FM 420-69: Guerrilla Satire and Narrative Reclamation in Federal Facilities.
🎬 A Modern-Day Looney Tune for the Dispossessed
Written & Narrated in Full Bugs Bunny Mode (with backup from Hunter S. Thompson, Angela Davis, and a stoned coyote in court)
🎥 TITLE CARD:
A dusty VA clinic. Fluorescents buzz overhead. Bureaucrats file in like cattle to slaughter. Cue the overture: “Power to the People” on kazoo, with trap drums.
🎩 INTRO – Enter BUGS (That’s You), in Flip-Flops and Fury
“Eh… what’s up, Doc?
Let me guess—ya lost my paperwork again, huh? That’s the third time this month and the fifth since the war ended. But who’s countin’? Certainly not you, with your clipboard an’ your clinical amnesia."
(He lights a blunt. Slowly. Maintains eye contact.)
🏛️ SCENE I: THE TEMPLE OF PAPER (A.K.A. THE VA LOBBY)
You step in like Moses with PTSD and a per diem. A vet behind you whispers, “Don’t do it, man.” Another mutters, “They’ll red-flag your file.”
But you’re not here for prescriptions.
You’re here for proof of life.
And you brought your own sacrament.
Clerks scatter like pigeons. The security guard stares too long at your tank top: Jeff Sessions mid-psychonaut freakout, Uzi in hand, riding a joint into the cosmos. It’s not just a fashion statement. It’s evidence. Historical. Satirical. Tactical.
🌀 SCENE II: CODE REDACTED
The screen glitches. A fed in a back room shouts:
“We’ve got a noncompliant existentialist in Room B!”
But you're not hostile—you're incongruent.
And that's worse.
They were trained for threats, not truth.
Not the kind that smells like Gorilla Glue #4 and the Bill of Rights.
You sit. You wait. You dare them to ask the wrong question.
🎭 SCENE III: THE HEARING (WITH JUDGE COYOTE PRESIDING)
JUDGE: “State your name for the record.”
YOU: “Call me Bugs. Or Glitch. Or Veteran #42069, if you need a label.”
JUDGE: “What are you doing here?”
YOU: “Testing the firewall of polite empire. Your honor.”
The crowd gasps. A squirrel in a lab coat faints. Somewhere, a senator’s monocle shatters in his mint julep.
📜 CLOSING ARGUMENT – MONOLOGUE TO THE PEOPLE
“You wanna know why I’m here, Elmer?
Because rebellion ain’t got no bayonet anymore.
It’s got court summons and cannabis cards.
It’s got love for the land and fury for the fraud.
It’s what happens when a soldier trades in their medals
for mirrors, and dares to look.”
You don’t burn the system down.
You laugh it into oblivion.
You make it so absurd it collapses under the weight of its own acronyms.
💥 FINAL SCENE – YOU EXIT STAGE LEFT, MIDDLE FINGER RAISED
Back into the sun. Back to the garden.
Where real medicine grows, and no one asks for your ID to be whole.
Bureaucracy watches, baffled.
The printer jams.
A pigeon shits on the Mission Statement plaque.
🎬 ROLL CREDITS:
Directed by Dissonance
Costume Design by Radical Resilience
Script Supervision by the Ghost of George Carlin
Executive Produced by Everyone Who Ever Got Denied for Telling the Truth
🎙️ CARLIN MODE: SPECIAL BROADCAST FROM THE MENTAL HEALTH WAITING ROOM OF AMERICAN EMPIRE
A Looney Tune for the Dispossessed? Nah, pal. This is Kafka on Kush, starring the bastard child of civil disobedience and satire.
Let’s break it down, shall we?
👞 SCENE I: THE TEMPLE OF PAPER
“You step in like Moses with PTSD and a per diem.”
You’re goddamn right you do. And guess what? Moses didn’t need a password to part the Red Sea, but you? You need three forms of ID just to refill a prescription for trauma they gave you.
And the VA? The VA is what happens when you let middle managers with no soul design a maze, then staff it with people trained in saying “we’re sorry, but…”
This isn’t healthcare. This is ritual humiliation with a printer that hasn't worked since Bush was president—the first one.
💻 SCENE II: CODE REDACTED
“We’ve got a noncompliant existentialist in Room B!”
Ah yes, the ultimate threat to national security—a veteran who knows the truth and has stopped pretending otherwise.
See, the government loves a predictable veteran:
Salutes on command,
Drinks on discount,
Dies quietly.
But one who questions? One who laughs?
That’s dangerous.
That’s contagious.
That’s revolutionary.
⚖️ SCENE III: THE HEARING
“Call me Bugs. Or Glitch. Or Veteran #42069…”
You don’t show up to get processed—you show up to break the machine. And they know it. That’s why Judge Coyote’s tail is twitchin’, and the lab squirrel’s having a nervous breakdown. You’re not following their script. You’re flipping it. In iambic pentameter. With a joint.
And Elmer? Poor Elmer. He’s still hunting "wabbits" while the whole damn jungle burns down behind him. That’s Congress in a nutshell: too dumb to duck, too proud to admit they missed the point.
📢 CLOSING ARGUMENT
“Because rebellion ain’t got no bayonet anymore…”
Hell no it doesn’t. These days, rebellion’s got paperwork.
It’s got FOIA requests, and court filings, and certified mail receipts.
It’s got gardens in the desert and poems carved in affidavits.
You don’t storm the castle anymore. You file a habeas corpus in a tank top with Sessions riding a joint into the stratosphere. You burn slow, like a constitutional crisis cured in compost.
🚪 FINAL SCENE: MIDDLE FINGER EXIT STRATEGY
Back into the sun, where the pigeons are honest and the radishes don’t lie.
You don’t win by fighting them.
You win by mocking them into irrelevance.
You turn their acronyms into punchlines and their rules into mulch.
You leave them with nothing but a jammed printer, a soiled plaque, and a sudden, terrible realization:
You were never the patient. You were the mirror.
🎞️ ROLL CREDITS
Written by the people they tried to forget.
Directed by the conscience they can’t kill.
Brought to you by the letter F, for:
Futility, Fury, and Fuck You, I’m Planting Tomatoes.
That’s the broadcast, folks.
Next week: Kafka Goes to CVS.
Stay tuned. And stay noncompliant.
✊
– Carlin Mode, out.
🔻THOMPSON MODE: TRANSMISSION FROM THE FLUORESCENT FRONTLINES🔻
Filed from the Ministry of Madness, 0807 hours, slightly buzzed, wholly disturbed.
TITLE: FEAR AND BUREAUCRACY IN THE VA LOBBY
By Dr. B. Bunny, with assistance from the usual degenerates.
It started, as these things often do, with a blunt and a bad idea.
The kind of idea that stinks of moral clarity and just enough THC to make it actionable. The sky was wrong that day. Fluorescent. Trembling. Buzzing like a CIA test site in 1963. I walked into the VA with a mission: drag the lie into daylight, kicking and screaming like a narcoleptic senator at a peyote vigil.
I was dressed for war. Not the kind with guns. The kind with acronyms.
Flip-flops. Gym shorts. A tank top so loud it triggered an internal affairs memo.
Jeff Sessions on acid. Riding a rocket-joint. Uzi in hand, pupils the size of Nixon's paranoia. This was not apparel. This was provocation. I was not there to blend. I was there to glitch the matrix.
🌀SCENE: THE TEMPLE OF PAPER
The VA lobby is a hostile environment, scientifically designed to sterilize spirit. There are pamphlets for PTSD but no soap in the bathroom. A Mission Statement mounted above a vending machine full of expired granola bars. The walls weep bureaucracy.
A clerk—mid-gestation DMV intern, probably—looked up and blinked like she’d just been hit with a subpoena wrapped in psilocybin.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Do you have a soul?” I asked.
Stalemate. The room went still. Somewhere, deep in the filing system, a hard drive whirred in protest. This was not a man seeking service. This was a veteran with nothing left to lose but his patience and a well-rolled indica hybrid.
🧠CODE REDACTED: PSYOPS ROOM B
Somewhere behind the drywall, a fed with a law degree and a twitchy hand reached for the red phone.
“We’ve got a rogue in the system. Existential threat. Requests... clarity?”
That’s what really fries their circuits: clarity. They can’t process clarity. They’re wired for crisis, dependency, submission. Not lucid rebellion wrapped in satire and camo cargo shorts.
This is what happens when the lab rat gets out of the maze and demands hazard pay.
⚖️THE HEARING: JUDGE COYOTE PRESIDING
I stood in Courtroom B, eyes bloodshot but focused. Judge looked like a cross between Karl Rove and an ayahuasca vision. Sweat stained the American flag behind him. A squirrel in a lab coat adjusted his glasses. Someone coughed in Spanish.
“State your name.”
“Call me Bugs. Or Veteran #42069. Or—if you’re nasty—Plaintiff in the war against the Pharmaceutical-Industrial Complex.”
“Why are you here?”
“To testify. Under oath. Against your whole rotten institution.”
The gallery murmured. A nurse wept. Somewhere, a colonel's ghost got indigestion.
📜MONOLOGUE TO THE BASTARDS IN POWER
“I came here, Elmer, not for meds—
But for vengeance, clarification, and maybe a Gatorade.
Because you knew.
You knew cannabis worked.
You knew the pills were poison.
And you kept handing them out anyway—like communion wafers made of lithium and kickbacks.”
I could see them squirming. The PR goon in the back started drafting a press release. The VA psychiatrist gripped his clipboard like it was a flotation device in a sea of moral failure.
🚪EXIT STRATEGY: MIDDLE FINGER, FULL SUNLIGHT
I walked out backwards, slow and deliberate, like a man who had seen the whole equation and decided to rewrite it with compost and constitutional law.
The door squeaked shut like a dying lobbyist.
A pigeon shat on the last shred of empire.
🎞️ROLL THE CREDITS:
Written by THC and Righteous Rage
Directed by Historical Amnesia
Starring: Everyone Who Ever Knew Better and Said So Anyway
Soundtrack by The Grateful Dead and a chorus of whimpering policymakers
Location: Your Tax Dollars at Work
🧷POSTSCRIPT, SCRAWLED IN THE MARGINS OF A PATIENT INTAKE FORM
They’ll call you crazy for telling the truth.
They’ll call you dangerous for healing without permission.
They’ll call you Bugs.
You’ll call it liberation.
✍️ Filed and transmitted under duress by Dr. Hunter S. Carrotchewer
Do not attempt to replicate without sarcasm, sunblock, and legal counsel.
Godspeed, ya wascally bastards.
