck!" said a very raspy voice."
"Yo, let me in!" Joe Mamma demanded. The door opened, and Joe Mamma walked in.
"Just who are you?" Asked one of the people. He had spurs attached to his hair, a crooked nose, and sharp teeth. You could tell in his eyes that he was the leader of the group.
"I am Joe Mamma. The agent Joe Mamma. Who are you?"
"I am Swakatee. The garbageman Swakatee. Why are you here?"
"I'm lookin' for a guy by the name of Cozhwa. Is he in the building?"
"As a matter of fact he is." Swakatee answered.
"Okay, which one of y'all's is him?"
"He isn't one of us. We are all garbagemen. He's a computer freak." Said Swakatee, "He goes on-line and goes into every single chatroom he can find. And on that he finds people selling even more computer stuff. He's planning on taking over the world once he gets enough computer materials."
"Uh, he's upstairs, but I wouldn't recommend going up there. He gets angry at intruders, even if they're coming to tell him that he won the lotto," said a guy with a carrot shaped head.
"That's right, Einerschlotter. I remember the last time I went up there. I almost didn't come back." said a guy with a head shaped like a potato sack, and hair that seemed to be coming from a hole I on the top of his head.
"My dad (Cozhwa) doesn't like people too much." Said Einerschlotter.
"Well, I'm going up there. I got important business." Joe Mamma said.
"You aren't going up there. Cozhwa will blame us for letting you up." Said Swakatee.
"LOOK!" Joe Mamma said, and then picked up a statue that looked very expensive, and smashed it on the ground.
"Oooooh, Cozhwa's gonna kill youuuuuuu!" Remarked one of the garbagemen. He had small eyes, a small nose, a small mouth, a big head, no eyebrows, and tiny little dreadlocks.
"Shut up, Bimborama. What were you saying?"
"I was sayin' that if y'all don't let me up the stairs yo' head will no longer be attached to yo' body."
"Oh yeah?" Swakatee questioned.
"Yeah." Then Joe Mamma started to walk towards the stairs. Swakatee got in his way. Then Joe Mamma picked Swakatee up by his ears, kicked open a closet door, tossed Swakatee into it, and locked it. Then he made his way up stairs.
Cozhwa was doing something on the computer. "Look you kids, I tell you again and again and again, never," he said, and then he looked at us. "Oh. You aren't one of them. Just who do you think you are, barging in on me?" Said Cozhwa in a raspy voice that sounded amazingly like the principal from Beavis & Butthead. He had a carrot shaped head, just like Einerschlotter, a crooked, bumpy nose, and only two remaining teeth. He had angry eyes just like Einerschlotter but they weren't as big. The space above them was occupied by wrinkles.
"I am Joe Mamma, the agent Joe Mamma. A little while ago you purchased some computer stuff."
"Uh, I always do."
"This was from your next door neighbor. His name is Jiggly Goo."
"Oh, that. What about it?"
"I need to use it."
"No way! Nobody lays a hand on my computers!"
"Look, old man, you had betta' let me. Either that, or I'll destroy this computer over here." Joe Mamma threatened.
"You do and I'll sue you!" Cozhwa counter-threatened.
"You can't sue me! My lawya' is invincible!" Then Joe Mamma raised his hand as if to strike a computer.
"Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" Yelled Cozhwa, "Fine, use it."
"I'm so glad you see it my way." Joe Mamma said. Then he sat down in one of the fifty odd swivel chairs in the room. I do mean fifty swivel chairs. The room looked like a computer/swivel chair shop. Anyway, he sat down and asked, "Okay, how do you monitor the people?"
"What?" Cozhwa inquired.
"You know, when you get the screen on the computer to show you what a certain person is doing at that certain moment?"
"Oh, type in 'I like to eat cheese.'"
"What? I like to eat cheese?"
"Yeah." Joe Mamma typed it, and Cozhwa told him what to do next. "Now type the first, last and middle names of the person you want to see." Joe Mamma typed William Jefferson Clinton. At once Cozhwa said, "that won't work, I've tried it before. It doesn't work for dead people."
"He isn't dead, fool." Then a screen appeared. Bill Clinton appeared to be somewhere in the Himalayas. He was hiking up a hill. Joe Mamma typed ZO. It zoomed out. Then we took a look at the screen. He was hiking up a mountain that appeared to be higher then the rest. Bill Clinton was hiking up Mt. Everest.
"Huh? Bill Clinton's supposed to be dead!" Cozhwa exclaimed.
"He's supposed to be dead. Now you know he isn't. I really don't understand why Bill Clinton is hiking up Mt. Everest." I said.
"Well, this makes life a lot easier. Clinton will never make it up Mt. Everest. He'll shrivel up and die. I guess that my work here is done." Joe Mamma said. He was right. His job was done. Bill Clinton wasn't going to survive the climb to the top of Mt. Everest, so I no longer needed Joe Mamma on the job.
Then up came a problem. I needed to go back to Tweezerland, but no flights went straight to Tweezerland. They all stopped off in Florida, or some place in America, and I knew that I couldn't hijack a plane without Joe Mamma's help. I tried calling Tweezerland for someone to pick me up in my private jet, but there was some weird weather disaster in Tweezerland so that no calls could be made. Because of that I had to spend the night in Jamaica, at a hotel called Yeah Mon.
When I woke up I picked up the phone and called Tweezerland. The weather disaster was over, and I told Comrade Snooter Snajawaxis to come pick me up.
When I got home to Tweezerland on turned on the TV. It said that Bill Clinton's dead body had been found on Mt. Everest, Al Gore had successfully changed the USA to an Autocracy, and because of that 27 formerly democratic countries changed to either Autocracy or other form of government's such as Communism overnight. I was overjoyed. Communism's future was looking up.
The next morning I woke up and heard that Al Gore had changed his mind and turned the USA into a Communism just like that of Tweezerland. Because of that, every single nation other than Australia had turned into a Communism. Australia, no offense to all of those Foster drinking Aussies out there, basically became a Kookism. They made a bottle of Fosters their leader, and even now they still worship it 24 hours straight. Because of this good news, I was asked to appear on television. In my interview I said, "I think that this is not only for a great day for Communism, but a great day for the world. I shall make a vow right now. If any country ever switches to Democracy I will order Tweezerland to obliterate it. If I am dead I will rise from my grave and smash it. Democracy is an evil thing. . . but we have nothing to worry about, for Democracy no longer exists!" I was so overjoyed right then and there that I jumped for joy. Right now it is the year 7634. I haven't come back down yet, in fact, I'm still rising, just as Communism is and always will be.