FBI INTERNAL MEMO
ALL AGENTS:
I'm sure we all had a great time at Director Mueller's Labor Day barbecue. I certainly did. The Director asked me to stay late and have a cigar with him on the porch! And a damn fine non-Cuban cigar it was, too. Both of us already had a few brews in us, and after a few drinks more, he began to share with me his feelings about our work here of late. Since this was a rare opportunity to get a candid, bureau-wide evaluation from the Top Dog, I have taken the liberty of reformatting his colloquial speech into a kind of memo:
The Hoffa case is closed until further notice. We're also rethinking the Bureau's policy of following up on the last words of dying mobsters. Particularly when said informants are stifling laughter. Apparently, it's the opinion of the Psych Dept that snickering on the part of an informant may be an indicator of unreliability. In any event, the following possible locations of Hoffa's remains have been officially ruled out:
Under Mt. Rushmore
In the Marianas Trench
Up my, or any other employee of the Bureau's, mother's ass
Anywhere else
A side note on interviewing Death Row prisoners: Don't call it "the chair." It's a table now, not a chair. Jargon-wise, we're trying to phase out "the chair" and phase in "the table."
Other cases the Director mentioned in an odd, rapid-fire manner I attributed to the excitement of having thrown such a successful barbecue:
The chicken-crossing-the-road case will soon be reopened. Be on the lookout for a man who, reportedly, lays bricks.
Listen up for word on the street supporting or contradicting the statement by the kid who threw his clock out the window. "Wanting to see time fly" doesn't add up, logically. There must be some other reason for his odd behavior. Find it.
Judging from phone message logs, citizens are extremely concerned that we find and incarcerate one "Prince Albert." Anyone with knowledge of this felon, what he's done, and why the public is so hot to see him "in the can," please file paperwork with Attorney General Gonzalez's office so we can get the ball rolling on this.
On a more positive note, the Director extends kudos to the Animal Unit of the Psych Dept. (you folks at Psych are really in his good graces - several times during our "klatch" he was unable to suppress the urge to leap up, point at me and shout with enthusiasm, "Psych!") for their profiling of the notorious 900-pound gorilla. Your work is a good example of "thinking outside the box." Not content with the accepted wisdom, "anywhere he wants to," you really got into the subject's head when you reframed the question as: "Where does a 900-pound gorilla want to sleep?" Nice work. And very thorough cataloguing of what's on his night table. That's what the Director likes to see.
As you know, last Wednesday someone rang the Bureau's doorbell and ran off. Agent Zimbalist, Jr., answered it, only to find a burning paper bag on the front stoop. When he stomped it out, he found that his shoes were covered with feces, the source of which has been identified as a dog, breed as yet undetermined. In any case, in order to stanch the spread of a potentially embarrassing rumor, the official story is that whoever the prankster is, it's not Jimmy Hoffa.
On the subject of pranks, someone put the following conundrum into the Director's suggestion box again: "Did you hear the one about the Muslim fanatic who went to flight school but didn't want to learn how to take off or land?" I know there must be a punch line to this. Please share it with the rest of us.
And to reiterate, as the Director himself did more times than I could count during our very special evening on his porch: We don't care about Jimmy Hoffa. If Jesus Christ Himself comes down and tells you with a straight face that Jimmy Hoffa is in your broom closet, don't even look in there. Better you should burn your house down. Jimmy Hoffa is dead to us.
Finally, the Director wants us all to please be aware of this OFFICIAL STATEMENT:
"We at the FBI can neither confirm nor deny the existence of a plan, in the event of a Presidential declaration of martial law, to round up all the feminists, Poles, Freudian psychoanalysts, surrealists, and Jewish mothers it takes to change a light bulb."