It’s finally stopped raining up here in Cow Hampshire, and the happiest guys around are the “spooks” on surveillance.  They showed up in the middle of a rainstorm, black cars, black suits; right after this guy Snowden played kiss and tell over in Hong Kong just a week or so ago.

Been here since.  A nicer bunch of guys, and the occasional girl, you’d wouldn’t want to meet.  Just folks, you know.  They spend a lotta time in their cars and suburbans checking equipment, raising and lowering antennas.  Making coffee runs.  Stuff like that.

It was real funny the first night they were here when Moe Gannon, the local cop who does steady nights here, started giving them a hard time about over night street parking.  You see, there ain’t none allowed up here unless you call the station and let ’em know.  Agent Ed, a guy from Kansas, had to use my neighbor Harry’s phone to do that.  He said it would show up at NSA real funny if he made the call from his work phone, because no one was supposed to know they were here.  They got permission, but they also got a visit from the Chief.  he has a cousin in the FBI out in LA.  Wanted to know if Ed knew the guy.  Harry said he’s not FBI.  “Where you from?” the chief asks.  “Kansas,” Ed says.  “No,” says the chief, “who you with?”  Ed points to the five or six other black cars and suburbans on the block, and says, “Them.”  The chief nods and says, “Oh, NSA.  I heard you guys are gonna be all over.  Just watching, I’m told.  OK.”  He gets back in his car, and as he drives off he rolls down the window and says, “Gimme a call if you’re gonna be here more’n a week.  Parks and Roads is supposed to pave up here next week, and you guys are gonna have to find something do to somewhere else.  Stay dry.”

Anyway, you’d think that the gummint would give these guys some protection from the elements.  But, Obama’s on his way to Africa where all he’s got to worry about is stepping in some Hippo splat, I guess, and he don’t care.  Never really did, I suppose.  It’s an IVY league thing, I guess.  Even though most of them work for the gummint, or work for companies that work for the gummint they hatE the gummint almost as much as they hate the rest of us who don’t play golf, know how to sail or wear docksiders.

Now that’s pure prejudice, but the surveillance guys told me I could knock the IVY league.  Just don’t say anything bad about Catholics.  Or maybe it’s the other way around.  Or maybe it’s marriage.  I get mixed up.

Poor guys these surveillance guys and their dark suits, Presidential junkets at 100 mil a copy don’t get bothered by a sequester I guess.   (I mean wouldn’t you want to get as far away from your screw ups as possible if you was him?)  But a raincoat for a team of guys spying on everyone up and down the block in case we become a threat…or already are…a raincoat’s outta the question.

Homer, the agent from Alabama that got stuck up in the tree because he’s been squirrel bit and’s afraid to come down has got himself a NAAAAS-T-assed cold.  He ran out of tissues yesterday afternoon.  They just turned to a soggy ball of rain diluted snot in his pocket.  His hankie’s too wet and everything else on him is wet and real UUUGGGLLLYYY!; messed up as mud season in March.  He ain’t sitting up in that tree, he’s just oozing on one of the branches.  He used up all the leaves within reach blowing his hooter. ( Not a pleasant sound, lemme tell you. )  He’s outside now about 40 feet up  with his snot locker looking like a fire hydrant going full out, and a puddle of goop forming around the tree trunk and running out onto my neighbor’s drive.  That dries around his wheels and Mike’s gonna have a tough time moving his car.

I don’t figure that the NSA thought about the weather after Snowden lifted the lid and that they wanted to get a handle on what was happening all over this land that’s your land, this land that’s my land, as old Woody once sang about.

I’m expecting that my iPhone will come today.  NSA insisted that I get one so they could tap into it and download all of my traffic.   They’re sending me a 7 year old kid to teach me how to run the thing.  They got a whole division of seven year old kids fanning out across the country for that.

My only worry was that after I get checked out, aside from calling to check the time, I won’t have any use for it.  When I told the NSA guy in charge of surveillance of everything on my block about this, he said, “Don’t worry about it at all.  We got two plans for you:  Plan A is where you sign up for 100 phone numbers to call, or get calls from so we can put them into our data base.  That’s our Basic, and it’s real cheap.  Plan B, which costs a little more, is what we call our Automatic Plan.  That’s where you get enrolled in our NSA Random Phone Call Program (RPCP), and we simply assign a bunch of phone calls from all over the world to you every month.  You can pick regions and numbers of calls, but we won’t let you do cities or neighborhoods.  It’s easier on you, but you do have to pay more.”

“How much,” I asked.  “The cost of the call if you had made it,” he said  Then he explained that both the IRS and FBI needed that for tax and evidence purposes.  “If you were to get on Welfare, it would all be free.”

Late last night, my neighbor Kyle snuck into my house through an open window in my basement.  “What the hell are you doing that for, Kyle,” I asked.  “You could have just come up and knocked on the door…and at a more decent hour, if you don’t mind.”  Kyle was just standing there covered with cobwebs (DUH, it’s a basement???).  And all he was wearing was his underwear.

“You don’t have time to get dressed?”  I screamed.  The least you could have done was wear a damned bathrobe!”

I’ll tell you more about that tomorrow.  Homer’s screaming for help.


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