NICE F***ING GRAPHIC, NBC

Oh no they don't.

They are not pinning this one on ME.

DISINFORMATION JUST IN

Just when things are looking bleak in your world, opportunity knocks like a cheap Japanese four-banger packed with sumo.

As I'm pondering which treasure within the Fleece compound to barter away for new wheels (damned car-jacking junkie squirrels), along comes a money shot to the arm through the old 56k morse modem.

It's a welcome heads up from my old Chilean bunker mate J. Bob "Oil Can" Harry at the American Enterprise Institute, an old-school conservative drunk tank dedicated to preserving and strengthening the foundations of kicking left wing ass. J. Bob tips me that they're offering ten grand to anyone remotely connected with science or economics to undermine a major climate change report published today.

Now I've used enough science to wreck enough economies to declare this one "manna from heaven". Well, maybe a little lower. Easy green none the less.

How do I smear the UN's Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change? Let me count the ways. First, the IPCC... IPCC? Yes, I see see you pee. The front of your pants are stained yellower than a jaundiced commie coward hiding in the dandelions. What are you so scared about, ladies? Own some beach front?

See, it's just that easy.

Oh the ice melting irony. That an ExxonMobil-funded shill mill like the AEI is gonna cut me a check to buy another vehicle thirsty for sweet, bubbling dino-juice. Ha koona ma kaka. It's the circle of strife.

Get in on it, Fleecekiteers. There's plenty of ink spilling polar bear lovers out there begging for a totalitarian smackdown. It's easier than driving flatbed through Fallujah. And as per the norm, big bonus if you can pull Al Gore down into the muck.

NO LEGUME TO MANEUVER

In the jungle you take plastic or you take one in the ear.

Working for The Company we had "Card Blanch" for any and all expenses. Agent Blanchard would show up with a Bolivian man-purse spilling enough bogus credit cards to float an emirate.

Once we backed a South American coup with Diner's Club. It all started with an argument about banana futures over tiny umbrellas outside Neuva Loja at Traitor Vic's. Vic used the exact same mints in the urinals as he gave out with the check. It was all Dole! Chiquita! DOLE! CHIQUITA! until our buddy Vic sold us out to the Ecuadorian militia, all on account of a nasty 1-star review. Who the hell wants to eat grilled tapir?

Those days are long gone, and so is Vic.

In this new century and throughout the majestic Cascadia, it's no secret that I run a tight edge of the wilderness. Old spooks in the Soviet Remnant will hunt my rabbit for only a whiff of the butt-whisker. It's hard to compete with that.

After being financially forced to scale back tribute to the local "custodians", I see a pack of lowlife junkie squirrels jonesing for peanuts steal my beloved Iltis and run it off a cliff. Men don't let squirrels drive for a reason.

I try to see past it. I study the structural wonder that is the Fleece compound. There be accomplishment, purpose, peace. Expertly jury rigged and twined to an acceptable spectacular, somehow ready to launch one last run at glory.

It took me months to secure that Iltis, a Deutch 4x4 built by Volkswagon during the Europa Jeep circle jerk of 1976. You can buy the stripped down grunt version on Craigslist. Mine was the German officer's edition with command suspension, a Milan missile system, and a heated stein holder that would keep a quart of Dopplebock room temperature from Warsaw to Stalingrad.

Because when what carries you lies ruined with busted nuts among dead junkie squirrels, warm Dopplebock.