You know, when Toby tapped me to write this month's State of Tobyvision
Address, I hopped right off of my Two of a Kind bedspread and immediately smelled
conspiracy.Why would Toby want me speaking on his behalf? What's going on with him that he can't say whatever needs to be said himself? Is he having an affair? Or perhaps I'm the issue. Was I being set up? How many people shot Kennedy? Who shot Buckwheat? Was there a cover-up at Roswell? The answer to these questions could well reveal Toby's motivation. Before I went one step further, I immediately went to the police with all these questions (I consider them evidence) that I'd gathered.
Okay, I was laughed out of the police station. They told me my story was less believable than Sally Jessy Raphael playing Othello. But you know what? Who cares? Those guys wouldn't know a conspiracy if one was oozing out of their jelly doughnut. I knew I wasn't going to get anywhere with those gun-toting, blue-wearing losers, so I immediately gave radio host Art Bell a call. Art was very receptive to my hasty, unstable ramblings, and booked me as a guest on his show for that very night.
Well, I don't have to tell you how well that went. Soon, everyone was smelling conspiracy in everything, and I had accomplished my goal! I next set my sights on Bourbon Street in New Orleans, where I promptly stood around at 2 a.m. waving religious flyers in people's faces. Once that got their attention, I would promptly inform them about the Man's conspiracy to keep us down. Yes, and it went very well. Soon, I had two or three drunks joining my cause!
But that wasn't enough for me. I wasn't going to rest until I went to the White House to take my cause to the president, because ... because ... well, yeah. Anyway, I boldly stood outside the gates and told Mr. Bush exactly what I'd been through, in no uncertain terms. I don't think he heard me though, as my wayward cries were somewhat muffled due to the fact that the Secret Service got me in a headlock and hurriedly dragged me away.
So, for the second time, I preached my sad but tasty story to the cops, and this time they just tossed me in a jail cell next to a bespectacled man named Erwin. He had a "Satan's Little Helper" tattoo on his left forearm, but I didn't get a very good look at it because he was raping me up the ass before I knew it. Apparently my cries of conspiracy did nothing to quell his sexual appetite. It was then that I learned a very valuable lesson, boys and girls.
You see, while most events in this crazy world of ours just happen randomly, we as a society make it much easier for a conspiracy to occur due to our own hyperactive skepticism. I'm not saying you should believe everything you hear, but try not to brand everyone who doesn't accept the party line a "kook," "nutjob," or "munchkin." After all, the government does have a good reason to hide evidence of extraterrestrial beings, the NBA does have a good reason to screw the Milwaukee Bucks so that they get an Iverson-Shaq NBA Finals matchup, and Toby does have a good reason to...
Hmmm. You know, I've forgotten how I got on this kick in the first place. Everybody go home. It's time for my massage therapy/disco session with Dale Evans.