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.comSunday, February 27, 2005
ADVICE COLUMN FOR BUDDING SERIAL KILLERS
If you are a child who loves torturing hamsters, let me just say that while fun and fullfilling in weird ways usually not sated in this 'Law Infested' society, this is not geek behavior, as one of my ill-begotten readers wrote in. This is 'young serial killer in the makings logic' , or good training for living through the cruelty of doing scientific research on animals. I say go with the science choice, because while this one gets you laid a lot less, at least the people are alive.
GFNERAL SNIGGLY-POO HAS CHANGED HIS NAME TO FLUFFY ONE WHO KILLS
FLUFFY ONE WHO KILLS.
Sources close to the Pantopia Empire are said to be worried about the rising power of one of their herioc, charasmatic leaders. The General formerly known as Sniggly-Poo has run afoal of the government before by making radical statements like, "Soldiers should be able to decide where to fight." Now he is defying God himself by changing his name, a move that the government is afraid could spread to other hamsters, and cause them to lose their cover stories of being slavishly loving and controllable.
A source close to Pain is quoted as saying, "If that hamster gets in the way of Johnny's plan, the dog will be happy, that's all I can say."
Ruby dog and the kitty bum have been promised a special treat today, but still no word if this is related to the possibly treasonous behavior of Generaol Fluffy One Who Kills, or merely a can of tuna.
Sources close to the Pantopia Empire are said to be worried about the rising power of one of their herioc, charasmatic leaders. The General formerly known as Sniggly-Poo has run afoal of the government before by making radical statements like, "Soldiers should be able to decide where to fight." Now he is defying God himself by changing his name, a move that the government is afraid could spread to other hamsters, and cause them to lose their cover stories of being slavishly loving and controllable.
A source close to Pain is quoted as saying, "If that hamster gets in the way of Johnny's plan, the dog will be happy, that's all I can say."
Ruby dog and the kitty bum have been promised a special treat today, but still no word if this is related to the possibly treasonous behavior of Generaol Fluffy One Who Kills, or merely a can of tuna.
robot soldiers.... they're coming soon...
A weaponized robot, known as SWORDS, will be the first armed robotic vehicle to see combat.
The new york times has a great article about how combat robot research is getting some long bucks in the military budget. This has lead me to think of... robot hamsters!!!
I don't know why I didn't think of this before. I can even make large hamsters, like ten foot ones... this here world better start trembling now, because I WILL TAKE OVER!!!
here's the facts, jack...
quote: "The Pentagon predicts that robots will be a major fighting force in the American military in less than a decade, hunting and killing enemies in combat. Robots are a crucial part of the Army's effort to rebuild itself as a 21st-century fighting force, and a $127 billion project called Future Combat Systems is the biggest military contract in American history.
The military plans to invest tens of billions of dollars in automated armed forces. The costs of that transformation will help drive the Defense Department's budget up almost 20 percent, from a requested $419.3 billion for next year to $502.3 billion in 2010, excluding the costs of war. The annual costs of buying new weapons is scheduled to rise 52 percent, from $78 billion to $118.6 billion."
What these military types don't realize is that hamsters are more effective, because they can get in close, all secret like, and then attack... unlike these ugly robots, which will make the targets run off and possibly get away. Terrorists can't resist a furry little sidekick to help pass those long hours hiding out in holes in the ground and often stuffy safe houses... and neither can most world leaders... especially hamsters trained to come off ultra cute, smart and slavishly controllable.
Yea, when I rise, like Aragon, and take back the throne of my fathers fathers fathers... you had better just bet that you want to be on my side... because if not... well, okay, to tell the truth..... I could never really hurt anybody who wasn't attacking me or mine,
so what will really happen when Paintopia comes to life is that I'll just forgive you all in the end. Okay? We'll smoke kind bud in our peace pipes and munch nachos and sip coca-cola and tea and poke fun at ourselves... You know, work it out like equals and go for a peaceful solution that balances the needs of the many with the rights of the individual. Really. I won't just do whatever the hell I want, even if that is what people who know me will inevitably tell you.... like M.
My own dear M. thinks that if I was in power... well, to quote her poseinous words, She knows just how to get me, too... says, "Come on Johnny, you don't want to be around that many people. You can't lead the world if you only hang out with a cat, a dog and me and your easel and the computer... and you know you'd be unhappy with anything else, right?"
OF course she had to kiss me then. And of course she had a point.
I think, in her own sweet way, she was trying to tell me that if I convince the dog or the cat to open up lines of communications and take orders, I can cut way down on the number of human farts I have to smell during my rise to power -- she knows this is a very big concern of mine.
The new york times has a great article about how combat robot research is getting some long bucks in the military budget. This has lead me to think of... robot hamsters!!!
I don't know why I didn't think of this before. I can even make large hamsters, like ten foot ones... this here world better start trembling now, because I WILL TAKE OVER!!!
here's the facts, jack...
quote: "The Pentagon predicts that robots will be a major fighting force in the American military in less than a decade, hunting and killing enemies in combat. Robots are a crucial part of the Army's effort to rebuild itself as a 21st-century fighting force, and a $127 billion project called Future Combat Systems is the biggest military contract in American history.
The military plans to invest tens of billions of dollars in automated armed forces. The costs of that transformation will help drive the Defense Department's budget up almost 20 percent, from a requested $419.3 billion for next year to $502.3 billion in 2010, excluding the costs of war. The annual costs of buying new weapons is scheduled to rise 52 percent, from $78 billion to $118.6 billion."
What these military types don't realize is that hamsters are more effective, because they can get in close, all secret like, and then attack... unlike these ugly robots, which will make the targets run off and possibly get away. Terrorists can't resist a furry little sidekick to help pass those long hours hiding out in holes in the ground and often stuffy safe houses... and neither can most world leaders... especially hamsters trained to come off ultra cute, smart and slavishly controllable.
Yea, when I rise, like Aragon, and take back the throne of my fathers fathers fathers... you had better just bet that you want to be on my side... because if not... well, okay, to tell the truth..... I could never really hurt anybody who wasn't attacking me or mine,
so what will really happen when Paintopia comes to life is that I'll just forgive you all in the end. Okay? We'll smoke kind bud in our peace pipes and munch nachos and sip coca-cola and tea and poke fun at ourselves... You know, work it out like equals and go for a peaceful solution that balances the needs of the many with the rights of the individual. Really. I won't just do whatever the hell I want, even if that is what people who know me will inevitably tell you.... like M.
My own dear M. thinks that if I was in power... well, to quote her poseinous words, She knows just how to get me, too... says, "Come on Johnny, you don't want to be around that many people. You can't lead the world if you only hang out with a cat, a dog and me and your easel and the computer... and you know you'd be unhappy with anything else, right?"
OF course she had to kiss me then. And of course she had a point.
I think, in her own sweet way, she was trying to tell me that if I convince the dog or the cat to open up lines of communications and take orders, I can cut way down on the number of human farts I have to smell during my rise to power -- she knows this is a very big concern of mine.
me and jesus had one of those nasty break ups, you know?
Jesus and me had a thing for awhile, and man did we ever have a messy, ugly break up. There was name calling -- me saying he was a fraud, him yelling at me that I would go to hell if we broke up. There was a lot passion there, though, and like all romantic fools, I kept taking him back again and again -- even after he broke all kinds of promises, was always contradicting himself, and, worse yet, he was always going out and starting wars and shit. He is one of those lovers who just wants your whole soul, you know? I mean, he told me it was a sin to even look at another deity. I mean, come on, who doesn't like to look? It's not like we were praying together or anything, but there was no telling that wrathful god much of anything.
I can take a lot from someone I love, but I knew it was over when I heard about how he went and started the crusades, and then led that witch hunt in europe and backed up colonialism.... well, you can imagine how this relationship would look to dr phil.
The weirdest thing about me and Jesus break up is how people are always tellling me to get back into a relationship with the guy.
He also changes his name a lot, too, which is suspicious? Sometimes he calls himself allah, sometimes buddha... the list is just about endless. I came across a bunch of fake id's one day and there were hundreds.
I have to admit, in the end, I used him. I only called him when I needed something. I mean, I gave him a lot of praise and built up his self esteem, but that wasn't enough. Did I mention he was carrying on affairs behind my back with a good portion of the world?
So please, if Jesus has sold you on the idea of 'taking you to heaven,' or something, listen to someone who knows -- that dude is a full of shit fraud.
I can take a lot from someone I love, but I knew it was over when I heard about how he went and started the crusades, and then led that witch hunt in europe and backed up colonialism.... well, you can imagine how this relationship would look to dr phil.
The weirdest thing about me and Jesus break up is how people are always tellling me to get back into a relationship with the guy.
He also changes his name a lot, too, which is suspicious? Sometimes he calls himself allah, sometimes buddha... the list is just about endless. I came across a bunch of fake id's one day and there were hundreds.
I have to admit, in the end, I used him. I only called him when I needed something. I mean, I gave him a lot of praise and built up his self esteem, but that wasn't enough. Did I mention he was carrying on affairs behind my back with a good portion of the world?
So please, if Jesus has sold you on the idea of 'taking you to heaven,' or something, listen to someone who knows -- that dude is a full of shit fraud.
Friday, February 25, 2005
revised friday show...
SHOW FOR FEBUARY THE 25TH
ONE
Quite often, when I am walking Ruby Dog, she will sniff some babes crotch. '
They just coo and pet her and laugh.
Yet . . . when I politely ask, "Do you mind if I have a sniff?" They act like I am an axe murderer.
Humans. I will never understand them.
TWO
ADVICE TO POTENTIAL SERIAL KILLERS
If you are a child who loves torturing hamsters, let me just say that while fun and fullfilling in weird ways usually not sated in this 'Law Infested' society, this is not geek behavior, as one of my ill-begotten readers wrote in. This is 'young serial killer in the makings logic' , or good training for living through the cruelty of doing scientific research on animals. I say go with the science choice, because while this one gets you laid a lot less, at least the people are alive
THREE
MORE ADVICE FOR BUDDING SERIAL KILLERS
If you tortured small animals when you were young, or keep the parts of dead people around, like to hang out at old crime scenes, etc… or even if this is just something you’ve been fantasizing about for years, just waiting for the right combination of bitching cops and wives and whisky to send you out hunting humans (as one vet said before going into a McDonalds and killing a nameless line of folk staring up blankly up at the menu), then watch this site for updates. Sooner or later, someone is going to pass through your state when you are in the mood, or you’re going to think in terms of fame and how much your money your family will make selling the TV rights? I frankly don’t know what really makes you tick. No one does. You are alone in this world. And, quite frankly, most people are against you. Remember, in war killing a death is a win! And even if the war is only in your head when you are off your meds, there is no use making your name a curse (especially if you have little ones back there somewhere in those half forgotten years), when you can do society a favor before blowing your brains off into eternity. As for you Religious Psycho Killers, I shouldn’t even have to tell you that the big guy will take you killing a couple pedophile priests more kindly than mowing down those screaming toddlers at that daycare center down the street. Really, you should know this. Pray on it.
Should you not be of the killing kind, please feel free to add names so that those among us seething with uncontrollable, un-medicated rage don’t kill as many of us normal people. If this web site saves even one life, my efforts will be worth it.
FOUR
INSPIRED BY L. RON BOTS
In the grand tradition of marginal writers in america, land of the oxymoron 'religious freedom' , I have decided that if people are so easily deluded, the best way to get them to act morally, may just be to trick them.
I hate to say it. I hate to think it. I so hate to admit it. But honest discourse is dead. Those who can be reasoned with are not enough of a block of people to get anything done in this world. You need to pander to this and that, or just go off and do your own thing and trick people into believing elaborate lies. A lot of people are ready for such lies, out there searching for FOUR, CONT…
something to replace the feelings that the first religion they ever fell in love with used to give them.
Sadly, we live in an age when the culture is so shattered down into tiny little, delusionarily fueled microcosms that the most unseemly behavior becomes 'sacred' in the minds of the mad.
All of the writing in here is geared toward that moment, of course, when you find yourself swept into a cult... From here, I will rise out of obscurity and start my religious-psycho-killers-cult. Like I wrote before, don't worry if this doesn't make sense to you yet, just keep reading this brain wash, and everything will be very clear to you before your mission.
FIVE
Another tenant of my cult?
Only bitch to me if you really feel that you have done something that requires me to smack you.
I think this is what friends do, the pain and surprise knock the person out of their whine ass mood and the people seem to wake up from being so throughly life whipped. A little fire starts in their chest, and so what if it is anger?
M. doesn't let me smack people much, anymore... told me, "I don't care how much fun this was when you were a cab driver. You smack someone at that coffee shop who starts whining and I will.... it embarrasses the hell out of me. Don't forget, I actually have to live in the same neighborhood with these people."
"Well, I do to, and why . . . "
"No, no, you don't. You live in some mountain in your head, back in a cave with a kitty bum and a ruby dog."
I start whining and people smack me, I smile and try to buck up. Why not? There is one life here. Just one. And I feel better when I am not whining.
SIX
MORE SHIT THAT NO ONE SHOULD HAVE TO SAY:
Do not have sex with animals.
This is A CAPITAL OFFENSE IN THE NEW NATION OF PAINTOPIA: do what you want with your genitals, but leave the animals alone...
Many years ago, I read an article in some biker magazine about how to have sex with various farm animals. It was like... too serious, you know?
This writer of this garbage probably asked around in biker circles to research his article. I can see the half drunk, prison schooled dude listening to his crazed biker buddies who grew up criminals on a farm, and finding out all these sad truths.
People are always doing this to dogs, too. We are talking 'read into psycho killers and they have this in common, too', shit... I would strangle someone for this with a grim smile on my face
SEVEN
REPORT FROM THE GENERAL OF THE MIGHTY HAMSTER ARMY OF SOCIALIST DEMOCRATIC COMMUNISTS, BY FIVE STAR GENERAL SNIGGLY-POO
After much debate, our shadow government has decided that a genocide is happening in Sudan. This requires me, as head of the Mighty Hamster Army, to act, under hamsters rights provision 567.004.
The American government is staying away from this word 'genocide' because the UN requires them to stop genocides. They are so arrogant and misguided that they have hired hundreds of lawyers to spread lies about what this word 'genocide' means.
The Bush administration, in its own particularly frat boy manner, is trying to get the word changed from 'genocide' to 'whiteacide,' and they refuse to act until this double speak is accepted. Not me, I have had dear lovers and friends of every color on this planet, and my politics are much more in line with a 'black agenda' than the usual white hamster middle class sell outs.
So ... I am sending in my troops to stop the arabs from killing the blacks. Everyone who doesn't use their armies to stop this human travesty that is shattering the lives of millions, sucks worse than a hamster. Ha!!!!
In fact, I even have this radical notion that soldiers should have a say in whether or not they want to fight for this or that good... not the politicians. ... with the exception of our god, Johnny Pain, who would feed me to the cat if I said otherwise.... I imagine a lot of hero's would show up if some avenue was available for them to join a force of mercenaries bent on killing for peace.
This same army could rescue slaves around the planet, hunt down pirates, and beat up people who have slighted me in even the most petty of way.
The hamsters will be arriving in africa soon after Johnny Pain figures out how to get the paper airplanes aloft. A lot of brave hamsters test pilots have already died to make that moment happen, and in their name we will carry on with our aerodynamic experiments, despite all naysayers and interference from intelligence agents....
So, to you Sudanese who will forever hate america for letting you be slaughtered, let me just apologize again for the asshead humans.
EIGHT
HAMSTER ARMY GENERAL SNIGGLY POO CHANGES HIS NAME TO FLUFFY ONE WHO KILLS.
Sources close to the Pantopia Empire are said to be worried about the rising power of one of their herioc, charasmatic leaders. The General formerly known as Sniggly-Poo has run afoal of the government before by making radical statements like, "Soldiers should be able to decide where to fight." Now he is defying God himself by changing his name, a move that the government is afraid could spread to other hamsters, and cause them to lose their cover stories of being slavishly loving and controllable.
A source close to Pain is quoted as saying, "If that hamster gets in the way of Johnny's plan, the dog will be happy, that's all I can say."
Ruby dog and the kitty bum have been promised a special treat today, but still no word if this is related to the possibly treasonous behavior of Generaol Fluffy One Who Kills, or merely a can of tuna.
NINE
WHAT TO DO IF A WOMBAT MOVES IN NEXT TO YOU
A wombat is covered with coarse grey or brown fur, with a large head. Let one get behind you, and you are dead.
If a wombat tries to move in next to you...
Keep your eye on those wombats all day, take copious notes of their dastardly deeds (you might need them at your trial). Then that first night, get out the dynamite and blasting caps and blow those pouched marauders into marsupial mush.
Trust me, you let a wombat move into the neighborhood, and soon enough they will start a a small militia -- just a bunch of marsupials playing with guns, they'll tell the media... and next you know, the wombats have armed check points at the entrance to your city and you are denied entry. You will be deemed what these whisker whips call 'an undesirable,' along with all humans and any animals known to be 'fraternizing with the enemy.' I mean, if history has taught us anything, it has taught us this!!!!
ONE
Quite often, when I am walking Ruby Dog, she will sniff some babes crotch. '
They just coo and pet her and laugh.
Yet . . . when I politely ask, "Do you mind if I have a sniff?" They act like I am an axe murderer.
Humans. I will never understand them.
TWO
ADVICE TO POTENTIAL SERIAL KILLERS
If you are a child who loves torturing hamsters, let me just say that while fun and fullfilling in weird ways usually not sated in this 'Law Infested' society, this is not geek behavior, as one of my ill-begotten readers wrote in. This is 'young serial killer in the makings logic' , or good training for living through the cruelty of doing scientific research on animals. I say go with the science choice, because while this one gets you laid a lot less, at least the people are alive
THREE
MORE ADVICE FOR BUDDING SERIAL KILLERS
If you tortured small animals when you were young, or keep the parts of dead people around, like to hang out at old crime scenes, etc… or even if this is just something you’ve been fantasizing about for years, just waiting for the right combination of bitching cops and wives and whisky to send you out hunting humans (as one vet said before going into a McDonalds and killing a nameless line of folk staring up blankly up at the menu), then watch this site for updates. Sooner or later, someone is going to pass through your state when you are in the mood, or you’re going to think in terms of fame and how much your money your family will make selling the TV rights? I frankly don’t know what really makes you tick. No one does. You are alone in this world. And, quite frankly, most people are against you. Remember, in war killing a death is a win! And even if the war is only in your head when you are off your meds, there is no use making your name a curse (especially if you have little ones back there somewhere in those half forgotten years), when you can do society a favor before blowing your brains off into eternity. As for you Religious Psycho Killers, I shouldn’t even have to tell you that the big guy will take you killing a couple pedophile priests more kindly than mowing down those screaming toddlers at that daycare center down the street. Really, you should know this. Pray on it.
Should you not be of the killing kind, please feel free to add names so that those among us seething with uncontrollable, un-medicated rage don’t kill as many of us normal people. If this web site saves even one life, my efforts will be worth it.
FOUR
INSPIRED BY L. RON BOTS
In the grand tradition of marginal writers in america, land of the oxymoron 'religious freedom' , I have decided that if people are so easily deluded, the best way to get them to act morally, may just be to trick them.
I hate to say it. I hate to think it. I so hate to admit it. But honest discourse is dead. Those who can be reasoned with are not enough of a block of people to get anything done in this world. You need to pander to this and that, or just go off and do your own thing and trick people into believing elaborate lies. A lot of people are ready for such lies, out there searching for FOUR, CONT…
something to replace the feelings that the first religion they ever fell in love with used to give them.
Sadly, we live in an age when the culture is so shattered down into tiny little, delusionarily fueled microcosms that the most unseemly behavior becomes 'sacred' in the minds of the mad.
All of the writing in here is geared toward that moment, of course, when you find yourself swept into a cult... From here, I will rise out of obscurity and start my religious-psycho-killers-cult. Like I wrote before, don't worry if this doesn't make sense to you yet, just keep reading this brain wash, and everything will be very clear to you before your mission.
FIVE
Another tenant of my cult?
Only bitch to me if you really feel that you have done something that requires me to smack you.
I think this is what friends do, the pain and surprise knock the person out of their whine ass mood and the people seem to wake up from being so throughly life whipped. A little fire starts in their chest, and so what if it is anger?
M. doesn't let me smack people much, anymore... told me, "I don't care how much fun this was when you were a cab driver. You smack someone at that coffee shop who starts whining and I will.... it embarrasses the hell out of me. Don't forget, I actually have to live in the same neighborhood with these people."
"Well, I do to, and why . . . "
"No, no, you don't. You live in some mountain in your head, back in a cave with a kitty bum and a ruby dog."
I start whining and people smack me, I smile and try to buck up. Why not? There is one life here. Just one. And I feel better when I am not whining.
SIX
MORE SHIT THAT NO ONE SHOULD HAVE TO SAY:
Do not have sex with animals.
This is A CAPITAL OFFENSE IN THE NEW NATION OF PAINTOPIA: do what you want with your genitals, but leave the animals alone...
Many years ago, I read an article in some biker magazine about how to have sex with various farm animals. It was like... too serious, you know?
This writer of this garbage probably asked around in biker circles to research his article. I can see the half drunk, prison schooled dude listening to his crazed biker buddies who grew up criminals on a farm, and finding out all these sad truths.
People are always doing this to dogs, too. We are talking 'read into psycho killers and they have this in common, too', shit... I would strangle someone for this with a grim smile on my face
SEVEN
REPORT FROM THE GENERAL OF THE MIGHTY HAMSTER ARMY OF SOCIALIST DEMOCRATIC COMMUNISTS, BY FIVE STAR GENERAL SNIGGLY-POO
After much debate, our shadow government has decided that a genocide is happening in Sudan. This requires me, as head of the Mighty Hamster Army, to act, under hamsters rights provision 567.004.
The American government is staying away from this word 'genocide' because the UN requires them to stop genocides. They are so arrogant and misguided that they have hired hundreds of lawyers to spread lies about what this word 'genocide' means.
The Bush administration, in its own particularly frat boy manner, is trying to get the word changed from 'genocide' to 'whiteacide,' and they refuse to act until this double speak is accepted. Not me, I have had dear lovers and friends of every color on this planet, and my politics are much more in line with a 'black agenda' than the usual white hamster middle class sell outs.
So ... I am sending in my troops to stop the arabs from killing the blacks. Everyone who doesn't use their armies to stop this human travesty that is shattering the lives of millions, sucks worse than a hamster. Ha!!!!
In fact, I even have this radical notion that soldiers should have a say in whether or not they want to fight for this or that good... not the politicians. ... with the exception of our god, Johnny Pain, who would feed me to the cat if I said otherwise.... I imagine a lot of hero's would show up if some avenue was available for them to join a force of mercenaries bent on killing for peace.
This same army could rescue slaves around the planet, hunt down pirates, and beat up people who have slighted me in even the most petty of way.
The hamsters will be arriving in africa soon after Johnny Pain figures out how to get the paper airplanes aloft. A lot of brave hamsters test pilots have already died to make that moment happen, and in their name we will carry on with our aerodynamic experiments, despite all naysayers and interference from intelligence agents....
So, to you Sudanese who will forever hate america for letting you be slaughtered, let me just apologize again for the asshead humans.
EIGHT
HAMSTER ARMY GENERAL SNIGGLY POO CHANGES HIS NAME TO FLUFFY ONE WHO KILLS.
Sources close to the Pantopia Empire are said to be worried about the rising power of one of their herioc, charasmatic leaders. The General formerly known as Sniggly-Poo has run afoal of the government before by making radical statements like, "Soldiers should be able to decide where to fight." Now he is defying God himself by changing his name, a move that the government is afraid could spread to other hamsters, and cause them to lose their cover stories of being slavishly loving and controllable.
A source close to Pain is quoted as saying, "If that hamster gets in the way of Johnny's plan, the dog will be happy, that's all I can say."
Ruby dog and the kitty bum have been promised a special treat today, but still no word if this is related to the possibly treasonous behavior of Generaol Fluffy One Who Kills, or merely a can of tuna.
NINE
WHAT TO DO IF A WOMBAT MOVES IN NEXT TO YOU
A wombat is covered with coarse grey or brown fur, with a large head. Let one get behind you, and you are dead.
If a wombat tries to move in next to you...
Keep your eye on those wombats all day, take copious notes of their dastardly deeds (you might need them at your trial). Then that first night, get out the dynamite and blasting caps and blow those pouched marauders into marsupial mush.
Trust me, you let a wombat move into the neighborhood, and soon enough they will start a a small militia -- just a bunch of marsupials playing with guns, they'll tell the media... and next you know, the wombats have armed check points at the entrance to your city and you are denied entry. You will be deemed what these whisker whips call 'an undesirable,' along with all humans and any animals known to be 'fraternizing with the enemy.' I mean, if history has taught us anything, it has taught us this!!!!
Thursday, February 24, 2005
I am primarily writing at my other site.
http://theelvesattic.ebloggy.com is the way to stay up with my writing, should you care.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
latest working prose for the book; synopsis of chapters
I always tell people that I write heart warming stories about a boy and his dog, and it is high time that I at least attempt to live up to this lofty ideal.
this is my file where I am putting the new prose for the book. Unfortunatly, after doing other writing for a few months, I am now approaching the project from a new perspective... the story has chaned significantly. The theme is the same, how people get swept up into the 'myths' of their local charasmatics, and sometimes follow mistaken leaders. Nothing too earth shambling.
Okay, here is the new and improved synopsis.
Four guys who hang out and smoke weed and play d and d in high school, get attacked one night in the city. One of them acts to save the others, and ends up killing two young gang bangers. He goes to jail.
The book starts sixteen years later, when Johnathon is getting out of prison.
During the time he has been gone, his friends, living kind of a perpetual youth based on the poetic license of being artists, have been just painting and writing and joking around, never having children or staying with a job or a profession that deviates from artistic, weedy whims.
Johnathon comes out of prison with a grudge against a gang. He does not voice this for awhile, until he thinks that the others will help him get revenge. What the gang does to him is never to be written. I hate that kind of prose and would rather leave the gory details up to whatever imaginary powers the reader wishes to employ on their own.
He does, however, have a six inch scar on his neck, which he explains at first as nothing personal, just part of being in prison... an event he has put in his past; though later, events seem to feed his feeling that he should exact revenge not for himself, but for others who are being abused. Specifically, dogs.
Dog fighting gang bangers get shot up, by a bunch of guys who are trying to forge a moral identity in a decidedly immoral world. ...
scenes:
johnathon comes home
.
Dog is seen being exchanged by a gang banger.
Matt tells this to johnathon, who surmises that Matt has witnessed an exchange among dog fighters.
THE PSYCHO KILLER'S HIT LIST
Johnathon was the leader of our little crew of art major weed heads. I think because he was taller and a bit more pushy than the rest of us? Or perhaps it was his ability to be infectious with his excitement? He always had some fire burning in his chest over something, was on this or that end of some deep moodswing...
In high school we used to come into the city and go to our buddy Paul's Uncle, who ran a sleazy bar and the game store -- and more importantly to us, he sold weed and allowed us to smoke there.
Wicker Park was a fairly rough neighborhood back then -- at least there were a lot of druggies and muggers and gang bangers. We were suburban kids and missed most of the gritty side of the streets. We just came in on the el train, got off at our stop, traveled down the metal stairs -- which always stank of urine and sometimes even worse, walked the half bloke to the game store and settled in for the night in the back room, where there were comfortable chairs, barroom snacks like potato chips and beef jerky and all the pop we wanted and even blankets and a couple couches for crashers.
The day Johnathon went to jail, we were on our way home, making the short walk from Uncle Paul's game store, trying to catch the blue line to ride the loud, sparking rails back home. Around 4:00 am on a Saturday night and the bars were all letting out; people were walking here and there toward their cars or their houses. The gang bangers, mexican kids, came walking down the sidewalk toward us and Jimmy was talking on about something and didn't notice that they were taking up the whole sidewalk and slammed right into them. The rest of us had to kind of step off the sidewalk when we saw these guys because they were all wearing red bandana's and had the air of being dangerously shit-faced, talking loud in mexican about something or another that had pissed them off.
Jimmy just kind of muttered, "Excuse me," and kept walking and talking about a painting that he was working on, like he had been for the last twenty minutes non-stop with the ferverish energy that earned him his nickname -- Cassidy, as in Neal, the Kerouc muse who used speed to chatter on all night long in On The Road.
The banger who grabbed Jimmy was about 5 nine and barrel chested, muscular dude, had tattoos all up his arm, the amatuer india ink ones that you see on a lot of ex-cons. The only one I remember was 'mom.'
There was no fight in Jimmy. He kind of blocked the punch and ran toward the el', yelling at the rest of us, "Come on." At the first sign of violence, I dug my heels in and prepared to defend myself. I had boxed for a few years and worked out with weights and was young enough to look at fighting as fun. Up to then, I had won the few fights I was in without getting hurt.
Johnathon first started running with the others, then came back when he saw
all three of them attacking me. Two were trying to get my arms while the other one was throwing punches. Johnathon ran up and just slammed his body into them as hard as he could, knocking them off me.
I had room to throw a punch then and slammed a round house into the side of the head of a guy a head shorter than me, putting him down. Then a gun came out and the air changed and everything was moving slow and deliberate and was drenched in meaning.
Johnathon surprised the guy by just turning to him and grabbing the arm with the gun. ThE drunken banger fell back and dropped the gun.
Johnathon let go of him and caught the black metal .38 before it could hit the ground.
The two who were still standing jumped on Johnathon, knocking him down onto the sidewalk. As they started trying to kick him, he laid there on his back aiming up at them. He actually took a couple kicks before he fired again. This time one of the mexican's necks exploded with blood. The artery was torn through, pumping out red in great squirts as he stumbled back into a car dumbstruck. The next bullet hit the othr kid in the heart, instantly killing Juan Arthur Fuentes, age seventeen.
Johnathon was gone for twelve years after that. We all kind of cruised through those years, going into our twenties pumped full of ourselves and then slowly deflating through our thirties, until we were all long haired and bearded, kind of 'don't give a shit to be normal,' kind of guys. We propped up our mental madnesses with claims of artistic integrity and what not.
The first manifesto that we posted on our web site, the psycho killers hit list, said it fine: "Living poor for the art is better than living rich without."
Johnathon spent 16 years in Marion State Penitentiary. From his letters, we all were kind of reassured that he was making the most of his time, painting and reading and going to classes, getting easy access to weed and making his own booze. Seeing him made the letters seem all bullshit. Under his chin a read and angry looking scar encircles six inches of his neck.
He has just walked into the gallery. We are all stunned to see him. He has been out of jail for less than six hours. When he sees us all kind of swallow our happiness over seeing him and note the scar on his neck, he points at it and smiles like it's funny.... "Shit, this . . . Hey, why would I give you guys worries about shit that you can't do anything about, right?"
He has never met Matt, the kid who lived with us. Matt walked over, shook his hand and introduced himself. Then he asks, with the candor of youth and much to the embarrassment of the rest of us, "Did you kill the guy who did this?"
"I never would have gotten out of jail if I told on that dude, to be honest. Shit happens in jail, but I ain't there anymore, and I don't ever have to think about the place again if I don't want to."
"I saw this shit on TV, but..."
"He was in a gang."
Jimmy steps up to the doorway where Johnathon stands holding a couple suitcases and a smoking Marlboro, and tells the kid, "Don't ask him about shit from prison, Matt, that isn't polite."
"Okay."
We all rush him then, throwing our arms around him, giving him a bowl and asking if he needs a coke, talking all at once for a moment before we all shut up to let someone else speak and no one does for a few seconds.
"I'm glad to be back here. I can still smell uncle Paulie, though."
"Paulie junior inherited the smell with the game store," I tell them.
Two scars on his face, one about an inch under his chin and running six inches around his neck.
, the other on his right cheek, just as long and ugly looking.
12 years later, when Johnathon came home from Marion Penetentiary, Uncle Paulie had died and Paulie jr. had inhereited the corner property, complete with two apartments up stairs and a thriving weed business. We were all living together when Uncle Paulie died, a bunch of broke weedy bachelor artists in their thirties, who by watching out for each other, had ended up taking in one another in over the years...
We changed the failing game store into our art gallery, and like that became kings of a lonely mountain crammed into a slightly run down apartment in wicker park chicago
this is my file where I am putting the new prose for the book. Unfortunatly, after doing other writing for a few months, I am now approaching the project from a new perspective... the story has chaned significantly. The theme is the same, how people get swept up into the 'myths' of their local charasmatics, and sometimes follow mistaken leaders. Nothing too earth shambling.
Okay, here is the new and improved synopsis.
Four guys who hang out and smoke weed and play d and d in high school, get attacked one night in the city. One of them acts to save the others, and ends up killing two young gang bangers. He goes to jail.
The book starts sixteen years later, when Johnathon is getting out of prison.
During the time he has been gone, his friends, living kind of a perpetual youth based on the poetic license of being artists, have been just painting and writing and joking around, never having children or staying with a job or a profession that deviates from artistic, weedy whims.
Johnathon comes out of prison with a grudge against a gang. He does not voice this for awhile, until he thinks that the others will help him get revenge. What the gang does to him is never to be written. I hate that kind of prose and would rather leave the gory details up to whatever imaginary powers the reader wishes to employ on their own.
He does, however, have a six inch scar on his neck, which he explains at first as nothing personal, just part of being in prison... an event he has put in his past; though later, events seem to feed his feeling that he should exact revenge not for himself, but for others who are being abused. Specifically, dogs.
Dog fighting gang bangers get shot up, by a bunch of guys who are trying to forge a moral identity in a decidedly immoral world. ...
scenes:
johnathon comes home
.
Dog is seen being exchanged by a gang banger.
Matt tells this to johnathon, who surmises that Matt has witnessed an exchange among dog fighters.
THE PSYCHO KILLER'S HIT LIST
Johnathon was the leader of our little crew of art major weed heads. I think because he was taller and a bit more pushy than the rest of us? Or perhaps it was his ability to be infectious with his excitement? He always had some fire burning in his chest over something, was on this or that end of some deep moodswing...
In high school we used to come into the city and go to our buddy Paul's Uncle, who ran a sleazy bar and the game store -- and more importantly to us, he sold weed and allowed us to smoke there.
Wicker Park was a fairly rough neighborhood back then -- at least there were a lot of druggies and muggers and gang bangers. We were suburban kids and missed most of the gritty side of the streets. We just came in on the el train, got off at our stop, traveled down the metal stairs -- which always stank of urine and sometimes even worse, walked the half bloke to the game store and settled in for the night in the back room, where there were comfortable chairs, barroom snacks like potato chips and beef jerky and all the pop we wanted and even blankets and a couple couches for crashers.
The day Johnathon went to jail, we were on our way home, making the short walk from Uncle Paul's game store, trying to catch the blue line to ride the loud, sparking rails back home. Around 4:00 am on a Saturday night and the bars were all letting out; people were walking here and there toward their cars or their houses. The gang bangers, mexican kids, came walking down the sidewalk toward us and Jimmy was talking on about something and didn't notice that they were taking up the whole sidewalk and slammed right into them. The rest of us had to kind of step off the sidewalk when we saw these guys because they were all wearing red bandana's and had the air of being dangerously shit-faced, talking loud in mexican about something or another that had pissed them off.
Jimmy just kind of muttered, "Excuse me," and kept walking and talking about a painting that he was working on, like he had been for the last twenty minutes non-stop with the ferverish energy that earned him his nickname -- Cassidy, as in Neal, the Kerouc muse who used speed to chatter on all night long in On The Road.
The banger who grabbed Jimmy was about 5 nine and barrel chested, muscular dude, had tattoos all up his arm, the amatuer india ink ones that you see on a lot of ex-cons. The only one I remember was 'mom.'
There was no fight in Jimmy. He kind of blocked the punch and ran toward the el', yelling at the rest of us, "Come on." At the first sign of violence, I dug my heels in and prepared to defend myself. I had boxed for a few years and worked out with weights and was young enough to look at fighting as fun. Up to then, I had won the few fights I was in without getting hurt.
Johnathon first started running with the others, then came back when he saw
all three of them attacking me. Two were trying to get my arms while the other one was throwing punches. Johnathon ran up and just slammed his body into them as hard as he could, knocking them off me.
I had room to throw a punch then and slammed a round house into the side of the head of a guy a head shorter than me, putting him down. Then a gun came out and the air changed and everything was moving slow and deliberate and was drenched in meaning.
Johnathon surprised the guy by just turning to him and grabbing the arm with the gun. ThE drunken banger fell back and dropped the gun.
Johnathon let go of him and caught the black metal .38 before it could hit the ground.
The two who were still standing jumped on Johnathon, knocking him down onto the sidewalk. As they started trying to kick him, he laid there on his back aiming up at them. He actually took a couple kicks before he fired again. This time one of the mexican's necks exploded with blood. The artery was torn through, pumping out red in great squirts as he stumbled back into a car dumbstruck. The next bullet hit the othr kid in the heart, instantly killing Juan Arthur Fuentes, age seventeen.
Johnathon was gone for twelve years after that. We all kind of cruised through those years, going into our twenties pumped full of ourselves and then slowly deflating through our thirties, until we were all long haired and bearded, kind of 'don't give a shit to be normal,' kind of guys. We propped up our mental madnesses with claims of artistic integrity and what not.
The first manifesto that we posted on our web site, the psycho killers hit list, said it fine: "Living poor for the art is better than living rich without."
Johnathon spent 16 years in Marion State Penitentiary. From his letters, we all were kind of reassured that he was making the most of his time, painting and reading and going to classes, getting easy access to weed and making his own booze. Seeing him made the letters seem all bullshit. Under his chin a read and angry looking scar encircles six inches of his neck.
He has just walked into the gallery. We are all stunned to see him. He has been out of jail for less than six hours. When he sees us all kind of swallow our happiness over seeing him and note the scar on his neck, he points at it and smiles like it's funny.... "Shit, this . . . Hey, why would I give you guys worries about shit that you can't do anything about, right?"
He has never met Matt, the kid who lived with us. Matt walked over, shook his hand and introduced himself. Then he asks, with the candor of youth and much to the embarrassment of the rest of us, "Did you kill the guy who did this?"
"I never would have gotten out of jail if I told on that dude, to be honest. Shit happens in jail, but I ain't there anymore, and I don't ever have to think about the place again if I don't want to."
"I saw this shit on TV, but..."
"He was in a gang."
Jimmy steps up to the doorway where Johnathon stands holding a couple suitcases and a smoking Marlboro, and tells the kid, "Don't ask him about shit from prison, Matt, that isn't polite."
"Okay."
We all rush him then, throwing our arms around him, giving him a bowl and asking if he needs a coke, talking all at once for a moment before we all shut up to let someone else speak and no one does for a few seconds.
"I'm glad to be back here. I can still smell uncle Paulie, though."
"Paulie junior inherited the smell with the game store," I tell them.
Two scars on his face, one about an inch under his chin and running six inches around his neck.
, the other on his right cheek, just as long and ugly looking.
12 years later, when Johnathon came home from Marion Penetentiary, Uncle Paulie had died and Paulie jr. had inhereited the corner property, complete with two apartments up stairs and a thriving weed business. We were all living together when Uncle Paulie died, a bunch of broke weedy bachelor artists in their thirties, who by watching out for each other, had ended up taking in one another in over the years...
We changed the failing game store into our art gallery, and like that became kings of a lonely mountain crammed into a slightly run down apartment in wicker park chicago
Friday, February 18, 2005
2-18-02... here is tonights show...
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Thursday, February 17, 2005
First draft prose for the psycho killers hit list.. the novel.
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the future is mine
 |
 Mike Derer/Associated Press A weaponized robot, known as SWORDS, will be the first armed robotic vehicle to see combat. |
The new york times has a great article about how combat robot research is getting the largest amount of bucks in the military budget. This has lead me to think of... robot hamsters!!!
I don't know why I didn't think of this before. I can even make large hamsters, like ten foot ones... this here world better start trembling now, because I WILL TAKE OVER!!!
here's the facts, jack...
quote: "The Pentagon predicts that robots will be a major fighting force in the American military in less than a decade, hunting and killing enemies in combat. Robots are a crucial part of the Army's effort to rebuild itself as a 21st-century fighting force, and a $127 billion project called Future Combat Systems is the biggest military contract in American history.
The military plans to invest tens of billions of dollars in automated armed forces. The costs of that transformation will help drive the Defense Department's budget up almost 20 percent, from a requested $419.3 billion for next year to $502.3 billion in 2010, excluding the costs of war. The annual costs of buying new weapons is scheduled to rise 52 percent, from $78 billion to $118.6 billion."
'http://www.nytimes.com
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
M doesn't think I should use guns in my act.
I was thinking that I should shoot off some shells form a double barreled shotgun, to emphasis certain important points that I think you sill people really NEED TO UNDERSTAND!!! BOOM!!! BOOOM !!! CHAW!!!
I will shoot off both fucking barrels into lamps, blow the shit out of a table... I suppose it will have to be an empty table. Who the hell came up with this idea that killing should be illegal anyways? I would like to shoot that fuck first. Damn them, damn them I say for making killing illegal!!!
M. even criticised this change in my act for, quote, "Bullet holes. did you even think that someone might not want you to shoot up their cafe?"
Well, yes, there would be bullet holes in the walls of the Big Star. Now that is what I call CHARACTER, man. I mean, bullet holes in the walls? I'd even be willing to paint some fake blood around the holes -- which the kids would love, dammit!!! Who wouldn't want to have coffee in such a cool atmosphere!! I mean, whiles this just came to me,... it is, uh, truee.. the whole shotgun things is an anti-war statement with shades of nation building... I can't expect people to get this, because most are too stupid or just plain old more interested in what is going on in their head than the other people in the room-- like me.
M. also pointed out that she thinks Cheryl, the much loved owner of the Big Star, would, quote, "Have your ass goddaqmn well arrested, and with good reason, mind you."
I tried to tell her that it's not like I would be shooting an animal or anything serious, for dog's sake.
I mean, we have an overpopulation promblem, but try to tell M. that this is reason enough to randomly kill and you will get only objections fromt hat little fantasy world in her head.
She will probably not buy me a gun for the show on Friday. I'll keep trying to convince her mind you, but... Well, as we all know, M. has a well documented tendency to be stubborn and I've already wasted three days trying to get her to see my side. Thank Dog I have all these other plans to arm myself (no less than three spiral bpades of scribbled notes... but to be hones, I was so stoned when I wrote them that mostly I described the fantasy world of this fly that was buzzing around the room -- I named him buster).
I'm pretty sure that the only way I can get my hands on a double barreled shotgun will be to convince the cats to finally tell me where they keep their arsenal. I know they are armed for bear and ready for some serious shit. They have to be, because they have a horrible, trembling fear of the Great Mouse, who they believe will one day come up from hell and hassle them about sleeping less and getting more done. Unfortunatly,, so far, all of my questions have been greeted with their usual insolent silence.
M. now says this oh so fucking stifling NO TORTURE policy of hers is permanent, so I am trying another tact, winning over the kitty bums by giving them all kinds of treats. Even the chickent that we were supposed to have for dinner... unfortunatly, even that was not enough for those greedy bastards... I hit them with question after question when they were done gorging but all they did was just return to their ceaseless napping. They napped through today's lecture, too...
Have a day where your mom comes over to being a scrumptious, warm cherry pie that is think and juicy with a flaky, sugary crust... and then just as you raise the first bite to your lips, two guiys burst through the door with bats and guns, screaming at you, calling you a nigger or white trash. You can see in their eyes how much they hate the color of your skin. These religiously crazed murderers drag your momma out, laughingly cut off her tits and play catch with them, before slicing open her throught. They then rape you to death. This kind of thing and worse is going on in the sudan right now.
You know, on second thought, about that torture thing, have a day in which you are mentally tortured by a voice shouting, "Kill yourself and others!!" Over and over until after three weeks without sleep, you crash so hard that you forget to feed your pets, and they process to eat you. You wake up in the middle of this too weak to move and witness your cats fighting over your liver.
I will shoot off both fucking barrels into lamps, blow the shit out of a table... I suppose it will have to be an empty table. Who the hell came up with this idea that killing should be illegal anyways? I would like to shoot that fuck first. Damn them, damn them I say for making killing illegal!!!
M. even criticised this change in my act for, quote, "Bullet holes. did you even think that someone might not want you to shoot up their cafe?"
Well, yes, there would be bullet holes in the walls of the Big Star. Now that is what I call CHARACTER, man. I mean, bullet holes in the walls? I'd even be willing to paint some fake blood around the holes -- which the kids would love, dammit!!! Who wouldn't want to have coffee in such a cool atmosphere!! I mean, whiles this just came to me,... it is, uh, truee.. the whole shotgun things is an anti-war statement with shades of nation building... I can't expect people to get this, because most are too stupid or just plain old more interested in what is going on in their head than the other people in the room-- like me.
M. also pointed out that she thinks Cheryl, the much loved owner of the Big Star, would, quote, "Have your ass goddaqmn well arrested, and with good reason, mind you."
I tried to tell her that it's not like I would be shooting an animal or anything serious, for dog's sake.
I mean, we have an overpopulation promblem, but try to tell M. that this is reason enough to randomly kill and you will get only objections fromt hat little fantasy world in her head.
She will probably not buy me a gun for the show on Friday. I'll keep trying to convince her mind you, but... Well, as we all know, M. has a well documented tendency to be stubborn and I've already wasted three days trying to get her to see my side. Thank Dog I have all these other plans to arm myself (no less than three spiral bpades of scribbled notes... but to be hones, I was so stoned when I wrote them that mostly I described the fantasy world of this fly that was buzzing around the room -- I named him buster).
I'm pretty sure that the only way I can get my hands on a double barreled shotgun will be to convince the cats to finally tell me where they keep their arsenal. I know they are armed for bear and ready for some serious shit. They have to be, because they have a horrible, trembling fear of the Great Mouse, who they believe will one day come up from hell and hassle them about sleeping less and getting more done. Unfortunatly,, so far, all of my questions have been greeted with their usual insolent silence.
M. now says this oh so fucking stifling NO TORTURE policy of hers is permanent, so I am trying another tact, winning over the kitty bums by giving them all kinds of treats. Even the chickent that we were supposed to have for dinner... unfortunatly, even that was not enough for those greedy bastards... I hit them with question after question when they were done gorging but all they did was just return to their ceaseless napping. They napped through today's lecture, too...
Have a day where your mom comes over to being a scrumptious, warm cherry pie that is think and juicy with a flaky, sugary crust... and then just as you raise the first bite to your lips, two guiys burst through the door with bats and guns, screaming at you, calling you a nigger or white trash. You can see in their eyes how much they hate the color of your skin. These religiously crazed murderers drag your momma out, laughingly cut off her tits and play catch with them, before slicing open her throught. They then rape you to death. This kind of thing and worse is going on in the sudan right now.
You know, on second thought, about that torture thing, have a day in which you are mentally tortured by a voice shouting, "Kill yourself and others!!" Over and over until after three weeks without sleep, you crash so hard that you forget to feed your pets, and they process to eat you. You wake up in the middle of this too weak to move and witness your cats fighting over your liver.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
a conversation between the denizens of my mind.
ME: How are you doing?
i: Oh, you know... not so good.
me: How come?
I: Oh, you know... I see all this horror everyday, read the news and all. And the war, and bush and .... the list is endless.
me: Yea, well, the list of glorious things is just as endless, eh?
i: That damned half empty glass still looks half empty to me.
me: Well, no one can make you feel better.
I: Weed might, but I have none and won't be buying any anytime soon.
ME: You have to make the effort, take up your sword and do battle with the dark thoughts.
I: Yea, but the people who do that most effectively are called sociopaths, okay? I want to keep my heart open, my mind ever changing with new information. I need to look into the heart of the proverbial darkness. I mean, I'm a writer . . . and my goal is to be a damn good one, and that requires being aware of my world. Even the dark stuff.
ME: Sure, but that doesn't mean that you can just go with a depression. They are unproduictive, get you no where, and produce, god forbid, more of your stupid ass poems.
I: hey, I wrote a couple good poems.
ME: Out of maybe 20 thousand. And that was back In college. Why are you contesting this, you hate your poems more than I do.
I: That is all too true. The problem is, even the writing I like, is all on a blog, instead of in a book. A book would buy me a few of the little things I would like, and allow me to afford to get a new cat.
ME: You only have today. The right here. If you can come back to that, look around at the things you do have.... I would say be grateful to god for what you have, but that topic is undiscussible with people like you.
I: You never told me that you were religious?
ME: Oh, yea... I am a mystic and still in your mind, though obvioysly you don't call on me much.
I: I did this conversation thing a lot when I was going through Proggof Journaling at a nunnery.
ME: Did it help you feel better about yourself?
I: back then, I was sure that my writing would take me where I want to go, into some place of power or wealth where I can actually help out the world.
ME: lots of people tell you that your writing means something to them.
I: They like it because its for free.
ME: You have a wonderful dog, a worshipful cat, a lovely lover, an apartment on the lake, a big screen tv, internet access, lots of good, honorable friends, a lot of oil paintings, and paint and naked canvasas ready for your next bout of painting... Listing things like this does make you feel better, huh?
I : yea, it does. I once would have just tried to 'turn over' my problems to god, and try to forget them. I miss that almost as much as that feeling of being tied into the universe.
Me: I miss it more, but we both know that you have to avoid mental viruses that obscure the truth of life. If there is a god, it will think your way is moral and right, surely. You really do stick your neck out, jump into fights and stop them, and all sorts of stuff. You even wrote a funny entry today, the first in a month.
I: well, I hope that if anyone reads this, they can take this technique and bear their pain a little easier.
i: Oh, you know... not so good.
me: How come?
I: Oh, you know... I see all this horror everyday, read the news and all. And the war, and bush and .... the list is endless.
me: Yea, well, the list of glorious things is just as endless, eh?
i: That damned half empty glass still looks half empty to me.
me: Well, no one can make you feel better.
I: Weed might, but I have none and won't be buying any anytime soon.
ME: You have to make the effort, take up your sword and do battle with the dark thoughts.
I: Yea, but the people who do that most effectively are called sociopaths, okay? I want to keep my heart open, my mind ever changing with new information. I need to look into the heart of the proverbial darkness. I mean, I'm a writer . . . and my goal is to be a damn good one, and that requires being aware of my world. Even the dark stuff.
ME: Sure, but that doesn't mean that you can just go with a depression. They are unproduictive, get you no where, and produce, god forbid, more of your stupid ass poems.
I: hey, I wrote a couple good poems.
ME: Out of maybe 20 thousand. And that was back In college. Why are you contesting this, you hate your poems more than I do.
I: That is all too true. The problem is, even the writing I like, is all on a blog, instead of in a book. A book would buy me a few of the little things I would like, and allow me to afford to get a new cat.
ME: You only have today. The right here. If you can come back to that, look around at the things you do have.... I would say be grateful to god for what you have, but that topic is undiscussible with people like you.
I: You never told me that you were religious?
ME: Oh, yea... I am a mystic and still in your mind, though obvioysly you don't call on me much.
I: I did this conversation thing a lot when I was going through Proggof Journaling at a nunnery.
ME: Did it help you feel better about yourself?
I: back then, I was sure that my writing would take me where I want to go, into some place of power or wealth where I can actually help out the world.
ME: lots of people tell you that your writing means something to them.
I: They like it because its for free.
ME: You have a wonderful dog, a worshipful cat, a lovely lover, an apartment on the lake, a big screen tv, internet access, lots of good, honorable friends, a lot of oil paintings, and paint and naked canvasas ready for your next bout of painting... Listing things like this does make you feel better, huh?
I : yea, it does. I once would have just tried to 'turn over' my problems to god, and try to forget them. I miss that almost as much as that feeling of being tied into the universe.
Me: I miss it more, but we both know that you have to avoid mental viruses that obscure the truth of life. If there is a god, it will think your way is moral and right, surely. You really do stick your neck out, jump into fights and stop them, and all sorts of stuff. You even wrote a funny entry today, the first in a month.
I: well, I hope that if anyone reads this, they can take this technique and bear their pain a little easier.
this really did come up on my computer...
Hiv Aids
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Brand new and used. No bidding. Buy Hiv Aids at eBay! (aff)
www.eBay.com
me and jesus had one of those nasty break ups.
Jesus and me had a thing for awhile, and man did we ever have a messy, ugly break up. There was name calling -- me saying he was a fraud, him yelling at me that I would go to hell if we broke up. There was a lot passion there, though, and like all romantic fools, I kept taking him back again and again -- even after he broke all kinds of promises, was always contradicting himself, and, worse yet, he was always going out and starting wars and shit. He is one of those lovers who just wants your whole soul, you know? I mean, he told me it was a sin to even look at another deity. I mean, come on, who doesn't like to look? It's not like we were praying together or anything, but there was no telling that wrathful god much of anything.
I can take a lot from someone I love, but I knew it was over when I heard about how he went and started the crusades, and then led that witch hunt in europe and backed up colonialism.... well, you can imagine how this relationship would look to dr phil.
The weirdest thing about me and Jesus break up is how people are always tellling me to get back into a relationship with the guy.
He also changes his name a lot, too, which is suspicious? Sometimes he calls himself allah, sometimes buddha... the list is just about endless. I came across a bunch of fake id's one day and there were hundreds.
I have to admit, in the end, I used him. I only called him when I needed something. I mean, I gave him a lot of praise and built up his self esteem, but that wasn't enough. Did I mention he was carrying on affairs behind my back with a good portion of the world?
So please, if Jesus has sold you on the idea of 'taking you to heaven,' or something, listen to someone who knows -- that dude is a full of shit fraud.
I can take a lot from someone I love, but I knew it was over when I heard about how he went and started the crusades, and then led that witch hunt in europe and backed up colonialism.... well, you can imagine how this relationship would look to dr phil.
The weirdest thing about me and Jesus break up is how people are always tellling me to get back into a relationship with the guy.
He also changes his name a lot, too, which is suspicious? Sometimes he calls himself allah, sometimes buddha... the list is just about endless. I came across a bunch of fake id's one day and there were hundreds.
I have to admit, in the end, I used him. I only called him when I needed something. I mean, I gave him a lot of praise and built up his self esteem, but that wasn't enough. Did I mention he was carrying on affairs behind my back with a good portion of the world?
So please, if Jesus has sold you on the idea of 'taking you to heaven,' or something, listen to someone who knows -- that dude is a full of shit fraud.
Monday, February 14, 2005
FUCKING VALENTINES DAY!!! UURRGGGHHH!!!
This hallmark holiday has been a source of irritation for me since grade school, when we had to hand out those stupid valentines to everyone in class -- boys and girls, mind you, which should bother the christian right almost as much as Sponge Bob, but I guess they haven't gotten to this one yet... you can bet they will. In fact, though I have little to do with them in my real life beyond having a little sport and a couple dear, dear deluded friends, I am going to write them about this, and I urge you to do the same (not that there is anything wrong with being bi-sexual, the thing is that they don't know this and thus can be used for my evil, snide little purposes).
Maybe the W, who is known to lick any old christian asshole, will pass a law making the whole thing illegal? I mean, it starts with a naked little boy shooting arrows, then moves into the whole bisexual card giving in grade school and I can't imagine why those christ-o's wouldn't be pissed... unless, of course, they are making money off candy and cards? That's probably it. Damn valentines day!!!
Maybe the W, who is known to lick any old christian asshole, will pass a law making the whole thing illegal? I mean, it starts with a naked little boy shooting arrows, then moves into the whole bisexual card giving in grade school and I can't imagine why those christ-o's wouldn't be pissed... unless, of course, they are making money off candy and cards? That's probably it. Damn valentines day!!!
Saturday, February 12, 2005
I BOUGHT NINETY HAMSTERS
You would think this would be a good thing.... but like so much of my life, things have gone horribly, horribly wrong.
This sad tale began when M. had to go to Indiana for a week to spend time with what I can't help imagining is an ailing, snively, elephant with an elaborately moussed display of gray hair between her ears. . . . and indeed she is visitng what has to be the closest human equivalent, M.'s porked out, whiny mother. Now, normally she keeps all the cash from me, because . . . well, just never you mind why... well, might as well be honest now... okay, truth be told, she keeps the cash away from exactly because of episodes like this.Regardless . . . this time, she left me the rent.
810 dollars cash in the hand. Green and hot. Now, M., she will just spend money without even thinking about investing, but me? I'm all about the occasional investment opportunity (someday I will make money off one of them, too, M.). So I started thinking immediately about ways to take the rent and make more money out of it, then spend that money and still have money for the rent... I figured the best bet way was to have a marauding army that I can send out on a crusade to gather gold and cash with their usual ruthless, blood splattered methods...
Then it came to me, the most logical thing that one can do with 815.00 bucks -- so I went out and bought ninety hamsters, a veritable living field from which I can grow a profitable and yet cuddly army (though knowing M., with her known tendency to second guess me, will probably find some tiny, meaningless reason to nit-pick this decision, too . . . I expect she will keep up the bitching right up until she is made queen). The guy at the pet store said that these horny little, fuzzy faced killers would wham bam at such a prodigious pace that within a month my troop strength would be up to over a thousand... and from that thousand, the tens, and then hundreds of thousands I need just to take over this neighborhood.
First thing I did when I got home was go to the bedroom and remove everything, put up a Bruce Lee poster and a series of little sayings that I think will help them be better soldiers, stuff like -- HUMANS LOVE CATS, and KILL ALL OF THE HUMANS OR THEY WILL LET CATS EAT YOU, DESERTERS WILL BE EATEN BY A CATS, etc.. Painted the walls dark green, and wrote KILL, KILL, KILL all over the place--ceiling, walls, floor... I set up these little cots that I made out of toothpicks and some green jean jacket of M.'s that she almost never wears. I even cut up some junior mints and put them on each of their pillows... since I myself always find 'welcome mints' the perfect touch for a guest room.. That bedroom really shaped up into a nice barracks, if I do say so myself. And I'm sure that M. will adjust to sleeping in the dining room, as long as I can convince her that this is temporary, and that within a couple years she will have the entire wing of a palace? I can only hope her intellect is up to the task of taking in my sweeping, Napoleonic vision...
Once the troops were bedded down for the night, I got to thinking about how I had said too much to that geeky dude at the pet store who smelled, ever so vaguely, of dog feces. . . This underpaid tool of the puppy mills more than likely called some terrorist hotline and reported a dark shadow is about to fall on america... So, I kind of got all paranoid, you know, with the weed and all, and then just. . Well, I got completely carried away; there is no real way to deny that... I mean, you can barely move through the apartment because of all the barbed wire -- I kept open only little passages for cooking and bathing purposes... not to mention all the booby traps on all the doors and windows. I may even be responsible for the squirrels that have been exploding all morning out on the balcony... Regardless, the next day I turned my often adequate mind to the task of breeding killers. I started by moving a cd player into the barracks and putting on a tape I made of Foghat playing Slow Ride over and over, then I lit some spicy, scented candles -- for both their wonderful, fresh scent and that warm, comforting glow. When I checked back a few minutes later, only three of the hamsters were humping. They get off fast, their little furry pelvises a blur for less than a minute... Then they were going right to the next lass, and the next... with only occasional breaks for laying about gasping for air and twitching. I figured the rest of them were still adjusting to the hell of war, and that in a few hours they would get their mojo back.The next day I went in to bring them breakfast and found those three same hamsters were still going away at it. They were skinnier, and humping significantly slower, but none were showing any signs of quitting their marathon boffing.
The next day I went in to bring them breakfast and found those three same hamsters were still going away at it. They were skinnier, and humping significantly slower, but none were showing any signs of quitting their marathon boffing. This went on all day, and all night...
On their third day, during a nine-hour indoctrination lecture, the three were still mounting one after another of the females. . . They were moving very, very slowly by then and wobbling from side to side as they walked... their ribs showing. They looked like they were not long for this world, which they weren't... one after another, first one during my lecture and then the other two in the night that followed, fell off their host hamsters and gasped and twitched again, but instead of kind of catching their breath and recovering enough to slowly crawl over to the next female, they keeled over dead and grew stiff one last time...
After the three fuckers were gone, the hamsters ceased having any kind of sex. The other hamster armies had always been so sexed up that when I put my hand in their cage to feed them one of them was always hopping on and trying to get off a hump.... Two days passed like this... then the mystery of why they were all suddenly acting like up tight, fundamentalist wombats was solved.... when I came walking in after taking Ruby down to the beach to find that they had taken down my 'kill-kill-kill slogans' and put up instead a poster of K. D. Lang. They were singing along with a Melissa Etheridge tape, one of those late, stupid ones... which they turned off a few minutes later, just long enough to watch Ellen.
I stood there looking at them and then it hit me...I had bought three males, and eighty seven females, and the shock of going without sex, and having no foreseeable sex in the future, had turned all the females into lap happy lesbos . . . that was kind of disturbing, because my breeding plans were just fucked by that shit... I thought it couldn't get much worse, but I'm no fortuneteller, that's for damn sure.
Next, they read me a list of demands, in these high pitched, superior sounding voices, that said they were becoming Lesbian Separatists and as such were banning me, and all males and cats of any sex, from the barracks.
Then, believe it or not, it got even worse....How could this get worse, you wonder? Well, they decided that as part of their discussion with what they called a 'mystical mother' during their 'Wicca sessions' that they had become . . . PACIFISTS!!!! . . And further, they were leaving the army to, 'find the spirit of the great mother within.' They claimed that they could never be forced to fight, but you can bet that they changed their fuzzy little minds when I got so pissed that I let Ruby-dog and the kitty bums into the barracks for an all day hamster feast.
This sad tale began when M. had to go to Indiana for a week to spend time with what I can't help imagining is an ailing, snively, elephant with an elaborately moussed display of gray hair between her ears. . . . and indeed she is visitng what has to be the closest human equivalent, M.'s porked out, whiny mother. Now, normally she keeps all the cash from me, because . . . well, just never you mind why... well, might as well be honest now... okay, truth be told, she keeps the cash away from exactly because of episodes like this.Regardless . . . this time, she left me the rent.
810 dollars cash in the hand. Green and hot. Now, M., she will just spend money without even thinking about investing, but me? I'm all about the occasional investment opportunity (someday I will make money off one of them, too, M.). So I started thinking immediately about ways to take the rent and make more money out of it, then spend that money and still have money for the rent... I figured the best bet way was to have a marauding army that I can send out on a crusade to gather gold and cash with their usual ruthless, blood splattered methods...
Then it came to me, the most logical thing that one can do with 815.00 bucks -- so I went out and bought ninety hamsters, a veritable living field from which I can grow a profitable and yet cuddly army (though knowing M., with her known tendency to second guess me, will probably find some tiny, meaningless reason to nit-pick this decision, too . . . I expect she will keep up the bitching right up until she is made queen). The guy at the pet store said that these horny little, fuzzy faced killers would wham bam at such a prodigious pace that within a month my troop strength would be up to over a thousand... and from that thousand, the tens, and then hundreds of thousands I need just to take over this neighborhood.
First thing I did when I got home was go to the bedroom and remove everything, put up a Bruce Lee poster and a series of little sayings that I think will help them be better soldiers, stuff like -- HUMANS LOVE CATS, and KILL ALL OF THE HUMANS OR THEY WILL LET CATS EAT YOU, DESERTERS WILL BE EATEN BY A CATS, etc.. Painted the walls dark green, and wrote KILL, KILL, KILL all over the place--ceiling, walls, floor... I set up these little cots that I made out of toothpicks and some green jean jacket of M.'s that she almost never wears. I even cut up some junior mints and put them on each of their pillows... since I myself always find 'welcome mints' the perfect touch for a guest room.. That bedroom really shaped up into a nice barracks, if I do say so myself. And I'm sure that M. will adjust to sleeping in the dining room, as long as I can convince her that this is temporary, and that within a couple years she will have the entire wing of a palace? I can only hope her intellect is up to the task of taking in my sweeping, Napoleonic vision...
Once the troops were bedded down for the night, I got to thinking about how I had said too much to that geeky dude at the pet store who smelled, ever so vaguely, of dog feces. . . This underpaid tool of the puppy mills more than likely called some terrorist hotline and reported a dark shadow is about to fall on america... So, I kind of got all paranoid, you know, with the weed and all, and then just. . Well, I got completely carried away; there is no real way to deny that... I mean, you can barely move through the apartment because of all the barbed wire -- I kept open only little passages for cooking and bathing purposes... not to mention all the booby traps on all the doors and windows. I may even be responsible for the squirrels that have been exploding all morning out on the balcony... Regardless, the next day I turned my often adequate mind to the task of breeding killers. I started by moving a cd player into the barracks and putting on a tape I made of Foghat playing Slow Ride over and over, then I lit some spicy, scented candles -- for both their wonderful, fresh scent and that warm, comforting glow. When I checked back a few minutes later, only three of the hamsters were humping. They get off fast, their little furry pelvises a blur for less than a minute... Then they were going right to the next lass, and the next... with only occasional breaks for laying about gasping for air and twitching. I figured the rest of them were still adjusting to the hell of war, and that in a few hours they would get their mojo back.The next day I went in to bring them breakfast and found those three same hamsters were still going away at it. They were skinnier, and humping significantly slower, but none were showing any signs of quitting their marathon boffing.
The next day I went in to bring them breakfast and found those three same hamsters were still going away at it. They were skinnier, and humping significantly slower, but none were showing any signs of quitting their marathon boffing. This went on all day, and all night...
On their third day, during a nine-hour indoctrination lecture, the three were still mounting one after another of the females. . . They were moving very, very slowly by then and wobbling from side to side as they walked... their ribs showing. They looked like they were not long for this world, which they weren't... one after another, first one during my lecture and then the other two in the night that followed, fell off their host hamsters and gasped and twitched again, but instead of kind of catching their breath and recovering enough to slowly crawl over to the next female, they keeled over dead and grew stiff one last time...
After the three fuckers were gone, the hamsters ceased having any kind of sex. The other hamster armies had always been so sexed up that when I put my hand in their cage to feed them one of them was always hopping on and trying to get off a hump.... Two days passed like this... then the mystery of why they were all suddenly acting like up tight, fundamentalist wombats was solved.... when I came walking in after taking Ruby down to the beach to find that they had taken down my 'kill-kill-kill slogans' and put up instead a poster of K. D. Lang. They were singing along with a Melissa Etheridge tape, one of those late, stupid ones... which they turned off a few minutes later, just long enough to watch Ellen.
I stood there looking at them and then it hit me...I had bought three males, and eighty seven females, and the shock of going without sex, and having no foreseeable sex in the future, had turned all the females into lap happy lesbos . . . that was kind of disturbing, because my breeding plans were just fucked by that shit... I thought it couldn't get much worse, but I'm no fortuneteller, that's for damn sure.
Next, they read me a list of demands, in these high pitched, superior sounding voices, that said they were becoming Lesbian Separatists and as such were banning me, and all males and cats of any sex, from the barracks.
Then, believe it or not, it got even worse....How could this get worse, you wonder? Well, they decided that as part of their discussion with what they called a 'mystical mother' during their 'Wicca sessions' that they had become . . . PACIFISTS!!!! . . And further, they were leaving the army to, 'find the spirit of the great mother within.' They claimed that they could never be forced to fight, but you can bet that they changed their fuzzy little minds when I got so pissed that I let Ruby-dog and the kitty bums into the barracks for an all day hamster feast.
THE PUMPKIN PIMP
This tale occured three days before halloweed, though I could only write about the events once the court proceedings were over. Even now, I am under orders not to 'promote man vegetable love.' Like I would, jeez... All because I happened to stop at a road side farmer's market, and like I told the judge, had the misfortune of accidently running into a vegetable pimp.
He was there in court and I pointed at him as I told the judge, "He was keeping those vegetables on the street all day, and all night, forcing them to keep servicing clients by the usual brutal, horrifying methods of pimpery... "
That damned judge just told me to shut up and my attorney started looking all embarrassed for what seemed like the hundredth time (I assumed this constant uncomfortablness on my attorney's part was caused by some psychological damage that had been done to him by a sarcastic clergyman at an all male secondary school in England, and when I indeed asked him as much to prove my speculation, he answered, "You do think that, don't you?" Which I could only take as an affirmation, of course).
I only stopped at the stand to buy a pumpkin for halloweed related stuff. It was nothing like that veg. pimp said when he testified. The creaky old bastard had the nerve to wear the usual outfit of a vegetable pimp into court-- overalls and a truckers cap, but when I pointed this out to the judge, he had me gagged.
I'll never forget that old fart telling the shocked courtroom, "Now, he came up looking sorta normal... but then he kept rubbing all the squash and moaning. Hell, I thought he was sick to the stomach... Me and Ma didn't even know freaks like this existed. She is still in shock,you know? Can't even get her to cook any vegetable at this point. No, not a one."
Now, none of this happened ... No, I remember this quite different. I went up to the stand and this 'player' was all like, "We got some real hotties here. These bitches been out in the sun all day, geting hot and ready for you."
When he said this, I didn't even know what he was talking about. He could see I was confused, so he started suggestively rubbing the nubile yet rough and ready exterior of a dwarf pumpkin. When I realized what he meant, I was a little insulted that he assumed that I only needed a dwarf pumpkin.... This is also when his wife happened be coming up from the house while on the phone with her daughter, the local mayor, and they both heard me say, "Now, a dwarf pumpkin would barely hold the head of my monstrously large genitilia."
I mean, I never would have said this, let alone loud enough that those neighbors down the way would hear, if I was a vegetable rapist. No, I would keep everthing hushy-hush. On the other hand, when your penis has been declared tiny by someone who has no chance of ever being able to see if you are lying or not, one has to declare their manhood massive, if not outright freakishly large. Everybody knows this... except that damm judge and the jury and of course my lawyer.
I had to lie about everything to M.... I told her that I was going to court for punching out this senior citizen because his walker was taking up too much of the sidewalk, again... She didn't like this one bit, but it was believable, because there have been incidences... and this is a hell of a lot better than trying to explain to her why my pet name for her is Squashy.
Thank dog M. had to work on the court date. I came home from court and told her I had been found innocent, because I payed off a nurses aide to give the complaning party enough kaopectate that he wouldn't be leavingthe toilet this week. I knew if I said something criminal, she would respond with her usual wariness about being charged as an accesory and tell me not to tell her.... and yes, it worked.
The real trick will be convincing her that my campaign to stop the greenhouse effect from being the latest sin of the 'wealthy don't give a fucks' (a campaign I will keep up, until it involves more than spouting a few words) is now evolving into a plan of action, with me going out and picking up garbage along county roads. I added that I should wear a bright color, maybe even orange, and that if I could get enough people to go with me, we might even qualify for a police escort?. SHe seemed to buy all this... we'll see.
Knowing M., she'll do something sneaky like read the paper tommorrow and see that damn mug shot of me -- where I have one eye closed, one half open, toungue half out, long hair inexplicably standing straight up on the sides and top.... they even have some kind of special camera that was able to show my six hours worth of stubble!!! The cop who took the mug show was like a reverse artist -- he had to take like eight pictures before he had one ugly enough to be a mug shot. And of course under tha vile photo will read... GUILTY... CHARGED WITH... VEGETABLE MOLESTATION... TEN HOURS OF COMMUNITY SERVICE IN A VEGETABLE FREE ENVIRONMENT....
They'll probably quote the judge making his asssanine remark after the trial, "Hell, if I could, I would keep this freak out of every vegetable aisle in this country. I sure as hell hope he runs from a cop or something on his way home. You hear me sherriff? I said I sure as hell hope...."
What the judge didn't know about the sherriff was that he shook my hand once when no one was around and told me, almost in tears, about the love he had during his teen years, for a small summer squash named ethel, who he had to horrifyingly enough watch rot away....
He was there in court and I pointed at him as I told the judge, "He was keeping those vegetables on the street all day, and all night, forcing them to keep servicing clients by the usual brutal, horrifying methods of pimpery... "
That damned judge just told me to shut up and my attorney started looking all embarrassed for what seemed like the hundredth time (I assumed this constant uncomfortablness on my attorney's part was caused by some psychological damage that had been done to him by a sarcastic clergyman at an all male secondary school in England, and when I indeed asked him as much to prove my speculation, he answered, "You do think that, don't you?" Which I could only take as an affirmation, of course).
I only stopped at the stand to buy a pumpkin for halloweed related stuff. It was nothing like that veg. pimp said when he testified. The creaky old bastard had the nerve to wear the usual outfit of a vegetable pimp into court-- overalls and a truckers cap, but when I pointed this out to the judge, he had me gagged.
I'll never forget that old fart telling the shocked courtroom, "Now, he came up looking sorta normal... but then he kept rubbing all the squash and moaning. Hell, I thought he was sick to the stomach... Me and Ma didn't even know freaks like this existed. She is still in shock,you know? Can't even get her to cook any vegetable at this point. No, not a one."
Now, none of this happened ... No, I remember this quite different. I went up to the stand and this 'player' was all like, "We got some real hotties here. These bitches been out in the sun all day, geting hot and ready for you."
When he said this, I didn't even know what he was talking about. He could see I was confused, so he started suggestively rubbing the nubile yet rough and ready exterior of a dwarf pumpkin. When I realized what he meant, I was a little insulted that he assumed that I only needed a dwarf pumpkin.... This is also when his wife happened be coming up from the house while on the phone with her daughter, the local mayor, and they both heard me say, "Now, a dwarf pumpkin would barely hold the head of my monstrously large genitilia."
I mean, I never would have said this, let alone loud enough that those neighbors down the way would hear, if I was a vegetable rapist. No, I would keep everthing hushy-hush. On the other hand, when your penis has been declared tiny by someone who has no chance of ever being able to see if you are lying or not, one has to declare their manhood massive, if not outright freakishly large. Everybody knows this... except that damm judge and the jury and of course my lawyer.
I had to lie about everything to M.... I told her that I was going to court for punching out this senior citizen because his walker was taking up too much of the sidewalk, again... She didn't like this one bit, but it was believable, because there have been incidences... and this is a hell of a lot better than trying to explain to her why my pet name for her is Squashy.
Thank dog M. had to work on the court date. I came home from court and told her I had been found innocent, because I payed off a nurses aide to give the complaning party enough kaopectate that he wouldn't be leavingthe toilet this week. I knew if I said something criminal, she would respond with her usual wariness about being charged as an accesory and tell me not to tell her.... and yes, it worked.
The real trick will be convincing her that my campaign to stop the greenhouse effect from being the latest sin of the 'wealthy don't give a fucks' (a campaign I will keep up, until it involves more than spouting a few words) is now evolving into a plan of action, with me going out and picking up garbage along county roads. I added that I should wear a bright color, maybe even orange, and that if I could get enough people to go with me, we might even qualify for a police escort?. SHe seemed to buy all this... we'll see.
Knowing M., she'll do something sneaky like read the paper tommorrow and see that damn mug shot of me -- where I have one eye closed, one half open, toungue half out, long hair inexplicably standing straight up on the sides and top.... they even have some kind of special camera that was able to show my six hours worth of stubble!!! The cop who took the mug show was like a reverse artist -- he had to take like eight pictures before he had one ugly enough to be a mug shot. And of course under tha vile photo will read... GUILTY... CHARGED WITH... VEGETABLE MOLESTATION... TEN HOURS OF COMMUNITY SERVICE IN A VEGETABLE FREE ENVIRONMENT....
They'll probably quote the judge making his asssanine remark after the trial, "Hell, if I could, I would keep this freak out of every vegetable aisle in this country. I sure as hell hope he runs from a cop or something on his way home. You hear me sherriff? I said I sure as hell hope...."
What the judge didn't know about the sherriff was that he shook my hand once when no one was around and told me, almost in tears, about the love he had during his teen years, for a small summer squash named ethel, who he had to horrifyingly enough watch rot away....
HAMSTERS ARE TOO KILLERS!!!!
HAMSTERS ARE TOO KILLERS.
I am thinking of taking in students and becoming a home schooling teacher. I will do this not out of any concern for kids or anything, of course, it's all part of my plan to become supreme commander, which is written out in no less than twenty seven spiral notebooks of 350 sheets of lined paper apiece. Changes will be swift and deadly on that day.
You know me, I don't care who I kill, but some folks do deserve it more than others and my sense of justice demands that they be shot first. For example, Massa jackoffyourson. There are thousands of people who would show up to shoot him, if someone with balls would pass a law that you could kill child fucking freaks. This is exactly the kind of creative solution I will bring to bear on societies problems from the lofty seat of supreme commanderdom.
I already have an army. well, I have some presently unruly and slightly traitorous hamsters, but they are coming along. They.. Ummm...already eat on command. And they take after their supreme commander in many, many waysâ?¦ I am proud to say that they have picked up some of Johnny Pain's smooth moves too, because these little fuzz faced fucks are humping any damn thing thats close. I may have even taught them too well. I can't even stick my hand in the cage without one of them trying to violate me.
I was sure I knew what I was doing, too, but these damn hamsters wonâ??t follow most of my rules. I don't know where I went wrong? I started out by decimating them (killing every tenth soldier to instill discipline; an oldie but a goody, when it comes to military training). I only could afford seven of them, though, so I had to pretend like I was in the other room killing a hamsterâ?¦ let me tell you, buster, I am pretty sure that I could see the fear in their eyes when I came back into the roomâ?¦
I have yet to identify a special little Rambo to be one of my generals. You would think something as important as the number two spot in a scheme for world domination would be more interesting than pellets of grass, but no I read them all my notes and they just sit there and act like they are not even listening.
Still, you just better watch it, like I told M., because these babies got Murder written all over them.
When I told her this, she asked me if that was why I shaved them, to write on their skin? She doesn't understand anything about aerodynamics (that hair would have slowed them down, dammit, and I won't have it!). But that is a good idea about writing Murder all over the Hamsters might blow their cover, though? Hmmm... I can already tell there will be notes scribbled about this quandary... lots and lots of scribbled notes.
I am trying to face the possibility that the hamsters may only turn out to be good practice for my humans. I don't really need them. When I told M. about this she just laughed like I was joking and responded in her usual nay-sayer way, "Oh, big surprise, you couldn't train hamsters to kill. You think I would let you have them if you could wait a minute, you're not taking this shit seriously, right?"
Due to the somewhat disgusted look on her face when she said this, there was no way in hell I was going to tell her about how serious I am, or how many notes I'm taking, or how the hamsters will lead the kids. No, I just said, it'sjust a joke."
"Don't make me beat you down."
"hey are hamsters, for dogs sake!"
"ill you quit saying for dogs sake?"
"ith my last breath."
"What?"
"Nothing. You know, I am teaching the hamsters to act all lovey-dovey. You saw them with the blow up doll?."
"Until they can get close enough to rip open jugulars, that was the plan, right? You are a really pathetic liar. I better not come home and find you spent the whole day messing with those hamsters. The cats are going to get them if you arenâ??t more careful. By the way, why did you call my mom and ask her to sew some tiny green jackets?"
"Wasn't me."
"Are you sure?"
"I think I would remember something like that."
"Really?"
"What does that mean?"
"You forget stuff, that is one of the side effects of your beloved herb. Tell me that you are not going to waste time with those hamsters today. Say it."
"Well, I could spend the day thinking about penguins spinning around real fast screaming, "Oh, the shits with you!!"
"You know what, you could, couldn't you?"
She seemed surprised by this for some fucked up reason that I can't fathom?
I made it out like it was a joke, but I really can't stop these penguins.
"If you have to mess around with the hamsters, clean the cage, but don't take them to the beach anymore; they are not concerned about their tans, no matter how convinced you are, silly."
Everything is a joke to her, I swear. Would you want shaved, pale as hell assed hamsters around? I didn't think so. The tans really help.
"I have to go to work. Be good today."
"I can't face a day without hamsters."
"Stop it."
After she left, I of course got right to work, pulling out the little cardboard minefields that I made and placing the plump hamsters in various strategic positions/
I didnâ??t even have a chance to tell her about training little kids into a deadly fighting force, who the hamsters will lead out into battle for both justice and whimsy. M. will probably find some reason to nit-pick at that plan, too.
Consider me taking on students from this day forward, call and I'll see if I can use you... if a woman answers though, just hang up real quick and call back later.
I am thinking of taking in students and becoming a home schooling teacher. I will do this not out of any concern for kids or anything, of course, it's all part of my plan to become supreme commander, which is written out in no less than twenty seven spiral notebooks of 350 sheets of lined paper apiece. Changes will be swift and deadly on that day.
You know me, I don't care who I kill, but some folks do deserve it more than others and my sense of justice demands that they be shot first. For example, Massa jackoffyourson. There are thousands of people who would show up to shoot him, if someone with balls would pass a law that you could kill child fucking freaks. This is exactly the kind of creative solution I will bring to bear on societies problems from the lofty seat of supreme commanderdom.
I already have an army. well, I have some presently unruly and slightly traitorous hamsters, but they are coming along. They.. Ummm...already eat on command. And they take after their supreme commander in many, many waysâ?¦ I am proud to say that they have picked up some of Johnny Pain's smooth moves too, because these little fuzz faced fucks are humping any damn thing thats close. I may have even taught them too well. I can't even stick my hand in the cage without one of them trying to violate me.
I was sure I knew what I was doing, too, but these damn hamsters wonâ??t follow most of my rules. I don't know where I went wrong? I started out by decimating them (killing every tenth soldier to instill discipline; an oldie but a goody, when it comes to military training). I only could afford seven of them, though, so I had to pretend like I was in the other room killing a hamsterâ?¦ let me tell you, buster, I am pretty sure that I could see the fear in their eyes when I came back into the roomâ?¦
I have yet to identify a special little Rambo to be one of my generals. You would think something as important as the number two spot in a scheme for world domination would be more interesting than pellets of grass, but no I read them all my notes and they just sit there and act like they are not even listening.
Still, you just better watch it, like I told M., because these babies got Murder written all over them.
When I told her this, she asked me if that was why I shaved them, to write on their skin? She doesn't understand anything about aerodynamics (that hair would have slowed them down, dammit, and I won't have it!). But that is a good idea about writing Murder all over the Hamsters might blow their cover, though? Hmmm... I can already tell there will be notes scribbled about this quandary... lots and lots of scribbled notes.
I am trying to face the possibility that the hamsters may only turn out to be good practice for my humans. I don't really need them. When I told M. about this she just laughed like I was joking and responded in her usual nay-sayer way, "Oh, big surprise, you couldn't train hamsters to kill. You think I would let you have them if you could wait a minute, you're not taking this shit seriously, right?"
Due to the somewhat disgusted look on her face when she said this, there was no way in hell I was going to tell her about how serious I am, or how many notes I'm taking, or how the hamsters will lead the kids. No, I just said, it'sjust a joke."
"Don't make me beat you down."
"hey are hamsters, for dogs sake!"
"ill you quit saying for dogs sake?"
"ith my last breath."
"What?"
"Nothing. You know, I am teaching the hamsters to act all lovey-dovey. You saw them with the blow up doll?."
"Until they can get close enough to rip open jugulars, that was the plan, right? You are a really pathetic liar. I better not come home and find you spent the whole day messing with those hamsters. The cats are going to get them if you arenâ??t more careful. By the way, why did you call my mom and ask her to sew some tiny green jackets?"
"Wasn't me."
"Are you sure?"
"I think I would remember something like that."
"Really?"
"What does that mean?"
"You forget stuff, that is one of the side effects of your beloved herb. Tell me that you are not going to waste time with those hamsters today. Say it."
"Well, I could spend the day thinking about penguins spinning around real fast screaming, "Oh, the shits with you!!"
"You know what, you could, couldn't you?"
She seemed surprised by this for some fucked up reason that I can't fathom?
I made it out like it was a joke, but I really can't stop these penguins.
"If you have to mess around with the hamsters, clean the cage, but don't take them to the beach anymore; they are not concerned about their tans, no matter how convinced you are, silly."
Everything is a joke to her, I swear. Would you want shaved, pale as hell assed hamsters around? I didn't think so. The tans really help.
"I have to go to work. Be good today."
"I can't face a day without hamsters."
"Stop it."
After she left, I of course got right to work, pulling out the little cardboard minefields that I made and placing the plump hamsters in various strategic positions/
I didnâ??t even have a chance to tell her about training little kids into a deadly fighting force, who the hamsters will lead out into battle for both justice and whimsy. M. will probably find some reason to nit-pick at that plan, too.
Consider me taking on students from this day forward, call and I'll see if I can use you... if a woman answers though, just hang up real quick and call back later.
Is Torture Okay If IT Saves Lives??????
I'm saying yea, but I don't come from a dictatorship in south america.
NETSCAPE NEWS: "Suspected al Qaeda militants killed 16 people, including Westerners, and seized 50 foreign hostages on Saturday in a second major attack in a month aimed at destabilizing the top world oil exporter, Saudi Arabia."
What, exactly, causes some people to engage in sadistic behavior is something of a mystery, they say. But most cite the strangeness of a war zone, where otherwise honorable people - awash in feelings of duty, camaraderie, and revenge - sometimes lose the moral compass that guided their behavior in their former lives.
Some see humankind perpetually struggling with a dark desire to wish enemies humiliated and to laugh when they are.
Christian Science Monitor:
James Waller, social psychologist at Whitman College and author of "Becoming Evil: How Ordinary People Commit Genocide and Mass Killing," says soldiers called upon to humiliate the enemy must either learn to relish the task or run the risk of being paralyzed by guilt.
Yes, they have shown us how noble they are, how well they treat prisoners.
Makes me think about how awful it was for us to try to find out where they were going to strike next, and how to destroy them, by humiliating their manhood (which is a tactic of war more ancient than any language, and I write that as a fact, not with a value judgment attached). Americans collectively gasped over our soldiers, those extensions of ourselves, who were acting like complete boofs (as part of a larger program to get vital information that may have saved your life; about five years ago I saw statistics showing that the fbi/cia had that year stopped over two thousand terrorist attacks before they happened--which astounded me at the time, because so much of that stuff is top secret that little of it is reported on by the press.).
Not to be an apologist for big brother, but believe me,
the CIA would prefer to send an agent into a prisoners cell for coffee and donuts and have them calmly discuss the prisoners past, what their options of punishment or release are, and then give the talkers a break and send the silent ones to jail forever. But, war is not at all like afternoon tea. Getting the intelligence it takes to foil thousands of terrorist attempts takes more than crumpets and a sensible argument. No, they are dealing with prisoners who do not want to give up a promise of 72 virgins to come down and live in this here old world with all its real problems. So, the army tries to balance our commitment to being the good guys with our need to operate in a world filled with bad guys. .
They have to use something more than logic. I think they should be able to drug them up, but only with fun stuff. If that isn't enough, then... well, save a thousand lives. I guess this is my sad, little insignificant opinion. Peace would be so much better, but that has never been an option in my lifetime. .
. The muslims are killing because recent historical events, specifically, allah the virgin promiser/creator of cultures where woman are powerless, slave/servants acceptable, and the excesses of the rich ignored.
I knew some Saudi princes in Toledo. I tutored them for 75 dollars an hour. The one was pious, but my buddy was a weed head and so rich... he had like six cars. He told me that since he was royalty, they didn't have to go through customs, so they would fly to another country, get a bunch of liquor and drugs and whores, and fly them in for a weekend party...He slept with a maid (which he said was done as part of his culture a lot) when he was twelve. I really did like that guy, but I went to dinner one night over there when a bunch of islamic fanatics were there berating him. He kept telling them, and me, that when he went back to Saudi Arabia, he would totally change into a muslim, etc.
He told me once that to see an ankle on a Saudi Arabian woman turned him on more than an American woman in a bikini. Maybe that is why they keep them covered up? To make them more tempting? I can't take any religion seriously, let alone one so barbaric that it says. "Should they see a half clad young boy or a woman's ankle, our men can't be expected to control their urges to rape." To that I say, oh just grow up...
NETSCAPE NEWS: "Suspected al Qaeda militants killed 16 people, including Westerners, and seized 50 foreign hostages on Saturday in a second major attack in a month aimed at destabilizing the top world oil exporter, Saudi Arabia."
What, exactly, causes some people to engage in sadistic behavior is something of a mystery, they say. But most cite the strangeness of a war zone, where otherwise honorable people - awash in feelings of duty, camaraderie, and revenge - sometimes lose the moral compass that guided their behavior in their former lives.
Some see humankind perpetually struggling with a dark desire to wish enemies humiliated and to laugh when they are.
Christian Science Monitor:
James Waller, social psychologist at Whitman College and author of "Becoming Evil: How Ordinary People Commit Genocide and Mass Killing," says soldiers called upon to humiliate the enemy must either learn to relish the task or run the risk of being paralyzed by guilt.
Yes, they have shown us how noble they are, how well they treat prisoners.
Makes me think about how awful it was for us to try to find out where they were going to strike next, and how to destroy them, by humiliating their manhood (which is a tactic of war more ancient than any language, and I write that as a fact, not with a value judgment attached). Americans collectively gasped over our soldiers, those extensions of ourselves, who were acting like complete boofs (as part of a larger program to get vital information that may have saved your life; about five years ago I saw statistics showing that the fbi/cia had that year stopped over two thousand terrorist attacks before they happened--which astounded me at the time, because so much of that stuff is top secret that little of it is reported on by the press.).
Not to be an apologist for big brother, but believe me,
the CIA would prefer to send an agent into a prisoners cell for coffee and donuts and have them calmly discuss the prisoners past, what their options of punishment or release are, and then give the talkers a break and send the silent ones to jail forever. But, war is not at all like afternoon tea. Getting the intelligence it takes to foil thousands of terrorist attempts takes more than crumpets and a sensible argument. No, they are dealing with prisoners who do not want to give up a promise of 72 virgins to come down and live in this here old world with all its real problems. So, the army tries to balance our commitment to being the good guys with our need to operate in a world filled with bad guys. .
They have to use something more than logic. I think they should be able to drug them up, but only with fun stuff. If that isn't enough, then... well, save a thousand lives. I guess this is my sad, little insignificant opinion. Peace would be so much better, but that has never been an option in my lifetime. .
. The muslims are killing because recent historical events, specifically, allah the virgin promiser/creator of cultures where woman are powerless, slave/servants acceptable, and the excesses of the rich ignored.
I knew some Saudi princes in Toledo. I tutored them for 75 dollars an hour. The one was pious, but my buddy was a weed head and so rich... he had like six cars. He told me that since he was royalty, they didn't have to go through customs, so they would fly to another country, get a bunch of liquor and drugs and whores, and fly them in for a weekend party...He slept with a maid (which he said was done as part of his culture a lot) when he was twelve. I really did like that guy, but I went to dinner one night over there when a bunch of islamic fanatics were there berating him. He kept telling them, and me, that when he went back to Saudi Arabia, he would totally change into a muslim, etc.
He told me once that to see an ankle on a Saudi Arabian woman turned him on more than an American woman in a bikini. Maybe that is why they keep them covered up? To make them more tempting? I can't take any religion seriously, let alone one so barbaric that it says. "Should they see a half clad young boy or a woman's ankle, our men can't be expected to control their urges to rape." To that I say, oh just grow up...
Da Sadly No More Cocoa Bean Reading....
READING AT A SMALL VENUE IN CHICAGO'S ROGERS PARK
I went to the poetry reading at the cocoa bean last night. The usual rectangular space, one wall of exposed brick, various artists on the wall -- ranging from very cool prints of human organs, to something to do with torture that I put in my 'why does anyone take this fool seriously?,' category. The El track was accross the street, and passing trains could be heard and seen buzzing by behind the stage.
We arrived early, me in jeans so torn up that I kept thinking a strong wind was going to leave me naked, M. looking very hot in a black blouse and tight jeans that accented her incredible figure... we sat opposite the stage at a small table and waited. It is a tradition here to only start the show when everyone shows up, so the hosts showed up around ten after. Josh and Kate.
Kate is very cute, and sexy in that way some swingers are -- like there is a sign over her saying -- GOOD TIME. She actually ended the last reading I saw her at with, "Does anyone want to fuck?" On the surface, she could come off frivilous, but when she reads her poetry, her depth and clarity of vision are astounding. Everytime I have seen her read, she is head and shoulders above everyone in the room. Her partner is this every thursday night reading, Josh, was funnier than hell. I actually wrote down one of his jokes to use (I asked him during the break if he wrote his own jokes and he told me it was all off the top of his head; a real natural).
I ended up being part of the show. It's funny, M. has barely ever seen me perform, because I was out of the scene when I met her, staying away from stages with the thought that they were just an ego stroke that took me away from work. Anyways, M. saw me give a reading last year, where the people were laughing their asses off... but, at the reading two weeks ago, I sucked. I read the wrong shit. People laughed at this peice before, but they were warmed up a bit. The scene is in here, stoned artist talks to a cat, and if you look at it you will think I was nuts to even try to read it. Especially after Jason, who takes control of the crowd like he is leading a symphony of laughing people.
So, last night I told her that I thought I should read at this cocoa bean and her face fell. "You're going to read?"
I was amused by this, since my ego is intact. I took the bad reading as a mistake that I could easily correct, and ultimatly meaningless. I sucked, so what? The show was great anyways. I chose to read Rlynn, which is in here, too. And I practiced. Once she heard the piece and laughed throughout both reads (a short work that was is also a comic and a painting), she felt better, but I could tell by all the advice she was giving me that she was still nervous -- I mean, she seldom says anything about my work, because I am the expert. I am glad to say that my preperation paid off.
I was treated as a little celeb at the thing, which is cool, but I didn't announce the reading or say anything more than my first name (accidently), then I read. When I sat back down M. was beaming at me, so happy to be with me, etc... that made the whole thing worth it.
I gave Kate some flyers about her reading for me on sunday, and she liked them a lot. M. came up with the idea of making the collage about Kate, so we put a bunch of sexy pictures admist the usual soldiers and stuff I have been putting in the posters that I'm making for all the readings.
I went to the poetry reading at the cocoa bean last night. The usual rectangular space, one wall of exposed brick, various artists on the wall -- ranging from very cool prints of human organs, to something to do with torture that I put in my 'why does anyone take this fool seriously?,' category. The El track was accross the street, and passing trains could be heard and seen buzzing by behind the stage.
We arrived early, me in jeans so torn up that I kept thinking a strong wind was going to leave me naked, M. looking very hot in a black blouse and tight jeans that accented her incredible figure... we sat opposite the stage at a small table and waited. It is a tradition here to only start the show when everyone shows up, so the hosts showed up around ten after. Josh and Kate.
Kate is very cute, and sexy in that way some swingers are -- like there is a sign over her saying -- GOOD TIME. She actually ended the last reading I saw her at with, "Does anyone want to fuck?" On the surface, she could come off frivilous, but when she reads her poetry, her depth and clarity of vision are astounding. Everytime I have seen her read, she is head and shoulders above everyone in the room. Her partner is this every thursday night reading, Josh, was funnier than hell. I actually wrote down one of his jokes to use (I asked him during the break if he wrote his own jokes and he told me it was all off the top of his head; a real natural).
I ended up being part of the show. It's funny, M. has barely ever seen me perform, because I was out of the scene when I met her, staying away from stages with the thought that they were just an ego stroke that took me away from work. Anyways, M. saw me give a reading last year, where the people were laughing their asses off... but, at the reading two weeks ago, I sucked. I read the wrong shit. People laughed at this peice before, but they were warmed up a bit. The scene is in here, stoned artist talks to a cat, and if you look at it you will think I was nuts to even try to read it. Especially after Jason, who takes control of the crowd like he is leading a symphony of laughing people.
So, last night I told her that I thought I should read at this cocoa bean and her face fell. "You're going to read?"
I was amused by this, since my ego is intact. I took the bad reading as a mistake that I could easily correct, and ultimatly meaningless. I sucked, so what? The show was great anyways. I chose to read Rlynn, which is in here, too. And I practiced. Once she heard the piece and laughed throughout both reads (a short work that was is also a comic and a painting), she felt better, but I could tell by all the advice she was giving me that she was still nervous -- I mean, she seldom says anything about my work, because I am the expert. I am glad to say that my preperation paid off.
I was treated as a little celeb at the thing, which is cool, but I didn't announce the reading or say anything more than my first name (accidently), then I read. When I sat back down M. was beaming at me, so happy to be with me, etc... that made the whole thing worth it.
I gave Kate some flyers about her reading for me on sunday, and she liked them a lot. M. came up with the idea of making the collage about Kate, so we put a bunch of sexy pictures admist the usual soldiers and stuff I have been putting in the posters that I'm making for all the readings.
BUSH REFUSES TO GO TO THE NAACP DINNER!
As he has every year since he was president (of course he went when he was first running for office, but that was before they disqualified all those black and jewish voters in florida when they stole the election; now he will probably try to do it again, since the supreme court that put him in office was packed by reagen and his dad with right wing fucks).
What does this say about the Great White Mope? Well, I think we all know how an elitist millionare from texas with a silver spoon in his mouth and under his nose feels about blacks.
And what is it with that black woman he is always having his picture taken though? Rice is always surrounded by all these old white guys in those shots. Doesn't she realize she is a sad attempt to appeal to a demographic that Bush doesn't actually give a shit about? How doe she feel about the President of the United States when he spits in the face of blacks by refusing to meet with their best and brightest? She looks like a traitor to me. Maybe I am too white to tell?
No one who cares about race relations can in good conscious vote for this Shrub. The elephants are also starting a smear campaign against gays, which is thinly veiled under their refusal to grant them basic rights of marriage. I say if one person stays home to raise the kids, they should be on the provider's health insurance. Why is that so hard for people to get? If your neighbor was in this situation, or any gay you knew, how would you feel if they lived with someone for twenty years and then gets kicked out penniless into the street when a homophobic family takes possession of all legal inheretances?
We all have ethical circles, and those inside it are the ones we care about. I repeat myself, but it is important. We may not have the perfect choice for president, but at least they have a larger ethical circle than Shrub.
I think the Dem.'s will be making a mistake if they run against the war. Then I will vote for Nader, because I strongly believe in freeing this fucking world with guns. Until the pre-scientific cultures come around, we are going to have to fight to let progress continue. THis experiment of ours with 'democracy' will end if muslims fundamentalists continue grow into a huge force of hatred.
Remember: 'All political formulas are fiction; only the force produced is real' (modern irregular warfare).
What does this say about the Great White Mope? Well, I think we all know how an elitist millionare from texas with a silver spoon in his mouth and under his nose feels about blacks.
And what is it with that black woman he is always having his picture taken though? Rice is always surrounded by all these old white guys in those shots. Doesn't she realize she is a sad attempt to appeal to a demographic that Bush doesn't actually give a shit about? How doe she feel about the President of the United States when he spits in the face of blacks by refusing to meet with their best and brightest? She looks like a traitor to me. Maybe I am too white to tell?
No one who cares about race relations can in good conscious vote for this Shrub. The elephants are also starting a smear campaign against gays, which is thinly veiled under their refusal to grant them basic rights of marriage. I say if one person stays home to raise the kids, they should be on the provider's health insurance. Why is that so hard for people to get? If your neighbor was in this situation, or any gay you knew, how would you feel if they lived with someone for twenty years and then gets kicked out penniless into the street when a homophobic family takes possession of all legal inheretances?
We all have ethical circles, and those inside it are the ones we care about. I repeat myself, but it is important. We may not have the perfect choice for president, but at least they have a larger ethical circle than Shrub.
I think the Dem.'s will be making a mistake if they run against the war. Then I will vote for Nader, because I strongly believe in freeing this fucking world with guns. Until the pre-scientific cultures come around, we are going to have to fight to let progress continue. THis experiment of ours with 'democracy' will end if muslims fundamentalists continue grow into a huge force of hatred.
Remember: 'All political formulas are fiction; only the force produced is real' (modern irregular warfare).
GOT A LETTER FROM THE CIA TODAY. WE'RE COOL.
wrote them last night, just a quick message that said only, "Thank you for doing a vital job."
I did not want to say too much and risk accidently pissing off someone in the CIA.
Oddly enough, today they wrote back, saying that they were grateful to have my support.
I hated them when I was a teenager, because I considered them part of the probem. They never were, really -- just part of a bloody, disgusting solution that my romantic youth could make no sense of. The CIA really gets blamed for a lot of things that are not their fault. They could hardly believe it when George Bush said he wanted them to start torturing Iraquis. Torture is something the other guys do. Not the CIA. They certainly hire people to, or use indigenous troops, but the official policy, and by and large how they act, is to not torture anyone. I studied them in college, under a radical leftest proffessor who had a begrudging respect for them -- and a lot of connec tions there with good people who want the truth to be told.
The CIA even helped stop the vietnam war. I am not going to explain it here except to say the anti-war protests in america died at kent state, then the cia revived it by letting 26 planes get shot down on christmas eve (they were bombing the north with impunity at that point, because the NSA could tell the pilots when a radar was locked on them, and they could easily then evade the north vietnamese anti-aircraft fire.; the CIA simply stopped telling the pilots they wer locked on by enemy radar, and the ensuing furor of anti-war protests stopped the war--check it out for yourself. My sources for this last digression are fbi files on operation garden plot, and a source who worked for the NSA at the time, as well as a class at Northeastern Illinois University, with Dr Stern).
So, don't judge the spooks until you have all the facts, and don't expect most people who talk about them to know a damn thing -- because if they do, more than likely they can't say.
Below is the actual letter. It makes me important.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Thank you for the kind comment about the CIA .
Rest assured the men and women of CIA work tirelessly to ensure the security of our nation and the best possible intelligence for our policymakers.
Regards,
Molly
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Bet you didn't know they go by Molly, did you? Just another fascinating bit of near truth from your not very intrepid reporter, Johnny Pain, who is now signing off with the usaul salutation based upon torture in my continued, long running joke with myself about a president who encouraged the military to torture my fellow human beings.....
Have a day so tortured that no one will talk to your whiny ass.
I did not want to say too much and risk accidently pissing off someone in the CIA.
Oddly enough, today they wrote back, saying that they were grateful to have my support.
I hated them when I was a teenager, because I considered them part of the probem. They never were, really -- just part of a bloody, disgusting solution that my romantic youth could make no sense of. The CIA really gets blamed for a lot of things that are not their fault. They could hardly believe it when George Bush said he wanted them to start torturing Iraquis. Torture is something the other guys do. Not the CIA. They certainly hire people to, or use indigenous troops, but the official policy, and by and large how they act, is to not torture anyone. I studied them in college, under a radical leftest proffessor who had a begrudging respect for them -- and a lot of connec tions there with good people who want the truth to be told.
The CIA even helped stop the vietnam war. I am not going to explain it here except to say the anti-war protests in america died at kent state, then the cia revived it by letting 26 planes get shot down on christmas eve (they were bombing the north with impunity at that point, because the NSA could tell the pilots when a radar was locked on them, and they could easily then evade the north vietnamese anti-aircraft fire.; the CIA simply stopped telling the pilots they wer locked on by enemy radar, and the ensuing furor of anti-war protests stopped the war--check it out for yourself. My sources for this last digression are fbi files on operation garden plot, and a source who worked for the NSA at the time, as well as a class at Northeastern Illinois University, with Dr Stern).
So, don't judge the spooks until you have all the facts, and don't expect most people who talk about them to know a damn thing -- because if they do, more than likely they can't say.
Below is the actual letter. It makes me important.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Thank you for the kind comment about the CIA .
Rest assured the men and women of CIA work tirelessly to ensure the security of our nation and the best possible intelligence for our policymakers.
Regards,
Molly
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Bet you didn't know they go by Molly, did you? Just another fascinating bit of near truth from your not very intrepid reporter, Johnny Pain, who is now signing off with the usaul salutation based upon torture in my continued, long running joke with myself about a president who encouraged the military to torture my fellow human beings.....
Have a day so tortured that no one will talk to your whiny ass.
DOES THE YOU THAT YOU THINK OF AS YOU REALLY EXIST?
'Does who you think of as you really exist' sounds like one of those questions that are too stupid to care about, like how many angels can dance on the head of a pin (which those knucklehead Catholics wasted millions of words and hours and thoughts on). Yet, in a time when culture controls our dress, phrases used, hair style, brand of toothpaste, body type, etc... the question begins to make a bit more sense.
Foucolt, a French philosopher who I won't claim to understand too well, says that the Self that you think of as You, is barely there. He uses the example that if a person were to stand in river of culture, only their fingertips would be above water--just a tiny little bit of the brain that is really, truly, ours. That little bitty pea of space is filled with a relatively few number of templates, running from saint to sadist, etc...
This is why, when I ask if you exist, you might want to ask yourself where you do think independently. As any intellectual knows who follows democratic politics, the masses can be manipulated into thinking whatever the propagandists wish them to. Look at other countries, where people are less media savvy, and they are saying in Pravda that aliens are landing and other yellow journalism. America went through a period like this at the turn of the century. Poe wrote during this period, publishing novels in serial form in newspapers that were taken, by the masses, as the truth. The Voyages of Arthur Gordon Pym is the example I always give.
So, if you do exist, are you a combination of the thoughts that you have been exposed to? If yes, then what thoughts are your culture cramming down your throat. Do you easily go with the flow, making your skin change into whatever color the political season demands?
There is also the sociobiological factor, that a lot of your thoughts about the other sex are merely the echoes of the cries of your genes.
In fact, I think that genes are in control of everything. They are in a war for survival and will do anything, however cruel, to keep moving up into the future. Aliens live in them, and they are using us for eternal life, skipping form generation to generation through our seed.... Oh, wait, no that is a dream I had..... but, our behavior is kind of like that, hard wired in, and we all think the same thoughts, basically, from generation to generation. Hedonism and drugs and such isn't new -- it is older than culture, the first way we were, what culture tries to distant us from, take us to some other word created place where we are not chimps, but near gods.
But only words can take you to such a place, because only in words does such a place exist. Here on earth, we are chimps, barely in control of our base impulses, growling at each other in traffic all day, hating the weak for needing us, etc... all things E.O. Wilson found the apes doing (without a countless number of libraries full of ever changing reasons, mind you.
So, try just believing what can be proven for awhile. There is more than one person can ever know that we already do know... So why not start there when building your own personal Cosmology (which is your world view, or the ethics that ground your behavior; a killer would have one seeing blood, a sex addict would be in one surrounded by fucks, etc.... Everyone's cosmology is slighly different. Even those who claim, like in a church, to share the same cosmology, they really can't. Environment and genes and education, etc... shape this cosmology.
That cosmology is the you that feels like you when you think of you. It is also the ape that takes over when you lose control and have to save face to keep your place in the tribe (though it seems like you are just yelling at the dog at the time, or being snide with your partner).
So, do you exist? Or are you just a puzzle of pieces put together by your time?
Foucolt, a French philosopher who I won't claim to understand too well, says that the Self that you think of as You, is barely there. He uses the example that if a person were to stand in river of culture, only their fingertips would be above water--just a tiny little bit of the brain that is really, truly, ours. That little bitty pea of space is filled with a relatively few number of templates, running from saint to sadist, etc...
This is why, when I ask if you exist, you might want to ask yourself where you do think independently. As any intellectual knows who follows democratic politics, the masses can be manipulated into thinking whatever the propagandists wish them to. Look at other countries, where people are less media savvy, and they are saying in Pravda that aliens are landing and other yellow journalism. America went through a period like this at the turn of the century. Poe wrote during this period, publishing novels in serial form in newspapers that were taken, by the masses, as the truth. The Voyages of Arthur Gordon Pym is the example I always give.
So, if you do exist, are you a combination of the thoughts that you have been exposed to? If yes, then what thoughts are your culture cramming down your throat. Do you easily go with the flow, making your skin change into whatever color the political season demands?
There is also the sociobiological factor, that a lot of your thoughts about the other sex are merely the echoes of the cries of your genes.
In fact, I think that genes are in control of everything. They are in a war for survival and will do anything, however cruel, to keep moving up into the future. Aliens live in them, and they are using us for eternal life, skipping form generation to generation through our seed.... Oh, wait, no that is a dream I had..... but, our behavior is kind of like that, hard wired in, and we all think the same thoughts, basically, from generation to generation. Hedonism and drugs and such isn't new -- it is older than culture, the first way we were, what culture tries to distant us from, take us to some other word created place where we are not chimps, but near gods.
But only words can take you to such a place, because only in words does such a place exist. Here on earth, we are chimps, barely in control of our base impulses, growling at each other in traffic all day, hating the weak for needing us, etc... all things E.O. Wilson found the apes doing (without a countless number of libraries full of ever changing reasons, mind you.
So, try just believing what can be proven for awhile. There is more than one person can ever know that we already do know... So why not start there when building your own personal Cosmology (which is your world view, or the ethics that ground your behavior; a killer would have one seeing blood, a sex addict would be in one surrounded by fucks, etc.... Everyone's cosmology is slighly different. Even those who claim, like in a church, to share the same cosmology, they really can't. Environment and genes and education, etc... shape this cosmology.
That cosmology is the you that feels like you when you think of you. It is also the ape that takes over when you lose control and have to save face to keep your place in the tribe (though it seems like you are just yelling at the dog at the time, or being snide with your partner).
So, do you exist? Or are you just a puzzle of pieces put together by your time?
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