Meet Jihad Christine

Assalaamu alaikum, my fellow Americans!

I know that's not the greeting you're used to from me, but I'm practicing for my new undercover assignment. With all these middle-aged blonde terrorists getting caught failing at half-baked schemes to assassinate Scandinavian political cartoonists, the powers that be knew there was only one patriotic cougar in the national security business they could count on to prevent future evildoing.

Unfortunately, Valerie Plame retired after that whole big Bob Novak-Karl Rove political vengeance thing. So, the boys over in Langley decided to see what kind of investigative assets were available at the domestic agencies. Fortunately, the notorious Franco-Sicilian Marchette crime family has been inactive for years, so guess who is free to be the new go-to undercover MILF?

That's right. I'm trading in my usual Joan Collins-inspired trophy mistress sequined gowns for a hijab and going international. Luckily, minorbevniner.blogspot.com isn't on most Islamofascists' RSS feeds, so please don't blow my cover. I just wanted you all to know why I will not be around to provide safety tips and death-faking instructions: I am off to infiltrate the ranks of socially inept, lonely, white middle American women who, after their third or fourth failed marriage to an illegal immigrant, join terrorist Yahoo chat groups in a sad, misguided effort to belong, and wind up as co-conspirators in some harebrained attempt on Lars Vilks's life. Really, these sorry women just ought to try e-Harmony. I'm sure there are plenty of other people out there who are 29 dimensions of pathetic that they could be matched with.

Anyway, I'll be away indefinitely defending our rights as Americans, and Lars Vilks's right as a Danish guy to draw the prophet Muhammad as a dog without lethal reprisals from those who think they hate freedom but really just hate the fact that they've never put on a gown from Givenchy's 1991 spring collection and fallen in love with the convicted junk bond trader they were assigned to protect from the fictional mob. So please don't worry about me. I'll be fighting the good fight and winning the war on terror.

Antiterroristically yours,

Special Agent Christine Pettit

Federal Bureau of Investigation on loan to the Central Intelligence Agency

specialagentchristinepettit@gmail.com

PS-If you see me on MySpace trolling for wannabe-terrorists, please don't compromise the investigation by acknowledging my true identity.

PPS-Never mind. Nobody except these pathetic Jihad Jane losers use MySpace anymore, anyway.

FBI WARNING: RIP Brenda Walsh, in advance

Recently, the intelligence community has picked up chatter containing specific threats related to a Ms. Brenda Walsh and her upcoming performance on ABC's hit prime-time competition Dancing With the Stars. Ms. Walsh has been the subject of numerous threats due to the modicum of public exposure she has received by starring in two non-prominent theatrical productions at California University and traveling abroad to western Europe. Additionally, she has consorted with numerous French and British nationals on foreign and domestic soil and was once criminally involved with what she implied was some sort of stupidity-mediated, self-imposed Stockholm syndrome situation with a militant yet inept radical animal liberation group. In an effort to escape both her tumultuous past and her present notoriety, she has taken to using the alias "Shannen Doherty." Recent internet intelligence suggests that her past identity has been discovered, and it is now of the utmost importance that we protect her against those evildoers who would cause her harm.

Typically, we would do this by raising the terror alert threat level. Unfortunately, since the majority of the threats against Ms. Walsh appear to come from a delusional, institutionalized mental patient who briefly gained access to a computer rather than known jihadist organizations or drug cartels, I am unable to justify such an action. Even though it is against my nature as an employee of the federal government, I find it wasteful and excessive to cut through that mountain of red tape the pencil pushers over at Homeland Security require for just one person. Besides, with Al Qaeda and all the other legitimate terror threats keeping us busy, we at the government's 249 or so various redundant law enforcement and security agencies are spread thin as it is. Therefore, the FBI–and more specifically a team consisting of and headed by me, known to the boys at the Bureau as the Ravishing Cougar Unit–will handle the recent threats to Ms. Walsh's person.

As I have known Ms. Walsh briefly during passing encounters at the Bel Age Hotel in Beverly Hills, California while I was undercover as her boyfriend's father's bodyguard/mistress, it is with great sadness that I announce Ms. Walsh will be dying soon in an unexpected car bomb. She won't be expecting it at all when she goes to unlock and start a mysterious obviously government-issued American-made sedan, and it explodes, instantly killing her and leaving no trace of her body.

It's really a tragedy that Ms. Walsh's "death" will result, but that's what we at the federal government have to do to keep our cultural icons safe. Luckily, Ms. Walsh doesn't have any annoying, brooding children who will try to deal with traumatic memories of their parent's faked death by tracking down the killer(s) only to realize that the parent was cooperating with the government in some sort of nondescript RICO/securities fraud investigation and was put into the witness protec––

Actually, I meant to say that it's merely a tremendous tragedy that Brenda Walsh will soon die in a car bomb. A nation mourns.

Protectively yours,

Special Agent Christine Pettit

Federal Bureau of Investigation

specialagentchristinepettit@gmail.com

Against "Snow White" acts: a polemic

Since Sanders got me voted out of the KEG house despite my herculean efforts to get him kicked out of CU via set-up attempted thefts/fraternity pranks committed against cuckolded, dickish, anti-KEG sociology professors' autographed baseball collections, I've had a great deal of time to reflect on my behavior. Some–like those femi-nazi bitches at the Take Back the Night rally–seem to think that I'm the worst example of a frat boy based on my obnoxious behavior. Okay, I'll admit, I tried to fuck a fifteen-year-old runaway before (YET AGAIN) my archnemesis Steve Sanders laid down a cockblocking of epic proportions. And instead of realizing that taking advantage of vulnerable, already probably exploited minors is wrong, I came to the following conclusion: WOMEN ALL SECRETLY WANT TO HAVE NON-CONSENSUAL SEX WITH JOHN SEARS, BUT THEY LIE ABOUT IT AFTERWARD JUST CAUSE AND THAT'S HOW YOU GET INTO TROUBLE. This has become my new life motto, a "carpe diem" of sorts.

By the way, in the interest of full disclosure, I am John Sears, former KEG man and enthusiastic date rapist. I am also being discriminated against by these lying women who all want every inch (all four and a half, BABY) of my weight-lifting, self-congratulatory, disgusting frat pig self, and who later claim that's not true and I "assaulted" them. No means yes, ladies, GET IT THROUGH YOUR THICK SKULLS. You were put on earth for one reason, and one reason only: to be sexually harassed, abused, and preyed upon by myself, John Sears. WITHOUT following that up with accusations of so-called felony rape. Girls, it's time to get with the program. It's completely unacceptable for you to be infringing on my right to impose my mighty Sears penis upon you.

Let me give an example of what women should NOT do. Let's look at Kelly Taylor. The girl is a certifiable rape magnet. I mean, she lost her virginity when some heroic dude dragged her drunk ass into some bushes and used his high school senior status to subjugate and "date-rape" her (you go, bro). Adding insult to injury, he then inscribed "Kelly is a slut" (FACT) on a wall tile at West Beverly, where it remained until Kelly's five-year high school reunion in 1998. Then she wore a suggestive costume to a Halloween party and almost got what she deserved from a USC frat boy dressed as a cowboy with an admirable ability to stay in character even while attempting to straighten Kelly out as far as the sex she ought to be having. Too bad the cowboy wasn't at CU (GO CONDORS), and too bad ONCE AGAIN that dolt Steve Sanders intervened and punched him out when he called Kelly a slut (a fact, I should add). Then Kelly would later be raped for the slutty crime of walking down an alley in a bad part of town while enabling that moody, needy loser McKay. And with me, Kelly acted like a TOTAL whore. She talked to me on the phone about her psychology homework, she FLIRTED with me, and once she even did a little tongueless making out with me. But in spite of all this skanky behavior, she claimed I–yes, I, JOHN SEARS!–was the one acting out of line. UNBELIEVABLE. What did she think I was doing, hanging around for her brilliant freshman repartee?

I've had it with the Kelly Taylors of the world, and by Kelly Taylors I mean ALL WOMEN. They run around acting like total skanks and basically shouting from the roof that they want me, BAD. And how could they not? Look at me:

It should be obvious that I'm the kind of guy who doesn't take no for an answer. Just ask my former KEG brethren, who couldn't get rid of me even after my railroading at the hands of the loathsome legacy pledge Steve Sanders. Women take note: if you've ever interacted with me AT ALL, you should be prepared to back up your seductive ways by receiving what I like to call "the John Sears Jackhammer," and NOT complaining to law enforcement afterward. I really HATE that when some broad obviously comes on to me, by asking if I want paper or plastic, or by asking if I'm a teacher at her middle school, or by greeting me at the Encino Wal-Mart, and then acts all stuck-up about the sex that naturally ensues. I mean, sex without permission is totally NOT rape when the woman signs away her so-called "rights" by wantonly asking me if I have the time.

I've had enough of this and it's time to strike back. The only way to fight what I like to call a "Snow White" act (because Snow White was also an uptight bitch who would rather hang around with laborer midgets than put out) is with my own God-given sword. So, my plan is thus to go out there and "rape" up a storm, in hopes of reclaiming my divine right as a man and a Sears. Take that, Snow Whites and Kelly Taylors of the world!

And if that doesn't work out and I'm not in prison, I'll probably just go play Chad Michael Murray's dad on One Tree Hill.

Something 4 U, and 4 Me

I'm not going to trouble myself with familiarities, because you wouldn't want to be familiar with me anyway. I'm a thug, and I'm about to hit you up with some prison poetry...okay, not really, but I've had a hard time of it since the days when I was selling U4EA to unarmed idiot teenagers in front of God and everybody, and I'm ready to share. I've been silent too long, and I'm doing life, so like I have anything better to do.

My name isn't important. I'm the kind of guy who likes to be known for his actions and reputation, rather than government name. Call me "Four" if you must call me anything. I like to be remembered for my deeds, rather than what my crack whore of a mother named me. Long ago, I once wore a big number four on my shirt to advertise my "business." This reminded me of how successful I once was at peddling a nonexistent drug to high school kids. My number "FOUR" was like a beacon for dumb kids who wanted to spend entirely too much money on invented-for-TV pseudo-ecstasy.

I still wear a number four on my shirt. Two of them, actually, as well as a handful of other numbers that identify me to the powers that be here at Pelican Bay. Once Emily Valentine stopped hanging out with the gang, I didn't have as much of a market as I thought I would. Everyone caught on to the whole "exchange an egg" thing thanks to a major story broken by Andrea Zuckerman in the West Beverly Blaze, and subsequent TV news exposés revealed that these parties were illegal and in *horrible* neighborhoods anyway. Then Emily Valentine started taking lithium and remembered her childhood ambition to be a marine biologist, and exchanged her figurative egg for a scholarship at the Cousteau Institute. With few options remaining, I elected to get into the meth game. BIG HUGE mistake.

Truly, I WISH that U4EA had caught on. The worst thing U4EA ever caused besides Emily Valentine-mediated attempted date rape is teenage regret. Seriously, Brandon just strolled home with no consequences save a mild scolding from his skanky-ass sister, and then went to sling megaburgers at the Peach Pit! He took U4EA–and without any prior preparation or knowledge of doing so–and still went to work without a complaint the next day. He was so damn spry he probably laid a bet on the Lakers while he was there, he was feeling in such good spirits. Then, however, Emily Valentine left Beverly Hills, people stopped handing out "Egg" business cards on Alvorado, and the U4EA market dried up. Apparently, people were doing "ecstasy," which I couldn't get from my competitors because I'm a gigantic loser. So I hit the internet, bought eight tons of Sudafed, and embarked on an unintentionally short career in amateur chemistry. I lit my shitty apartment on fire, attracted some police attention, and then...guess what? Somehow they found out I was a former U4EA dealer.

Thanks to "the gang" from Niner, I'm now on my third fucking strike, and doing hard time *4* LIFE. Instead of standing in an "underground club" with a shirt with a four on it, I'm making use of body orifices I didn't know I had as a mailroom smuggler in the prison "tits" trade. In case you haven't seen Oz, that's prison talk for "I'm a heroin mule," and I can swallow ten FULL condoms at a time to prove it! I tried to get in the game with the people controlling the tits business around here, but apparently their economy involves more complex and sophisticated operational techniques than simply advertising your wares with a large, extremely obvious representation on your person (ie: a giant "4" on your shirt when you are selling U4EA). I got some pot once, and tried to tap the market by writing "420" on my jumpsuit, and that earned me a robbery and forcible sodomizing. Please believe I learned my lesson there. I'd exchange any number of eggs to be back in the peaceful, relaxing confines of the underground club. There, all I had to deal with was a drunk David Silver, a guy in a rubber jumpsuit, one guy smoking crack, some random club trannies, and a bathroom worse than some chicken farm in Minnesota. In other words, PARADISE compared to cell block fucking D.

Seriously, kids, don't do drugs. Even something lame and made-up like U4EA can really come back to fuck you in the ass. LITERALLY!!!! In the form of my cellmate Garrett Slant. PLEASE, say no to drugs!!!

Sincerely,

Prisoner #446969

alias "U4EA Dealer"

Pelican Bay State Prison

California Department of Corrections

Special Agent Pettit's Top Ten Holiday Safety Tips!

Happy Thanksgiving to all you law-abiding civilians! The Peach Pit turkey is on the table, and rather than sit around watching it get cold while a spoiled, ungrateful brat broods about his daddy issues, I thought I'd share some of my sure-fire crime prevention tips! That way, all you regular folks can avoid being caught in the post-Thanksgiving crime epidemic that befalls us annually during this otherwise happy season.

1. Fake your death. I can't emphasize this enough. Criminals can't victimize you if they believe that you were killed in a car bomb. And this is one of the rare situations where you actually want to follow the terrorists' example. Really do try to make it spectacular. The less likely it is that you survived, the more likely it is the criminals will believe you are actually dead.

2. Avoid getting involved in business deals inexplicably involving junk bonds and supposedly Italian mobsters with French surnames. Junk bond trading and organized crime are each illegal activities one should steer clear of in general, but combining these two can be particularly dangerous. For starters, you should always be suspicious of anyone purporting to be of Sicilian descent who answers to a geographically and linguistically incongruous name like "Marchette" (for example). Anyone who is so unabashedly misrepresenting themselves is highly likely to be involved with violations of the RICO act and securities fraud, as well as other more unpalatable crimes (ie: murder).

3. Avoid allowing your offspring to marry offspring of Franco-Sicilian mobsters. This usually results in an accidental death by assassination.

4. Do not grant bottom shelf 1980s-era Geraldo Rivera knockoffs access to your entire $8 million dollar fortune. I repeat, no matter how many times he promises to "clean up the bay" so you can surf more often, no matter how many vinegar-and-baking soda experiments he shows you at work to prove his capacity in this regard, and no matter how persuasive he can be when dropping fancy official-sounding "science" words such as "bioremediation," do NOT invest every dime you have except the Blue Book value of your Porsche in his scheme. I don't care if this guy is married to some trailer-trash former mistress of your father's that you didn't know about or if he's the stepfather of your hideously ugly bastard half-sister. He is running a long con on you and is NOT to be trusted.

5. Do not use alcohol or heroin. If a shady creep in a pool hall asks if you've ever "chased the dragon" in front of the entire bar, go back to your surf shack and bang the hell out of Valerie Malone instead. Don't take him up on his offer. Illegal narcotics are bad news, and guess what? If you are an alcoholic, you can't just have a beer or two to unwind. That's how flowerpots get smashed and Brenda Walsh gets scared.

6. Whenever possible, go undercover as a rich guy's trophy cougar mistress. In my experience, there is no disguise more effective at deceiving criminals.

7. If you must steal something, make sure it's your best friend's boyfriend. And in my experience, there's no better way to cement this legal form of theft than by doing her in the pool at the Bel Age Hotel.

8. The best place to hide from one's enemies, responsibilities, creditors, or potential murderers is the Bel Age Hotel. Actually, if you have a yacht, that works too.

9. In the event that some family member of yours fakes his/her death, don't launch an investigation so incompetent that it makes Elmer Fudd look like Sherlock Holmes. For one thing, you'll draw unwanted attention to the person who is trying to hide. For another, you'll probably encounter the dangerous sorts of people that your fake-dead family member was trying to get away from. TIP: If you are trying to get the most asinine, threesome-containing sci-fi screenplay ever picked up by a producer, AVOID pitching the project to known criminal associates of your fake-dead family members who have abandoned ski gondolas in their backyards.

10. If you really want to know how to hide and you can't ask me, you should actually talk to the U.S. Marshals. They are in charge of federal witness protection, not the FBI.

And on that note, I wish you all a wonderful, safe holiday season full of faked deaths and intact 8 million dollar fortunes.

Stay legal,

Special Agent Christine Pettit

Federal Bureau of Investigation