Jon Stewart blue pic
 

 Jon Stewart Intelligence Agency
    A n   u n o f f i c i a l   f a n   c l u b

We're fighting, apparently, with one of
Xena's web sites. It's a huge battle.

— Jon Stewart on the JSEB

 


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If you love The X-Files . . .
If you love true literature . . .
If you love quality writing . . .
Then, boy, will you hate this . . .

Annie's Ambles #4:
Jon Meets World

The epic saga of how Jon Stewart will achieve
world domination . . . and why it will be good.

Introduction

I wrote this after Miss Rebecca, the president of the Jon Stewart Estrogen Brigade (JSEB), asked me to write an article for the Thanksgiving edition of their newsletter. It was inspired by an e-mail I sent to Miss Rebecca in which I suggested that if I had more time the SSS would take over the world and the JSEB would be the ruling unit, sort of like NSA, the CIA, the Green Berets, the FBI, the freemasons, and the Secret Service combined. Can you tell I watch too much X-Files?

This story isn't true, and I actually have a life. How about that?

 

Chapter 1: Prophet

September 20, 1996.

The night is cool and calm. A gentle melodic hum fills a small apartment in Champaign, Illinois. A sweet young Annie dusts her television. It is dirty; grime coats the screen. She sprays an acrid blue liquid onto the glass. It streams quickly, carrying its gray dirt with it. She wipes it carefully with a white paper towel. As the last bit of dirt disappears, a light glows behind the glass. Annie frowns. The television is not on. She leans in closer, peering at the screen. Her hum fades away. It is silent. Then, as if from a great distance, a voice speaks. It is deep and rich, ringing with an authoritative timbre. It cries out two words.

"Ola Miami!"

Annie staggers, clutching the ammonia soaked paper towels to her chest. She falls back upon the couch in time to see a well-dressed man with dark hair and sparkling green eyes fill the screen. He smiles a devastating smile, he paces with a smoldering dark energy, he speaks with a piercing voice that enters Annie's ears, fills her head, and overflows into the rest of her body. She laughs, nearly screaming, unable to breathe. She sees nothing else until an hour later. Then the screen flickers once. The uproarious cheers of the audience die away. She finds herself alone, in complete blackness, empty of all but one thing.

Jon Stewart.

Annie clenches her fists as the tears stream down her face. She sees a road ahead of her, and she understands that down that road . . . lies madness. This is the last moment of life. She is teetering on the brink of sanity and insanity. First, she sees the future before her. Jon Stewart, standing before an audience not of 500, but of five billion. They cry out his name and yearn for his eternal life. Second, she sees the past behind her: a dark, Stewartless void. She teeters a few seconds more. Third, she takes a deep breath. She unclenches her fists. From her hot palms vapors wisp into a ghostly light. The light commands her. The light consumes her. Annie as we knew her dies.

And the SSS is born.

 

Chapter Two: Flood

November 25, 1999, Thanksgiving Day.

Annie, no longer so sweet, no longer so young, worked frantically at her computer, carefully encoding subliminal flashes into her intricately manipulative web site. She rocked back and forth, muttering to herself the phrases that would change the world. "You will worship Jon Stewart. Jon Stewart is your master. Join the SSS. Our forces will flood the earth and rise up to drown the infidels. Jon . . . Jon . . . Jon . . . ." The Dark Converter, as she was known to many, muttered deep into the night, the visions of Jon's glory flashing before her eyes in an endless maddening prophecy of things to come.

Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, at JSEB headquarters deep underground, the subtle Miss Rebecca looked upon the JSEB roster of Stewart Soldiers with satisfaction. Her power was growing, and each new member of the JSEB came faster, more eagerly, drooling at the sheer volume and breath of her site. She sighed, and allowed herself an all-too-brief moment of contentment. They would have to resume their mission tomorrow. For now, she turned to her plate and filled it with turkey and potatoes from the steaming feast on the table. "It's almost too easy," she mused, poking at her white meat and temporarily setting aside the assertive leadership style that had served her so well thus far. "Our work has been almost flawless." She spoke with a confidence that emanated from her fundamental belief in Jon Stewart's majesty. Her faith had buoyed her through some trying times, but her recruiting success coupled with the prophesies she had gleaned from the prophet Annie gave her much to be thankful for.

"The video captures almost killed them," said a gleeful Miss Manda, the technical and artistic genius behind the massive site. "The forty pictures from Conan alone rendered most of them whimpering and helpless. The Dark Converter wrote me and confided to me her own near breakdown. It is a great success when even the allies among us can barely withstand the onslaught." Miss Manda dug into her mashed potatoes, relishing the thought of so many web surfers drowning in her collection of pictures and articles. Day after day, the Internet surfers sometimes on purpose, sometimes accidentally, fell into her carefully woven web of Stewart, wandering and clicking desperately until their eyes crossed and their brains sizzled its synapses, permanently rendering them slaves of the Stewart Supremacy.

"Resistance is futile," replied a smiling Miss Allison, the most visible leader of the JSEB. Her friendliness beguiled even the most cynical. She threw wonderful parties and joined every board and committee in town. During the course of these meetings and parties, she invited individual guests into her parlor. They always went willingly. The men went because of her charm. The women went because of her humor. But instead of a parlor, they would find themselves in a dark stone hallway with nothing but an iron chair and a devoted Stewart loyalist. Before they could even understand their danger, Miss Allison locked them into the chair and chained a laptop to their lap, forcing them to watch helplessly as she pulled up more and more articles about Jon Stewart. In a matter of minutes, the laptop permanently ensnared them inside Miss Manda's web of Jon. Often, they would cry. And Miss Allison would smile down upon them. "It will be better this way," she would say quietly. "You will see. It will be better this way. Do not resist, dear. Do not resist." Her gentle hands tapped on the laptop and pulled up picture after picture until the enslaved guest gave in. None escaped.

"The newsletter continuously reminds them of their duties," Miss Allison reported cheerfully, "and it reminds them of where their loyalties truly lie. When the time comes, they will willingly give their lives for Jon . . . and love every moment of it. The revolution will be glorious."

They laughed then, enjoying the growing power they felt ebb from the Great One, the massive deity that they were helping to feed. The JSEB, with its immense and growing popularity created loyal and eager servants, ready to serve Jon's every need. The SSS, with its psychological manipulation, planted its subliminal messages into every surfer that happened by, so that even those who resisted Jon would eventually break down and yield. One day, carried on the backs of Stewart Soldiers, Jon Stewart would rise up as Annie foretold and clutch the nations of the world in his hands until they yielded to his great leadership and collapsed in tears at his feet.

 

Chapter 3: Ascension

December 31, 2000, 11:50 p.m.

It was a nervous time at Mission Control. Heavy clouds hung low over the converted Pentagon as the elite members of the JSEB peered pensively at the twenty-foot high monitor. Around them, on the other three walls of the great meeting room were hundreds of monitors, some revealing the secrets of their enemies, some showing their friends. One camera focused on a cheerful Teevie, the first Stewart loyalist, holding a champagne glass and wearing a broad smile. Teevie had been waiting for this moment a long time. Another screen showed the vanquished Craig Kilborn supremacist in deep hiding in Spain, unaware that the Jon Stewart Estrogen Brigade, the elite military spy force and cabinet for the now all-powerful Stewart Supremacy Soldiers knew where he was all along.

"We could activate the microchip we implanted in his brain," suggested Miss Manda. "It would take only a few minutes to poison him."

"Not a good idea," objected Miss Allison. "At least we know he is our enemy. If we destroy him, he will become a martyr. It is best we know who are enemies are. Then we can know what they do."

"We'll spare him for now," murmured Miss Rebecca. "He will pay for his blasphemy in other ways. We have his entire lifetime to torment him as we see fit. Whatever quantity of life we choose to let him have, that is."

"Ascension," muttered Annie.

The three leaders of the JSEB turned to look at the Dark Converter. She had refused to emerge from her lair since she first hid herself underground in 1996. Now, for the first time, the prophet sat above ground, among the JSEB. Her hair long and tangled, her eyes wild and darting, Annie clutched her arms to herself and whispered one word over and over.

"Ascension . . . ascension . . . ascension . . . ."

The giant monitor flickered. Annie fell silent. The three JSEB leaders stood and waited. The great hall of the United Nations appeared. The world's leaders sat quietly as President Clinton of the United States of America slowly ascended the platform. He reached the podium and turned to the lectern. Every television, radio, and live Internet feed across the world was turned on to this moment. Clinton began to speak.

"As you know, the President-elect will take my place within a matter of weeks," said the President slowly, solemnly. "But he and I both have an announcement to make. It should come as no surprise to any of you." The audience rustled as some of them shifted nervously in their seats.

"I have only one thing to say. I have been yearning to say this ever since the Dark Converter came to me in a dream . . ." Clinton choked, overcome. The audience murmered again, in empathy. The Dark Converter had tormented them in their dreams as well, using her new long-range program, Dream Invader Deluxe 1.7. Clinton composed himself and spoke again. "The rest of you have yielded. Only the United States has managed to fight the SSS for so long. Ironic, I think, since most of them operate within our very borders. But their words have moved me, and my own heart is now telling me that perhaps the SSS is the best way. Perhaps Jon Stewart is the leader we need. Already, he has cured hunger in Ethiopia and homelessness in India. I see now that Jon is the way to the future, that he is the one." Clinton clenched his fists, much as Annie did several years before when she comprehended the sacrifice she would have to make, when she first understood the sanity she would lose in order to create a better world.

Clinton stood still. He bowed his head, as if a great weight anchored it to his heart. The clock read 11:59:40. Ten seconds passed. Five seconds passed. Two seconds passed. The clock read 11:59:57. The President's shoulders firmed. He lifted his head. At precisely 12:00:00, January 1, 2001, on the dawn of the new millennium, the President of the United States spoke one word that forever terminated his country and ended the modern world as all knew it. He acquiesced and opened the door to the reign of joy to follow. He spread wide his arms and called forth the new century of awesome beauty first glimpsed in 1996 by a young, sweet Annie. One word rattled the rooftop of every home in every country.

"SMAPDI!!!"

A cry arose like a sunset over the ocean. It grew louder and louder until each human voice cried the great word heralding the ascension. "SMAPDI! SMAPDI! SMAPDI!" The human voices screamed. The animals roared and chattered. The stars burned fiercely as meteorites blazed in rainbow colors in the sky. The leaves rustled in unison and the oceans rippled in time to the breathing, swelling cries of the new earth. "SMAPDI!" screamed the women, "SMAPDI!" screamed the men, "SMAPDI!" screamed the children, "SMAPDI!" cried the world.

At Mission Control, Miss Rebecca, Miss Allison, and Miss Manda cried and hugged. Their billions of minions cried with them across the world, crying at the magnificent ascension. Amid the noise and the tears and the vibrations of a unified planet Annie stopped rocking, straightened herself, and looked around her with sane eyes for the first time since 1996.

She pushed a giant button in the center of the giant table, and the screen flickered again. The world fell silent as the image of Jon Stewart filled the screen. His hair was a little grayer, the salt and pepper of his temples glinting in the lamplight of his home. He smiled his beautiful smile and winked his green eyes at Annie, Miss Rebecca, Miss Allison, Miss Manda, and every other person who believed that he was talking and looking directly at them.

"Thanks guys," he said, waving a little. "You were just great. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go mop up dog vomit. Leader of the entire world, and I still can't teach my dog that you're not supposed to eat your own poop. Thanks again."

The cheers resumed, as each person heard Jon's final whispers on his inauguration day. Everyone heard something different. This is what Annie heard: "Thanks, Annie. You can have your brain back now. Sing a little song for me." So Annie sang one song for Jon:

If I had words to make a day for you,
I'd sing you a morning, golden and new.
I would make this day last for all time,
And fill your nights deep in moonshine.

And they lived happily ever after.

How could they not?

The End

Annie
November 25, 1999
(Lyrics stolen from the movie Babe)


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