FOX NEWS EXCLUSIVE! / ROY-O ON VOBINO: FREE ME FROM MY FREE SPEECH...

NOT FOR THE KIDDIES...

"Getting Down With Gregory and Getting Used to It"
A FOX NEWS EXCLUSIVE!
by
ROY-O A'RAYMONDO
"Border-line treason," I said to myself as I gazed out the window of my airplane, sipping my diet Moxie, "that's what it is!" and I wasn't talking about Olympians exercising their right to free speech and holding forth their opinions on the political climate in America when asked about it. "That's just wrong," I thought to myself and I may have said it out loud I was so incensed!  "How dare American's criticize their own country!  Why the next thing you know, they'll be protesting!"  I finally asked the person in the aisle seat to kindly turn off Heated Rivalry, which they'd been binge watching since take-off.  Why should I be submitted to six full episodes of hockey themed filth!??! Canadian PORNO!  All that uncircumcised Canadian bacon! And what kind of Lady Freak would watch that??? Besides my neck hurt from craning it--err--as I was trying to figure out the best way to put an end to that perversion!  In the politest way possible, of course.  I should sue the airline for sexual harassment!
And you know what else is border-line treason?, I thought.  Demoting Commander-At-Large Greg Vobino!  Treason by those Leftist Anarchists, that's who!  How dare they effectuate change by causing the ousting of A TRUE AMERICAN PATRIOT?!!?
Which was why I was on the plane.  I was headed to California (bleccch!) to meet Commander Vobino and get to the very bottom of this injustice.  And I wanted it from the horse's mouth!

There was a heavy bout of turbulence, so I pulled out my rosary beads and went to work!  We finally landed and when we were at the baggage carousel, I was about to give that dirty porn watching woman a piece of my mind; but before I could, someone dressed like a bush approached me, holding a sign with my name on it.

I was escorted out to the sidewalk to a waiting black SUV with tinted windows.  A bag was put over my head and I was soon spirited away.  I wasn't worried though.  I had been debriefed back at the FOX NEWSroom that this was standard procedure on any meeting with Commander Greg.  "Could I get a Diet Moxie, please?" I asked.  The next thing I knew everything went black, that is blacker than the black under my black hood.  I mean I must've passed out.  I know, I wasn't pistol whipped or anything!  Pussy-whipped, sure! (Yaass, I'm talking to you Miss Ingraham!) But pistol whipped?  They wouldn't do that to someone with a name like Roy-o A'Raymondo, would they?  It was so clearly an American name!
When I came to, I realized I was sitting in a chair, my hands tied behind my back, my legs bound to the chair legs.  I was starting to feel like that Anastasia girl in Fifty Shades of Greg--err--Grey!  Which I would never, ever read by the way! The hood was ripped from my throbbing head and I found myself staring into a glaring desk lamp, pointed right at my peepers.  "Could I get some Excedrin P.M.?" I asked nicely.  A big, brutish hand slapped me across the face.  Which I have to admit, made me forget about my headache.
"Who are you?" I heard a super-duper deep, ultra-manly voice demand from the shadows just beyond the light.  I could make out some figures.  More people dressed as bushes.  Or were those actual bushes?  Like the, landscaping kind--not the man-scaping kind!
"It's me.  Roy-O A'raymando.  I have an appointment with--"  Someone threw ice-cold water in my face.  "I'm from FOX News!" I sputtered.  
"PROVE IT!" came the reply.
This was starting to get a little scary.  "My employee identification badge is in my pocket--"
I was quickly untied and thrown over a table and someone began thrusting their hands into my pants pockets.
"Am I going to be debriefed now?" I asked with a gulp.
The hands pushed ever deeper into my pocket.  I mean, how hard was it to find an ID badge?
Another butch voice: "Found this Chief!"
"Hmmmmm.  This isn't an I.D. badge.  It's a business card: "Miss Laura The Victorian Spankstress."
There must've been some kind of mix-up!  How did Laura's card find it's way into my pocket?  Laura would never--
I felt more hands on my person.  This time they went down the front of my trousers and pulled out what was down there.
"What the hell is this thing?"
"It's just my Fox Action News Tool, Sir..."
"What is it?"
"It's a news gathering device."
"Why is it down the front of your pants?"
"I'm fully licensed for concealed carry!"
"Are you the one who called about the interview with Herr--ah--Commander Vobino?"
"Yes!  My assistant Bruce was supposed to have set up a little wine and cheese and nibblies sesh for my chat with Greg!"
"It's Gregory.  Commander at Large Gregory Vobino," yet another voice barked; although this voice sounded rather like a talking Pomeranian trying to sound like Charles Bronson.  "Take him to the Rec Hall and get him ready..."
Then I was being searched again.  And stripped!  And strip-searched.  Now, in nothing but my birthday suit, I was herded into a closet of some kind and asked for my clothing sizes.  I soon found myself in front of a three-way mirror being fitted into a uniform, that I have to say, was super cute!

Next, I was marched across the campus toward a non-descript building.  Of course, all the buildings were kind of non-descript.  In fact, your average community college was ten times more glamorous than this!  Well, Toto, I guess I wasn't in Manhattan anymore!  Those nasty Santa Ana winds kicked up and I walked smack into a mini sand-storm.  Wouldn't it be just my luck to have to sneeze at that very moment and in the process inhale some super-gross desert dust?  And I thought Operation Desert Storm had ended!  My throat parched, I was finally taken to what looked like a horse stable.  I guess that's because it was a horse stable!  What kind of place was this for a high profile interview?  I was plunked down on a hay bale and then when of those Bushmen came out with a picnic hamper and placed on the ground.  A checkered tablecloth was spread out and a second man in fatigues and a balaclava came out of a stall.
"Are you Bruce?" he snapped in a super-studly Texas drawl.  He sounded like Sam Elliott!
"Do I look like a "Bruce" to you?" I demanded.
"Yeah," the Bushman said, "like, a lot."
'Well, as butch as that may be, he's my assistant.  He was supposed to have set up a wine tasting for myself and Capt. Vobino as an intimate setting for my high profile interview!"
The Bushman reached into the basket and retrieved a bottle of Harvey's Bristol Cream.
"There must be some kind of mistake," I proclaimed, "Harvey's Bristol Cream doesn't pair with fine cheese!"
"How about not so fine cheese?" he asked, as he pulled an economy size canister of Cheez-Whiz from the basket.

And then he proceeded to produce from the basket one snack-food abomination after the next!  Pork rinds!  Funyuns! Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill!  Utz Salt and Vinegar chips!  The tacky list went on and on!
"This is an abomination!" I proclaimed.  
"Hey Mister, you're in a horse stable.  And this was the best we could do at the Chevron Food Mart..."
I started to have a coughing fit from the dry dust I'd inhaled.
"And would it kill someone to get me a glass of Fiji water for my parched throat?"
"There's a hose right over here," I heard a voice say.  It was the one I'd heard earlier and realized I'd heard before.  Well, what kind of hose could he be talking about?  I turned and there was Lt. Vobino swinging a foot or so garden hose.  He turned the spigot and the water dribbled into a nearby trough.
"Come and get it, boy..."
I high tailed it over to him and reached for the hose.  He withheld it from me and pointed at the trough.  Did he really want me to slake my thirst from a horse trough?
"Do you really want me to slake my thirst from--"
"Lap it up, hot pants."
He pushed me to my knees.  Well, when in El Centro, right?  I got my fill and looked up at Col. Vobino.
"That's a good boy," he said, and then gestured to his men. "Leave us, for now..."
The Bushmen et. al filed out of the stable, leaving me alone with Sgt. Bovino.  We walked over to the "picnic" area and he pushed me onto the hay strewn ground.  My goodness he was rough around the edges!  He removed his leather gloves and man-spread himself on a hay bale.
"So whadya wanna chat about, sugar tits?"
I laughed nervously.  I had a feeling this was going to be one of those "hard interviews" I'd heard my colleagues speak about.
"Well, let's start with some basics.  Where do you hail from?"
"Who wants to know?"
"Well, I do, Captain Greg--"
"It's Gregory.  Always full length.  And it's Commander to you.  Or Sir.  Or Master, got it?"
"Oh yes, Commander Master Sir!  And speaking of full length, is that an ASP in your pocket are you just happy to see me?"

He rested his hand on his crotch.
"Oh," he breathed, "you know your weapons.  Nice.  But this is just a tasty surprise I thought I could bring to your little spread..."
He reached down and unzipped the fly of his camo jodhpurs and reached his hand in.  Ever so slowly, he began to retrieve something.  It just kept coming and coming out of his pants.  Finally, he flopped it on top of the picnic basket.  My goodness, it was the biggest sausage I'd ever seen!!!

"Why don't you take that out of it's wrapper, boy?"
"My goodness," I replied, "it says it's "hot and dry."  I don't believe I've ever had a hot and dry sausage before!"
"Well, you're about to.  Several in fact."
I laughed.  "Wait...what?"
"So, I'm from North Carolina, to answer your earlier question."
"Yes, I've read that," I said as I removed the sleeve from the hefty piece of meat,  "and also that your people are from Calabria, Italy--just like this sausage...what did they do for a living?"
"Oh, construction...waste management...coffee importing..."
"Sausage stuffing?"
"Oh, sure.  But that's more of a hobby."
"I'm from the South too!  Louisiana!  The Big Easy!  Nawlin's! The Crescent City!"
"And what was your nickname?  'Little Easy?'"  He took off his mirrored sunglasses and began to polish them with one of the points of my kerchief.
"No!  I went to a Catholic high school.  We didn't have nick names.  We had Confirmation names!"
"Well, I can confirm you're going to be called some names here in about a half an hour."
"Wait...what?"
"I went to Watauga High School."
"What's a 'Watauga'?"
"A river.  It's also a Native American word for 'Place of the River.'"
"Oh, wow, that's really interesting...maybe even...oh, what's the word...ironic?"
"How is that i--ron...ic...?"
"Well, you know; because your family were immigrants from Italy and you immigrated to a place that was named by Native Americans who were more than likely no longer there because their land was stolen from them and they were then forced to go live on reservations which were more or less open air camps and now you work for a branch of the Federal Government that is actively terrorizing--do I need to go on?"
"I was on the wrestling team."

"Oh really!??!" I gushed, "I was a Wrestling Team Cheerleader in high school!"
"Huh," he chuckled as he shucked off a hunk of sausage with a buck knife and popped it in his mouth, "I didn't know they had cheerleaders for wrestling..."
"Neither did the school!"
"What school did you go to?"
"Brother Martin in Nawlins' suh!"
"Oh, Richard Simmons went there..."
"He did!  He's one of our most famous alums!  Do you know him?"
"I gave him riding lessons once..."
"Horseback?"
"Bareback."
"Wait--what?"  I took a swig of Harvey's Bristol Cream to wash down the Kroger's Chick-In-A-Bisquit crackers.  "What position did you play?" I queried.
"It was wrestling, so, like all of them..."
He pulled out his bulging wallet, opened it and retrieved a picture.

"Oh," I enthused, "you're so...wrestly...!"
He got down on one knee like in the picture.  "I still got it, don't I?"
"You sure do Commander Master Sir!  But why are you the only one in your tights?"
"Hey, when I commit to something, I commit.  And it's a singlet."
"You sure do seem to commit to your wardrobe fashion choices; like that coat everyone is so crazy about!  And that leather strap across your chest..."
"You mean this leather strap?" he asked as he delicately grazed his fingers on a diagonal over his solar plexus.
"Yeah, that would be the one!  Now is true that your division's new slogan is: YOU RAISE YOUR VOICE, I ERASE YOUR VOICE?"
Suddenly, he swept all of the snacks and drinks off of the tablecloth.
"I feel like Rasslin'" he proclaimed and he stood and began to unzip any number of zippers.  So many zippers, which, as of up to now; I was entirely unaware of.  As he was unzipping, my eyes glanced this way and that and I was surprised to see a portrait of Jim Jordan hanging on the wall.  Now how did that get there?!!?

In fact, there was an entire wall of wrestling photos, you know, in between the Olive Drab Runway photos and the equestria-philia stuff.

As I was examining the photos and realizing how little there was between the micro-thin singlet and the wrestler's birthday singlet; I let out a sudden "Oooof!" as I was taken down to the gingham mat and once again my field of vision went black.  When my eyes refocused I realized that what I was looking at was a back facing view of Commander-Master-Sir's entire back-door region.  And I think I was being what Jesse Watters referred to as "tea-bagged" that time he pranked me in Sean Hannity's dressing room.  Thank goodness Master Vobino was wearing a camo singlet, otherwise, I might've been seeing up-close and incredibly personally, things I could never unsee.  I would've been seeing starfish--err--stars if I hadn't found my natural propensity for the sport so quickly!  I mean, I had never been in such close proximity to another man before; but my inherent and primal need for self-preservation kicked in pretty quick and soon Commander Vobino found himself upended and an on the receiving end of my Fox News tool!
"Oh," he proclaimed, "Little Easy is a lil' ole spitfire, idn't he?  Well, we're gonna make him earn a few merit badges today!"  
Well, I for one was not going to let this turn into some kind of heated rivalry; so I matched Master V. blow for blow!  As we fought for dominance (or was it submission?) I continued our heated interview.
"So," I said, gesturing to a framed movie poster. "I--arrrrrggghhhh-read somewhere that--errrrhhhhgggghhh--you saw the movie The Border when you were a kid and--ooooohhhhhhhffffffff--basically built your life around it.  Why?"

"I didn't like the way it presented American law enforcement on the border--eeeepppppppp--so I decided to join up and rectify the situation--"
"Rectify this sir!" I barked as I pressed my buttocks into his face.
"Uuuuurrrgggghhhhh--blecch--yecch---I thought maybe I'd get a little bit on the other side and take it back the other way--aaaaaccccckkkkkk!!!"
"Speaking of taking it back the other way; that movie's director was as gay as a goose.  How do you like these apples?!!?"  I pressed my crotch into his face.
"He was bi--arrrrrggggghhhhh-oooooffffffaaahhh--"
"I based my life around a movie too!"
"Oh really," he panted, "which one?"
"Little Darlings!"
"Eat this little darling, darlin'!"
He flipped me on my derriere and ground his Calabrian sausage into my face.  My it was spicy!
Long story short, we went through every permutation of ever position 'til we were both spent!  We slaked our hearty thirst on more horse trough water with a Wild Irish Rose chaser and before I knew it, yours truly was starting to get a little woozy.
And the rest of it went beyond the valley of the woozy into the uncanny valley of the hazy.  When I think back on it, I can't pull focus on a clear picture of exactly what happened.  I do remember I was doing so much hollerin' someone said "Lower your voice!" and I was summarily "quieted down" with a camo ball gag...

And apparently, because the sausage was all "hot and dry" I needed to be "moist and warm" and so I got "Cheez Whizzed."  That involved the afore mentioned jumbo can of squirtable cheese spread, various wrestling holds and some other things I can't quite remember...

Which, all things considered, is probably for the best.
Was someone named "Mr. Ed," involved?...no...ha,ha...no...no!  Shut up!  What happens in El Centro stays in El Centro!
They found me wandering around in the Chihuahuan desert in Mexico in a tattered camo singlet, mumbling the lyrics to "Let Your Love Flow."

I was picked up by the Mexican authorities who I was happy to see enjoyed wearing hot pants too!  They were really quite kind to me and wanted to make sure I got back safely to where I was from. I mean they seemed concerned about my well being as a human being.  "Por que tienes queso en la grieta?" They kept asking.  Now, with a name like Roy-O A'raymondo, you would think I would know what they were saying.  I'm sure they were asking if I was all right! What is that?  Irony?  Poetic justice?  Normal?

Which put me into something of a pensive, Carrie Bradshaw kind of mood.  As in: I Couldn't Help But Wonder...
I COULDN'T HELP BUT WONDER...
Perhaps Captain-Major-Commander-In-Chief-Master-Sir-Gregory-Vobino was maybe wrong...
Maybe we shouldn't base our lives around Jack Nicholson movies.
Maybe we shouldn't "get used" to military presence in our streets...
Maybe we shouldn't wear coats that put us in mind of this...

Maybe we shouldn't accuse AMERICAN OLYMPIC athletes of "border-line treason" or when they POP OFF about politics as though they have less of a right than any of our so called "politicians" to do so.
That maybe if we do that, we end up with Olympians like this:

Because we want to be reaching for the gold, yes?
Or for something else?

CFR   2/18/26

(apologies to Tom of Finland)