The Guy Society will dig out your corpse and present it as a Christmas present to a very frustrated cabal of Necrophiliacs. Add a bit of conspiracy laced candy to the mix and you might as well be dealing out Viagra.
“Never speak ill of the dead.” Here in the Guy Society we’re not exactly kosher with old farts telling us how to do our thing. Here, in this hallowed, holy ground of devastating investigative reporting… Here in this bedecked palace of scantily clad honeys, “Game Of Thrones” updates and high-minded discourse on the nature of winning a buck, we’ll trash, muck, drag through the mud, and feather and tar whoever has it coming. If dear gracious Grandma went and screwed the pooch, we’ll haul her ass out on the curb and make her understand the value of respect by way of Edward Norton and “American History X.” Death has no say in the way we deal out the truth. The Grim Reaper isn’t a blanket pardon, let alone a blank slate. If you were an asshole while plaguing Earth and sucking up all the valuable atmosphere, you can be pretty certain that once you kick the can, we in The Guy Society will dig out your corpse and present it as a Christmas present to a very frustrated cabal of Necrophiliacs.
Add a bit of conspiracy laced candy to the mix and you might as well be dealing out Viagra.
Once we get our Mulder on, there is no telling what kind rock hard response we’ll obtain from the man behind the curtain. If a whiff of complot, collusion, connivance or collaboration hits us… If the aftertaste of countermine, counterplot or contrivance peeks our buds… If the tiniest convention of a corrupt collection sets off our Spider Sense, we will hit the deck, run towards the closet and defrock our trusty tin foil hat. When we smell a scheming rat, you might as well have rung the dinner bell and told us it’s an all-you-can-eat-buffet.
First of all, let’s fill you in on the minutia of CNN worthy news. Aubrey McClendon, of 56, has just been murde… I mean he died peacefully with a knife in his back. All alone, driving his car, the man either had too much to drink, or suddenly decided that life was a real hassle, or he felt that steering his car “straight into” an overpass wall, with “plenty of opportunities for him to correct and get back on the road,” was an incredibly difficult task while hogtied and narcotized.
His Chevy Tahoe went and frenched a rather hostile barrier. The affair was of such breathtaking erotism, that the little car immediately caught fire and was engulfed in fiery reds and Halloween oranges.
As you can imagine, poor (and here I use the term very loosely) Audrey got a front row seat, trial run, for what awaited behind the veil.
Now, you’re probably scratching your noggin, cross-examining this article and inquiring, “Why are you being such a prick?”
Oh, he of too much Star Wars and little-to-no CSPAN, let’s beat back the clock, shy away from this calamitous “accident” and really stir up the shit. Time to smell the feces covered roses and get a wild reek of last week’s overly digested mushu pork.
McClendon was, for lack of a better phrase, the Shale Oil Kingpin, the Big Kahuna. The founder, spearhead and Sith Lord of the natural gas revolution. In 1989, Audrey went and erected Chesapeake (CHK). He built up the company and slowly transformed it from a mom and pop shop to a leading energy powerhouse.
Think the urban tale of MAC being built in a backyard, only with less Steve Jobs and more Darth Vader.
During 24 years, McClendon had the world swinging from his balls. He was a shark, slowly crossing the Gulfstream, shadowed by an army of pilot fishes with Harvard obtained Legal Diplomas. During his rather tumultuous reign, Chesapeake had an eternal and widespread epidemic of judicial issues. That’s not a euphemism, that’s a fact. The history of CHK has been so blemished by a myriad of insane debacles, that it might as well have it’s own reality show. A program, were once every season, after a major blowout, McClendon would waltz into his boardroom, face down the stockholders and…
“Audrey, what are we going to do next year?”
Rubbing his hands together, a beady look in his eyes, McClendon stares into oblivion. “Lowly minion, the same thing we do every night. Try to take over the world!” Cue music, enter title cards, Steven Spielberg presents.
Here are just a few of the top rated episodes of that black-comedy freakshow:
- April 19, 2011 – oops, my bad, mia culpa, almost blew up part of Oklahoma.
- June 5, 2014 – fraud and racketeering charges.
- mid-2012 – collusion with the Canadians. So much technical jargon that you’d need a degree in jibber jabber to understand what the hell went down.
Now, that’s just three of the “errors” from a firm that Forbes magazine called: “Best Managed Oil-and-Gas Company.” Which, if Forbes’ recognition is true, then God help us all. What are the pillars of all the others? Three dimwitted gerbils operating the release valves that might or might not unleash Armageddon? In retrospect, the Gulf Coast spillage might as well have released a trailer a year in advance.
But, and here all those conspiracy nutcases get their ears up, comes the smoking gun; the magic bullet. McClendon, part owner of NBA team The Oklahoma Thunder, had just been charged – on Tuesday – by the Department Of Justice for “conspiring to rig the price of oil and natural gas leases in Oklahoma.”
If you had it coming… I’ll cover you in honey and feed you to a gang of starving cannibals. See if they’ll swallow your bullshit.
We are talking about an accusation that charged a man – a man who had been ousted by his very own company when it was discovered he was skimming from the top to bankroll his lavish lifestyle – with a far-reaching plot that spanned from 2007 until he was booted out of CHK in 2012.
Two days later, after facing the possibility of a Club Med prison sentence, Audrey skids into a wall. He forgets where the brakes, steering wheel and seatbelts are located in his Chevy. Poof. Out of mind out of sight. For a second he believes he’s on Mars and that his car will simply fly above the overpass. That’s basically the official report, if you’re savvy and can read between the lines.
My money is on two possibilities, none of them involve Audrey sinking into a pool of sorrow – I mean, not even Jordan from “The Wolf Of Wallstreet” truly believed in the judicial system. One of them involves CIA like spooks cleaning out a loose end, the other involves a ruby laced Yacht anchored off the coast of an azure country with beautiful coastlines and flimsy extraction laws.
“Never speak ill of the dead.” Ha, ha, ha. If you had it coming, I’ll pick your bones clean. Maybe, if you’ve been particularly naughty, after those enthusiastic necrophiliacs have their way, I’ll cover you in honey and feed you to a gang of starving cannibals. See if they’ll swallow your bullshit.