Pru Watch proudly presents this parody
of a rambling and incoherent article entitled "Why I Do What I Do"
by Pru Calabrese Spin Doctor, Cassandra "Sandy" Frost
(pseudonym for Sandra "Sandy" Crider)

by award-winning defamation artist Sandy Frost-Bites (pseudonym)

I'm a pissant "spin doctor," posing as a big-time, objective, psychic, investigative reporter. What does this mean? It means I tune in to the transdimensional faux reality in which my warped little mind resides, looking for anything that smacks of conspiracy theory. More times than not, Iíll let my imagination run amok with some innocent piece of minutiae around which I can build a juicy-sounding scandal to help my friend Pru Calabrese. (Note: Pru loves ants, and I am a pissant, so Pru loves me. So far, she has not attempted brain transplants on any pissants. That's unfortunate because, in my case, that could only be an improvement.)

I learned a lot about vicious, small-town gossip as I attended mind-numbing city and county council meetings and land use hearings in the pissant town where I lived in the Pissific Northwest. I was supposed to report on the meetings and hearings, but the gossip was a hell of a lot more interesting. I soon learned how to liven up my substandard writing and boring stories with rumor, innuendo, and cockamamie conspiracy theories.

Oh sure, I saw blatant corruption. Elected officials, seduced by and drunk on power, exploited the governmental bodies to which they were elected and preyed on the public to whom they were supposed to be accountable. And I saw jaw-dropping incompetence. I could have reported on the corruption and the incompetence, but that would have required a lot of homework, i.e., background research. It was much easier and more fun to make it up as I went along. Plus, I didn't have to worry about making a fool of myself by asking stupid questions.

One poor woman, who worked in the county solid waste department, had documents showing how garbage trucks and other equipment were laundered through the department (illegal garbage-truck laundering) before reappearing in the driveways of private citizens. I told her "No way am I going to write about that because someday I might want a garbage truck myself." I squealed to the head of the solid waste department and she was stuffed, Fargo-style, into a wood-chipper the very next day. One less goody two-shoes to worry about! The department supervisor was so grateful he entered my name at the top of the waiting list for laundered motorcycles.

I made a lot of mistakes during my meteoric plummet to join the scum-sucking bottom-dwellers of journalism. I once testified at a local water utility hearing that one of the utility commissioners tried to sell his privately-owned real estate to the local hospital, even though he sat on the hospitalís board of directors. I explained that the hospital deal must have fallen through because I couldn't find any evidence of a completed real estate transaction. So the commissioner must have manipulated the water utility into buying the real estate instead.

How did I know about the real estate deal? I saw the commissioner's land deed on the desk of a clerk I knew down at the Recorder of Deeds Office. Relying on my psychic powers, I decided that there was something fishy about it. So I used a Ouija Board to contact my long-dead Aunt Agatha and then I used my automatic writing skills to pull from the ether a sensational story about a big-time scandal involving conflict of interest. For some reason, the commissioner got pissed off at me and my name was moved down several notches on the waiting list for laundered motorcycles. What a dildo!

The commissioner lived in a posh waterfront neighborhood. I was jealous of his beautiful home with its lush landscaping, his pretty wife, his cute well-behaved children, the private riding stable, the private clay tennis court, and especially the purebred Afghan Hound. So I decided to cause trouble for the commissioner. Just for the hell of it.

The posh neighborhood relied on water obtained by permit from the local water utility for which he acted as commissioner. Using my psychic powers to access the paranoid conspiracy theory portion of my pea-brain, I decided that the commissioner must be using his official position to block development of a tornado-attracting, low-income, trailer park just to keep me out. Even without the help of Aunt Agatha and the Ouija Board, I just knew he was influencing political appointments affecting real estate development, spreading wicked rumors about his political opponents at election time, and hoarding water permits so he could keep the posh neighborhood all to himself. That dirty bastard!

After I testified about the imaginary conflict of interest scandal, the utility cartel fell apart. (Didn't I mention that it was a big cartel trying to keep me from moving into a trailer park in the posh neighborhood?) Yeah, I was a bigshot hero—in my own mind, anyway. But then, as I said before, I lost my place on the laundered motorcycle waiting list and that kind of took away some of the bigshot hero thrill. Not to worry. Like Dawna Quixote tilting at windmills through a haze of marijuana smoke, I resolved to press on with my impossible dream.

One day, a county employee with a reputation for stirring up trouble for his own amusement urged me to look into the relationship between a county council member and the administrative assistant for the local utility commissioners. I was about to send him to the wood-chipper, but then I thought better of it. Maybe there was something in it for me. So I looked at some public disclosure filings, property records, meeting minutes, and budgets. I'm so stupid, I just couldn't make heads or tails of those records. Booooooooooring! It was great fun, though, to watch people scurry around collecting documents for my cursory review. I wielded my new-found power—the power of being a big pain in the ass—with relish.

Anyway, when my friend Pru Calabrese went out of business because she had gotten ... well, let's just say "sloppy" with paperwork, I decided to politely look the other way. I didn't ask any probing, relevant questions like "So, how's the hijacking research going?" or "Can I just take a little peek at the larger body of work from which your hijacking paper emerged?" or "Did you ever obtain the proper business licenses for TransDimensional Systems and, if not, why not?" or "Why haven't you filed a fictitious business name statement for TDS with San Diego County?" or "Why are you telling people that TDS provides investigative services when there's no record of your having obtained a PI license from the state of California?" or "Where did you attend college and do you really have an advanced degree in physics?" or "Did you download an astronomical photograph from the Univerity of Hawaii website and alter it to create the appearance of a "companion" to the Hale-Bopp comet?" or "How can you now claim to have predicted the terrorist attack on 9/11 when you previously assured the San Francisco Weekly that there would be no bombs or ecological disasters?" or "After the anthrax attack, did you reinterpret the raw data underlying TDS' prediction that the next terrorist target could be a sports stadium to support the conclusion that the next target would be the Capitol Building in Washington, DC?" Neither did I ask "So when do you think this web of lies will catch up to you?" or "When do you think the house of cards you've constructed will fall, burying you and all of TDS with it?" or "How can you look yourself in the mirror in the morning after the way you betrayed everyone associated with TDS?"

No, that would have required too much research—and way too much cerebral activity. I prefer baseless conspiracy theories laced with vicious rumors. Besides, Pru Calabrese is my friend and when you come right down to it, I just don't give a shit about objective journalism. So I decided to divert attention away from poor, victimized, paranoid Pru. After all, that's my job as a pissant spin doctor.

Once again, I sprung into action. Using my psychic powers, I was able to quickly ascertain that there must be some kind of big conspiracy afoot. And, remembering the movie "All the Presidents Men," I thought it would be a good idea to follow the money. Not Pru's money, of course. I thought it would be much more fun to pester a small, not-for-profit organization.


Sandra Crider (AKA Sandy Frost)

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