<center><p> <b><u>REVIEW OF THE WEEK</u><p> by<p> BAO DAI OF HOLLYWOOD</b><p> </center> <left> DATELINE: HOLLYWOOD 3 SEPTEMBER 2000; SOMEWHERE ALONG THE TRAIL OF TEARS, A COLD SUNDAY IN OR ABOUT 1839<p> </left> <center> <b><u>BOYCOTT THE TWENTY DOLLAR BILL (and/or a few other things)</b></u><p> </center>

I bumped into Professor Peabody early this morning at the Viper Room (where I had gone to see if I could witness the deaths of any celebrities and thus really liven up this column - if you haven't guessed yet, you're an idiot, but in case you're an idiot (and there's nothing inherently wrong with being an idiot), I struck out... but I must add that Johnny Depp has never really welcomed me with open arms since I broke the story that River Phoenix actually went into death throes inside the club, only to get 86ed after Christina Applegate realized he wasn't doing an imitation of Jerry Lewis on Percodan imitating one of "Jerry's Kids"* and went for security (the stuck up cunt) - hey, I didn't see any "No Dying Allowed on Premises" sign... in fact, I know for a fact Johnny turned the late Bill Graham down when he offered to sell him Winterland's infamous "Once You're Out You're OUT" sign which could seem benign or ominous or hilarious, depending upon you're frame of reference and possibly the quality or quantity of any LSD you ingested.

Anyway, in exchange for a couple one pot packages of this (actually decent tasting) "Raspberry Vanilla Coffee" which I shamelessly stole from the kitchenette of a law firm I was visiting, he agreed to let me use the Way Back Machine today, so later - around 9ish - this morning I took the Pope Mobile down to El Segundo where the Professor and his boy Sherman have set up temporary digs** in an old building which Howard Hughes allegedly used to own adjacent to the hangar housing the Way Back Machine.

After the Professor bit Sherman in the butt, I tossed a raw steak out of the room and, laptop in hand, hopped into the Way Back Machine and not knowing exactly how to operate it, ended up somewhere in what I think might be Arkansas or Louisiana, along the Trail of Tears... immediately recognizable for the plethora of Cheyenne crying who mistook me for a misplaced Railroad worker and the lap top for a (then) new fangled opium pipe/laundry combination... Mr. Theodorus T. Jefferson a/k/a Coiner of Forked Tongue -- even their "Indian" names had taken on a Euro-American tone -- immediately offered to trade me "All the land my family has back in Georgia" if I'd allow him to patent the pipe/laundry, which he said he's call a Popaundry, but I explained the Harrison Act was coming in 80 or so years and it would probably kill sales... he was still interested and I was trying to persuade him to sign a deed for most of the land now owned by Ted Turner, but negotiations were ended by some irate Cheyenne who wanted to know why I wasn't busy building them a railroad so they wouldn't have to schlep along the Trail of Tears. Accordingly, I quickly grabbed a nubile squaw, jumped onto a sickly looking goat one of them had managed to get away with during the initiation of the "Relocation" and headed into the woods (thank the Great Spirit the army had taken away all their muskets and other arms, as well as most food... they only chased us a quarter mile, and the goat gave out shortly thereafter).

So, here I am, literally, somehow connected by virtue of a space-time continuum modem, filing this report, and also updating SEVEN STRANGERS IN THE LAND OF THE VOODOO QUEEN*** and to finally get to the point, or one of them, I shall now explain why I am single handedly starting this movement to boycott the five dollar bill. I should note that most of this information comes from my companion, to whom I would gladly give a by-line except for the fact that by the time this Review appears she will be long dead... and besides, our child (I have impregnated her, and will stay until the child is born, although thanks to the Way Back Machine, I'll like only be gone a few minutes, and should be back in time for lunch) will have many heirs who will be rich as former KGB operatives from Indian Casino operations, assuming all their ancestors play their cards right (no pun intended), which should be the case as this squaw is pretty darn smart and seems to be catching on to the whole scam/plan as lot faster than you'd expect a 15 year old girl to do.****

So here's the poop:

A few years back (remember this is 1830 something) the Cheyenne Nation, doing what they were "supposed" to do according to the Bureau of Indian Affairs (well, the US Army, or "those stupid assed white guys up in Washington" as my little pregnant squaw puts it) adopted a Constitution. They had nice houses and farms and even some slaves (in other words, they had become very Amercanized) back in Georgia when gold was discovered in some creek (Joe Lane, a/k/a Running Joke, actually planted some of his riches there as a prank when he saw some grizzled old prospectors come onto his land from the Trailer Park***** down the path which would become I-95. Joe was among the first to die along the Trail of Tears, beaten to death by the hob nailed boots of unknown very Americanized People).

Anyway, since most white folks in Georgia back then were the direct descendants of the original settlers of that British Penal Colony and also "just plain illiterate crackers" (per the Squaw), they got all upset about this Constitution (and the fact the Cheyenne were sitting on what they thought was a heap of gold), and in the grasp of what the Squaw calls "Dysentery secondary to a love for the shit of the Great Spirit" a/k/a "Gold Fever", the white Georgians passed a bunch of shitty laws, one of which required any non-Cheyenne who lived on the reservation (a/k/a The Cheyenne Nation) to swear allegiance to the State of Georgia.

Several white guys who were missionaries forcing -- I mean converting -- the Cheyenne to their interpretation of Christianity, refused to take the oath and were arrested. The Cheyenne sued on their behalf, claiming the laws of a stink ass state like Georgia had no effect within the borders of the Cheyenne Nation -- ironically, as it turns out that was, in legalese, the seminal****** case which allows my great grand children to rake in the bucks from white trash who live in trailer parks and any one else looking to place a bet at casinos -- and the US Supreme Court agreed.

Now, this is why you should boycott the twenty dollar bill: Andrew Jackson, then President of the US, in an act which violated the Separation of Powers and was, in fact, treasonous, or at least a high enough crime or misdemeanor to justify impeachment, basically refused to back up the Supreme Court's ruling, and let the poor missionary rot in jail until the State of Georgia got sick of paying to feed him, which may have been around the time a renegade bunch of Cheyenne got liquored up and sold the Cheyenne Nation to some toothless grandsons of criminals who were so low the British wouldn't even let them go to Australia for a ridiculously low sum which they pocketed and then high tailed it out of town (the Squaw doesn't know this yet, but most of them ended up minus their scalps). This was done when the Big Chief was in Washington powwowing with that traitor Jackson or the present (remember, this is the past) version of Jesse Helms about the desire to "relocate" his people because the white folks thought there was a shit load of gold on their land.

So for "going with the flow" and doing things the American way as commanded, here they are, on the trail of tears, and judging from the rustle in the bushes I'd say a few may have found me and want to "discuss" the Railroad issue again...

So, I will have to kiss the Squaw good bye, wish her luck, hope she teaches my heirs well so I can spend next week finding them and convincing them of this story and then explaining to them that the whole "Indian Casino" idea was really mine and, therefore, they should cut me in for a share of the profits....

Except those twenties. The only way to successfully boycott the twenty dollar bill is, oddly, to spend them, and spend them either buying drugs which come from some other country, or at a store owned by a guy who seems like he illegally ships cash out of the country in twenties, and write "Keep this in Mexico or Columbia or Any Place outside the USA. Be sure to draw glasses and a Groucho nose on Andy's face, or otherwise deface the bill so if it ends up at any legitimate bank******* they will be returned to the mint (or bill printing place) for burning --which you can do yourself if you're in the mood, rich enough and it's not illegal -- don't do any of this if it's illegal.

They'll get the picture. Maybe they'll put Bill Clinton's picture on the NEW twenty: We need to let them know we'd rather have some guy who got blow jobs in the Oval Office by young, nubile female interns (and/or Monica Lewinsky) than we would the picture of Andrew "The Supreme Court Can Suck My Dick" Jackson


*NOTE: This being Labor Day Weekend, Jerry Lewis is on all night trying to raise millions to cure his kids, and while I used to donate under the misconception a "cure" would end his fucking Telethon and the inevitable sad parade of poor sick kids and worse, his tearful rendition of I'll Never Walk Alone I finally realized that (sorry kids) ain't no cure coming from that schlock telethon, or anything else, and besides, Jerry abandons those "kids" as soon as they become adults, which suggests to me that Jerry Lewis is nothing but a pedophile who uses orthopedic appliances in his weird bisexual pedophiliac sex acts... so if you feel moved to donate, send a five dollar bill with Andrew Jackson's picture crossed out.

**And some of my compadres in the press have questions about Michael Jackson's Sex Life -- hey, the Way Back Machine used to be at Never Land Ranch until some event no one will discuss - even with that washed up lush Christina Applegate (as far as I know I'm still the only one who thinks he matters who hasn't seen why her unbraed breasts appear to jut out from the lowest rib on her rib cage, and I may be the last guy in Hollywood who really, really, really wants to check this out before she wises up and goes under the knife, if she hasn't yet).

***Because I remembered the whole "Mandela released" thing and that my claim of an anti-apartheid stance would no longer excuse the fact I slept through all episodes of The Real World so far this week, and probably won't catch Saturday's either, having left my space-time television receiver in the back of the Pope Mobile in El Segundo.

****By the way, 15 is legal under Cheyenne law... also under the law of the South in what ever year this is, and I don't even need to use the "blood relation" exception to the Uniform Southern Statutory Rape Code.

*****Yes, they had Trailer Parks back in the 19th Century. In fact there's a rest stop on I-95 with a sign that says "On this spot in 1864 Union Soldiers burned what is believed to have been the first Trailer Park in the United States, even if it was in the Confederate States at that time.

****** Unfortunately for me, she's not Seminole or there's be a pun.

*******Examples of questionable banks are ones with funny names which don't seem to offer checking, savings, loans or free toasters.