It wasn’t long after the webmaster for the B2L2 writers’ blog in New Orleans posted a photograph of New Orleans’ celebrity Chris Owens that I started this byzantine piece of investigative journalism, the kind of piece that proves that one doesn’t need the facts to be right. At that point, I had no idea where it would lead, but I knew that I was on to something big. Being that I have only visited the Crescent City on a few occasions, I was clueless about who Chris Owens was, and given that Mardi Gras is just around the corner, I had to look twice at the photo. I wasn’t sure if Chris Owens was a he or a she? Was I looking at a man trying to pass as a woman? Or, stranger yet, was I looking at a woman trying to pass for a woman?
I was intrigued by the photograph. It turns out that she has run a burlesque show on the corner of St. Louis and Bourbon in the French Quarter for years, and she packs in tourists on nightly basis. Nonetheless, I needed to see beyond the lipstick, fake eyelashes, and inch-thick makeup.
I came to the conclusion that Owens had amassed a cult-like following. Over the years she had become a minor deity that belonged on an altar in all the parishes and juke joints in lower Louisiana. Most of the comments that accompanied the photo were in holy adoration, but there was one series of caustic annotations that stood out as particularly vicious and spiteful: the kind that cut like a straight razor. Interestingly, all of these comments were signed by a bona fide member of the infamous Skull and Bones Society, the scum-suckers who run Wall Street, the CIA and the White House.
So, I asked, “What does an 80-year-old burlesque performer have to do with a fraternity at Yale University?”
As it turns out, quite a lot.
Like most information junkies, I was hooked on the story. I hacked my way through the Internet underbrush and traced the negative comments to an IP address at Yale. The account was registered to Throckmorton Wilder, III, a sitting member of the Board of Directors of the Skull and Bones Society. This is the ultra-secret fraternity housed on the New Haven campus that consists of the political and economic elite in the United States. These “bonemen” are also the biggest perverts and degenerates in the country. Their initiation rites are so lewd and disgusting that both pedophiles and animal rights activists have been known to become morally outraged. The administration at Yale has known about their ceremonies for years but they refuse to acknowledge their existence officially.
What would the members of this group have against an octogenarian burlesque performer?
According to the National Enquierer, Star, and the Berliner Post-Hoc Review, there was a rumor of a secret memo circulated by members of the group that connects Owens to a number of little known facts regarding Prescott Bush, the grandfather of Dubya, (George Bush, Junior), the pinhead that lead us into Iraq on a wild goose chase for weapons of mass destruction. Rumor and inuendo has it that Owens holds the deepest and darkest of the Bush family secrets.
According to unspecified sources, while the rest of the US doughboys were biting the bullet in the trenches in France during World War I, Prescott and a bunch of his fraternity brothers were holding up in the National Guard at Fort Sill in Oklahoma. They decided it would be a great prank to dig up the body of the Apache Chieftain Geronimo, lop off his head, and send his skull off to their frat house for use in the initiation ritual. So, after a night of booze-fueled craziness, they collected shovels and lanterns, headed out the cemetery, and exhumed the old Apache’s bones.
This part of the story is common knowledge. The History Channel even ran a special, citing archival material from Yale University library, on the activities of the Skull and Bones Society last April, but what they left out is the drunken debauchery that followed. Prescott was so intent on celebrating that he convinced his buddies to steal a military transport vehicle and to head down to the Big Easy for a “good time.” So, they informed their superior officer that they were going to scout out the perimeter for a few days, and off they went, heading south-east toward New Orleans. After seventeen hours behind the wheel, they stopped at the first house of ill-repute they could find, a shack on Lake Pontchartrain.
They ended up at the house of Madonna Owens, the matron would later become Chris’s Great-great Grandmother. It seems that the old procuress had a wicked sense of humor, and after seeing that Prescott and his Yankee-frat brothers didn’t show the proper respect, she decided to give them free drinks until they were stone-cold hammered. Then, she sent for the Sheila, the female impersonator that worked the evening floor show, to come in and give Prescott the time of his life.
According to legend, despite having hairy knuckles, Sheila was a traffic-stopping knockout. She was a tall, blond-haired, high-heel wearing bombshell who wore fire-red dresses and carried a white purse. She was a sly one. She (or he) didn’t speak very much, was girlishly coy, hiding her smile, fluttering her eyelashes, and feigning innocence. Within an hour of arrival at the bar, Sheila took Prescott by the hand, went upstairs, and after an hour of bumping and grinding in a hot and humid bedroom, made a real man out of him. When it was all over, Sheila stood at the door of the room and blew Prescott a kiss, leaving him naked in bed and smoking a cigarette. However, before she (or he) left, Sheila told Prescott to pay at the bar in a rough and gravelly voice.
She was gone, and Prescott would never see her again. Geronimo wasn’t the only one who lost his head. Prescott had flipped, and Sheila would haunt his dreams forever. Even after the shock of Sheila’s manly voice wore off, Prescott knew he had fallen for her (or him). It was the best sex he had ever had, or could ever hope to have, and this started the age-old Bush family preference for manly women.
George Bush, Sr. soon after his 18th birthday developed the same bizarre fetish and, after marrying Barbara, insisted that she wear a mustache, coveralls and workbooks when they are alone on the family ranch. This is the part of the Bush family history that drove Dubya to snort the great white dust, and, to prove that he was more of a man than his father he led us into Iraq.
While most people would be appalled by the very idea that a former president is a certifiable pervert and dope fiend, all of this makes perfect sense when one recalls the iconic figure of Barbara Bush, the butch matriarch of the Bush clan, the grandma-like figure that ran the White House with an iron fist. She might have resembled the woman who took care of Tweety Bird, but she wore the pants on Pennsylvania Avenue, and George H.W. loved her.
Getting back to the New Orleans connection, history would reveal that Madonna Owens, like most of her profession, she knew all the secrets of the high and mighty. Many of those secrets died with her when, at the ripe old age of 96 she passed after spending six wonderful days and nights shacked up with a 26 year old man who had just quit the Roman Catholic seminary. Before she passed, however, she entrusted the details of the secret love affair of Sheila and Prescott to her darling great grand-daughter Chris, who to this day is still a performer, club owner and entrepreneur in the French Quarter of New Orleans, Louisiana.
So, as I file this report, I am set to leave the country and go into hiding. If I am never seen or heard from again, let this be my final testament to the truth: the government of our country is being overrun with liars, cheats and low-rent scum. Forget about your shoes, roll up your pants, we are all in deep shit.
This is Gabacho, signing out. Good night, and good luck!