Mostly I am on my other blog lately, http://theelvesattic.blogspot.com and my site where I am pounding out my late3st book, http://wakingupjesus.blogspot.com
SILENT CONFESSIONS
He sits in a six by nine cell looking out through the bars at a blonde haired eighteen year old NATO soldier from a small town in backwater America. He said that his family had been poor, his father a drunken factory worker His mother would never have even spoken to the man. He leans toward where the guard is standing and asks him, ?Know what you can do when your dad is the dictator of a country??
The soldier looks at him and answers, ?No.?
He waited a moment after the soldiers spoke their often one word answers, expecting them to go on more, make a quip, perhaps some change in the direction of the conversation, as he was used to among the urbane crowd that he had surrounded himself with? none of them did. They were polite enough, tried their best to converse with him ? if for no other reason than to pass the time on a long, boring shift, but still their answers were almost always ¡yes,¢ or ¡no.¢ He told himself that their stupidity was another horror of incarceration that he would just have to deal with until his release was negotiated.
?I¢ll tell you what you can do when you are the dictator¢s first born son? Whatever the fuck you want. The papers you people show me try to make it out like I am some monster, but who wouldn¢t get a little out of hand with that kind of power? You would and you know it . . . so, why does the world demonize the child of a dictator who takes what is rightfully his ? which, according to the law, is everything, pretty much that I decide to take for the use of the state??
?I don¢t know?? The young blonde haired Nebraskan looked genuinely puzzled.
?You know, I am sure, that my dad is responsible for thousands of deaths --- I personally have seen him kill two butlers -- one over spilling some milk, and the other over a present of a tie that my father thought was ¡cheap and common looking.¢ He also gassed a bunch of rebels who got outside money to challenge our benign rule, beheads two prisoners of war every morning before breakfast to keep his killing edge, and takes any woman or young boy that he wants back into his bedroom for some kind of sex that ends with them dead. He truly is an inspiration to all who would rule ? a real man who takes what he wants, like all your western commercials are always espousing.?
?Sounds like one tough mother fucker.?
?Oh, yes? but Mom, Mom is the butcher. She is of course responsible for what happened to all of the hairdressers, which got the world¢s gays up in arms and perhaps led to your little commando¢s illegally snatching me off the streets of Amsterdam and putting me in this little private prison. I have no complaints about the food, mind you, or anything of the sort. Still, it is prison, and I will be glad when I leave.?
?Your Mom ordered them to cut off the hairdressers? dicks and tits and clits? Man, she was some kind of psycho.?
?Yes, the killing lists were hers, too. She is the daughter of a dictator, so she has been exercising power since long before dad, so she is even more open to the idea of mass killings, and such. Anything to stay in power is sanctioned. Anything at all. She considers everyone who is not related to us scum, of course, and I think this helps her to look at the deaths she causes as if they were vermin in her garden. I guess her psychic told her we are the sons of the Pharaohs and space aliens, so you know it is true. And yes, you know, about the hairdressers, I think it was a little excessive what mom did,
but that one guy did make her red hair look ? .What did she call it? Red. Yeah, her red was too red. I couldn¢t tell, but she could? She was so pissed. We spent weeks tracking down all the hairdressers and cutting up their genitals. And the kill lists, I don¢t know how many times she sent the army out? she has people on there from way back, kids who didn¢t pick her for their soccer team in first grade. Her mom taught her to make an enemy list as soon as she could write.?
?All the shit you pulled, that would get you put in jail in Nebraska. How the hell people let you go ahead and lead them is beyond me. And I¢d of shot your ass dead if you¢d tried to cut up my dick, man.?
?Oh, lots of soldiers were killed during that operation. Sure. No one of importance, God be praised.?
?Man, I¢m a soldier.?
?That is just how it is. How we stayed in power was the easy part, my friend? Not getting poisoned by your brother is the hard part. Everyone wants to rule the world. Usually, I just laugh it off when one of them tries to kill me, though I did cut one of their tongues out, blinded another, and had a couple killed. We keep power by offering the poor a lot of incentives to vote for us, basically cheap ghetto housing with free heat and water, ball fields and fireworks displays == any kind of carnival that makes them forget their lives. Like the Romans before us, we know that entertainment is more important than policy. Keep the people entertained and they don¢t care what else is happening in the world ? like the Americans and their televisions.?
?Aw, that ain¢t like America, buddy.?
?Prisoner 489. The number they make you call me, so that you don¢t associate me with the butcher in the trial, and have a hard time reconciling my open, friendly manner with what the lying, Zionist press tells you about me. To stay in power, you kill off your enemies. You don¢t run in elections against them, for god¢s sake. Stupid democracies. One day, your open voting policy will lead to a Muslim world. That will be the dream of Democracy¢s dying Irony. You also have to kill the malcontents, the seeds of rebellion. Professors and lawyers and journalists and a lot of other fucking egg heads. Dad hates anyone he thinks is an ¡egghead,¢ by the way. I¢ve seen him shoot men for the books they were carrying. I mean, look at him, he got kicked out of school in sixth grade, and now he runs the fucking the country??? I mean, I didn¢t even go to any school. I didn¢t need to learn anything, man. I didn¢t have to look for no job, or do anything, really? I was going to run the country, so no one could tell me otherwise? My dad was proud that I believed I could learn all I needed from him.
. I once made a professor wipe his ass with a book and then eat the pages.?
The soldier guarding him has changed without his noticing. This one looks a bit more aware than the last one. He looks at him with what could be hate. ?That¢s just sick, man.?
?No, that was funny.?
?You just took things too far, man.
?He wept as much as those librarians, when we burned the books. The poor were happy though, since they had plenty of books to burn in their fireplaces all that winter. None of the illiterate masses much cared at all about the books. The international press though, they had to stick their damn noses in and say all sorts of unkind things that really hurt my feelings. And of course no one cares about my feelings in this big old bad world. Except for the people of my country, who damn well better care about my feelings/ I have a press secretary to convey to the people how I feel about all sorts of things, and they damn well better care or they are beheaded, along with their family, and then the gaping holes in their throats are fucked. You ever fuck a throat hole?? are followed by all/
Anyone care out there in that big old world, beyond the borders of my country-- where they damn well better care or I will behead them and their family and then fuck their throat holes? I like to fuck throat holes, so sue me? ?
?Are you serious?
?This is not one of your traditions, eh? Sometimes it is hard to understand why other cultures do some things. For instance, hot dogs ? what the hell? You know what goes into them, but still you Americans eat them?. Throat fucking, Dad says, is just what killers do sometimes when they are away from sheep for months at a time. Not that that ever happened to me though, not with dads harem of long haired, angora sheep, but I still get the urge sometimes after a good beheading.?
?You are seriously twisted, dude. Can I take a picture of you with my phone and send it home to my Mom??
?Sure. My friend. Let me just comb my hair first, and put on this fake beard of mine. Okay.?
?Thanks.?
?That¢s it? You have the picture??
?Yes.?
He turns away from the soldier and looks at his rusty commode and remembers the marble Jacuzzi he was used to bathing in, complete with prostitutes brought in to clean and service him?
?When I take over my country, which I will, when this little war is over and I go home again? I want the people of my country to fear me above all else. I tell dad that this is why we take our nightly rides, where I have my guards abduct any women that I see on the street. My personal physician is always with me, so he shoots them full of what I call ¡fuck em¢ juice,¢ so she will lay there and take my seed. When I¢m done with her, my guys dump them on their front yards, so they can get medical attention? we are not animals, just borrowers of flesh? one day, afterwards, when we dropped the fuck off, I thought I heard one of her brothers yell something as we drove off. I sent a swat team in later to kill the whole damn family. You can never be too careful when you are searching out counter-revolutionaries? I mean, when I was learning to shoot a gun, this one instructor told me that I would never be a great shot unless I devoted myself more. I told the shooting instructor that as the perfect being, I was as devoted as humankind can be. The psychic told my mother we were perfect of course, and thus it is irrevocably true. I had him cut down to a head and a torso Off with the legs and arms.?
?While he was still alive??
?Of course. I had my doctor sew up his stumps before he could bleed to death, so he could feel the pain screaming at him from all sides. Then we tossed him down into a muddy, dirt pit, where we threw down shit covered bits of food that he had no choice but to eat.
I go there when I am feeling a little down and force him to make animal sounds for food. The other thing I do is snatch brides and fuck them in front of the wedding parties. That makes my guards laugh so hard. I am joker, a funny guy. What can I say, I live for the laughs??
?You making all this shit up?? The soldier sounds like he doesn¢t want to believe him.
?No. We were wild. Of course we used lots of drugs and drank whatever we wanted, even though our Muslims religion doesn¢t exactly back this kind of thing. Dad says that as long as you keep it out of the papers, it never happened; and since we control the papers, most of my life never happened. Including this conversation, this will never be seen by our citizens, or those of any dictatorship that is allied with us, probably.?
?I read some more about you in the paper, today. Did you real kill all them people? They say you raped women, too, and stole shit all the time?.?
?I am getting so tired of the international press criticizing my family for shit that they would love to do. Who wouldn¢t like a license to kill? Think about that arrogant clerk at the coffee shop who pisses you off to no end and destroys your afternoon for no real reason at all. Now picture yourself just pulling out a .45 and blowing his brains into grey and red splatters on the wall. You would be surprised by how quick the other employees take care of you when you¢ve proven to them that you will kill if they drag ass on your latte. I get all kinds of flack from people for these kinds of killings in the international press, though they have made me quite popular with my own people, who hate rudeness on the part of clerks as much as anyone. It helps that we brand them revolutionaries and kill off anyone who could claim otherwise.?
?You know they record every damn word you say, they told you that? so why do you go on like this, man? Not that you should shut up, I like listening.?
?That tells me you have been ordered to listen.?
?They sent soldiers in who would be interested in listening. You have led a pretty outrageous life, man. So, you did, like, whatever you wanted?
?The international press has accused me of being a murderer, a rapist, and a thief. None of this is of course true at all. First off, murder, by me, is not illegal in my country. No, it is not even possible. No one in my family can murder. We merely have enemies destroyed. It¢s all in the constitution. As far as the rape goes, like I explained, this is a means of finding counter revolutionaries, like that girl¢s brother the other night. And further, I have never been charged with rape, so do not judge me ? let the jury do that, should anyone ever have the ridiculous urge to arrest me. The American president has been sending us aide since we declared that there would be no elections (which the fundamentalist, weirdo religious types would win), and it is time that the rest of the world follow George Bush¢s example. He is a good man, like his father. They have both visited here, and unlike some heads of states, they had no problem following our family tradition of strangling a cripple before lunch. This saves us a lot of money from not having to house the cripples and nuts anymore --we just use them for all the ritual killings that mom has us doing. It is true, like she says, that it is much easier to kill when you do it every day a few times. ?
?You are one sick bastard.?
?A bloody car wreck on the highway. That is why you listen.
?Maybe.?
?You hate me. The others just seem . . . curious. I am like a TV star to them. That is where they know me from.?
?Does it bother you that I hate you??
?Oh, of course not. In fact, when this is over, I will welcome you at my castle, where it is not my plan to place you in a hole with no legs or arms and feed you goat feet dipped in shit.?
?Yeah, right. Don¢t hold your fucking breath. So, go on, tell me more about your wonderful damn life.?
?Do you have orders to listen to me, to get me on tape??
?No.?
?Do you have orders to lie if I ask this question??
?No.?
?I talk to amuse myself, to kind of . . . revel in my glory. These words will not matter in the end, no matter how many of you know about them. They are an infection that we will not allow to invade our press, believe me. ?You got them all living in some story that ain¢t true.?
He looks at the soldier again. This one looks older than the others, more crafty. The young infantry men had just stood around silently, seemingly bored, anxious for their duties to end. He had just begun speaking to them this morning, after three weeks of complete silence, so they had probably changed his guards, sent in intelligence agents.
?I will nap now,? he tells the man. ?Have your slaves to bring me oranges with my dinner, or I will quit talking. Period. Whether I am speaking or silent, makes no difference to me? well, it makes an oranges worth, I guess.?
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Friday, December 30, 2005
starting over
STARTING OVER
He drinks down the burning whisky, chokes it down gagging. Sits back in the car seat and feels his stomach warming, his confidence rising. The next drink is easier. He thinks that he will get more whisky, just keep drinking all the way through the killing. He can steal some from her parents. He isn¢t going to miss this town. The stores along the strip are all cheap looking dollar stores and liquor stores and bars. Dead. The Railroad shut down the switching yards that had created the town of Garrett, Indiana, long before he was born. Everyone wanted to live in Auburn, five miles away, where they had a McDonald¢s and Burger King. Garrett refused to let them in, because some restaurant owner was on the board that made the decision, and that had helped kill the place, too. He thought maybe he would miss his mom, but he never had before. His dad never mattered much to him or his family, just a drunk they had to take care of now and then.
They weren¢t going to let him see her anymore. He went over there this morning and her dad came out on the porch looking mean, his hands shaking all nervous, his black steel lunch bucket in one, a huge crescent wrench in the other. His clothes were stained black from the rubber dust at the plant. ?I told you, she is too young for you, dammit.?
?Hell, she told me you was five years, like, older than her mother? When he heard this from her, he figured he would stop at nothing to get his way, because he was right.
?She¢s gonna get nothing but trouble from you, you ain¢t even working or in school. Since it ain¢t legal, I ain¢t letting see her. Get the hell out of here. I see you around here again, I am going to kick your ass, then have you put in jail, where they¢ll fuck your ass.?
He just backed off, got on his bike and rode down the street. He didn¢t want to go to prison, not at his age looking the way he did. What Mr. Fitzgerald said scared him, made his stomach clench ? getting fucked in the ass would destroy something inside of him, he was sure of it. The old man would call the cops; get him sent up on statutory rape charges. He had threatened as much twice now. He might just get all pissed off and go ahead and do it. He could as easy as hell.
He didn¢t like the feeling of somebody having something over him like that. Especially a man who hated him all to hell. There was only one way to stop him for sure.
He gets to his house and locks his bike to their fence, reaches around in his jacket for a mint, has to check most of his pockets before finding some tic tacs.
He walks into his the door off the kitchen; from the living room he hears the television; his mother and sister are watching their soap opera. His mother taped them in the morning, without watching them?no matter how exciting the days revelation was advertised, then his sister came home during her lunch break at the Stern¢s Hardware¢s and watched the damn show. He hated them. They had just wasted their lives. Didn¢t even have boyfriends. He was not going to end up fat and carrying around a black steel lunch bucket all covered in rubber shit. Or working at the hardware store and having to listen to the owner go on and on about his rich ass life?his sister had hated this, same as the other clerks, for ten years and never said a word to the jerk. He would have kicked his ass first day.
He takes his shoes off in the doorway and walks through the den to get to his room, so he can avoid the music on the soap opera?something about it had always depressed him. Above his bead is an oak gun rack, polished to a gleaming blonde shine, with two rifles. Both were gifts from his grandfather. He always came down and took him deer hunting on Thanksgiving. ¡
He had taken down a kill every year. His first year, when his aim was still shit, his grandfather took him out to a ranch where they guaranteed a kill. After that he sat in a blind with the rest of the men in his family, took his shot and downed them. One of the guys cut the deer up into steaks, charging just some meat for himself. His grandfather had the first deer¢s horns put on a plaque; cost too much to do every year.
He picks up a black phone a table filled with star wars action figures, dials the number of his grandfather, who he was closer to than anyone, even though he only saw him a couple times a year. His grandfather was a teacher, and always telling him stuff that he didn¢t really understand. Like why he wanted him to learn how to hunt, even though his dad didn¢t care for hunting at all, didn¢t even keep any guns around.
?Hey, grampa.?
He answers in his raspy, breathy voice, ?Hey, Kid.?
?I¢m going hunting.?
?I wish I could go with you. What season is it down there??
?Ain¢t one.?
?You could get a month in jail and a hell of fine for??
?Yea, yea, I know? this is on private property, at my girlfriends. They have like 400 acres.?
?Then hunt well, my warrior.?
?You think men need to hunt, to keep in touch with themselves, right??
?Sort of. Hunting is something humans should do, because we are killers, son. It¢s natural, something we enjoy. It keeps us in touch with nature, animals. That¢s what they don¢t understand. Your dad never did. People don¢t see it like that so much anymore, I suppose? Aw, you don¢t want to hear that. I bet you¢re hunting Raccoons, right? Got a dog??
?I wish I had a dog. Yea, we¢re going for coons. Late tonight. Gonna shine my flashlight up into their eyes, and shoot em. Can¢t sell em until season, so her dad keeps em in this freezer. Talking about dogs, I was thinking of coming to visit you, and maybe getting one or two of them dogs. Now, you know, since you¢ll probably be leaving them to me, right? I mean, I love them dogs.?
?Oh, your mom didn¢t tell ya??
?What??
?I had to sell my dogs. I have this damn problem with my legs now. That¢s why I sent you that gun. I explained all this in the letter that was in the box.?
?I lost the letter that was in there.? He had to sound out words and think about them awhile . . . he only did it when he had to. He just checked the letter for money and then tossed it. ?I¢m sorry. I¢ll talk to you later.? He hangs up before he can hear the old man¢s voice again.
He feels hate for the old man, wishes he could kill him for selling off his dogs. He had loved visiting there and going out to the kennel, playing with the puppies.
?Just makes that new life look all the better,? he tells himself out loud.
He keeps his guns well oiled, polished; they shine in the gun rack above his bed. He takes down a Remington twenty two automatic with oak inlays down the sides. His grandfather¢s gun; a real beauty. He was going to sell it, get some money to buy a car. He still would, he tells himself, just later -- in his new life.
He calls her. The phone rings three times, then before it can switch to voice mail, someone picks up the receiver then sits it back down, breaking the connection.
He throws his phone into the wall, watches it smash into pieces? he wasn¢t going to need it anymore. ?That fucking bitch? she goes first.? He puts on his army jacket, picks up a box of bullets and slides them into his pocket, takes the gun and goes back out into the kitchen and takes his sisters keys off the counter. He looks in on them and they are engrossed, hypnotized, like they got when their food was done and they were just watching all those exciting lives that they were never going to have.
He goes outside and put the car into neutral, then pushes the small Escort down the driveway to the road before starting the car. He waits for a truck to pass, then does a u turn and heads out for her house.
He reaches into the glove compartment, pulls out a black .45 with a scope, slips it into the side pocket of his army Jacket. He has a hunting knife in there, too, in case he has to cut up the bodies for some reason. He will cut up the bodies if he has to. Anything to be with her. They were meant to be, so he figured that maybe everything he did to get her was okay. He had a right to her, and they were almost the same age?
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Young and innocent, moving like a child, and just him knowing she had that little devil inside. She loved to make out, stick her sweet, candy coated tongue down his throat as she rubbed his dick through his pants. She gave him head the first night they met? she¢d never done nothing else wit a guy until him. She let him because she said they were going to be together forever. He loved thinking about her saying that. His silently mouthed the word, ¡forever.¢
He notices that he is speeding and slows down. No cops, not today. The guns would get his ass in trouble. No, not that day? that day he would kill a cop. He hated to do that. He kind of wanted to be a cop.
He comes to her house and turns off the road. The Escort¢s wheels crunch over the rock driveway. He sees the curtain in her window get pulled aside, and then her smiling face, surrounded by her golden hair? she looks all excited, so damned happy ? she knows why he is there. They¢d discussed what they would have to do if her dad tried to put him in jail. When he told her what he might have to do,
She¢d told him that he should kill anyone who tried to stop them from being together.
She said No one could ever keep them apart, anyways, because they were soul mates. He believed everything she said, even though he knew she was like a kid in that respect, always ready to believe the world was full of wonderful shit. He hadn¢t thought so, not the last few years working at Burger King feeling like he never had enough money and nothing to do but drink beer with a bunch of wasters that stole from each other when they could. Now he had her, and just maybe? there was something wonderful out there? he again felt a warmth that came to him sometimes, in his stomach, when he thought of her?
He was going to have a new life. They would go out west, live around a bunch of cows. He had always liked cows. He would butcher them himself. Castrate them. She said she couldn¢t do that, not to cows ? she liked them, too, mostly because he did. She tried to like everything he did. Boy did he like that. She really took him to be the responsible one. So he was going to do this for her. . . and him . . . and their new life.
Her mother comes out onto the porch with her arm up pointing back toward the road screaming something he can¢t hear. The sight strikes him as comical and he starts laughing as he takes the looped driveway up to right in front of the house. He stops, pulls the .45 out of his pocket, pushes open the car door, steps out, brings the gun up to his shoulder, sees her face in the scope -- a cross intersects just over her brow as her face goes from puzzled to shocked to scared. She starts to turn back toward the door. He pulls the trigger back slow and smooth. A red dot appears between her eyes. She falls out of his sights. He lowers the gun and looks at her all crumpled up on the porch. She was dead as hell. He laughed and started up the porch, stepped over her.
She comes into the living room and embraces him, then kisses him fiercely on the lips, her tongue probing down his throat. He grows hard and she notices, starts rubbing him as she says, ?That bitch said we could never see each other again. I hope she¢s in hell.?
He takes the whisky out of his jacket and hands it to her.
?Well, she ain¢t in hell, I bet.? For the first time he kind of wonders what he is doing. He doesn¢t like the idea of sending someone to hell. He¢d been raised in a church with a fundamentalist preacher who had convinced him, when he was a kid, that Satan was everywhere. He had given up on most of that shit when he started partying and going to whores and stealing and shit. Still, he kinda believed in the lord, and the thought of Satan just sort spooked him. When he thought about it at all, he figured that he would repent sometime, when he was older, and still go to Heaven.
They made crazy love right there in the living room, on her dad¢s Lazy Boy. There was a big wet spot that made them laugh on and off for the rest of the day. They made love there again later to make sure the stain was permanent. Her dad wouldn¢t even let anyone sit in it. Kept it perfectly clean.
They take the hose and spray the blood off the aluminum siding by the door and the porch, drag her mother down into the basement and hide her in an old coal bin. They didn¢t want anyone to know about the crime for weeks. They¢d have a whole new life by then, new names, be from a different place.
?Let¢s let him see the chair before you shoot him.?
?Okay.? He looks around the room and decides to hide in the kitchen, then step out and kill him while he was yelling about her chair. ?If he asks, you go ahead and tell him that it¢s from fucking me, alright??
She laughs so hard that she bobs her head up and down and jumps up and does a little dance. I bet he has enough money on him for gas?. We¢ll go see the mountains, the desserts, the oceans? Hollywood. Everyplace. I think we should just drive around robbing stores. Just never come back to this hell hole.?
At four twenty, they heard him pull into the drive way. They went to the window of her room. He whispers to her, ?Stay naked. That will freak him.? She laughs so hard that she spits out her gum. He picks it up, kisses it, and hands it back to him.
?Ew, no. I always keep a lot of gum around. It¢s diet. I ain¢t never gonna get fat on you.?
?You better not.?
?You either.?
?Men can get fat.?
From downstairs they hear her fathers¢ voice. ?What the fuck happened to my chair??
He laughs, leans down and picks up the .45, and pushes her toward the stairs. ?Go on down there and tell him.?
?Now I don¢t want to.? She looks scared as hell all of a sudden. She spins around, grabs a garbage can and throws up. The old man hears her too. ?Honey, you up there? Something happened to my chair. Where the hell is that daughter of ours? She did this because?? He comes to the doorway and looks in at them standing there naked.
?You are going to jail, and you are going to juvenile hall.?
He has the .45 hidden under a sheet draped over his arm. She stops puking and looks up at him.
?Your mother raised a whore.? He hisses the words. ?Put your damn clothes . . . ?
The bullet blasts through the sheet sending white flakes fluttering into a sunbeam coming through the window. The old man stumbles back to the steps and falls backwards. They listen until he is at the bottom of the stairs, then he takes her in his arms and hugs her.
¡Don¢t kiss me until I brush my teeth.?
?Okay. We gotta get him in the basement and get out of here.? He feels some weight somehow start pressing on his chest, keeping him from breathing, and for a moment the walls in the room seem to be wavering, coming in on him. He takes a deep breath, grabs his underwear and starts getting dressed. ?We get caught, what you gonna say??
?It¢s my plan, so I remember it all stupid. I¢m gonna say they were touching me.?
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
He drinks down the burning whisky, chokes it down gagging. Sits back in the car seat and feels his stomach warming, his confidence rising. The next drink is easier. He thinks that he will get more whisky, just keep drinking all the way through the killing. He can steal some from her parents. He isn¢t going to miss this town. The stores along the strip are all cheap looking dollar stores and liquor stores and bars. Dead. The Railroad shut down the switching yards that had created the town of Garrett, Indiana, long before he was born. Everyone wanted to live in Auburn, five miles away, where they had a McDonald¢s and Burger King. Garrett refused to let them in, because some restaurant owner was on the board that made the decision, and that had helped kill the place, too. He thought maybe he would miss his mom, but he never had before. His dad never mattered much to him or his family, just a drunk they had to take care of now and then.
They weren¢t going to let him see her anymore. He went over there this morning and her dad came out on the porch looking mean, his hands shaking all nervous, his black steel lunch bucket in one, a huge crescent wrench in the other. His clothes were stained black from the rubber dust at the plant. ?I told you, she is too young for you, dammit.?
?Hell, she told me you was five years, like, older than her mother? When he heard this from her, he figured he would stop at nothing to get his way, because he was right.
?She¢s gonna get nothing but trouble from you, you ain¢t even working or in school. Since it ain¢t legal, I ain¢t letting see her. Get the hell out of here. I see you around here again, I am going to kick your ass, then have you put in jail, where they¢ll fuck your ass.?
He just backed off, got on his bike and rode down the street. He didn¢t want to go to prison, not at his age looking the way he did. What Mr. Fitzgerald said scared him, made his stomach clench ? getting fucked in the ass would destroy something inside of him, he was sure of it. The old man would call the cops; get him sent up on statutory rape charges. He had threatened as much twice now. He might just get all pissed off and go ahead and do it. He could as easy as hell.
He didn¢t like the feeling of somebody having something over him like that. Especially a man who hated him all to hell. There was only one way to stop him for sure.
He gets to his house and locks his bike to their fence, reaches around in his jacket for a mint, has to check most of his pockets before finding some tic tacs.
He walks into his the door off the kitchen; from the living room he hears the television; his mother and sister are watching their soap opera. His mother taped them in the morning, without watching them?no matter how exciting the days revelation was advertised, then his sister came home during her lunch break at the Stern¢s Hardware¢s and watched the damn show. He hated them. They had just wasted their lives. Didn¢t even have boyfriends. He was not going to end up fat and carrying around a black steel lunch bucket all covered in rubber shit. Or working at the hardware store and having to listen to the owner go on and on about his rich ass life?his sister had hated this, same as the other clerks, for ten years and never said a word to the jerk. He would have kicked his ass first day.
He takes his shoes off in the doorway and walks through the den to get to his room, so he can avoid the music on the soap opera?something about it had always depressed him. Above his bead is an oak gun rack, polished to a gleaming blonde shine, with two rifles. Both were gifts from his grandfather. He always came down and took him deer hunting on Thanksgiving. ¡
He had taken down a kill every year. His first year, when his aim was still shit, his grandfather took him out to a ranch where they guaranteed a kill. After that he sat in a blind with the rest of the men in his family, took his shot and downed them. One of the guys cut the deer up into steaks, charging just some meat for himself. His grandfather had the first deer¢s horns put on a plaque; cost too much to do every year.
He picks up a black phone a table filled with star wars action figures, dials the number of his grandfather, who he was closer to than anyone, even though he only saw him a couple times a year. His grandfather was a teacher, and always telling him stuff that he didn¢t really understand. Like why he wanted him to learn how to hunt, even though his dad didn¢t care for hunting at all, didn¢t even keep any guns around.
?Hey, grampa.?
He answers in his raspy, breathy voice, ?Hey, Kid.?
?I¢m going hunting.?
?I wish I could go with you. What season is it down there??
?Ain¢t one.?
?You could get a month in jail and a hell of fine for??
?Yea, yea, I know? this is on private property, at my girlfriends. They have like 400 acres.?
?Then hunt well, my warrior.?
?You think men need to hunt, to keep in touch with themselves, right??
?Sort of. Hunting is something humans should do, because we are killers, son. It¢s natural, something we enjoy. It keeps us in touch with nature, animals. That¢s what they don¢t understand. Your dad never did. People don¢t see it like that so much anymore, I suppose? Aw, you don¢t want to hear that. I bet you¢re hunting Raccoons, right? Got a dog??
?I wish I had a dog. Yea, we¢re going for coons. Late tonight. Gonna shine my flashlight up into their eyes, and shoot em. Can¢t sell em until season, so her dad keeps em in this freezer. Talking about dogs, I was thinking of coming to visit you, and maybe getting one or two of them dogs. Now, you know, since you¢ll probably be leaving them to me, right? I mean, I love them dogs.?
?Oh, your mom didn¢t tell ya??
?What??
?I had to sell my dogs. I have this damn problem with my legs now. That¢s why I sent you that gun. I explained all this in the letter that was in the box.?
?I lost the letter that was in there.? He had to sound out words and think about them awhile . . . he only did it when he had to. He just checked the letter for money and then tossed it. ?I¢m sorry. I¢ll talk to you later.? He hangs up before he can hear the old man¢s voice again.
He feels hate for the old man, wishes he could kill him for selling off his dogs. He had loved visiting there and going out to the kennel, playing with the puppies.
?Just makes that new life look all the better,? he tells himself out loud.
He keeps his guns well oiled, polished; they shine in the gun rack above his bed. He takes down a Remington twenty two automatic with oak inlays down the sides. His grandfather¢s gun; a real beauty. He was going to sell it, get some money to buy a car. He still would, he tells himself, just later -- in his new life.
He calls her. The phone rings three times, then before it can switch to voice mail, someone picks up the receiver then sits it back down, breaking the connection.
He throws his phone into the wall, watches it smash into pieces? he wasn¢t going to need it anymore. ?That fucking bitch? she goes first.? He puts on his army jacket, picks up a box of bullets and slides them into his pocket, takes the gun and goes back out into the kitchen and takes his sisters keys off the counter. He looks in on them and they are engrossed, hypnotized, like they got when their food was done and they were just watching all those exciting lives that they were never going to have.
He goes outside and put the car into neutral, then pushes the small Escort down the driveway to the road before starting the car. He waits for a truck to pass, then does a u turn and heads out for her house.
He reaches into the glove compartment, pulls out a black .45 with a scope, slips it into the side pocket of his army Jacket. He has a hunting knife in there, too, in case he has to cut up the bodies for some reason. He will cut up the bodies if he has to. Anything to be with her. They were meant to be, so he figured that maybe everything he did to get her was okay. He had a right to her, and they were almost the same age?
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Young and innocent, moving like a child, and just him knowing she had that little devil inside. She loved to make out, stick her sweet, candy coated tongue down his throat as she rubbed his dick through his pants. She gave him head the first night they met? she¢d never done nothing else wit a guy until him. She let him because she said they were going to be together forever. He loved thinking about her saying that. His silently mouthed the word, ¡forever.¢
He notices that he is speeding and slows down. No cops, not today. The guns would get his ass in trouble. No, not that day? that day he would kill a cop. He hated to do that. He kind of wanted to be a cop.
He comes to her house and turns off the road. The Escort¢s wheels crunch over the rock driveway. He sees the curtain in her window get pulled aside, and then her smiling face, surrounded by her golden hair? she looks all excited, so damned happy ? she knows why he is there. They¢d discussed what they would have to do if her dad tried to put him in jail. When he told her what he might have to do,
She¢d told him that he should kill anyone who tried to stop them from being together.
She said No one could ever keep them apart, anyways, because they were soul mates. He believed everything she said, even though he knew she was like a kid in that respect, always ready to believe the world was full of wonderful shit. He hadn¢t thought so, not the last few years working at Burger King feeling like he never had enough money and nothing to do but drink beer with a bunch of wasters that stole from each other when they could. Now he had her, and just maybe? there was something wonderful out there? he again felt a warmth that came to him sometimes, in his stomach, when he thought of her?
He was going to have a new life. They would go out west, live around a bunch of cows. He had always liked cows. He would butcher them himself. Castrate them. She said she couldn¢t do that, not to cows ? she liked them, too, mostly because he did. She tried to like everything he did. Boy did he like that. She really took him to be the responsible one. So he was going to do this for her. . . and him . . . and their new life.
Her mother comes out onto the porch with her arm up pointing back toward the road screaming something he can¢t hear. The sight strikes him as comical and he starts laughing as he takes the looped driveway up to right in front of the house. He stops, pulls the .45 out of his pocket, pushes open the car door, steps out, brings the gun up to his shoulder, sees her face in the scope -- a cross intersects just over her brow as her face goes from puzzled to shocked to scared. She starts to turn back toward the door. He pulls the trigger back slow and smooth. A red dot appears between her eyes. She falls out of his sights. He lowers the gun and looks at her all crumpled up on the porch. She was dead as hell. He laughed and started up the porch, stepped over her.
She comes into the living room and embraces him, then kisses him fiercely on the lips, her tongue probing down his throat. He grows hard and she notices, starts rubbing him as she says, ?That bitch said we could never see each other again. I hope she¢s in hell.?
He takes the whisky out of his jacket and hands it to her.
?Well, she ain¢t in hell, I bet.? For the first time he kind of wonders what he is doing. He doesn¢t like the idea of sending someone to hell. He¢d been raised in a church with a fundamentalist preacher who had convinced him, when he was a kid, that Satan was everywhere. He had given up on most of that shit when he started partying and going to whores and stealing and shit. Still, he kinda believed in the lord, and the thought of Satan just sort spooked him. When he thought about it at all, he figured that he would repent sometime, when he was older, and still go to Heaven.
They made crazy love right there in the living room, on her dad¢s Lazy Boy. There was a big wet spot that made them laugh on and off for the rest of the day. They made love there again later to make sure the stain was permanent. Her dad wouldn¢t even let anyone sit in it. Kept it perfectly clean.
They take the hose and spray the blood off the aluminum siding by the door and the porch, drag her mother down into the basement and hide her in an old coal bin. They didn¢t want anyone to know about the crime for weeks. They¢d have a whole new life by then, new names, be from a different place.
?Let¢s let him see the chair before you shoot him.?
?Okay.? He looks around the room and decides to hide in the kitchen, then step out and kill him while he was yelling about her chair. ?If he asks, you go ahead and tell him that it¢s from fucking me, alright??
She laughs so hard that she bobs her head up and down and jumps up and does a little dance. I bet he has enough money on him for gas?. We¢ll go see the mountains, the desserts, the oceans? Hollywood. Everyplace. I think we should just drive around robbing stores. Just never come back to this hell hole.?
At four twenty, they heard him pull into the drive way. They went to the window of her room. He whispers to her, ?Stay naked. That will freak him.? She laughs so hard that she spits out her gum. He picks it up, kisses it, and hands it back to him.
?Ew, no. I always keep a lot of gum around. It¢s diet. I ain¢t never gonna get fat on you.?
?You better not.?
?You either.?
?Men can get fat.?
From downstairs they hear her fathers¢ voice. ?What the fuck happened to my chair??
He laughs, leans down and picks up the .45, and pushes her toward the stairs. ?Go on down there and tell him.?
?Now I don¢t want to.? She looks scared as hell all of a sudden. She spins around, grabs a garbage can and throws up. The old man hears her too. ?Honey, you up there? Something happened to my chair. Where the hell is that daughter of ours? She did this because?? He comes to the doorway and looks in at them standing there naked.
?You are going to jail, and you are going to juvenile hall.?
He has the .45 hidden under a sheet draped over his arm. She stops puking and looks up at him.
?Your mother raised a whore.? He hisses the words. ?Put your damn clothes . . . ?
The bullet blasts through the sheet sending white flakes fluttering into a sunbeam coming through the window. The old man stumbles back to the steps and falls backwards. They listen until he is at the bottom of the stairs, then he takes her in his arms and hugs her.
¡Don¢t kiss me until I brush my teeth.?
?Okay. We gotta get him in the basement and get out of here.? He feels some weight somehow start pressing on his chest, keeping him from breathing, and for a moment the walls in the room seem to be wavering, coming in on him. He takes a deep breath, grabs his underwear and starts getting dressed. ?We get caught, what you gonna say??
?It¢s my plan, so I remember it all stupid. I¢m gonna say they were touching me.?
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
EVERYONE HAS AN ADVOCACY GROUP... EXCEPT SERIAL KILLERS.
Why? The same old prejudices in a new guise. Jews, blacks, that guy who played in those Earnest movies -- they were all demonized at one time. And of course with some they still are. Let us always throw our sacred rocks at their heads... but regardless, I am going to have to sooner or later take on a charity cause that isn't entirely fradulent to boost my reputation in literary circle jerks, so I have decided to start advocating for an unseen minority. Serial Killers.
We will be operating from the premises that these things are set in stone pretty young, so there will be a youth group, kind of like cub scouts on pcp with machine guns, who will further help swell our ranks, and help serial killers finally come out of closet and live among us. Sure, the various neighborhoods they live in will be forced to draw lots to see who is sacrificed that day, or week, or whatever kill pattern the serial 'client' is accustomed to. ... BUT They pay taxes and vote, remember? This means they govern this planet already, if you think about it.
There will eventually be a credit union, small business loans, emergency funds and perhaps on holidays we'll pass out rape kits to the needy or whatever...
Not that I am a serial killer, nor do I advocate killing -- it's just business, okay? You understand that, right? Fucking americans.
You can join our group either as Serial Killer, or a Friend of Serial Killers. I'm pretty sure that Brett Easton Ellis has already promised to put up a hundred thousand dollars for a fund to support serial killers family during that crucial period between the arrest and the book deals. Won't you help, too?
I mean, you love watching Law and Order and Cops and American Justice and Sesame Street and all these other shows that you simply would not have without Serial Killers, but do you ever think about the people whose sacrifice made your life so entertaining? No... no.... probably not. Takes a special soul like mine to work through my prejudices about serial killers and decide to let them send me money to join the union.
Twenty bucks will get you in the union -- oh, when you get in on this, you'll feel so good, like having a fresh, tasty corpse in the trunk. No shit, straight up... no hamsters from you serial killers though, becauser they always have a few bites out of them.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
We will be operating from the premises that these things are set in stone pretty young, so there will be a youth group, kind of like cub scouts on pcp with machine guns, who will further help swell our ranks, and help serial killers finally come out of closet and live among us. Sure, the various neighborhoods they live in will be forced to draw lots to see who is sacrificed that day, or week, or whatever kill pattern the serial 'client' is accustomed to. ... BUT They pay taxes and vote, remember? This means they govern this planet already, if you think about it.
There will eventually be a credit union, small business loans, emergency funds and perhaps on holidays we'll pass out rape kits to the needy or whatever...
Not that I am a serial killer, nor do I advocate killing -- it's just business, okay? You understand that, right? Fucking americans.
You can join our group either as Serial Killer, or a Friend of Serial Killers. I'm pretty sure that Brett Easton Ellis has already promised to put up a hundred thousand dollars for a fund to support serial killers family during that crucial period between the arrest and the book deals. Won't you help, too?
I mean, you love watching Law and Order and Cops and American Justice and Sesame Street and all these other shows that you simply would not have without Serial Killers, but do you ever think about the people whose sacrifice made your life so entertaining? No... no.... probably not. Takes a special soul like mine to work through my prejudices about serial killers and decide to let them send me money to join the union.
Twenty bucks will get you in the union -- oh, when you get in on this, you'll feel so good, like having a fresh, tasty corpse in the trunk. No shit, straight up... no hamsters from you serial killers though, becauser they always have a few bites out of them.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
the PLANET OF DRUNKEN STONERS
the PLANET OF DRUNKEN STONERS
"DR. BOB HAS BEEN BROUGHT BACK TO LIFE TO DEAL WITH MANS LATEST DISCOVER -- THE PLANET OF DRUNKEN STONERS. Hello, Rocky Stone Macho Man Mervin Shebenstein reporting folks... today is the day we have all been waiting for, when the clone of dr. bob, founder of a.a., will be arriving at THE PLANET OF DRUNKEN STONERS for the biggest intervention since the advent of the universes zero tolerance policy. We are riding on the good ship UrgeKill, which is due to dock in just twelve short hours.
Earlier today, we spoke to Reverend Notapervert III, one of the first to lobby the intergalactic counsels of rules, regulations, and anal lubricants, to revive Dr. Bob and send him, along with various other founders of aa and ten thousand, nine hundred therapists trained to see through the lies of addicts.
When asked how the negotiations were going with the planet of drunken stoners over length of treatment (they of course want outpatient), the Rev. Notapervert III responded, "Oh, they try to weedle out of all responsibilty for anything, so getting them to own up to needing thirty days in treatment is tough. They have fought me all the way, as drunken stoners will. When we first started asking them about why everyone from their planet had red eyes, they were all like, "Oh, yea... we have, uhmm, like allergies? They claim this same 'allergy' causes them to have to lay down for hours at a time doing something they call, 'Chillin."
"What is chillin, sir?"
"Something productive, sober citizens need never worry about."
"Cool."
After talking to the Rev. I decided to find out if the planet of drunken stoners were really as screwed up and in need of help as he said, so I called them to ask a few questions and the phone rang and rang and then when someone did answer, it was just to say, "The planet isn't home, man. I don't know when it's getting back."
"Wait, you are the planet... " I told the sleepy sounding voice, "I dialed the planet, so anyone who answers is the planet."
"I am?"
"Yes."
"Wow."
"Is it true you guys call all your three daily meals, 'Munchfests?'"
"No."
"Would you be willing to start?"
"Cool, man. Hey, the planet is home. Talk to him. Hi, this the planet of drunken stoners?"
"Aren't you the same guy that I was just talking to?"
"Duhhh.... yea. I mean, probably. I think so. Maybe I took notes... sometimes I take notes, usually forget about them and then... wow, there are some cookie crumbs in my pocket. If I lick my hand, then shove it back in... whoa, cookie hand, man? Want a lick? After me...
Wait, am I making an obscene call, because if I am, this isn't me, man."
After this the planet launched into a lengthy diatribe on the merits of various Ted Nugent guitar solos and why the planet would really, really like to have one of those pot belly pigs, and some taffy. I finally hung up. The phone like immediately rang back. I answered and heard the planet screaming into the phone, "Dude, dude are you alright? Dude? Duder? Did you pass out, or OD or something? Dude, duder man?"
OF course, afterwards, I woke up back here, in this six by twelve foot cell. Sentenced to die for a crime that I didn't commit -- and it all came down just two days before I was retiring from the police force to move to Florida on the beach. Not-to-mention, it was a mere week after my family was killed by a shadowy government conspiracy of one armed men with tiny, ferret noses.
All I ever wanted to do was grow beets somewhere, on a little bit of land all my own. Shoot a few rabbits, maybe... invescerate them and mix their innards with my road kill collection of stuffed, lacquered and glistening guts... just take it easy and try be.... freeeee.... but, no. ... the man just wouldn't let me. You kill one little busload of school children and they all turn on you just like that. Fucking fair weather friends.
"DR. BOB HAS BEEN BROUGHT BACK TO LIFE TO DEAL WITH MANS LATEST DISCOVER -- THE PLANET OF DRUNKEN STONERS. Hello, Rocky Stone Macho Man Mervin Shebenstein reporting folks... today is the day we have all been waiting for, when the clone of dr. bob, founder of a.a., will be arriving at THE PLANET OF DRUNKEN STONERS for the biggest intervention since the advent of the universes zero tolerance policy. We are riding on the good ship UrgeKill, which is due to dock in just twelve short hours.
Earlier today, we spoke to Reverend Notapervert III, one of the first to lobby the intergalactic counsels of rules, regulations, and anal lubricants, to revive Dr. Bob and send him, along with various other founders of aa and ten thousand, nine hundred therapists trained to see through the lies of addicts.
When asked how the negotiations were going with the planet of drunken stoners over length of treatment (they of course want outpatient), the Rev. Notapervert III responded, "Oh, they try to weedle out of all responsibilty for anything, so getting them to own up to needing thirty days in treatment is tough. They have fought me all the way, as drunken stoners will. When we first started asking them about why everyone from their planet had red eyes, they were all like, "Oh, yea... we have, uhmm, like allergies? They claim this same 'allergy' causes them to have to lay down for hours at a time doing something they call, 'Chillin."
"What is chillin, sir?"
"Something productive, sober citizens need never worry about."
"Cool."
After talking to the Rev. I decided to find out if the planet of drunken stoners were really as screwed up and in need of help as he said, so I called them to ask a few questions and the phone rang and rang and then when someone did answer, it was just to say, "The planet isn't home, man. I don't know when it's getting back."
"Wait, you are the planet... " I told the sleepy sounding voice, "I dialed the planet, so anyone who answers is the planet."
"I am?"
"Yes."
"Wow."
"Is it true you guys call all your three daily meals, 'Munchfests?'"
"No."
"Would you be willing to start?"
"Cool, man. Hey, the planet is home. Talk to him. Hi, this the planet of drunken stoners?"
"Aren't you the same guy that I was just talking to?"
"Duhhh.... yea. I mean, probably. I think so. Maybe I took notes... sometimes I take notes, usually forget about them and then... wow, there are some cookie crumbs in my pocket. If I lick my hand, then shove it back in... whoa, cookie hand, man? Want a lick? After me...
Wait, am I making an obscene call, because if I am, this isn't me, man."
After this the planet launched into a lengthy diatribe on the merits of various Ted Nugent guitar solos and why the planet would really, really like to have one of those pot belly pigs, and some taffy. I finally hung up. The phone like immediately rang back. I answered and heard the planet screaming into the phone, "Dude, dude are you alright? Dude? Duder? Did you pass out, or OD or something? Dude, duder man?"
OF course, afterwards, I woke up back here, in this six by twelve foot cell. Sentenced to die for a crime that I didn't commit -- and it all came down just two days before I was retiring from the police force to move to Florida on the beach. Not-to-mention, it was a mere week after my family was killed by a shadowy government conspiracy of one armed men with tiny, ferret noses.
All I ever wanted to do was grow beets somewhere, on a little bit of land all my own. Shoot a few rabbits, maybe... invescerate them and mix their innards with my road kill collection of stuffed, lacquered and glistening guts... just take it easy and try be.... freeeee.... but, no. ... the man just wouldn't let me. You kill one little busload of school children and they all turn on you just like that. Fucking fair weather friends.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
JESUS TELLS EMBARRASSED HUMANITY:"MY BIRTHDAY IS IN FEBUARY."
An obviously pissed off deity called a press conference today and announced that his birthday has been celebrated on the wrong day since a mere two years after his death.
"Two years! Those fucking self absorbed apostles! Fish, fish, fish... it's all they can think about... and I mean fish metaphorically, you damned fundamentalists, like as in women... as well as real fish, because that is mostly what they think about. . . to this day!"
The actually fuming deity then screamed in a voice that melted the first row of reporters on the scene, "They couldn't remember my birthday when I was alive without all kinds of hints. Now, you have these parties year after year, and I stand around all embarrassed thinking you'll figure it out sooner or later -- and if I hear my dad say 'humans' aren't perfect,' one more time I am moving in with Satan."
Evil laughter was heard over the world for a full thirty seconds before all calenders and memories were adjusted by the heavenly father to correspond with Jesus real birthday.
A spokesman for the bearded deity told reporters, "He's taken a tub, drinking his usual barrels of wine. He asked me to read this statement:"I am 'just trying to forgive, for like the billionth billion time."
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
"Two years! Those fucking self absorbed apostles! Fish, fish, fish... it's all they can think about... and I mean fish metaphorically, you damned fundamentalists, like as in women... as well as real fish, because that is mostly what they think about. . . to this day!"
The actually fuming deity then screamed in a voice that melted the first row of reporters on the scene, "They couldn't remember my birthday when I was alive without all kinds of hints. Now, you have these parties year after year, and I stand around all embarrassed thinking you'll figure it out sooner or later -- and if I hear my dad say 'humans' aren't perfect,' one more time I am moving in with Satan."
Evil laughter was heard over the world for a full thirty seconds before all calenders and memories were adjusted by the heavenly father to correspond with Jesus real birthday.
A spokesman for the bearded deity told reporters, "He's taken a tub, drinking his usual barrels of wine. He asked me to read this statement:"I am 'just trying to forgive, for like the billionth billion time."
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
THE FARTIST
Ten days and four minutes ago, at an unfamaliar stop on the chicago's underground train line, a fory three year old salesman from Minneapolis walked down the concrete steps and was confronted with a young man all dressed in black, with large nose rings and lip rings and ear rings and brow rings.
Slumped against the wall frowning, the young city denizen looks up at the shocked man and starts talking in a cool, punky sneer, "Yea, I'm a fartist. No, no... I didn't say artist, dude. Those fucking posers. No, I'm a fartist. I make real statements, man. Statements that need some vile smells to show these sheep how horrible the world is. No one knows but me, man... me, the only practicing Fartist. Here, let me riff on this thought, okay.... Uhh, (A SUSTAINED LOUD FART IS HEARD, THEN FOLLOWED BY TWO MORE SHORT BURSTS OF BUTT BREEZE). That man... it's about Rwanda. I can see by the tears in your eyes that you were with me on that one all the way to the genocide.
The life of a Fartist isn't all making sixth grade boys laugh . . . no, there are darker sides, stains that just kind of come with the business. But, who am I to complain? I was the first fartest to get one of these city licenses to perform on the subway tracks. See, right there, where it says Fartist? Yea, I did put the 'f' on there, but it's still official, okay?
My dad always dreamed of being a fartist. He was just, just such a frustrated fartist. Could not fart... he tried.... he would not quit. Of course it killed him. He was all whisky drunk that morning and straining away again, trying to fart and... his eyes popped out. Shot across the wall and splattered. He bled to death before the rest of could stop screaming. He passed that dream... that spark of the fartest, on to me, and... well, the rest history -- a history, I like to say, that is written on scorched nostril hairs, but actually, I have a blog.
I do a few songs, whatever it takes to make a few tips. Often, my performances are so intense that people just throw me some money and ask me to stop playing. I understand. Too much of this shit at once could blow their fucking minds, man. You can bet no one paid off Von Gogh to quit blowing their minds. Fart, no... I say 'fart no' instead of 'shit no'... kind of a trend that I started. Well, so what if you haven't heard any one else say 'fart no?' I fucking hear it all the time, down here in the subway, where are people are keeping it real. What? I don't know why they aren't stopping... no, this isn't a closed stop... where you going, I have some of my best stuff coming up... Fucking yuppie bastard!! Hey, wait, you got a cigarette, buddy? Oh, you fucking fart splatter. I'll bet you know what this means (A SERIES OF STACCATO, MACHINE GUN LIKE FARTS ARE HEARD). Told him... man, you know what? This place is closed... I wondered, it's been like three months since I got this license and there were like, eight people, all tourists... shit, if I was someplace where people could see me, I would proabably already have my own gallery somewhere, complete with plexiglass boxed farts for sale in the gift shop, which is where most of my bean money is going to probably come from. Until then, I'll just remain what I am... a starving fartist. THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Slumped against the wall frowning, the young city denizen looks up at the shocked man and starts talking in a cool, punky sneer, "Yea, I'm a fartist. No, no... I didn't say artist, dude. Those fucking posers. No, I'm a fartist. I make real statements, man. Statements that need some vile smells to show these sheep how horrible the world is. No one knows but me, man... me, the only practicing Fartist. Here, let me riff on this thought, okay.... Uhh, (A SUSTAINED LOUD FART IS HEARD, THEN FOLLOWED BY TWO MORE SHORT BURSTS OF BUTT BREEZE). That man... it's about Rwanda. I can see by the tears in your eyes that you were with me on that one all the way to the genocide.
The life of a Fartist isn't all making sixth grade boys laugh . . . no, there are darker sides, stains that just kind of come with the business. But, who am I to complain? I was the first fartest to get one of these city licenses to perform on the subway tracks. See, right there, where it says Fartist? Yea, I did put the 'f' on there, but it's still official, okay?
My dad always dreamed of being a fartist. He was just, just such a frustrated fartist. Could not fart... he tried.... he would not quit. Of course it killed him. He was all whisky drunk that morning and straining away again, trying to fart and... his eyes popped out. Shot across the wall and splattered. He bled to death before the rest of could stop screaming. He passed that dream... that spark of the fartest, on to me, and... well, the rest history -- a history, I like to say, that is written on scorched nostril hairs, but actually, I have a blog.
I do a few songs, whatever it takes to make a few tips. Often, my performances are so intense that people just throw me some money and ask me to stop playing. I understand. Too much of this shit at once could blow their fucking minds, man. You can bet no one paid off Von Gogh to quit blowing their minds. Fart, no... I say 'fart no' instead of 'shit no'... kind of a trend that I started. Well, so what if you haven't heard any one else say 'fart no?' I fucking hear it all the time, down here in the subway, where are people are keeping it real. What? I don't know why they aren't stopping... no, this isn't a closed stop... where you going, I have some of my best stuff coming up... Fucking yuppie bastard!! Hey, wait, you got a cigarette, buddy? Oh, you fucking fart splatter. I'll bet you know what this means (A SERIES OF STACCATO, MACHINE GUN LIKE FARTS ARE HEARD). Told him... man, you know what? This place is closed... I wondered, it's been like three months since I got this license and there were like, eight people, all tourists... shit, if I was someplace where people could see me, I would proabably already have my own gallery somewhere, complete with plexiglass boxed farts for sale in the gift shop, which is where most of my bean money is going to probably come from. Until then, I'll just remain what I am... a starving fartist. THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
necrophyliacs lobby to marry the dead
Reporters reported to each other today that a crowd of necrophyliacs marched through downtown Chicago's Daly Plaza. Two hundred thousand strong, the local neighborhood group was waving placards and chanting, "Necrophyliacs unite-- fuck them corpses, it's your right!!" Numerous police officers on the scene were won over by this convincing arguement and broke ranks, going over to the protesters in often heart warming shows of solidarity between 'the man' and 'the people.'
Later in the afternoon, The Friends Of Animal Co-olition, a front organization for the fringe group The Union Of Bestiality Behooved, which is a front organization for Future Farmers of America-- which is a front organization for Psycho Animal Fuckers ( a shady group that may or may not be a front for the CIA), launched a sympathy strike to show their brotherhood with the fuckers of the dead, closing down their web site, LovingThatBestiality.com, which is often described by the press and cross country bikers as 'the' source for information on how to screw animals of all varieties. While hundreds of other sites make this claim as well, they all do acknowledge that Loving That Bestiality has some of the world's most renknown animal orifice lubrication specialists, an elite group that has consulted with every president since Jefferson.
When asked about what he thought, as an average corporate citizen, a passer in a three piece suit with a bold, confident stride, stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, stumbled and fell to the ground in a fetus position before muttering, "No... no... they do that to us even after we're dead? Oh, god, no... they told me there was just heaven."
Thinking the prone man was dead, various Necrophyliacs broke ranks with their chanting bretheren and rushed over to sodomize the sobbing corporate prince.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Later in the afternoon, The Friends Of Animal Co-olition, a front organization for the fringe group The Union Of Bestiality Behooved, which is a front organization for Future Farmers of America-- which is a front organization for Psycho Animal Fuckers ( a shady group that may or may not be a front for the CIA), launched a sympathy strike to show their brotherhood with the fuckers of the dead, closing down their web site, LovingThatBestiality.com, which is often described by the press and cross country bikers as 'the' source for information on how to screw animals of all varieties. While hundreds of other sites make this claim as well, they all do acknowledge that Loving That Bestiality has some of the world's most renknown animal orifice lubrication specialists, an elite group that has consulted with every president since Jefferson.
When asked about what he thought, as an average corporate citizen, a passer in a three piece suit with a bold, confident stride, stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, stumbled and fell to the ground in a fetus position before muttering, "No... no... they do that to us even after we're dead? Oh, god, no... they told me there was just heaven."
Thinking the prone man was dead, various Necrophyliacs broke ranks with their chanting bretheren and rushed over to sodomize the sobbing corporate prince.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
digable cats... howling, just fucking howling!!
Oddly enough, I was kind of lucky this week, happened to go out and see these excellent musicians-- I caught them at The Wise Fool's Pub in Lincoln Park, an upscale neighborhood known for having the last free zoo in the country, a strip of bars catering to drunken Depaul students, and lots of yuppies walking golden retrievers.
I seldom go out and see bands, despite having every intention to. This night J. has assured us that this band is extrodinary, given us a ride, and practically, since she is a good enough of friend to do so, forced us to go out on a weeknight. We were taking her recommendation of the band with a grain of the proverbial salt since she is hottie for a guy in the band. Her amorous wanderings have drug us into more than one weird situation . . . well, only one, but that was enough!!!
Shows in Chicago seldom start on Time. They do so just enough to trick neurotically punctual people, like myself, into spending hours sitting in bars, sipping watered down diet coke thinking, 'man, bars sure are boring... you actually have to drink to stand to be in the places. That's the hook that gets these rubes..." and other thoughts, mostly about wombats and sea otters driving big muscle cars with machine guns coming out of the sides and firing until their barrells are red hot, slaughtering all these people from the lists... well, you know the thoughts... we all have them.
No one else was in the back room where the band was setting up, on a stage with a huge black curtain strung between two equally huge white pillars. We moved a couple tables right up center front of the stage, pulled up about five chairs, popped cigarettes in our mouths and ordered diet cokes. We sat there until ten amusing ourselves all to hell, though. I had done a few bongs before heading out, so I would have been amused by a fly buzzing around the room, at first, though my weedliness wore off before the band went on stage.
The band all came up and introduced themselves; the singer, Oleana (my spelling may be off) and Brad, the drummer, sat down with us. Oleana said she was cold, so I grabbed my sheep skin, the authentic army issue bomber jacket that I wear, and draped the huge coat over her shoulders. She laughed easy and pleasent as she pulled the warm, creamy curls of sheep skin over her shoulders.
She is dark eyed with long black hair, classic features, slim as an alley cat. She has a pleasent accent in her perfect English, though you would not know this from her singing. I started asking her all kinds of questions about her country of origin, Romania -- which she had left a mere six months before -- and soon enough found out her grandmother is an opera singer, her mother some kind of famous singer, and she herself was a rock star in her country.
When she told me this, I was like, "Why the hell would anyone quit being a rock star?"
She answered in about the only sane way: "Love."
Meeting them, and enjoying what conversation I could with my deaf left ear and the loud background noise... I sure hoped they were going to be good on stage. Like I wrote, we were totally unsure if our freind J. was talking with her head or her crotch... Well, of course, when the band started, I was swept up into unique, rocking songs that were all their own, with seven musicians making a cool as hell wall of sound, and I was very, very pleased...
I am no music reviewer, as you have probably already noticed, but I do have taste that seems to be pretty well accepted as good by people who really do know music. I liked them because the guitarists were rocking, soloing a touch, the drums were driven, complex, the keyboardist playing one of my favorite instruments -- the electric violin (use it more!!)... and then there was Oleana, who's voice is about the best arguement for genetically passed talent I have heard in awhile. She could literally hit any damn note. Her range puts most rock singers to shame. I mean, the woman can sing better than anyone I have seen in a bar.... by a long shot. I see why she was a phenomena in Romania. Her stage presence is something else, too. She shunned all the Mick Jagger hopping about, and just concentrated on getting the songs perfect. In fact, I would have to say she was demure on stage, and it was such refreshing honesty after all the fucking stylists playing music in their spandex and kurt Cobain costumes. She was tuned into our table while she was on stage, and at one point she kiddingly did a rock star dance for a few seconds, and then looked at M. and J. and they all had a girly giggle moment.
Brad, the drummer, cracked jokes between the songs, and was funny in a way, again, all his own -- which when it is good, as he was, is the best kind of funny.
The songs were mostly original, and all were just great. I mean, I listen to music and am usually still, but this night, I was nodding along with the music, completly swept away. The last time this happened to me was Yo You Ma. Not that I see a lot of live music, mind you.
Digable Cats (who are not to be confused with Digable Planet, who I am not cool enough to know more about than the name) are good enough that your genre preferences will be rendered irrelevent by their musical charms.
Oleana even says she will come do one of my shows, too... Though people are always saying they will come to our shows and then don't show up. Why do people do this? I have literally had hundreds of folk do this... just shine me on... damn people!!! dogs don't make any promises they can't keep. Cats either... Not that Oleana will do this to me... right, big O?
I seldom go out and see bands, despite having every intention to. This night J. has assured us that this band is extrodinary, given us a ride, and practically, since she is a good enough of friend to do so, forced us to go out on a weeknight. We were taking her recommendation of the band with a grain of the proverbial salt since she is hottie for a guy in the band. Her amorous wanderings have drug us into more than one weird situation . . . well, only one, but that was enough!!!
Shows in Chicago seldom start on Time. They do so just enough to trick neurotically punctual people, like myself, into spending hours sitting in bars, sipping watered down diet coke thinking, 'man, bars sure are boring... you actually have to drink to stand to be in the places. That's the hook that gets these rubes..." and other thoughts, mostly about wombats and sea otters driving big muscle cars with machine guns coming out of the sides and firing until their barrells are red hot, slaughtering all these people from the lists... well, you know the thoughts... we all have them.
No one else was in the back room where the band was setting up, on a stage with a huge black curtain strung between two equally huge white pillars. We moved a couple tables right up center front of the stage, pulled up about five chairs, popped cigarettes in our mouths and ordered diet cokes. We sat there until ten amusing ourselves all to hell, though. I had done a few bongs before heading out, so I would have been amused by a fly buzzing around the room, at first, though my weedliness wore off before the band went on stage.
The band all came up and introduced themselves; the singer, Oleana (my spelling may be off) and Brad, the drummer, sat down with us. Oleana said she was cold, so I grabbed my sheep skin, the authentic army issue bomber jacket that I wear, and draped the huge coat over her shoulders. She laughed easy and pleasent as she pulled the warm, creamy curls of sheep skin over her shoulders.
She is dark eyed with long black hair, classic features, slim as an alley cat. She has a pleasent accent in her perfect English, though you would not know this from her singing. I started asking her all kinds of questions about her country of origin, Romania -- which she had left a mere six months before -- and soon enough found out her grandmother is an opera singer, her mother some kind of famous singer, and she herself was a rock star in her country.
When she told me this, I was like, "Why the hell would anyone quit being a rock star?"
She answered in about the only sane way: "Love."
Meeting them, and enjoying what conversation I could with my deaf left ear and the loud background noise... I sure hoped they were going to be good on stage. Like I wrote, we were totally unsure if our freind J. was talking with her head or her crotch... Well, of course, when the band started, I was swept up into unique, rocking songs that were all their own, with seven musicians making a cool as hell wall of sound, and I was very, very pleased...
I am no music reviewer, as you have probably already noticed, but I do have taste that seems to be pretty well accepted as good by people who really do know music. I liked them because the guitarists were rocking, soloing a touch, the drums were driven, complex, the keyboardist playing one of my favorite instruments -- the electric violin (use it more!!)... and then there was Oleana, who's voice is about the best arguement for genetically passed talent I have heard in awhile. She could literally hit any damn note. Her range puts most rock singers to shame. I mean, the woman can sing better than anyone I have seen in a bar.... by a long shot. I see why she was a phenomena in Romania. Her stage presence is something else, too. She shunned all the Mick Jagger hopping about, and just concentrated on getting the songs perfect. In fact, I would have to say she was demure on stage, and it was such refreshing honesty after all the fucking stylists playing music in their spandex and kurt Cobain costumes. She was tuned into our table while she was on stage, and at one point she kiddingly did a rock star dance for a few seconds, and then looked at M. and J. and they all had a girly giggle moment.
Brad, the drummer, cracked jokes between the songs, and was funny in a way, again, all his own -- which when it is good, as he was, is the best kind of funny.
The songs were mostly original, and all were just great. I mean, I listen to music and am usually still, but this night, I was nodding along with the music, completly swept away. The last time this happened to me was Yo You Ma. Not that I see a lot of live music, mind you.
Digable Cats (who are not to be confused with Digable Planet, who I am not cool enough to know more about than the name) are good enough that your genre preferences will be rendered irrelevent by their musical charms.
Oleana even says she will come do one of my shows, too... Though people are always saying they will come to our shows and then don't show up. Why do people do this? I have literally had hundreds of folk do this... just shine me on... damn people!!! dogs don't make any promises they can't keep. Cats either... Not that Oleana will do this to me... right, big O?
Saturday, December 03, 2005
president quits post to 'color' professionally
In a bizarre impromptu press conference today, a disheveled president Bush announced to shocked reporters that he was quitting the presidency to take up professional coloring. "I am all about the coloring now. It's just what I do, man. And staying in the lines, I can that if I want. I don't have to. Where do I sign up to become a professional color guy anyways?"
At this point the president's mother called him back into the white house.
Dick Cheney was later seen out back of the white house burning large stacks of coloring books, while from open windows in the Oval office, reporters could easily hear a cranky president throwing a hissy fit and screaming over and over, "Want to color!! Want to color!! Want to color!!"
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
At this point the president's mother called him back into the white house.
Dick Cheney was later seen out back of the white house burning large stacks of coloring books, while from open windows in the Oval office, reporters could easily hear a cranky president throwing a hissy fit and screaming over and over, "Want to color!! Want to color!! Want to color!!"
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
tiny tom buys his K. Ho a 20 million dollar airplane
K. Hole responded, "Tiny Tom, why don't you just get a penis enlargement already?"
"Man, a plane, wow... penis? My penis is monstrous... the biggest. All my Ronbots told me this, and they know everything... like I do."
"Well, if you don't want the enlargement, I guess we can keep on using your assistant's finger. The tall one with the big feet who gives me my girl thing massages."
"Girl things...ewwww. You're a girl!"
"Yes, tiny tom."
With that, Tiny Tom bounced off screaming, "Grrr! Grrrrrrr!"
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
"Man, a plane, wow... penis? My penis is monstrous... the biggest. All my Ronbots told me this, and they know everything... like I do."
"Well, if you don't want the enlargement, I guess we can keep on using your assistant's finger. The tall one with the big feet who gives me my girl thing massages."
"Girl things...ewwww. You're a girl!"
"Yes, tiny tom."
With that, Tiny Tom bounced off screaming, "Grrr! Grrrrrrr!"
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Beacho the human chair
Humans were quite the novelty when they were discovered by the federation of prosperity for all planets. Their easily manipulated genetics made breeding creatures for specific purposes easier than ever before.
Within a mere 50 thousand human years, Grackinlablitz Species was selling warm, living chairs, large eyeless meat balls, milk mothers.. and hundreds shapes and sizes of industrial tools, like an arm with tiny legs and eyes that can go deep into large industrial machines that would otherwise require complete dismantling to repair.
200 thousand years later, humans, in all their various shapes and sizes, began to slowly develop psychic abilities, and in another ten thousand, chairs, industrial anatomy parts, meat balls, etc... had become used to the chattering moans and grunts in the background of what passed for their thoughts. They had no idea what language was, how to interprete what was being said, or to say anything either... Beacho was the first to start the tentative walk down the road to the fifteen words that lead to the first great furniture wars.
Beacho was a combination caddy/outdoor chair, meant to follow his owners around at golf matches. He had eyes, ears, legs, arms -- almost all of the features of the species that was plucked off their earthly eden a million lifetimes before. Most importably, he was given a brain, because he needed to memorize golf courses throughout the world, and always know the right club for the enviornment. The beings that he led around the courses would have been very surprised to learn that the species they had bred into a caddy had invented the game that they were playing.
Beacho merely noticed that the players used 'names' to distinguish themselves from one another, and the humans did not. So one day, as an experiment, when he was sitting in a tool shed shivering from the cold and feeling weak from the miserly meals his cheap owners allowed the machines, he decided to tell his name to the voices that he heard coming from other humans. Though he did not know it yet, when Beacho screamed his name in his mind, he also sent to the machines around him his emotional state. At that moment, when he said his name, he was filled with pride and warmth over figuring out how to say his name to other machines. The humans who heard his name blazing though the usual murky words that surrounded their work command words, were filled with this same warmth and pride. Some had never known this before, others were conditioned to feel it only when ordered--which was seldom for any of them, since the beings who owned them had long, long before lost any sense that there was life in the human machines.
Beacho's shout of his name was observed by a psychic JHILkkk that happened to passing on the street. He reported the development almost instantaneously and the Hignik council took five seconds to determine that the development could lead to disorder, which would manifest in thirty nine bruises, and one broken bone.
Dilk Milllinkin, a local contract laborer, recieved a comminque telling him to confiscate the combination chair/caddy, compensate the owner out of petty funds, and then dispose of Beacho.
Beacho's death cries were heard by humans for miles around. None knew where they came from, or what they meant... still, though they knew not why, thirty nine chairs pinched the beings sitting on them hard enough to bruise, and an arm with eyes smashed a toe with a hammer.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Within a mere 50 thousand human years, Grackinlablitz Species was selling warm, living chairs, large eyeless meat balls, milk mothers.. and hundreds shapes and sizes of industrial tools, like an arm with tiny legs and eyes that can go deep into large industrial machines that would otherwise require complete dismantling to repair.
200 thousand years later, humans, in all their various shapes and sizes, began to slowly develop psychic abilities, and in another ten thousand, chairs, industrial anatomy parts, meat balls, etc... had become used to the chattering moans and grunts in the background of what passed for their thoughts. They had no idea what language was, how to interprete what was being said, or to say anything either... Beacho was the first to start the tentative walk down the road to the fifteen words that lead to the first great furniture wars.
Beacho was a combination caddy/outdoor chair, meant to follow his owners around at golf matches. He had eyes, ears, legs, arms -- almost all of the features of the species that was plucked off their earthly eden a million lifetimes before. Most importably, he was given a brain, because he needed to memorize golf courses throughout the world, and always know the right club for the enviornment. The beings that he led around the courses would have been very surprised to learn that the species they had bred into a caddy had invented the game that they were playing.
Beacho merely noticed that the players used 'names' to distinguish themselves from one another, and the humans did not. So one day, as an experiment, when he was sitting in a tool shed shivering from the cold and feeling weak from the miserly meals his cheap owners allowed the machines, he decided to tell his name to the voices that he heard coming from other humans. Though he did not know it yet, when Beacho screamed his name in his mind, he also sent to the machines around him his emotional state. At that moment, when he said his name, he was filled with pride and warmth over figuring out how to say his name to other machines. The humans who heard his name blazing though the usual murky words that surrounded their work command words, were filled with this same warmth and pride. Some had never known this before, others were conditioned to feel it only when ordered--which was seldom for any of them, since the beings who owned them had long, long before lost any sense that there was life in the human machines.
Beacho's shout of his name was observed by a psychic JHILkkk that happened to passing on the street. He reported the development almost instantaneously and the Hignik council took five seconds to determine that the development could lead to disorder, which would manifest in thirty nine bruises, and one broken bone.
Dilk Milllinkin, a local contract laborer, recieved a comminque telling him to confiscate the combination chair/caddy, compensate the owner out of petty funds, and then dispose of Beacho.
Beacho's death cries were heard by humans for miles around. None knew where they came from, or what they meant... still, though they knew not why, thirty nine chairs pinched the beings sitting on them hard enough to bruise, and an arm with eyes smashed a toe with a hammer.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
the official elves attic policy on crotch sniffing
Quite often, when I am walking Ruby Dog, she will sniff some babe's crotch.
Often these cutey pies just melt into cooing and petting Ruby and laughing.
Yet, when I politely ask, "Do you mind if I have a sniff?"
They act like I am an axe murderer.
Humans. Thank goodness, once again, for the whole marrying into the marsupial species thing, with my little quimy, Betty Lou Sue Chantalice X. Oppossums don't care -- you can sniff them anywhere you want. Seriously. They smell different in different places.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Often these cutey pies just melt into cooing and petting Ruby and laughing.
Yet, when I politely ask, "Do you mind if I have a sniff?"
They act like I am an axe murderer.
Humans. Thank goodness, once again, for the whole marrying into the marsupial species thing, with my little quimy, Betty Lou Sue Chantalice X. Oppossums don't care -- you can sniff them anywhere you want. Seriously. They smell different in different places.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Mad Donna eats anal warts with maggot pate!!!!
Yea, someone with an english accent told her it was cool.
That dum rhino horn butt fuck of a diseased slut!!! Here's the latest stupid shit to drip out of her pointless thoughts. . .
-------------------------------------------------------------------
From some newspaper:
Mad Donna's charitable toward Tom Cruise. "[Tom and I are] both in the take-a-lot-of-shit club together," says Her Madgesty, who feels they're both persecuted for their fringe faiths.
"I don't really know what Scientology is," says the dedicated kabbalist. "But I don't think anybody else knows, either. They need to shut the [bleep] up."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
from johnny pain:
LET ME JUST WRITE:
"HEY, MAD DONNA, YOU DUM DISGUSTING PILE OF RANCID, REEKING, WART CRUNCHY, FLY COVERED CRAP... SOME PEOPLE DO INDEED KNOW WHAT SCIENTOLOGY IS! WE ALSO KNOW HOW TO AVOID STD'S -- SOMETHING YOUR BLOOD AND PUSS DRIPPING QUIMBY SURE COULD USE.
CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT SHE SAID
'NO ONE KNOWS WHAT THIS SCIENTOLOGY IS?'
DOES SHE EVEN LISTEN TO WHAT SHE IS SAYING?
Of course not... she hears only her own whims
That she thinks she is smart is so funny ... she really thinks she is smart--which in her case proves she is dum. Go figure? She gets this odd impression because the synchophents on her pay role say so. So do the kabbalists, since she gave them 18 million dollars to fund their cult-- that act alone would put her on the Pyscho Killer Shit List... had she not already earned a spot when she forced Sean Penn to act with her.
ISN'T THIS JUST LIKE A NARCISSIST TO ASSUME THAT SINCE THEY DON'T KNOW ANYTHING, NO ONE ELSE DOES?
And why does she think she is in this 'take lots of shit 'club, ANYWAYS? Because she deserves to be buried in piles of steaming, creamy cat crap... and drown.
TOM -- THE ARDENT ASS LICKING UNEDUCATED TWIT FOR BRAIN -- CRUISE DOES THE SAME thing.. They hate psychiatrists so much because THOSE WITH even MINOR TRAINING IN DIAGNOSING BORDER LINE PERSONALITIES AND NARCISSISTS CAN see right through these 'sub-par silly's,' and medicate them right out of this mental hell . . . where they are supposed to be housing 30 different aleins in their bodies. Sickos and Zealots can make you believe anything when they brain wash, which is scientific phenomena that works on anybody who ends up in evil hands for the proper amount of time... a very, very slippery slope that YOU BETTER STAY AWAY FROM!!!!
I will kill anyone I know who gives money to them. I sent out very nice cards announcing this to all my friends. Signed in blood. I would advocate shooting out the windows of their reading rooms if I could be sure no one would be hurt and it was legal.
And it will be legal, when I have enough hamsters to wipe these mental diseases off the face of the planet and replace them with an hour of hypnosis and frequent breaks for sex and weed, yo yo-ing and frisbee. BOW BEFORE THE LAW, OR SUFFER!!! SUFFER, I SAY!!!!!
By the way, Mad Donna ( the virgin mother? She's MORE LIKE THE 'HO MOTHER') wrote a childrens' book about how wealth wasn't everything, after spending her whole life whoring herself out to fill her pockets with money and the radio with her crappy music.
I hear her pussy is so stretched out that she carries her luggage in there, and the baby... which has a little oxygen mask and designer wet suits that make it look like a penguin, and other animals... the wet suits are all covered in nubs like Ho-Momma's favorite french tickler. His oxygen tank also has a valve to release knock out spray, which little brained Mad Donna uses all but maybe an hour a day, when she is the mood for kids.
Sometimes, if she is not in the mood for kids, she has them put in a coma for a few weeks. I guess the older they get, the more often she does this. She claims she is going to knock the girls out at eight (which is when she first became a slut), and then keep them down until they are ten years old and still virgins, which will be some sort of family record, or something...
Money sure does make available a lot of options that us poor, sane folk will never have... boo hoo, boo hoo.
By the way...
The above photo is from a tarot card... a picture of bullshit on bullshit, you could say. And, obviously, this is of course not my art..., I did not make a fucking tarot card.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
That dum rhino horn butt fuck of a diseased slut!!! Here's the latest stupid shit to drip out of her pointless thoughts. . .
-------------------------------------------------------------------
From some newspaper:
Mad Donna's charitable toward Tom Cruise. "[Tom and I are] both in the take-a-lot-of-shit club together," says Her Madgesty, who feels they're both persecuted for their fringe faiths.
"I don't really know what Scientology is," says the dedicated kabbalist. "But I don't think anybody else knows, either. They need to shut the [bleep] up."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
from johnny pain:
LET ME JUST WRITE:
"HEY, MAD DONNA, YOU DUM DISGUSTING PILE OF RANCID, REEKING, WART CRUNCHY, FLY COVERED CRAP... SOME PEOPLE DO INDEED KNOW WHAT SCIENTOLOGY IS! WE ALSO KNOW HOW TO AVOID STD'S -- SOMETHING YOUR BLOOD AND PUSS DRIPPING QUIMBY SURE COULD USE.
CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT SHE SAID
'NO ONE KNOWS WHAT THIS SCIENTOLOGY IS?'
DOES SHE EVEN LISTEN TO WHAT SHE IS SAYING?
Of course not... she hears only her own whims
That she thinks she is smart is so funny ... she really thinks she is smart--which in her case proves she is dum. Go figure? She gets this odd impression because the synchophents on her pay role say so. So do the kabbalists, since she gave them 18 million dollars to fund their cult-- that act alone would put her on the Pyscho Killer Shit List... had she not already earned a spot when she forced Sean Penn to act with her.
ISN'T THIS JUST LIKE A NARCISSIST TO ASSUME THAT SINCE THEY DON'T KNOW ANYTHING, NO ONE ELSE DOES?
And why does she think she is in this 'take lots of shit 'club, ANYWAYS? Because she deserves to be buried in piles of steaming, creamy cat crap... and drown.
TOM -- THE ARDENT ASS LICKING UNEDUCATED TWIT FOR BRAIN -- CRUISE DOES THE SAME thing.. They hate psychiatrists so much because THOSE WITH even MINOR TRAINING IN DIAGNOSING BORDER LINE PERSONALITIES AND NARCISSISTS CAN see right through these 'sub-par silly's,' and medicate them right out of this mental hell . . . where they are supposed to be housing 30 different aleins in their bodies. Sickos and Zealots can make you believe anything when they brain wash, which is scientific phenomena that works on anybody who ends up in evil hands for the proper amount of time... a very, very slippery slope that YOU BETTER STAY AWAY FROM!!!!
I will kill anyone I know who gives money to them. I sent out very nice cards announcing this to all my friends. Signed in blood. I would advocate shooting out the windows of their reading rooms if I could be sure no one would be hurt and it was legal.
And it will be legal, when I have enough hamsters to wipe these mental diseases off the face of the planet and replace them with an hour of hypnosis and frequent breaks for sex and weed, yo yo-ing and frisbee. BOW BEFORE THE LAW, OR SUFFER!!! SUFFER, I SAY!!!!!
By the way, Mad Donna ( the virgin mother? She's MORE LIKE THE 'HO MOTHER') wrote a childrens' book about how wealth wasn't everything, after spending her whole life whoring herself out to fill her pockets with money and the radio with her crappy music.
I hear her pussy is so stretched out that she carries her luggage in there, and the baby... which has a little oxygen mask and designer wet suits that make it look like a penguin, and other animals... the wet suits are all covered in nubs like Ho-Momma's favorite french tickler. His oxygen tank also has a valve to release knock out spray, which little brained Mad Donna uses all but maybe an hour a day, when she is the mood for kids.
Sometimes, if she is not in the mood for kids, she has them put in a coma for a few weeks. I guess the older they get, the more often she does this. She claims she is going to knock the girls out at eight (which is when she first became a slut), and then keep them down until they are ten years old and still virgins, which will be some sort of family record, or something...
Money sure does make available a lot of options that us poor, sane folk will never have... boo hoo, boo hoo.
By the way...
The above photo is from a tarot card... a picture of bullshit on bullshit, you could say. And, obviously, this is of course not my art..., I did not make a fucking tarot card.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
w. the rockstar president holds my bubbas hostage
Just so you know... The w. demands a twenty one gun salute and lots of flag waving after every successful bowl movement, a Bush tradition that has helped them to often achieve potty training. No word yet though on when W. will finally win his personal battle with 'bad potty.' Until then, they will continue the other Bush tradition that anyone who mentions Depends in their prescence, for any reason, will have their buts corked until they die. . . don't ask him if he farted, or in any way indicate that someone needs to be changed. I've seen him kill for this too often. Those huge but corks that they punish the peasents with are painful. I wouldn't want to wear one for longer than a couple hours...
HERE IS DA SCOOP:
It was like 6 am in the morning when the red phone rang, the one W. had installed when he determined he could mooch weed off of me. I pick up and he's already talking.
"YEA, AND, MAN, I JUST GOT A REPORT FROM THAT DAMNED DRUG ENFORCEMENT BURRO THAT YOU GOT WEED. Man, you said you would call me when you had some budidge?"
"Don't you ever buy weed? I mean, you're the president, so..."
"None of these fuckers smoke up here, man... and they wouldn't give me any if they did, man... My mom, the old gray tank, she'll cut off their balls. She cut up my first couple connects, now... hell, I can't find a damned banana peel. You got any of those?"
"Banana peels don't get you high."
"Snort enough coke with em, and sure they do."
"They let you have coke, but not pot? That's fucking crazy."
"Coke keeps me cocky, pissed at them fucking liberal maggot breaths... hey, maggot breaths. That's... what the hell was I talking about? No, what were talking about,, I mean?"
"Why do they let you use coke, which is like, a terrible drug? And then the little weed, which enhances rather..."
"Made em agree to it before I would run. I told dad, said, look pops, I gots to have the brewskis and the nose candy, but other than that.. I'll do whatever. Hell, sure, I can send thousands of kids to their deaths to get revenge for you, dad... At least I think that is the way it went. I get my breifs every morning in the form of little cartoons they draw. Only way I will read anything. That's in my little agreement too. They made me sign it with the blood of a dead hooker, which is how the skull and bones sign everything, even grocery lists... shit, quit talking about the skull and bones. I have nothing to say about them."
"Uh, okay."
"I'm glad I could clear that up for you, fine american."
"You forgot my name again?
"No, your... checking the phone records for something, not your name, no... Guy With Weed."
"Well, like I told you, I let you smoke some more of my weed, you got to let me lead a team of navy seals in to Bahrain, to take out Michael Jack-Off-Your-Son."
"You promise you will kill those damn lamas?"
"No, dog dammit, I will not... I keep forgotting you will forget everything we talk about. Tell your secret service guys that I get to kill the child fucking freak?"
"Yea, you heard him.... it's all on speaker phone, so I can color. What the hell are you talking about? Painting doors? Yea, yea, I am definantly for painting doors. What the hell? I mean, what the hell? We're discussing painting doors? Why the hell do you keep calling me? Hey, we're right outside your place."
I pulled the curtain aside and it was true, there he was, crawling out of a black limosine that seemed to literally be stuffed with slutty dressed whores of all shapes and sizes and enthnic back-o-ground.
I hate the man, but what can you do when someone will have your pets killed if you don't pick up the phone? He means this shit, has all kinds of people across the country getting thier asses kicked for dissing him in the past. Like he started with people who gave him the quote 'evil eye' in kindergarten. It's like, everyone in his class. He was known, like some idiot savant, in college for being able to remember everyones names. Who knew it was because he put them all on lists to get their asses kicked -- at the behest of his mother, of course.. the true power behind the Bush Dynasty (remember when she said the people in the lousiana disaster were better off since they were poor and had less to lose... ugh... pictures of lives long lost are worth more than their mansions. Rich folk get so sick, especially the dynastic ones.. the bushes go back to psuedo english royalty... in fact, we are more than likely related... as much as this sickens).
Two secret service guys burst in. One grabbed Buk and held a knife to the squirming cats throat, the other grabbed ruby and held a forty five to her head as she licked his hand...
W. always does this because he thinks I have a tendency to bogart, which I do not, and he swears a pet will die next time. He always forgets this, but his secret service guys don't. They love to kill small animals. I asked them about it once and they were all like, "Uh, that's for training."
"Why do you masterbate while your doing it, then?" I asked these two of them, all dressed in black fatigues and dark sunglasses and field hats with the floppy brim pulled down over their foreheads.
"In case we are called on to rape someone to death. Happened to my dad all the time in Nam."
"Yea," the quiter one added, "we do it because one day, we may have to protect... your children."
"I don't have any children."
"Did you kill em? I know how it is... They get to yelling and you pull a knife out of your boot and gut em, then cut the ears off and wear em around your neck and dance, just dance until you can't dance anymore."
"No! Goddamn, it...."
But that was another day... Today, I met the W. at the door and just gave him my weed. I can always call up Spike and get more. The agents then tried to leave with my pets, but I called em on it... with my fine little black Uzi aimed at their balls (a present from the W., meaning he needed weed so he took a gun off one of his bodyguards and gave it to me pretending it was a thoughtful gift.. and he will never pay that guy back, you can just bet). W. grabbed the weed without a word, went back to his limo. When he opened the door, I caught another glimpse of the whores, and a flat screen showing porn that was so disgusting I immediantly repressed it and now, in my memory, see only happy dancing bunnies on the screen...
HERE IS DA SCOOP:
It was like 6 am in the morning when the red phone rang, the one W. had installed when he determined he could mooch weed off of me. I pick up and he's already talking.
"YEA, AND, MAN, I JUST GOT A REPORT FROM THAT DAMNED DRUG ENFORCEMENT BURRO THAT YOU GOT WEED. Man, you said you would call me when you had some budidge?"
"Don't you ever buy weed? I mean, you're the president, so..."
"None of these fuckers smoke up here, man... and they wouldn't give me any if they did, man... My mom, the old gray tank, she'll cut off their balls. She cut up my first couple connects, now... hell, I can't find a damned banana peel. You got any of those?"
"Banana peels don't get you high."
"Snort enough coke with em, and sure they do."
"They let you have coke, but not pot? That's fucking crazy."
"Coke keeps me cocky, pissed at them fucking liberal maggot breaths... hey, maggot breaths. That's... what the hell was I talking about? No, what were talking about,, I mean?"
"Why do they let you use coke, which is like, a terrible drug? And then the little weed, which enhances rather..."
"Made em agree to it before I would run. I told dad, said, look pops, I gots to have the brewskis and the nose candy, but other than that.. I'll do whatever. Hell, sure, I can send thousands of kids to their deaths to get revenge for you, dad... At least I think that is the way it went. I get my breifs every morning in the form of little cartoons they draw. Only way I will read anything. That's in my little agreement too. They made me sign it with the blood of a dead hooker, which is how the skull and bones sign everything, even grocery lists... shit, quit talking about the skull and bones. I have nothing to say about them."
"Uh, okay."
"I'm glad I could clear that up for you, fine american."
"You forgot my name again?
"No, your... checking the phone records for something, not your name, no... Guy With Weed."
"Well, like I told you, I let you smoke some more of my weed, you got to let me lead a team of navy seals in to Bahrain, to take out Michael Jack-Off-Your-Son."
"You promise you will kill those damn lamas?"
"No, dog dammit, I will not... I keep forgotting you will forget everything we talk about. Tell your secret service guys that I get to kill the child fucking freak?"
"Yea, you heard him.... it's all on speaker phone, so I can color. What the hell are you talking about? Painting doors? Yea, yea, I am definantly for painting doors. What the hell? I mean, what the hell? We're discussing painting doors? Why the hell do you keep calling me? Hey, we're right outside your place."
I pulled the curtain aside and it was true, there he was, crawling out of a black limosine that seemed to literally be stuffed with slutty dressed whores of all shapes and sizes and enthnic back-o-ground.
I hate the man, but what can you do when someone will have your pets killed if you don't pick up the phone? He means this shit, has all kinds of people across the country getting thier asses kicked for dissing him in the past. Like he started with people who gave him the quote 'evil eye' in kindergarten. It's like, everyone in his class. He was known, like some idiot savant, in college for being able to remember everyones names. Who knew it was because he put them all on lists to get their asses kicked -- at the behest of his mother, of course.. the true power behind the Bush Dynasty (remember when she said the people in the lousiana disaster were better off since they were poor and had less to lose... ugh... pictures of lives long lost are worth more than their mansions. Rich folk get so sick, especially the dynastic ones.. the bushes go back to psuedo english royalty... in fact, we are more than likely related... as much as this sickens).
Two secret service guys burst in. One grabbed Buk and held a knife to the squirming cats throat, the other grabbed ruby and held a forty five to her head as she licked his hand...
W. always does this because he thinks I have a tendency to bogart, which I do not, and he swears a pet will die next time. He always forgets this, but his secret service guys don't. They love to kill small animals. I asked them about it once and they were all like, "Uh, that's for training."
"Why do you masterbate while your doing it, then?" I asked these two of them, all dressed in black fatigues and dark sunglasses and field hats with the floppy brim pulled down over their foreheads.
"In case we are called on to rape someone to death. Happened to my dad all the time in Nam."
"Yea," the quiter one added, "we do it because one day, we may have to protect... your children."
"I don't have any children."
"Did you kill em? I know how it is... They get to yelling and you pull a knife out of your boot and gut em, then cut the ears off and wear em around your neck and dance, just dance until you can't dance anymore."
"No! Goddamn, it...."
But that was another day... Today, I met the W. at the door and just gave him my weed. I can always call up Spike and get more. The agents then tried to leave with my pets, but I called em on it... with my fine little black Uzi aimed at their balls (a present from the W., meaning he needed weed so he took a gun off one of his bodyguards and gave it to me pretending it was a thoughtful gift.. and he will never pay that guy back, you can just bet). W. grabbed the weed without a word, went back to his limo. When he opened the door, I caught another glimpse of the whores, and a flat screen showing porn that was so disgusting I immediantly repressed it and now, in my memory, see only happy dancing bunnies on the screen...
Monday, November 28, 2005
ho
test
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
killin' whores and lace slip covers for toasters
.
Some girl wrote to me and said reading my blog was like smelling someone elses farts.
No, I made that up... but it's true, in, like, other dimensions...
If everyone who came here gave me a fucking dime? I would have, like, enough money to buy a flat screen and a whore, or two (well, at least the whores could happen, should M. reverse her no prostitutes policy, which I think she will, because I will not let this go and sooner or later she will give in to me, or I will have to pretend like she did and then she forgot that she did and just go ahead and grab me some diseased quimly... wait, I hate fucking whores--they are criminal addicts, desperate people who wish they were somewhere else while you fuck -- how pathetic . . . and sadly enough, attractive after a dozen beers... luckily, when they offered me sex for a ride in my taxi, which probably happened maybe fifty times over the years, I always turned them down. . . . except once, because the woman was so insistent that she grabbed my cock and put it in her mouth before I could do anything to stop her, practically... she then proceeded to give me the worst head of my life... it was so bad . . . I will spare you the gross details... I pulled her off (a almost unheard of act by the male species, so you can imagine how bad her dry, dry mouth felt on Chuckles tender head). This embarrasses me to write, but if I don't have honesty, I am nothing but a facade on these pages... and I really hope to transcend that empty, flesh puppet using the carefully worded script described in your job description kind of being... you know? Hope you know. There is nothing worse than becoming just what society wants people to be, because the fucks in charge of a lot of the human genres of fashionable and edible and religous correct folk are often Psycho Killers -- driven sociopathic by the horrors they have to confront that become monsters eating thier brains until they can only feel self esteem and contempt.
I actually had a buddy who was addicted to whores; used to spend all his money on them. I got him to move away from his whore infested neighborhood and move in with me, when I lived in Roscoe Village, which was a mellow, graceful, and wonderfully livable neighborhood until quite recently when the young condo owners came in with their three cars and empty streets became full and starbucks appeared like magic and soon enough, the area that used to house Riverside Amusement park and was the home of tough carnies, was swallowed back into the generic sameness of the fashion magazine infected).
I have met a lot of prostutues. Cab driving just led me into the most interesting fucking situations; prostitutes proved to be the worst people I met; criminal to the point that they are always looking for a way to rip you off. I was not kidding when I wrote about that one who tried to kill me with a butcher knife--which tends to affect ones perceptions... Of course, to be fair, let me just mention that another woman comes to mind, one of those women who looks like an angel and fucking her is like having the finest champagne on the planet... not that one needs that... but she sure made hundreds of thousands of dollars as a high class hooker. She used to date an artist buddy. The whore saved up her money and went off to college... She was nice, though her ability to emphathize with other people is probably stunted all to hell...
Wait a minute, how the hell did I end up talking about whores again? This always happens... shit... I... I didn't write anything about killing whores did I ?? Did I mention naming the maggots swirling through the flesh holes in their faces and squeezing out around their eyes, pouring out her nose like living snot??? shit, did I put something in here about covering their dead faces with lace slip covers for toasters and drawing a little smily face on them so the fun can continue as long as I can stand the smell of rotting corpse (Note to self: you've downed some bongsiddy-bang today, so you have to be careful here... don't forget to take this evidence out before you publish... another Note To Self: wash the blood off your hands, it is getting the keys all sticky. . . and the cat... FOR DOGS SAKE, REMEMBER TO COME BACK AND ERASE ALL THIS STUFF!!!!... change that title about killing whores too)!!!!
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Some girl wrote to me and said reading my blog was like smelling someone elses farts.
No, I made that up... but it's true, in, like, other dimensions...
If everyone who came here gave me a fucking dime? I would have, like, enough money to buy a flat screen and a whore, or two (well, at least the whores could happen, should M. reverse her no prostitutes policy, which I think she will, because I will not let this go and sooner or later she will give in to me, or I will have to pretend like she did and then she forgot that she did and just go ahead and grab me some diseased quimly... wait, I hate fucking whores--they are criminal addicts, desperate people who wish they were somewhere else while you fuck -- how pathetic . . . and sadly enough, attractive after a dozen beers... luckily, when they offered me sex for a ride in my taxi, which probably happened maybe fifty times over the years, I always turned them down. . . . except once, because the woman was so insistent that she grabbed my cock and put it in her mouth before I could do anything to stop her, practically... she then proceeded to give me the worst head of my life... it was so bad . . . I will spare you the gross details... I pulled her off (a almost unheard of act by the male species, so you can imagine how bad her dry, dry mouth felt on Chuckles tender head). This embarrasses me to write, but if I don't have honesty, I am nothing but a facade on these pages... and I really hope to transcend that empty, flesh puppet using the carefully worded script described in your job description kind of being... you know? Hope you know. There is nothing worse than becoming just what society wants people to be, because the fucks in charge of a lot of the human genres of fashionable and edible and religous correct folk are often Psycho Killers -- driven sociopathic by the horrors they have to confront that become monsters eating thier brains until they can only feel self esteem and contempt.
I actually had a buddy who was addicted to whores; used to spend all his money on them. I got him to move away from his whore infested neighborhood and move in with me, when I lived in Roscoe Village, which was a mellow, graceful, and wonderfully livable neighborhood until quite recently when the young condo owners came in with their three cars and empty streets became full and starbucks appeared like magic and soon enough, the area that used to house Riverside Amusement park and was the home of tough carnies, was swallowed back into the generic sameness of the fashion magazine infected).
I have met a lot of prostutues. Cab driving just led me into the most interesting fucking situations; prostitutes proved to be the worst people I met; criminal to the point that they are always looking for a way to rip you off. I was not kidding when I wrote about that one who tried to kill me with a butcher knife--which tends to affect ones perceptions... Of course, to be fair, let me just mention that another woman comes to mind, one of those women who looks like an angel and fucking her is like having the finest champagne on the planet... not that one needs that... but she sure made hundreds of thousands of dollars as a high class hooker. She used to date an artist buddy. The whore saved up her money and went off to college... She was nice, though her ability to emphathize with other people is probably stunted all to hell...
Wait a minute, how the hell did I end up talking about whores again? This always happens... shit... I... I didn't write anything about killing whores did I ?? Did I mention naming the maggots swirling through the flesh holes in their faces and squeezing out around their eyes, pouring out her nose like living snot??? shit, did I put something in here about covering their dead faces with lace slip covers for toasters and drawing a little smily face on them so the fun can continue as long as I can stand the smell of rotting corpse (Note to self: you've downed some bongsiddy-bang today, so you have to be careful here... don't forget to take this evidence out before you publish... another Note To Self: wash the blood off your hands, it is getting the keys all sticky. . . and the cat... FOR DOGS SAKE, REMEMBER TO COME BACK AND ERASE ALL THIS STUFF!!!!... change that title about killing whores too)!!!!
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
The Death Of Bob The Wino Knight
In one dimension, a hoboish drunk, late fifties and over-weight, sits stinky and silent on a bench in Loyola Park. No one knows that he is secretly watching everyone there, on the look out for any sort of trouble. That was his job now. He had lost everything except his need to drink... and of late, the cheap wine had started to make his brain resemble smooth vanilla pudding with chocolate chips and coconuts -- a disease that was going to help kill him in twelve days, when the first icey Northeasterner roars acrss the lake and freezes to death any wino who has the bad luck of passing out on a street corner all exposed to the evilish elements of the cold, cold wind chilled air that freezes their flesh and slows their heart down more and more, until they end up in a paupers grave . .. but that night, he was just drunk enough to feel like he could take on the world!!
He turned real quick, alerted by a movement in the corner of his eye, and saw a young women with a Depaul University shirt walking a yapping small white dog... The dog started sniffing a tree and preparing to let loose some used up foods and liquids... He watched the woman closely. He had a feeling she was just going to leave the shit and he was pissed. Really pissed. Too pissed to calm down even after the women suddenly pulled a box of blue, scented bags out of her pocket and knelt down and picked up the steaming pile of poo. He glared at her as she passed and was pleased when she quickened her step. 'Have to keep an eye out for that one,' he thought, though he knew he would forget because he forgot everything at somepoint in the day, when the wine made his speach a moan that drove away anyone he tried to bum a smoke from or tell about some squirrel that he saw that day.
There had been no crime that day... Once a cop had told him this was the safest park in the city.
Only he, Bob The Drunk, knew that he was a knight, and entirely responsible for keeping people in line. The Kids he watched especially. And of course those damn dog walkers. If they tried to get away without cleaning up, he yelled at them, made a scene... usally they ran from him and he would just have to accept that he couldn't pass out in that spot until the stuff was dry enough.. He knew that they would think twice about leaving shit in his park after his rebuke, at least. He was also worried about trolls, though he had yet to see anything more than a few of their ghosts.
And indeed, there was no crime that night; or the next, or the next... until finally, Bob laid down the doorway of a closed dry cleaner and felt the wine pull him down into blessed black. Six hours and fourteen minutes and ten seconds later, he froze to death.
Bob was quite surprised to find himself reincarnated and already an eight year old girl . . . which is why she started drinking so young and became a lesbian and changed her name back to Bob. True story.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
He turned real quick, alerted by a movement in the corner of his eye, and saw a young women with a Depaul University shirt walking a yapping small white dog... The dog started sniffing a tree and preparing to let loose some used up foods and liquids... He watched the woman closely. He had a feeling she was just going to leave the shit and he was pissed. Really pissed. Too pissed to calm down even after the women suddenly pulled a box of blue, scented bags out of her pocket and knelt down and picked up the steaming pile of poo. He glared at her as she passed and was pleased when she quickened her step. 'Have to keep an eye out for that one,' he thought, though he knew he would forget because he forgot everything at somepoint in the day, when the wine made his speach a moan that drove away anyone he tried to bum a smoke from or tell about some squirrel that he saw that day.
There had been no crime that day... Once a cop had told him this was the safest park in the city.
Only he, Bob The Drunk, knew that he was a knight, and entirely responsible for keeping people in line. The Kids he watched especially. And of course those damn dog walkers. If they tried to get away without cleaning up, he yelled at them, made a scene... usally they ran from him and he would just have to accept that he couldn't pass out in that spot until the stuff was dry enough.. He knew that they would think twice about leaving shit in his park after his rebuke, at least. He was also worried about trolls, though he had yet to see anything more than a few of their ghosts.
And indeed, there was no crime that night; or the next, or the next... until finally, Bob laid down the doorway of a closed dry cleaner and felt the wine pull him down into blessed black. Six hours and fourteen minutes and ten seconds later, he froze to death.
Bob was quite surprised to find himself reincarnated and already an eight year old girl . . . which is why she started drinking so young and became a lesbian and changed her name back to Bob. True story.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
dead people in my head
DEAD PEOPLE linger forever
lives are too short to forget
nothing has closure until your eyes
are sewn shut by a mortician
I want to be able to feel them
without this wall of pain between us
the horror of knowing they are just plain gone
shocking moments of realization come over and over
out of nowhere and everywhere
I need some ritualistic way to go beyond this emotional murk
a long, long arm to reach through the pain
burst out on the other side
where my memories of them are just fond
not surrounded by the taunting faces of their powdered and painted corpse
they are lost to me
hidden by this wall of pain
my living memories have been thrown into a dark room
the door has been bricked up
leaving their pale ghosts alone
gasping
whithering into the forgotten
i want my daddy
i want my brother
i want my friends
the list grows with the passing years
until a crowd of them are back there
behind that brick wall
clamoring about like rats
I hear them scratching on the walls
screams of pain as their nails tear off
as they try to dig through the brick with their bloody hands
I want them sit on the couch and talk or not
to just fill the space that they created in me
so empty now
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
lives are too short to forget
nothing has closure until your eyes
are sewn shut by a mortician
I want to be able to feel them
without this wall of pain between us
the horror of knowing they are just plain gone
shocking moments of realization come over and over
out of nowhere and everywhere
I need some ritualistic way to go beyond this emotional murk
a long, long arm to reach through the pain
burst out on the other side
where my memories of them are just fond
not surrounded by the taunting faces of their powdered and painted corpse
they are lost to me
hidden by this wall of pain
my living memories have been thrown into a dark room
the door has been bricked up
leaving their pale ghosts alone
gasping
whithering into the forgotten
i want my daddy
i want my brother
i want my friends
the list grows with the passing years
until a crowd of them are back there
behind that brick wall
clamoring about like rats
I hear them scratching on the walls
screams of pain as their nails tear off
as they try to dig through the brick with their bloody hands
I want them sit on the couch and talk or not
to just fill the space that they created in me
so empty now
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
THANK YOU... SORT OF.
I hit fifty thousand and three visitors on my blog counter at my other site, http://theelvesattic.ebloggy.com
that's from since I started keeping count, last summer. I am pleased that hundreds to thousands of you come in here every day. Thank you for sharing your psychosis with mine.
By the way, I'm on the verge of starving and you should send me money soon . . . or, perhaps, hamsters. . . actually, preferrably hamsters. I would have money if I didn't have to spend so much on Hamsters... if only M. would quit letting me get angry and sick the Ruby doo and Buk on the troops.... DAMN HER AND HER LAPSED BABY SITTING SKILLS!!! Not that I need a sitter... no, not all the time. Others won't agree with me, I know.
Wait, you could send me... well, someone mentioned Ninja Chimps? I'd take a couple those. Probably pawn them for a few bucks. Or maybe just chain them up in a storage unit somewhere, and then pimp them out over the internet. At least until they starved. I have a strict policy against feeding chimps.
Anyways, thank you for coming in here and reading me for free. I know that is the only way I could ever get a readership, I suppose, but still... it irks me, dammit!!! But, I came in here to thank you readers and show my unfailing humility, as always... still, you know, why did I go to school all those years if I was just going to then write in a damn blog and ignore all the more traditional forms of text AND THEN WIND UP POORER THAN some used up and battered ex-con sparrow... a lice itchy feathered friend on no one that has just been hit by a frisbee that smashed its wing bones into tiny painful shards leaving it helpless on the sidewalk as it looks up at a family of ravenous, frothy mouthed black rats with small, though very loud, chainsaws, whose eyes have a look of bizarre, painful sexual wantings that its buttocks quiver in fear....
FIGHT THE MOWER!!!
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
that's from since I started keeping count, last summer. I am pleased that hundreds to thousands of you come in here every day. Thank you for sharing your psychosis with mine.
By the way, I'm on the verge of starving and you should send me money soon . . . or, perhaps, hamsters. . . actually, preferrably hamsters. I would have money if I didn't have to spend so much on Hamsters... if only M. would quit letting me get angry and sick the Ruby doo and Buk on the troops.... DAMN HER AND HER LAPSED BABY SITTING SKILLS!!! Not that I need a sitter... no, not all the time. Others won't agree with me, I know.
Wait, you could send me... well, someone mentioned Ninja Chimps? I'd take a couple those. Probably pawn them for a few bucks. Or maybe just chain them up in a storage unit somewhere, and then pimp them out over the internet. At least until they starved. I have a strict policy against feeding chimps.
Anyways, thank you for coming in here and reading me for free. I know that is the only way I could ever get a readership, I suppose, but still... it irks me, dammit!!! But, I came in here to thank you readers and show my unfailing humility, as always... still, you know, why did I go to school all those years if I was just going to then write in a damn blog and ignore all the more traditional forms of text AND THEN WIND UP POORER THAN some used up and battered ex-con sparrow... a lice itchy feathered friend on no one that has just been hit by a frisbee that smashed its wing bones into tiny painful shards leaving it helpless on the sidewalk as it looks up at a family of ravenous, frothy mouthed black rats with small, though very loud, chainsaws, whose eyes have a look of bizarre, painful sexual wantings that its buttocks quiver in fear....
FIGHT THE MOWER!!!
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
finger foods... yumma, yumma, yumma doo!!
State Street was madness, the crowds thick and musty in the third day of mushy falling snow; moving down the sidewalk was a chore, and the stores even worse. There were only a few days left before christ mass and everyone in the greater chicago area seemed to be shopping downtown under the bright glow of red and green lights. The cold air was filled with a sense of crazy frenzy.
That was the year when Cannabalism was the big fad. Those human fingers were the best!! I get hungry as a pup without a tit remembering those red and green boxes with the break dancing elves and that hippy-esque raindeer. The commercial advertisements were especially effective that year, I guess, when they broke all our taboos about eating each other. I know I got all caught up in that ad campaign where they had a long haired, stoned looking Rudolph with Snoop Dogs voice, and all those gay, swishy elves.
Everyone wanted those specially packaged holidy edition finger snacks; people were breaking out into fights when Marshall Fields announced that they would soon be out of the delicious nibble. That was the year when all the winos sold their fingers for drinking change and had to hold their styrofoam begging cups in their teeth (after the states outlawed wino fingers, they started importing the brown ones, of course, and while a lot of people think they are less flavorful, i can't taste any difference). Writing about this little taste bud tickler makes me really, really, really hungry for one of those pinkies, the ones coated in butter and cinamon and topped with white frosting.
The Gods Of Munchy say: "I don't care what all those labor activists say about south americans being made slaves so they can have their non essential organs transplanted into paying customers, I got a weedy need to gnaw on ten of those pinkies and no reason is going to get between me and those fat filled vein cloggers."
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
That was the year when Cannabalism was the big fad. Those human fingers were the best!! I get hungry as a pup without a tit remembering those red and green boxes with the break dancing elves and that hippy-esque raindeer. The commercial advertisements were especially effective that year, I guess, when they broke all our taboos about eating each other. I know I got all caught up in that ad campaign where they had a long haired, stoned looking Rudolph with Snoop Dogs voice, and all those gay, swishy elves.
Everyone wanted those specially packaged holidy edition finger snacks; people were breaking out into fights when Marshall Fields announced that they would soon be out of the delicious nibble. That was the year when all the winos sold their fingers for drinking change and had to hold their styrofoam begging cups in their teeth (after the states outlawed wino fingers, they started importing the brown ones, of course, and while a lot of people think they are less flavorful, i can't taste any difference). Writing about this little taste bud tickler makes me really, really, really hungry for one of those pinkies, the ones coated in butter and cinamon and topped with white frosting.
The Gods Of Munchy say: "I don't care what all those labor activists say about south americans being made slaves so they can have their non essential organs transplanted into paying customers, I got a weedy need to gnaw on ten of those pinkies and no reason is going to get between me and those fat filled vein cloggers."
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Killing Again....
I was out letting Ruby kill squirrels today. We are up to fifty three and a half (one was pretty badly wounded, but managed to scramble up a tree with just two and a half legs). For the sake of all that you consider Holy or funny, do not tell M. about this. She already suspects something is up because of the blood she keeps finding on Ruby's snout. I have her convinced that ruby has a secret stash of Strawberry Jelly; which I make all the more believable by hiding some jam that I put on her lips occasionally, when the stench of squirrel entrails and all the other disgusting shit she swallows down with glee becomes a bit much. I mean, Husky's have no breath, so I have to be pretty careful about this.
I am of course trying to film all of our kills. In the footage, I do a lot of close ups so the squirrels look huge and do voice overs like for a badly dubbed Godzilla import from b-movie japan, "Oh.... no.... professor, they giant squirrels lose now. Run must we from mighty hairy one with teeth of doom cheese.'
When she rips up the squirrels, their intestines remind me of Harpo Marx's hairdo. Don't try to make people laugh by wearing them as a wig though, because society just ain't ready for those kind of sophisticated laughs, or so my experiments down by the lake on other dog walkers and alarmed passers by seem to indicate.
I am usually against killing animals, but since it makes the pup so happy and watching the videos makes me laugh.... well, it's Like John Lennon said, 'Whatever gets you through the night.' A lot of people don't know he was referring to Squirrel Killing with these lyrics, but you know me, I miss nothing....
Ruby is still ignoring my orders to kill humans, though I think this squirrel slaughter has been a step in the right directions. I'm thinking, once I get her ready to kill, that I am going to go to Bahrain and take out Massah Jack-OFF=Your Son. Or maybe I'll just go after the weak and sick around here? There a couple retirement centers that would make this oh so easy.... I have notes.
Hard to tell what I'll do? The parole officers and doctors are better at predicting that stuff than me, so I leave it to them.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
I am of course trying to film all of our kills. In the footage, I do a lot of close ups so the squirrels look huge and do voice overs like for a badly dubbed Godzilla import from b-movie japan, "Oh.... no.... professor, they giant squirrels lose now. Run must we from mighty hairy one with teeth of doom cheese.'
When she rips up the squirrels, their intestines remind me of Harpo Marx's hairdo. Don't try to make people laugh by wearing them as a wig though, because society just ain't ready for those kind of sophisticated laughs, or so my experiments down by the lake on other dog walkers and alarmed passers by seem to indicate.
I am usually against killing animals, but since it makes the pup so happy and watching the videos makes me laugh.... well, it's Like John Lennon said, 'Whatever gets you through the night.' A lot of people don't know he was referring to Squirrel Killing with these lyrics, but you know me, I miss nothing....
Ruby is still ignoring my orders to kill humans, though I think this squirrel slaughter has been a step in the right directions. I'm thinking, once I get her ready to kill, that I am going to go to Bahrain and take out Massah Jack-OFF=Your Son. Or maybe I'll just go after the weak and sick around here? There a couple retirement centers that would make this oh so easy.... I have notes.
Hard to tell what I'll do? The parole officers and doctors are better at predicting that stuff than me, so I leave it to them.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
DEAD PEOPLE IN MY HEAD
DEAD PEOPLE linger forever
lives are too short to forget
nothing has closure until your eyes
are sewn shut by a mortician
I want to be able to feel them
without this wall of pain between us
the horror of knowing they are just plain gone
shocking moments of realization come over and over
out of nowhere and everywhere
I need some ritualistic way to go beyond this emotional murk
a long, long arm to reach through the pain
burst out on the other side
where my memories of them are just fond
not surrounded by the taunting faces of their powdered and painted corpse
they are lost to me
hidden by this wall of pain
my living memories have been thrown into a dark room
the door has been bricked up
leaving their pale ghosts alone
gasping
whithering into the forgotten
i want my daddy
i want my brother
i want my friends
the list grows with the passing years
until a crowd of them are back there
behind that brick wall
clamoring about like rats
I hear them scratching on the walls
screams of pain as their nails tear off
as they try to dig through the brick with their bloody hands
I want them sit on the couch and talk or not
to just fill the space that they created in me
so empty now
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
lives are too short to forget
nothing has closure until your eyes
are sewn shut by a mortician
I want to be able to feel them
without this wall of pain between us
the horror of knowing they are just plain gone
shocking moments of realization come over and over
out of nowhere and everywhere
I need some ritualistic way to go beyond this emotional murk
a long, long arm to reach through the pain
burst out on the other side
where my memories of them are just fond
not surrounded by the taunting faces of their powdered and painted corpse
they are lost to me
hidden by this wall of pain
my living memories have been thrown into a dark room
the door has been bricked up
leaving their pale ghosts alone
gasping
whithering into the forgotten
i want my daddy
i want my brother
i want my friends
the list grows with the passing years
until a crowd of them are back there
behind that brick wall
clamoring about like rats
I hear them scratching on the walls
screams of pain as their nails tear off
as they try to dig through the brick with their bloody hands
I want them sit on the couch and talk or not
to just fill the space that they created in me
so empty now
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
The Death Of Bob The Wino Knight
In one dimension, a hoboish drunk, late fifties and over-weight, sits stinky and silent on a bench in Loyola Park. No one knows that he is secretly watching everyone there, on the look out for any sort of trouble. That was his job now. He had lost everything except his need to drink... and of late, the cheap wine had started to make his brain resemble smooth vanilla pudding with chocolate chips and coconuts -- a disease that was going to help kill him in twelve days, when the first icey Northeasterner roars acrss the lake and freezes to death any wino who has the bad luck of passing out on a street corner all exposed to the evilish elements of the cold, cold wind chilled air that freezes their flesh and slows their heart down more and more, until they end up in a paupers grave . .. but that night, he was just drunk enough to feel like he could take on the world!!
He turned real quick, alerted by a movement in the corner of his eye, and saw a young women with a Depaul University shirt walking a yapping small white dog... The dog started sniffing a tree and preparing to let loose some used up foods and liquids... He watched the woman closely. He had a feeling she was just going to leave the shit and he was pissed. Really pissed. Too pissed to calm down even after the women suddenly pulled a box of blue, scented bags out of her pocket and knelt down and picked up the steaming pile of poo. He glared at her as she passed and was pleased when she quickened her step. 'Have to keep an eye out for that one,' he thought, though he knew he would forget because he forgot everything at somepoint in the day, when the wine made his speach a moan that drove away anyone he tried to bum a smoke from or tell about some squirrel that he saw that day.
There had been no crime that day... Once a cop had told him this was the safest park in the city.
Only he, Bob The Drunk, knew that he was a knight, and entirely responsible for keeping people in line. The Kids he watched especially. And of course those damn dog walkers. If they tried to get away without cleaning up, he yelled at them, made a scene... usally they ran from him and he would just have to accept that he couldn't pass out in that spot until the stuff was dry enough.. He knew that they would think twice about leaving shit in his park after his rebuke, at least. He was also worried about trolls, though he had yet to see anything more than a few of their ghosts.
And indeed, there was no crime that night; or the next, or the next... until finally, Bob laid down the doorway of a closed dry cleaner and felt the wine pull him down into blessed black. Six hours and fourteen minutes and ten seconds later, he froze to death.
Bob was quite surprised to find himself reincarnated and already an eight year old girl . . . which is why she started drinking so young and became a lesbian and changed her name back to Bob. True story.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
He turned real quick, alerted by a movement in the corner of his eye, and saw a young women with a Depaul University shirt walking a yapping small white dog... The dog started sniffing a tree and preparing to let loose some used up foods and liquids... He watched the woman closely. He had a feeling she was just going to leave the shit and he was pissed. Really pissed. Too pissed to calm down even after the women suddenly pulled a box of blue, scented bags out of her pocket and knelt down and picked up the steaming pile of poo. He glared at her as she passed and was pleased when she quickened her step. 'Have to keep an eye out for that one,' he thought, though he knew he would forget because he forgot everything at somepoint in the day, when the wine made his speach a moan that drove away anyone he tried to bum a smoke from or tell about some squirrel that he saw that day.
There had been no crime that day... Once a cop had told him this was the safest park in the city.
Only he, Bob The Drunk, knew that he was a knight, and entirely responsible for keeping people in line. The Kids he watched especially. And of course those damn dog walkers. If they tried to get away without cleaning up, he yelled at them, made a scene... usally they ran from him and he would just have to accept that he couldn't pass out in that spot until the stuff was dry enough.. He knew that they would think twice about leaving shit in his park after his rebuke, at least. He was also worried about trolls, though he had yet to see anything more than a few of their ghosts.
And indeed, there was no crime that night; or the next, or the next... until finally, Bob laid down the doorway of a closed dry cleaner and felt the wine pull him down into blessed black. Six hours and fourteen minutes and ten seconds later, he froze to death.
Bob was quite surprised to find himself reincarnated and already an eight year old girl . . . which is why she started drinking so young and became a lesbian and changed her name back to Bob. True story.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
LAUGHING AT YOU
the taunt of the nerves
screaming 'FUCK YOU' at me
in screechin' voices of grinding veterbrae
a garage band banging away at the blessed silence
psychos with knives all up and down my spine
illness
a mental landscape filled with dangling nooses
you learn to laugh
at all the oportunites to die
missed
for this one grand and pathetic moment
learn to laugh until you sit alone in your room laughing all day
let the plants die
shit yourself
starve the animals
kill the whole the fucking planet
laugh at the darker shadows
flitting across the newscasters painted faces
just
keep laughing
because
that's
what
it's
all
about
screaming 'FUCK YOU' at me
in screechin' voices of grinding veterbrae
a garage band banging away at the blessed silence
psychos with knives all up and down my spine
illness
a mental landscape filled with dangling nooses
you learn to laugh
at all the oportunites to die
missed
for this one grand and pathetic moment
learn to laugh until you sit alone in your room laughing all day
let the plants die
shit yourself
starve the animals
kill the whole the fucking planet
laugh at the darker shadows
flitting across the newscasters painted faces
just
keep laughing
because
that's
what
it's
all
about
proof inbreeding is still rampant in Tennessee
Rarely in recorded time have so many been so stupid for so long...
This guy claims that a man who was pretending to be a cop forced him, over the phone, to strip search one of his 20 year old workers and then.... have her blow him.
UNBELIEVABLY... AND THIS IS TRUE IN A WAY THAT IS MUCH TRUER THAN WHEN I USUALLY SAY TRUE... A TRUER TRUE TRUE, IF YOU WILL... This has evidently happened at various McDonalds down around what is usually considered the brother-sister fucking belt of America, Tn, Ky, where the mountains are cold and lonely, the next family often too far away to walk. McDonalds, rightly so, claims that someone should have realized this was a prank call when the supposed cop who was blaming the female employee with stealing a purse, ordered her to blow the manager. Only an alert Janitor finally went, "What the hell?" Of course the manager, a 41 year old guy who had practically zero chance of ever scoring with one of his hot young employees, was probably all happy when he realized the girl was going to go along with the request.
Thank god they got that pervert for rape, sort of... they gave him some plea where he admits no guilt, but does not contest the fact that the evidence would prove him guilty.
Again, the in breeding is even popular in legal circles, where brothers and sisters often marry to keep all the family pigs together....
Not that this diminishes the sight of those mountains down there one speck.
So, you know, next time you feel like pulling a prank on really, really stupid people, just get the number of some mcdonalds down there and pretend to be a cop who believes someone from the mcdonalds is making obscene phone calls, and needs the women on duty to recite a particular script, so your 'wtiness' can identify the alleged 'perverted phone caller' on their shift. Just insert your favorite perversion into the script you make the chick a dees recite and you could potentially cut down on your phone sex bills by thousands of dollars a month... and let me tell you, that frees up a lot of cash for orderin porn over cable...again, don't tell M. this is me, because when she notices the upswing on the charges, I am going to claim that the cat, Buk, has become addicted to internet porn.
By the way, I am kidding about acting like a cop.. this is not funny. Act like you are a cop and you go to jail... as you should. The perv.'s and criminals are always robbing people and worse after gaining their trust by pretending to be cops. Anyone whose name was so used should be pissed. The law will slap you down!!!
Of course, it does no good in a preventive sort of way for me to write this, since only inbreds don't find most of what I say obvious and interesting only in a kind of sick way that you don't want anyone else to know about... and no inbred would have read all the words it takes to get this far down teh page.. (to be kinder for some fucking reason, let me add that in breeding usually takes a couple generations to provoke serious quirks... and this is my stand until a certain cousin of mine loses her looks--she avoids me now, but my fantasy life tells me she will one day thrill me breifly at a family reunion, like in that penthouse forum letter-- which is one of the true ones).
Yea, inbreds are not exactly flocking to this sight. Irony, sarcasm, using metaphors, semi-colons, commas...
They run from such things....
grab the nearest remote and sink down into a sports trance, reducing the world to a field of big sweaty men banging into each other, chasing each other around, dancing, patting each others asses. All that fag stuff the homophobe jocks and adolescent boys are into. I mean, the whole colaseum thing for me started going downhill when they stopped having christians fight lions and leopards and bears and ostriches. Probably hamsters, too; though the evidence is scant, I am putting an article together about this for that on line encyclopedia for boofs, Whatapeeheadia--and then it will be true forever).
Below is a real article about this felonious lap licking.
Should you read all the way down through this article without feeling yourself actually growing more and more misanthropic, immiediantly email me the phone number of your dealer!!! For confidential research purposes only!!!
Andrew Wolfson
awolfson@courier-journal.com
The Courier-Journal
A Bullitt County man who claimed he was duped into sexually humiliating a teenage McDonald's worker last year by a man impersonating a police officer pleaded guilty yesterday to a felony charge of unlawful imprisonment.
In a plea bargain approved by his victim, Walter Nix Jr., 43, will get probation after agreeing to a one-year term for the felony and for sexual misconduct, a misdemeanor. He originally was charged with sodomy and assault, for which he could have been sentenced to 20 years in prison.
According to police and court records, Nix said he thought he was following an officer's orders when he directed Ogborn, who was detained four hours in the restaurant's office, to do exercises in the nude and perform oral sex on him. He also slapped her several times on her buttocks, at the direction of the caller, the records show.
The incident was the focus of a Courier-Journal story Sunday that noted that the strip-search was among at least 70 performed at fast-food restaurants and other businesses from 1995 through 2004 at the direction of a caller who claimed he was investigating crimes. Ogborn agreed to be identified by name in the newspaper.
A private prison guard, David N. Stewart, of Fountain, Fla., was charged in July 2004 with impersonating a police officer and soliciting sodomy in the Mount Washington case. He has pleaded not guilty, and his trial is set for Dec. 13. Summers is charged with unlawful imprisonment, a misdemeanor, and her trial is scheduled for Dec. 7. She also has pleaded not guilty.
Bullitt County Commonwealth's Attorney Mike Mann said in an interview yesterday that he agreed to probation for Nix because he has no prior record and because it would have difficult to persuade all 12 members of a jury to reject Nix's defense -- that he was duped by someone he thought was a law-enforcement officer.
"It would have been hard not to have one juror say, 'I might have gotten that call and done the same thing,' " Mann said.
(JOHNNY PAIN INTERRUPTING HERE..
CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS JUROR??? AND ALL TWELVE OF THE THOSE BUMPKINS WENT ALONG WITH HIM!!!! SOMEONE OUT THERE THOUGHT I WAS KIDDING ABOUT THE BROTHER-SISTER FUCKING BELT DOWN THERE IN DANIAL BOONE COUNTRY bet they feel silly now!!!))).
Still, he said he found it disturbing that anyone would believe that "sodomy is part of a lawful criminal investigation. There had to be a point where he realized that this wasn't right," Mann said of Nix.
Nix didn't explain his plea in the courtroom and left without talking to reporters. His lawyer, Kathleen Schmidt, said he was too nervous for an interview.
Ogborn's co-counsel, William C. Boone Jr., said his client approved the deal because "she wants somebody to say they are sorry and for somebody to say she did nothing wrong," both of which he said Nix has promised to say at sentencing.
"She is tired of McDonald's blaming her for what happened," Boone said.
The company also has said that agents outside its control -- Stewart and Nix -- were at fault.
The company's Louisville lawyer, W.R. "Pat" Patterson Jr., referred questions to spokeswoman Tara McClarin, who in a prepared statement said, "McDonald's regrets these unfortunate incidents and is pleased to know that those who have been criminally charged are being brought to justice."
Nix entered an Alford plea, maintaining his innocence while acknowledging there is enough evidence to convict him.
As part of the plea agreement, Mann agreed to drop an assault charge against Nix and to reduce the sodomy count to sexual misconduct, a misdemeanor punishable by up to 12 months in prison. He also raised the unlawful imprisonment charge to a felony, which carries a sentence of one to five years. Ogborn, a high school senior who had just turned 18 at the time of the incident, hadn't received a single admonition in her four months at the McDonald's when the man who called himself "Officer Scott" called and said an employee had been accused of stealing a purse. Summers said later that she picked out Ogborn because the caller's description fit her "to the T." Following the caller's instructions, Summers took Ogborn into the office and had her remove one item of clothing at a time until she was naked.
Although McDonald's said Ogborn could have left at any time, Summers had taken away her clothes, and she was able to only partially cover herself with an apron. The incident continued until a maintenance man who worked at the store questioned it and the caller hung up.
Nix and Summers were among at least 13 people across the United States charged with crimes for executing searches for the caller. Seven have been convicted of various crimes. Stewart so far has only been charged in the Bullitt County incident.
This guy claims that a man who was pretending to be a cop forced him, over the phone, to strip search one of his 20 year old workers and then.... have her blow him.
UNBELIEVABLY... AND THIS IS TRUE IN A WAY THAT IS MUCH TRUER THAN WHEN I USUALLY SAY TRUE... A TRUER TRUE TRUE, IF YOU WILL... This has evidently happened at various McDonalds down around what is usually considered the brother-sister fucking belt of America, Tn, Ky, where the mountains are cold and lonely, the next family often too far away to walk. McDonalds, rightly so, claims that someone should have realized this was a prank call when the supposed cop who was blaming the female employee with stealing a purse, ordered her to blow the manager. Only an alert Janitor finally went, "What the hell?" Of course the manager, a 41 year old guy who had practically zero chance of ever scoring with one of his hot young employees, was probably all happy when he realized the girl was going to go along with the request.
Thank god they got that pervert for rape, sort of... they gave him some plea where he admits no guilt, but does not contest the fact that the evidence would prove him guilty.
Again, the in breeding is even popular in legal circles, where brothers and sisters often marry to keep all the family pigs together....
Not that this diminishes the sight of those mountains down there one speck.
So, you know, next time you feel like pulling a prank on really, really stupid people, just get the number of some mcdonalds down there and pretend to be a cop who believes someone from the mcdonalds is making obscene phone calls, and needs the women on duty to recite a particular script, so your 'wtiness' can identify the alleged 'perverted phone caller' on their shift. Just insert your favorite perversion into the script you make the chick a dees recite and you could potentially cut down on your phone sex bills by thousands of dollars a month... and let me tell you, that frees up a lot of cash for orderin porn over cable...again, don't tell M. this is me, because when she notices the upswing on the charges, I am going to claim that the cat, Buk, has become addicted to internet porn.
By the way, I am kidding about acting like a cop.. this is not funny. Act like you are a cop and you go to jail... as you should. The perv.'s and criminals are always robbing people and worse after gaining their trust by pretending to be cops. Anyone whose name was so used should be pissed. The law will slap you down!!!
Of course, it does no good in a preventive sort of way for me to write this, since only inbreds don't find most of what I say obvious and interesting only in a kind of sick way that you don't want anyone else to know about... and no inbred would have read all the words it takes to get this far down teh page.. (to be kinder for some fucking reason, let me add that in breeding usually takes a couple generations to provoke serious quirks... and this is my stand until a certain cousin of mine loses her looks--she avoids me now, but my fantasy life tells me she will one day thrill me breifly at a family reunion, like in that penthouse forum letter-- which is one of the true ones).
Yea, inbreds are not exactly flocking to this sight. Irony, sarcasm, using metaphors, semi-colons, commas...
They run from such things....
grab the nearest remote and sink down into a sports trance, reducing the world to a field of big sweaty men banging into each other, chasing each other around, dancing, patting each others asses. All that fag stuff the homophobe jocks and adolescent boys are into. I mean, the whole colaseum thing for me started going downhill when they stopped having christians fight lions and leopards and bears and ostriches. Probably hamsters, too; though the evidence is scant, I am putting an article together about this for that on line encyclopedia for boofs, Whatapeeheadia--and then it will be true forever).
Below is a real article about this felonious lap licking.
Should you read all the way down through this article without feeling yourself actually growing more and more misanthropic, immiediantly email me the phone number of your dealer!!! For confidential research purposes only!!!
Andrew Wolfson
awolfson@courier-journal.com
The Courier-Journal
A Bullitt County man who claimed he was duped into sexually humiliating a teenage McDonald's worker last year by a man impersonating a police officer pleaded guilty yesterday to a felony charge of unlawful imprisonment.
In a plea bargain approved by his victim, Walter Nix Jr., 43, will get probation after agreeing to a one-year term for the felony and for sexual misconduct, a misdemeanor. He originally was charged with sodomy and assault, for which he could have been sentenced to 20 years in prison.
According to police and court records, Nix said he thought he was following an officer's orders when he directed Ogborn, who was detained four hours in the restaurant's office, to do exercises in the nude and perform oral sex on him. He also slapped her several times on her buttocks, at the direction of the caller, the records show.
The incident was the focus of a Courier-Journal story Sunday that noted that the strip-search was among at least 70 performed at fast-food restaurants and other businesses from 1995 through 2004 at the direction of a caller who claimed he was investigating crimes. Ogborn agreed to be identified by name in the newspaper.
A private prison guard, David N. Stewart, of Fountain, Fla., was charged in July 2004 with impersonating a police officer and soliciting sodomy in the Mount Washington case. He has pleaded not guilty, and his trial is set for Dec. 13. Summers is charged with unlawful imprisonment, a misdemeanor, and her trial is scheduled for Dec. 7. She also has pleaded not guilty.
Bullitt County Commonwealth's Attorney Mike Mann said in an interview yesterday that he agreed to probation for Nix because he has no prior record and because it would have difficult to persuade all 12 members of a jury to reject Nix's defense -- that he was duped by someone he thought was a law-enforcement officer.
"It would have been hard not to have one juror say, 'I might have gotten that call and done the same thing,' " Mann said.
(JOHNNY PAIN INTERRUPTING HERE..
CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS JUROR??? AND ALL TWELVE OF THE THOSE BUMPKINS WENT ALONG WITH HIM!!!! SOMEONE OUT THERE THOUGHT I WAS KIDDING ABOUT THE BROTHER-SISTER FUCKING BELT DOWN THERE IN DANIAL BOONE COUNTRY bet they feel silly now!!!))).
Still, he said he found it disturbing that anyone would believe that "sodomy is part of a lawful criminal investigation. There had to be a point where he realized that this wasn't right," Mann said of Nix.
Nix didn't explain his plea in the courtroom and left without talking to reporters. His lawyer, Kathleen Schmidt, said he was too nervous for an interview.
Ogborn's co-counsel, William C. Boone Jr., said his client approved the deal because "she wants somebody to say they are sorry and for somebody to say she did nothing wrong," both of which he said Nix has promised to say at sentencing.
"She is tired of McDonald's blaming her for what happened," Boone said.
The company also has said that agents outside its control -- Stewart and Nix -- were at fault.
The company's Louisville lawyer, W.R. "Pat" Patterson Jr., referred questions to spokeswoman Tara McClarin, who in a prepared statement said, "McDonald's regrets these unfortunate incidents and is pleased to know that those who have been criminally charged are being brought to justice."
Nix entered an Alford plea, maintaining his innocence while acknowledging there is enough evidence to convict him.
As part of the plea agreement, Mann agreed to drop an assault charge against Nix and to reduce the sodomy count to sexual misconduct, a misdemeanor punishable by up to 12 months in prison. He also raised the unlawful imprisonment charge to a felony, which carries a sentence of one to five years. Ogborn, a high school senior who had just turned 18 at the time of the incident, hadn't received a single admonition in her four months at the McDonald's when the man who called himself "Officer Scott" called and said an employee had been accused of stealing a purse. Summers said later that she picked out Ogborn because the caller's description fit her "to the T." Following the caller's instructions, Summers took Ogborn into the office and had her remove one item of clothing at a time until she was naked.
Although McDonald's said Ogborn could have left at any time, Summers had taken away her clothes, and she was able to only partially cover herself with an apron. The incident continued until a maintenance man who worked at the store questioned it and the caller hung up.
Nix and Summers were among at least 13 people across the United States charged with crimes for executing searches for the caller. Seven have been convicted of various crimes. Stewart so far has only been charged in the Bullitt County incident.
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