Luckily, my gal pal Ethel clued me in to all the commotion. I read Doom of Weirds and turned my life around. A little bit.
By Bill O’Reilly
[Note: Okay, a lot of wisenheimers who get their information from Comedy Central have claimed that I, Bill O’Reilly, erroneously claimed I would be killed this year in France. They’re wrong. I clearly said I’d be murdered next year, not 2015. Once again the pinheads messed it up. ]
In the end, it was spin that got me. And a woman. And the President of France.
I’ve been in combat. In the Falklands, in El Salvador. Deep in the hell they call Ferguson, Missouri. I’ve seen nuns with their heads blown off in movies, babies thrown onto bayonets in history books, piles of dead corpses at Shiloh. I saw it all and reported it all.
Fearless, I was armed for the kill zone. Until the day I met her, the one I can only call The Woman. I was no match. It wasn’t my fault – no man’s guns could hold out against the arms control she offered.
Understand: if your average reporter ever faces death, he runs. That’s just fact. Not me. Not my style. I’m a man, and a man endures the unendurable. If you can’t do that, you’re a liberal pussy, so go work at MSNBC.
Unfortunately, The Woman knew that, and counted on it.
But hey, like Sgt. Friday said, I’m just here to give you the facts. The facts about my death.
I will be murdered on July 4, 2016 by the President of France, Holland Something-or-Other. He’ll shoot me right between the eyes, at the Eiffel Tower. For real.
I explain it here because the American public deserves to know the when as well as the how of another hero going down.
How am I telling you this? The same way the guy in Marty Robbins’ El Paso tells you his story.
I will be murdered on July 4, 2016 by the President of France, Holland something-or-other.
The Far Left Loons running the show over there at the New York Times have been writing about the Twilight of my career for years now, years. They can’t get over the fact that my show The O’Reilly Factor, dominates cable television, excluding the entertainment shows people spend 95 percent of their time watching. But among the five percent left that watches nothing but bombast, I’m The Bombardier. The O’Reilly Factor has three million loyal viewers each night. That’s the population of three Montanas. You could see that from the moon. That’s real power, and that’s why liberals are jealous. They hate Fox News because they ain’t Fox News.
Caution: You are about to enter the No-Twilight Zone.
It all began in Paris. Paris, Texas, A good little flick from the ‘80s, starring that grizzled old Harry Dean Stantler guy. Netflix it or something.
Anyway, about a month ago I was sitting in the coffee shop in the Fox Building in New York, telling this senator, Texas Teddy, how much I like that movie. The Senator had just come from some Tea Party orgy in Iowa or somewhere, bumming for a spot on The O’Reilly Factor. We’ll see.
Suddenly, I saw her standing there – just like The Beatles said I would. Walking in beauty by Starbucks, like an ordinary human being, was this, this lady god.
Her body was painted in fire red, or maybe it was a dress. A cascade of stunning blonde hair silhouetting a gorgeous face, all overlooking a body chiseled finer than Mount Rushmore. Pulsating blue eyes, twin sapphires that cut into a man’s soul, lips as red and luscious as Valentine’s Day. She was the kind of woman that makes anyone packing a penis grateful to Lord God$ Almighty for granting him breath on this day. You know the other gals hate her.
Okay, I’m not going to use real names here. This is not some sleazy gossip show like TMZ or Inside Edition. I don’t embarrass people. We’ll just call our hot blondie ‘Megan.’ She was one of the newer on-air ‘female talents’ at Fox.
Well, with no more introduction than a smile, she sat at our table. Let me tell you, that smile probably got her into a lot of powerful places. She looked right at me and didn’t so much as speak as purr.
“Hello Mr. O’Reilly. Roger told me to come down and introduce myself.”
Texas Teddy’s eyes bugged out of his head, I mean the guy lost it.
“¡Qué gran conjunto de tetas!” he snorted in his native Canadian, and suddenly he was howling “Aww-ooga aw-ooga!” and pounding the table like one of those wolves in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.
I leaned over and smacked him across the puss, hard. He yelps like a dog, cringes, and covers the pain with his hand.
“Ow! What did you do that for?”
“Senator Cruz, you apologize to the Lady. Now. Or you’ll need Obamacare to pay for being in traction for the next three months.”
He looks hard at me, then her, then back to me. He keeps rubbing his cheek and finally stammers out a weak apology. He knew enough than to mess with a working class Irish kid from the projects in Levittown. Before he started bawling he excuses himself, and up and out he goes. Who cares. I guess he’s an okay guy but I wouldn’t trust him in an office with closed doors and an intern.
Back to our temptress. A vamp. All right, I’m married, but nobody’s that married. On the other hand, I’ve had hot babes come after me before. It’s part of the burden of being Number One in primetime cable. She was definitely the frontrunner. Still, you don’t get to where I am without learning to protect yourself, and your instincts kick in.
“Megan you said? Yeah, I’ve heard about you. You’re that hot-shot lawyer. I bet your Daddy’s proud of you. And now you wanna be a TV star on Fox News? Welcome to the jungle.”
“Oh?” she replied, a little startled at my honesty. Can’t help it, I’m an honest guy. That’s why I laid in to her.
“Lady, don’t play tricks with me. I know what you really want. You want my time slot. You want my ratings. Maybe me. Can’t have ’em doll face. Like the voice-over man says, they’re all exclusives on tonight’s The O’Reilly Factor.”
She smiled, again. Whoa!
“It might be you’re too savvy for me. Truth is, I’ve just come from a meeting upstairs with Roger. He gave me an assignment, a tough one. I’ve come to ask for your advice, Mr. O’Reilly. Nothing more.”
That was gutsy I admit, calling the Old Man ‘Roger.’ Most first-timers don’t get on a first-name basis. Hell, most first-timers don’t get to go upstairs for the first two or three years. But you’re talking to the only man at Fox News who’s ever said No to the Old Man and never broke a sweat.
“Go on. I’m listening.”
“It’s a huge story, and happening right now in Europe, in this country called France. Muslims have taken over the entire country and secretly turned the French city of Paris into a Muslim No-Go Zone. Only Fox News has been able to confirm it. The liberal media won’t touch it – they’re covering it up.”
“Wow. Call me Bill, by the way. That’s quite a story. I’m surprised I haven’t heard about it yet. Especially considering I just sent my best reporter, Jesse Watters, over there.”
Suddenly her smile vanished. Damn, this dame’s serious face would put a boner on Winston Churchill.
“You haven’t heard? That was how we found out. I’m afraid your little friend isn’t coming back – Bill.”
Now was my turn for looking serious and sexy.
“It seems your young man inadvertently stumbled onto something. A clue, like in a Tom Hanks movie, detailing France’s betrayal of the entire Western world, especially its leader, the United States of America! And it goes deep, all the way to the top, or the bottom I guess since we’re going down. Your friend died to get this information to us!
“The whole thing will happen this Fourth of July, at the annual Eiffel Tower Fourth of July Picnic. Secretary of State John Kerry will be there, representing President Obama. It’s there that the President of France will personally cut off the head of the Secretary just before he turns the Eiffel Tower into a mosque!”
Suddenly her smile vanished: “I’m afraid your little friend isn’t coming back Bill.”
“That would be the worst insult to any American President, ever. The Secretary of State bowing to the President of France on the Fourth of July! And Obama is weak enough to do nothing about it.”
I had to collect my wits, which are considerable you’ll remember. She battered her eyelashes at me, also considerable, and licked her lips, ditto, if I can use that word without Fat Boy’s permission. This was one thirsty frail.
“So let me see if I have this straight. The Frogs are going to sell out America and the whole world. Again. Someone has to go to France to document it. So why not just call up the CIA? Matt Damon? Isn’t that their job?”
She threw her head back and laughed. What a laugh! Damn hot.
“You know the answer to that one! The CIA is pussywhipped. Matt Damon is a Democrat. Six years of Barack Obama has left our country virtually defenseless.
“Listen, Bill, you know the score. The Old Man realizes what the responsibility of Fox News is to the country, to our allies, to the world. The New York Times, The Washington Post, NBC, CBS, all those deadbeat liberal bastards. They won’t admit it until after it happens. That’s why this mission can only be done by Fox News … and only by the best at Fox News …but it’s … so dangerous!”
We both knew that “the best” meant me, Bill O’Reilly. But I said nothing, and let her keep going.
“Roger can’t risk sending anyone valuable to the Network. Sam Shepherd, Brett Baier, they’ve already refused. John Stossel and Judge Napolitano claim it’s a suicide mission. There’s no one left. Only me. This could be my big chance. But I’m so afraid! I’m… just a woman.”
“Say Megan, you wouldn’t be trying to talk me into going there instead of you, would you?”
Oops, I guess I did say something.
That did it. She starting crying. I think. Maybe she was laughing, looking back. But it was too late. She had me. Once again, I dominated. She wanted it, though, like she wanted me.
“The thing is this, Megan. You lack the experience of a real journalist like myself. Have you ever been in a war zone? If so, do you know what’s it like? Help me out here.”
“It’s hell. There’s no time for a make-up artist, honey. You may have to have your driver do it. That costs extra.”
“Bill! You’re so manly.”
“You go back upstairs to the Old Man. Tell him O’Reilly’s on the job. He can’t talk me out of it. There’s no spinning back. Also, I’ll need a limousine, a driver, an unlimited expense account including open bar, clothing allowances and a film crew. And a bowl of M&Ms in the limo every day. No brown ones. You hear that? No brown M&Ms, ever!”
“You lack the experience of a real journalist like myself,” I told her. “Have you ever been in a war zone? Can you tell me what’s it like?”
“I don’t know what to say! Roger will be pleased. Fox News will be grateful. I’ll be grateful. If there’s anything I can ever do for you…”
“We’ll talk about what you can do for me later when I get back. You like loofahs don’t you, kid?”
And with that she stood up. Her lips quivering in a kiss shared by hand. And she left, the air smelling of lilacs. Lilacs with balls.
I knew it was trouble but I had to go. It was my responsibility to Fox News, to the Number One rated show in Cable TV. And to my fellow combat reporters. And to the dame.
Well, after I made that impulsive decision, the word spread pretty quickly. I don’t know how, because I only told people I hoped would talk me out of it. Not enough tried.
One who did try though was another woman, another blonde. Not a woman, a girl.
“What about me Bill?” cried Elizabeth, clutching my arm in the elevator. Her sobbing was something awful. “What about me? I promised you I would leave my husband for you, my children, my family. I would eat a bug for you Bill, and I will. You want to see me do it?” Just like that she reached into her cleavage, pulled out a large black cricket and stuck it between her vintage white teeth. I winced to hear it crack as she bit down, looking into my eyes with her best 45-year-old little-girl love-me smile. Did she always have crickets in her boobs?
“Oh, that’s disgusting. Liz, I told you to stop doing that. Nobody wants to see your old Survivor tricks anymore. Anyway, it’s not about you. ”
“Then who is it about, Bill? Who?”
I sighed. It’s time she knew the facts of life for a newsman.
“It’s about the American people. It’s about our responsibility to the news. And to that grand Old Man who sits in that Office upstairs.” She gasped.
“Oh! You mean the one who helped create Mr. Reagan?” I doubt she or either of her two little Friends have ever actually been upstairs to meet The Man.
I had to laugh and shake my head.
“Elizabeth, Elizabeth. Only God$ can create a Ronald Reagan. Let’s just say Mr. Ailes was his Simon Peter. And I know because I wrote a New York Times best-selling book about Jesus called Killing Jesus.”
She nodded, tears in her eyes.
“With Martin Dugard.”
“All right, goddamnit, I wrote it with MARTIN DUGARD!! ARE YOU HAPPY NOW ELIZABETH?”
“Don’t yell at me. We’re not married.”
“You’re right, Elizabeth, we’re not. You know what else? We’re not even Foxy Friends anymore. Now I gotta go.”
I had other stops to make. For example, good journalism – great journalism – demands polished shoes.
Anyone who watches “The O’Reilly Factor” on any regular basis recognizes my old pal Bernie “Pops” Goldberg, a former CBS newsman, the shoeshine boy at Fox News. He had the balls to tell Murrow’s Boys where to put their liberal pension, so I like to give him business. I even let him on the air once in a while. He was slapping his black rag across my left Rockport when he looked up at me, more scared than I’ve ever seen him.
“Mr. O’Reilly sir? I heard about this trip to Paris they’re trying to get you to go on. Don’t go, sir. It’s a trap. You can’t trust them. No matter what you do or say, the liberal media will distort it, change it, to fit their radical right wing agenda.”
“Left wing. You mean left wing.” I’m always correcting that guy. That’s what I do. “Liberals are biased to the left, Pops.”
“Is that this way?” he held up his right hand.
“No, the other way… There. That’s your left hand. And I have to go, Pops, I mean Bernie. Because I’m a war journalist.”
“Okay. You know best Mr. O’Reilly sir. Spit-shine?”
I had enough time to head to the office and pack a few things. On the way out, I saw a familiar face across from me on the escalator to the lobby. I was heading down, he was going up.
“Vaya con Dios$, amigo,” ‘Geraldo’ yelled at me, waving.
“We speak American here ya dumb wop.”
I dunno why that guy bugs me so much. Maybe it’s because he’s always sending me naked pictures of himself from the bathroom. What’s up with that?
And before any pinhead starts calling me ‘racist’ like they always do, it’s okay for me to use that word. We ate spaghetti-os lots of time in my house, so what’s the big deal? It’s a term of endearment, okay? Which one of us has a college degree from Harvard here?
“Paris, France. Get me to that war zone,” I said to Rochester, my limousine driver, as I climbed into the back seat. He turned around to face me, his face stern with fear.
“Boss. You can’t go there. It’s too dangerous.”
“I have to. I’m a Fox News journalist.”
“But Boss, don’t you know? Mr. Watters went there a few days ago and never came back. All they found was his dead microphone inside a hollowed-out baguette.”
He was right, I’d already forgotten. The week before we’d sent Watters there to ask the Froggies in Paris if they’d ever eaten a “French fry” and then laugh in their face when they said they didn’t understand. Great piece of Fox reporting. How could I know it would cost him his life? Hey that’s a good angle.
“I know. That’s why I have to go. For Jesse.”
We drove nonstop to Paris, France. All right, we flew there first I guess, so sue me. Part of the way, the last bit, the most important part, we drove, okay? The Far Left is always out to smear me by mincing my words. That’s what they do.
We arrived early the next morning. Didn’t even have time to get to the hotel. How could I know I’d be dead in less than four hours? First we had to find John Kerry. Luckily, he’s always yammering out selfies on Facebook and Twitter, so we knew just where to catch him, even before he left his hotel parking lot on the Champs-Easys. We drove up just as he was about to leave.
“Kerry! Get the hell out of here! The Frogs want to kill you! I have a plan: First, you need to switch cars and drivers with me.”
Kerry dashed out of his car and into mine, practically pushing me to the ground. Didn’t ask a single question. Instead he popped that dogface of his out the window and kept blabbing even as they prepared to drive off.
“Thanks Bill. You are a great American. And as Americans we share responsibility to others who need our-”
“Yeah, shut up. This is no time for speeches. Get back to your lavish taxpayer-funded airplane and get the hell out of France. And never come back!”
“You got it, bro! Which I believe to be hippity-hopper patois, an abbreviated term for broth-”
I whistled and slapped the side of his car and his driver took off. What a Far Left loon. He was so lucky to have Fox News looking out for America, which accidentally includes him.
“Kerry! Get the hell out of here! The Frogs want to kill you!”
Now it was time for Part Two of my plan.
“Rochester. Have you seen those Fast and Furious movies?”
“Yes sir, all seven.”
“Seven? They made that many? I think I only saw part of the first two. Anyway, drive like those guys do. Get me to the Eiffel Tower, pronto.”
We took off, a little too fast, since we still didn’t have a camera crew. Before I could tell Rochester to slow down, we were at the Eiffel Tower. That was when we saw them.
It was a wall of Frenchman, maybe some Frenchwoman, they don’t shave you know, so it’s not always easy to tell. I’d been to France once before and couldn’t get laid, so I know how bad their women are. Anyway, instead of wearing their usual berets and pinstriped shirts like Waldo does, they were decked out in pinstriped hajibs. They were all sticking their butts up in the air to Mecca. And there, flying atop the Eiffel Tower, was the black flag of ISIS!
So it was all true! The Frogs had abandoned freedom for Islamic Radicalism. Of course, any regular Fox viewer knew it was only a matter of time.
“Rochester – Look out!”
To avoid the wall of human flesh in front of us, Rochester twisted the wheel, spinning the car around and around. If it stopped, I could run out and find cover. Instead we crashed into one of the Eiffel Tower’s pillars. Poor Rochester, it wasn’t his fault – what the hell was that idiot Kerry doing driving a Peugeot?
All right, here is where my plan needed more work.
Thousands of ISIS gunmen, indistinguishable from ordinary Frenchies, pulled Kalashnikovs out of their black pajamas and started shooting. Remember that great scene in the Godfather where Sonny gets it at the turnpike? Same here. My car was shot like that, it was beautiful. Hundreds and hundreds of rounds.
Luckily, they all missed. I mean they got Rochester, but they missed me. (You know I think Dr. Ben Carson would make a good Rochester, if he could act.)
I was in bad shape, I admit it, deep in shock thinking about having to describe Rochester’s loss of blood and head. But before I could get my bullet-riddled door open, French ISIS goons were yanking me out of the wreckage. They knew who I was.
“Mon Mohammad! Sacre Bleu! C’est le grand journaliste extraordinaire, Bill O’Reilly!”
They started whaling on me, beating me senseless. I can take five or six guys, like I did back in Casino Royale or Goldfinger, but there were just too many of them, a couple hundred. Real-life thugs don’t stand there waiting their turn like they do in Jackie Chan movies. It’s one big pile of fists.
Half an hour later, after I’m safely subdued, Holland, who’d been hiding behind a phalanx (that means a line) of these creeps, comes out into the open – sure enough, he’s pissed his pants. He whispers something to one of his stooges. Someone gives him a pistol.
“Bill O’Reilly! Salaud! Comment allez-vous les pommes, ouais?” he says. Then he speaks in English, which you know they can all do but won’t!
“Awoold heem up!”
It took six of his strongest goons to hold me back, struggling to keep my hands from ripping the face off that pudgy little socialist adulterer. He tried to keep his arm pointed at me, but he was shaking too bad. One of his moustache Pierres calms him, propping up his flabby appendage straight. Holland yells “Viva La France, et aussi notre nouveau Prophète, Mohammad.” And shoots me dead, right between the eyes.
And that’s how the Far Left finally gets me. One last triumphant act of cowardice and evil by the French in my final battle against radical Islamists and French traitors.
So you see, like I said in the beginning, in the end it was the car’s spin that got me, not mine. Miss Megan, I’ve been led to believe, will soon take over my time slot.
What did we learn here? First, always trust Fox News but never trust people who speak a different language. Second, don’t trust broads named Megan.
Am I spinning in my grave? Absolutely.
Mr. O’Reilly now lives in Heaven where he was inducted by Generals Custer and George Patton, Presidents Abraham Lincoln, Jack Kennedy, Ronald Reagan, and Jesus, since he wrote books about “Killing” all of them, or meant to.