GOD HATES ME. ME, SPECIFICALLY.

God has had it in for me forever. I mean, he hated me before I was even born.... He knew I would have a relationship with Jesus that would end bad. God is one mean, snide old bastard. He gets off on that shit.

Now he has given me a bunch of hamsters, all who seem -- surprise, surprise -- to be lacking in the skills that hamsters are famous for, like hand to hand combat...

You know, God told me once, when he was in one of his 'holier than thou' moods, that he does indeed know where every sparrow falls and all that shit, but he hates most of them, and is secretly glad their lives are over, so he can quit pretending he loves them.

He makes no pretense toward liking the angels who make their way through the pearly gates. No. He just kind of listens to whatever you say, then throws up some stupid pseudo psychological euphamism like, "Ask a cloud, my son, and remain quiet for ten years."






God first mounted me when I was five years old. I was sleeping in my parents bed, in between them, and I woke up and could not get my legs to work. My lower half had just stopped working. Scary stuff. This went on for a year. Yea, that old bastard had those nurses stabbing me with huge needles that seemed about the size of jack hammers in my memory. Of course, he put me in a poor family out in the middle of bum fuck, and then he gave me a brain that has about as much chance of living a normal life as a toad has of becoming a mercedes (Inever claimed to write great metaphors, alright?).

At eighteen, the bastard struck again. First he cursed me with alcoholism, thinking that would keep jesus away from me... he is always trying to change the future, but he is as trapped as us, I guess. That's what pisses him off the most... he lost the ability to be surprised or filled with wonder and all that kind of rainbow colored unicorn crap. Talk about a cynic. His little creatures just disappointed the hell out of him, of course. Not all animals -- he was quite pleased wih Kiwis.

Anyways, while I was in treatment for drinking, I met a girl whose mother introduced us . . . a pretty little princess who I ended up marrying, just two years before she had her coming out party as a lesbian. I could have saved the matrriage but that surgery was just a bit much. I like my penis. My penis is my freind and yours.


Yeah, that God, had to curse me for all eternity. The evidence is so clear. I mean, once I even walked in on him and Jesus when they were talking and overheard God say, "I think you should break up with him. He's trouble. Forsake him. Forsake him I say!! If you want, I can curse the hell out of him?"


That's when they noticed me and kind of stared down into their whisky glasses (of course they are drunks, we are made in their image, you know) and after a few minutes of quiet they changed the subject to sports or something.




Anyways, back to this curse....

At eighteen, the height of my sexual potency, he made my spine fall apart and a body caste my second skin for a year. Picture a long haired turle. By the time this little curse ended, I weighed a hundred and twenty pounds and needed narcotics so bad that I cried when I was taken off of them... that masochistic freak just loves my pain, too -- he has this whole Job rap about my suffering, but he can barely say his with a straight face.

After this, then the silly marriage... something remarkable happened.... I figured I must have gotten drunk and said a prayer or something, because he pretty much left me alone all through my late twenties and thirties. While I was going on my forever journey through college, I really thought I was finally getting somewhere... but, no . . . That God, he is smart, and so he waited until I was one class away from graduating, then he reached into my spine and crushed two vertebrates so badly that the nerves are constantly on fire. Now I am always, 24 7, in pain bad enough to make you puke. And the future holds more and more knives cutting into my flesh.

God has a very strange sense of humor based on tricking people. I once saw him kill three babies for a practical joke on the parents and the doctors. He laughed maniacally at that. The angels are no better. None of them really like humans. Our name, in their language, roughly translates into 'Those Who Excrete Shit All The Time.' They don't want people to know this, but hell, they're just going to have to deal.

I learned a lot when I was dating Jesus. Went to their house for dinner and all. Angels were serving us and one of them dropped a glass of water and jesus was all like, "You are going to hell for that, bitch. I hope you learn to like hot posers in your ass, for your sake."



I tried to intervene, "Hey, where's your forgiveness man? Didn't you ever work in the service industry?"



This made them both laugh. Then god said, "Jesus work? Yea, right... a long, haired peacenik work? Hell no. I asked him to give an extra fin to the puff fish, a light blue one, and he puts it off all fucking week, says he is 'dealing with sins and shit.''

Jesus raised his hands and goes, "It is done."

I guess that was all it took to make the fin,but afterwards jesus did look kind of exhausted. Hell, I bet he couldn't run around the block without divine intervention. He smoke 96 packs of cigarettes a day, and only lord knows how much weed -- he rolls these huge bombs and hangs out down by he pearly gates greeting stoners. People think he is being followed by a miraculous cloud, but no, that is just the weed and cigs. This is the kind of thing that made me fall for him, before I knew he was a lying war monger.

I am sure god is reading this over my shoulder -- jesus too. They have no boundaries when it comes to looking at other people and reading their thoughts. I think this is something they use in indecent ways that violate any little bit of privacy you think you have. I mean, Jesus was always using his x ray vision to check out hot bods (he swings both ways of course, and sometimes he would tell me the penis sizes of all the men walking by -- and it was true, the ones who dressed the best had the smallest peckers). He can always tell fake boobs though, and this is good because I hate the way those fake ones feel.




Some days I think it would be better to die than have to take all these pills and suffer all this pain. Who wouldn't? I am totally worthless as a human being. This is because I am crippled, mostly. I guess a lot of writers fight these darker ghosts. Everyone wakes up and wonders if the pain of another day is worth trudging through, and even writing this is whiny. But I wasn't kidding, god does hate me specically. I broke up with his son who is so 'perfect' and all. Well, fuck those deities. Fuck them with satan's long, hard one...







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NEVER TRY TO DEFEND YOURSELF ON VEGETABLE MOLESTATION CHARGES. SERIOUSLY NOW --DON'T DO IT

I held up the small, dark green squash for the jury to see. For the past three hours they had heard some pretty revolting (to some) testimony about me, and now was my turn to launch a brilliant defense and bring them back into my fold. "Some see only a vegetable here. Me, I see something else... Nothing erotic, like most people would".
For some reason, this made one of the jury women kind of scowl.

"Now Me," I continued, "I have no use for this squash. None. Especially at this temperature. Room temp. or better is the general rule when boffing a veg, as I have heard from others. But me? No, I
merely see food. It is them, those who oppress me, who are actually guilty here. They have this need to sex up cute young vegetables and . . . "

The Judge interrupted at this point, telling me, "Johnny, stop rubbing yourself with the squash or I am going to have the bailiff take it out back and smash it." That judge, he was one mean bastard.

I really tried to stop rubbing that vegetable on my crotch, but it was just... A very difficult time to stop, and when I explained this to the judge, he yelled, "Mr. Pain, you have now lost the right to bring any more vegetables into this court. Now, or forever. Bailiff, take that squash from this sick bastard."

I wanted to be all non chalant about handing over the squash, because I didn't care, really, what happened to a squash -- let alone one that was much colder than room temperature. Even then, I am afraid as I started to hand over the squash, I accidentally let loose with a kind of cry of pain, or something. To be honest, though in a purely platonic way, I had grown close to that plucky little squash. Any one would have. That one was special. I guess then there was some chasing around in the courtroom. Someone was held down and forced to give up a true friend. And all during this, the judge was all, "Hit that bastard!! Knock him into next week!!" So I finally just turned that little queen over to the bailiff. . . . And I haven't seen her since.

Once everything settled down, I continued my defense with, "Some vegetables really want it." Looking the various jury members in their eyes as I spoke, I added, "We've all seen the come hither look of a summer squash, once in awhile, from time to time."

the prosecutor objected, and that damn judge goes, "Sustained!! You even go there, Pain, and I will jail you for contempt of court. Which I just may do anyways. Just for damn hell of it. I despise you that much."

"Okay," I went on, "Let's all try to remember -- as if any could forget, that glorious, glorious day that comes after thanksgiving and well before christmas, when the halloween pumpkins are all thrown out... who hasn't marveled at how the alley ways are transformed into almost surreally erotic walks of delight."

Then the judge just wouldn't let me talk anymore. I don't think that was legal, but he says it was, along with hitting me with that little hammer of his. So, as the papers made achingly clear to even my dearest old aunties, I am still doing, quote, "Community service in a vegetable free zone.' So, next time this happens to you, remember, Don't act as your own lawyer. I promise myself that I will get one everytime, and then I don't... but I'm an idiot.



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shattered bits of me

I search for me in old photos of my flesh
look through what they made me
for
what
I
was
before
cars and houses and electric bills became chains
me me me

the me that becomes flossom on a white wave of culture
brain battered by advertisements and peer pressure
a whisp of smoke in a foggy night
shaped by the vagaries of the passing winds


me who feels like he naturally changes his hair style
as the fashions and fads pass through and puppet him

the me that may or may not be
that is this sometimes
sometimes that
the me subverted
loved and conned and despised

the me that becomes a snarling ape when attacked
or fucked
the me that I get so sick of

the me that I medicate into a painless nothing

the me I once meditated away
a buddhist entranced by a picture of a green woman
with six arms and a rich, mystical past

the me that cringes and cries out
the me that explodes on orgasm
the me surgeons cut open
the me psychologists poke with sticks and mutter over

the me defined and drugged
with the latest greatest elixer
sanctioned by the holy Physicians Desk Reference

the me that is contigent on time and place
the me that missed the amusement park Riverside
the me that missed the native americans and the herds of buffalo
the me that watches wars being fought every day of his life
the me that is a conflux of ideas and beliefs
myths and facts
bits of wisdom chaotically handed down by pop culture
religious fanatics and insistant friends just trying to help

that me who acts on the whims of an ape

the me who quietly remains true to a desire to survive


the me nebulous
ever changing
converting to this and that language game
playing by the rules of this and that
team/priesthood/self helo group/work environment
going from mythic figments to mythhic figments
just to have something to snuggle up to in the night

sometimes I lose me to a heirarchy
it shapes me like silly putty
until I became a money making machine
too tired at night to gather my thoughts
let alone invent a language game more suited to me
and mine

the me that my language creates and shapes and defines

the me that sometimes won't listen to anything that I say

the me that is misled by myths and lies and his own excuses



the me flowing through a dark and turbulant river deep underground

the me shooting un-noticed over my synapses

the me that is not me

me that only cares about eating and fucking and laughing
the me who's been around since man took his first tremulous step

the me that enters this page and stares back out
the me that will be this time specific voice

the me that could live on beyond
this me that touches and recoils

a me who exists only in the minds of others
a me who was a writer
whose 'touche' will come
when the language changes
and the last of my words are antiquated into the illegible


Their are endless kingdoms behind the passing eyes of strangers
cerebrial messes of this and that feudal structure
crumbling cathedrals and shattered personas
nordic hero stories of monsters vanquished
and maidens as spoils

The me they will bury and forget

the subtle fragrance of man -- rodent love...

How did I end up here on the end of a pier stuffing rocks into my pockets? Well. . . desperation reshapes your life in ways you could have never imagined.

A week ago I thought I was going to to be styling forever. I was living high, real high. I was wrestling killer hamsters on the boardwalk for tips (which did not even cover my emergency room bills, but it sure as hell beat my old job, flipping soy burgers for whiny, asexual, vaguely artistic do nothings at The BloodyTofu). I was living the dream, as they say. I was a real go getter back then, sure... out there chasing the buck, training for hamster wrestling, all the normals that a big time player such as myself indulges in while the rest of you slave away at movie starring and trading and blowing rich old uncles and aunts and other 'laborish' travesties.

I was envied, for sure. Who wouldn't want to win every goddamn wrestling match he ever entered? Oh, sure, sometimes it looked like I got the worse of it, but I just withheld their food for a few days and then when they were weakened, I set myself up for a rematch. You never want to enter a match with a trained hamster at its full powers, by dog, no....

Then it happened... I was on the boardwalk one fateful morning taking the hamsters out and oiling them up for maximum muscle definition, when I first looked into her eyes.... I fell hard. Real hard. How was I supposed to wrestle that kissable little whisker twitcher? She had me and she knew it, started swishing around her furry little fanny like the hussy she is. Oh, I could sense she was bad... I mean, I wondered why she needed all my credit cards, but how was I to know she had been dreaming of an Amazon vacation?

Yea, the old story played out again. . . she reached those tiny nails into my chest, tore through my tender flesh and ripped out my heart without so much as a whimper of emphathy. One day she was there, ordering me around and making me buy more cheese than one man should, then the next her cage was empty. I looked everywhere in there for her, searched the small cage for hours and hours and hours... And I cried, sure I cried.... oh, how I cried!!! I've done practically nothing else since she left me, like five minutes ago.

All I have to remember her by are three dried poop pellets -- I'm going to have them put on a gold chain -- something classy, like she was.

What??? Uh, no... I didn't plan on jumping. I just find stuffing my pockets with rocks on the end of a pier is a good way to get people to listen to me. Don't you want to see my pictures of her? She's wearing a bikini that leaves nothing to the imagination. Hey, get back here!! Okay, just keep going... I'm used to this kind of cruelty, to the suffering... dammit, I have wrestled the worst of the hamster, and now I fear nothing... except females of various species that it is no longer legal for me to list (due to the whole judgement about me not promoting man vegetible love/man-rodent love/or man sock love until I am off probation for vegetible molestation -- a totally trumped up charge by an undercover squash - she waited to bust me until she had completly had her way with me, and you can bet that is entrapment, no matter what that damn judge said!!!).

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YOU'RE A WHAT????

Frambles pushed himself up and off of the creamy white flesh, rolled over on his back and looked up into the ceiling, noticing numerous cob webs that he was surprised he had never seen before. He wanted to think about the cob webs just then to the exclusion of all, expecially the woman he was laying in bed with, who he had just seduced with a combination of Bing Crosby, a hot, candled bath, and copious amounts of weed and beer.


Frambles was basically moral. At least he thought he was, by virtue of the fact that he gave a lot of thought as to whether he was acting on the side of the heros, or following around his ignorant inner ape.
He had become like this because of his parents treatment of him during critical phases in his early childhood development, genetic possibilities and probablities, and all in all accidents and designs too numerous to recall. He was physically repulsed by the idea of doing something he considered evil. And evil he had just done, however unknowingly.


He had picked the girl up in a bar, where she appeared to be a groupie who followed around his roomates band. Turns out, as she had just made clear, she had used a false id to get into the bar, and despite her allusioins to worldly ways and the ease with which he had seduced her, she had just announced to him that she was a virgin.

"That's why it hurt."
"I guess. I don't really know how its supposed to feel."

"Oh, christ!!!" He had seduced her knowing that he did not want a relationship with her, a stupid thing that he had done enough as a teenager to know better.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing... just that I'm twenty seven and you are sixteen. You really should have told me that you were a sixteen year old virgin."
"You wouldn't have went out with me then. So, we're going together now, right?"
"Oh, christ..... I'm divorced. I don't go with people anymore. I either date, engage, or marry."
"Seriously, we're going together, right?"
"As long as you don't care if I refer to you as jail bait, even in front of your parents."
"That will be funny."
"You could get in a lot of trouble assuming that I am an adult who knows what he is talking about."
"You've already gotten me in a lot of trouble. I always wanted to try pot, too, though..."
"What? Oh, Christ... you've never tried pot, either?"
"No, but I wanted to...."
"I should just cut to the chase and get you addicted to herion and put you out on the streets to hooker for me. You know, I just realized, if you ever get really pissed at me, you could have me sent straight to jail."
"Well, I guess you had better treat me right." She meant this as a joke, at that moment, though he would find out later the implication that he owed her would grow stronger and stronger in her mind... and that is how a foolish twenty seven year old male ended up spending an hour and half being humiliated at a high school prom in Findlay, Ohio.


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A BLOG????

JUST WHAT THE FUCK IS A BLOG??? AND JUST WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING SHOOTING ALL OF MY LITERARY SQUIRTINGS INTO THIS WENCH???


The question of what a blog is can be answered differently by everyone who starts a blog. This is one of the joys/frustrations of this form of writing. I like the freedom granted trained writers like me, though this same freedom leaves me with enough rope to hang myself often, sometimes daily. I refer here to the kind of blather about daily banalities that fill a lot of blogs, mine included... though I tend to erase them. People who don't end up with blogs that are more diary than anything else. And as we all know, few pages of our diaries are interesting. Come on, admit it.... if your life was that interesting, you wouldn't be off by yourself scribbling your daily whinings, and records of how you felt about the days weather, how your pants fit, how much you want a hair cut. . .



I have basically derailed a novel to spend my time working on the shit in here. Not because I decided to let this happen, it has just kind of organically come up because I write in here a lot, and basically I shoot my wad.


On my first book, it was the center of my universe. My own personal Hitler or Jesus. I judged myself by this novel. Used to get up at three thirty in the morning to write before work and school. Used to make myself sit down and write no matter how I felt, though as often as not, I loved the idea of writing and the hours passed un noticed.
When the blog started, I was just going to put up my stories, poetry, and excerpts from my novel. Then I started just kind of writing letters to the general public. Eventually, since I do live a kind of monk-like life most of the time, I found my entries were often boring to the point of unreadible.

I erased a hell of a lot of them.

My solution to the lack of an 'interesting life' (a curse in China, as we humans would be well served to remember before going out and creating more of those 'interesting stories,' though we won't) came accidently. I decided to go back into my past to write tales from when I was more of a slut cab driver. This delving into my own past led me to creating a huge scandal in my family, which kept the blog way too interesting for a few long, long months. Between this and my old writing and my novel notes, the blog became a messy mix of this and that which was not consistently interesting enough.

Like the accident of circumstance that led me to writing a blog, my meeting a writer named Jason Pettus, who everyone should look up and read . . . the turn toward comedy that the blog has taken came up when I started a literary reading, and found that though I had been reading 'serious' poetry and literature for years, people liked my comedy better. Having a weekly show to perform for, which I did for like a year, and 'trying' not repeat myself, caused a flurry of writing. Now I have probably seventy nice little funny stories. They are rough in here, and some I would probably never try to publish anywhere except here, where I can let my hair down and eat potatoe chips and belch, etc... but they exist, and I trust that I write okay, so maybe something will happen with the words.

The original question -- what the fuck is a blog ? -- remains woefully unanswered. . . I know, I know, I know -- we had a contract, which started when I kind of promised I was going to define blogs.... but then I just ended up deconstructing the medium down to what happened with the progression of my blog.
I probably can't answer this question for anyone else, anyways... or at least not for anyone interesting.



I am allowing this blog to take over my writing life for various reasons that no doubt range from petty and ill convieved to noble and deluded. Some days this thing seems like the old journals I used to keep, which I eventually got so sick of that I tossed them -- despite a few good lines or whatever, they got very boring and even embarrassing in their descriptions of the minutia of my life. I was always upset over some bill. Year after year of worrying about bills... when I have always paid my utilites and rent, year after year for twenty five years, and still I wasted a shit load of time, not to mention I felt like total shit about this stuff, like a loser.

I now look at the elves attic as my magazine. The stuff I write could not be used by newspapers, and there are few underground magazines that cater to the punk sensibility. I could get the stuff in here published in the small presses, but I am tired of publishing in them. Seems like Vanity to me. I have a good record when it comes to getting stuff published -- I get in about 75% of the time. BUT... I was not exactly submitting to the New Yorker, you know? I stayed with the small presses, where there is no money at all to be made. I didn't send my stuff to the big magazines because deep in my heart I hate myself occasionally, and this side of me shades all of my thinking with doubt. . .

I ended up describing a blog, rather than defining one... maybe that is all one can do at this point in the infancy of this writing form? Definitions always lead to some kind of reductionism, anyways...


(for those who wonder, I will give an example of how I use 'reductionism:' you can't describe a person without leaving so much out that you end up making people whatever their job is or how attractive they are or their race or nationality or... all things that reduce humans, mis-represent them -- like anytime we get sloppy and rely on old myths to emotionally or intellectually prop up our thinking selves).
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CAGED KIDS??? Makes all too much sense to me.

Fucking ill conceived humans!!! Why is there suddenly all this rage about a few kids being in cages when they do this to dogs and cats and most all other animals with impunity!!!! Not to mention the general lack of concern in the world over force fed fucking geese with a tube going down their throat and into their stomach through which grain is stuffed until their liver explodes...

Come on, we are no better than they are... if we can cage dogs and cats (don't even get me started on farm animals), then why not really stupid, destructive people? Wait, hey, we do that with prisons already!!!!

The foam from my mouth is covering the keyboard, soaking down into the keys and slowly sh ortin g out my com pppp uter....

Nah, just kidding... that was terrible for those innocents, of course... but no charges have been filed, and there may be a reason for that which surfaces yet? I mean, they would probably be in jail already, had a PSYCHOLOGIST NOT RECOMMENDED THIS TREATMENT!!!

Hey, I expect the worst of humans, and these parents may just turn out to be collecting government checks on kids they don't care about, but I still have to chuckle over something today, so it might as well be over what hypocrites we are.

There is a certain liberation in realizing that you are a hypocrite -- a softening of the soul ensues when you realize that you are no better than anyone else at all, merely a different set of genes and environment playing all the same old ape games that our minds are THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

elvis saves?

listening to old love songs to feel something more
than
the slow

thinning of my soul


this dissolution into dust
goes on

and


on


some days
minutes grow long as years go by in a blink


My soul feels crinkly
like used cellophane
wrinkled and stained

"We're caught in a trap,"


elvis screams "I can't walk out,
because I love you too much baby."





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whispers to a cat

Chadwinkle pulled his mouth away from the bong and let out a long breath of pungent white and gray weed clouds. "We're in, like, the post hero period. The Simpsons, anti-heros of cinema... the herioc act has become a shining moment in otherwise boring or flawed lives... and those who still do buy the myths of the hero are so fucking backward. Damn the christians the muslims and the jews amd all the other mind crappers."
As he talks to the small party of friends who ended up coming home with him when the bar closed, he takes a straightened paper clip and shoves it into the bowl and pushes the gray ashes down into the water, then packs another round of the lime green weed. "Look at tv. The differences between the heros has changed dramatically in the last few years. They are the tip of some iceburg, these writers... I mean, literature has been this forever. Writers and other degenerates definantly have known about this one forever."


He hands the red plastic bong, stained black on the sides from a few years use, over to his Frinks, a slim, balding, dark haired man in his mid thirties who always wore a baseball cap. Frinks was part of the reason the Chadwinkle made his guests play what he claimed was a parlor game. Frinks was the chattering Neal Cassidy in their crowd, the way loudest voice. There was no stopping him from dominating the conversation, usually. So, whenever very stoned people came home with him after some event, he would pretend to have a hard and fast rule that whoever had the bong has to speak, and the rest have to remain silent. He told them, and it was sort of true, in a vague way, that he wanted everyone to tell their stories, even the quiet ones, because he was on a quest to know everything about everything, including people, and he would not be robbed of the introverts opinions.

The party game lie was always taken with good cheer by his friends, who all secretly thought Chadwinkle always dominated the conversation, though they all had to admit, among themselves when he wasn't around and the topic of his word spewing came up, that he was also an extremly good listener, who genuinely loved to hear other people talk. Indeed, Chadwinkle often thought he was an introvert who tried to pass himself off as an extrovert, though he was just as often usure that the two terms had any real meaning.

Frinks blew his hit toward a gray cat perched on the top of a beige carpeted cat tree. "Cats love to get stoned. Not that you should get them stoned. I mean, why get them used to it? I had a cat that ate a bud once. This gray tiger boy with a white tum, he sat there for two days with his eyes crossed, just purring loud as hell. Yea, Chadwinkle, sure... the hero does seem to be dead. Look at American Dad? That guy is a psycho killer, who alleges to have a heart of gold." He packs the bong and then carefully hands it to the woman sitting beside him on the black leather couch.

Birtles had been to Chadwinkles more than any of them. She like all the windows looking out on Lakeshore and the animals, though mostly the conversation brought her back. Trim and short with blonde hair streaked with blue highlights, she liked to wear dresses and fem out to the max, making her a very pleasent sight. "I know what you mean. Heros are about having someone to love, someone who really rises to the occasion of life and lives in a way you want to emulate... then the churches burn in the fires of pedophilia, not to mention the sparks that have been smoldering since Nietsch declared us in the post god period of our cultural evolution. Love has kind of become the last realm of the mythic hero. People still mythologize each other in the name of love. We almost have to to get along, to help someone through something gross, like cleaning up their vomit when they have the flu, or whatever. People seem to love these heros, though he or she is only in the mind -- in thoughts fictionalized by all the myths of love that erupt in our subconscious when we think of this shit."

The orange tiger cat slowly saunters across the back of the couch behind Frinks head, where he had been laying since before the party had come in, leaps to the floor and slowly walks down the hall to the bedroom. He stops in the doorway and surveys the room; finding the accomidations both quiet and warm, he happily leaps up onto the bed and lays down on the plush gray comforter for a nap.

ON THE DYING

The shoots now they were bright, succulent green
growing everywhere and everywhichway

too soon, always too soon
they flower themselves to death
grow brown leaved
scrawny
pathetic
get tossed into the garbage one day
their pot kept
or not

the season passes
as all the seasons have before
and will again

they surround me in pictures
taunt me from memories
the ever gathering dead ghosts
all shoots and flowers once
tossed now
soon to be erased even from the memories of the livingTHOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

W. KEEPS FUCKING CALLING ME FOR WEED!!!

As I watched the presidents speech tonight, I was surprised to receive a call by the W. "Hey, asshole... got any weed?"
"I thought you were on tv?"
"Oh, that's a fucking robot, man. My dad had that made while he was a working with Reagen, so he could run the damn thing for president, should I decide to do something else, you know?"
"Like travel around the world killing hookers?"
"How the hell did you know that?"
"You've told me this like ten times."
"Well, fuck ya then. And all you damn liberal weasels. You probably think the flood did all that damage down in New Orleans, don't you?"
"Well, yes..."
"That was all the looting, man. The water didn't hurt shit."
"What?"
"Look, man, I gotta go check out some of those new whack off devices that I have RAND corporation coming up with. I got them and like twenty think tanks working on this shit... maximizing my pornographic experiences, you know? Shit, man, I am styling. What the hell did you call me for?"
"To tell you that I um...well, I don't have any weed at all. Not even a bud... for me, that I can't spare...."
"Don't call me unless you got weed. Rock on, weasel balls."

Then he hung up. I sure as hell wish that guy would quit calling me, but I'm afraid to say anything because he has a tendency to have so many people killed.... I never should have told him I can get weed.


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the cult of admo

Aldmo leaned back in his chair, propped his feet up on his desk, closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. 'Shit, I have got to get rid of this cult!!'

Admo had picked up the cult while in eastern Germany, sort of inheriting it. He had been touring, in a broken down van, with a Rick James cover band. They were playing at a small pub when the cults fundamentally whacko leader fell over dead.

Something about Admo singing on the stage under the lights caught them somehow, and they prayed on the matter and decided to elect him the new head of their cult.

He stayed up all night after the gig listening to them tell him about basically being controlled by a fundamentalist guy who had whacky beliefs about the colors of toothbrushes changing ones psychic aura and all sorts of crap that made Admo laugh his ass off, at first... until after three days of their incessently following him everywhere, he started to realize that since they had all been raised in the cult, they basically had no idea how to navigate the world on their own.

Over the week they stayed at the village he was just drunk and coked up enough to think he could help them out by trying to talk them out of being religous. A period their literature referred to as The Great Testing, after a lie he had made up when he realized that someone was going to have to lead the cult, and he figured that it was probably better to have a scientific atheist run a religion than about anyone else. Not to mention, they turned out to have a decked out touring bus and a hell of a lot of cash. And they were pretty good roadies and the chicks were hot and.... one thing turned into another and three years later he was the leader of the largest cult in Fort Wayne, Indiana.

"I am fucking not evil enough to run a goddamn religon." He told himself.

For the last year he had been trying to find some religious type to take over the cult, but they were all either weirdos or full of shit or something else that he couldn't stand. "They're like my pets, now." He said this without any denigration intended at all, because he was a devote pet owner, and indeed was partial of saying he liked animals better than people and was secretly afraid it was true.

"Aldmo, old boy, what if you should have a cult, just to make them safer than they would be without? They're seldom depressed, they love all that tougue talking and crap... No, I gotta get rid of this cult."
And he did. Simply walked away... and spent a year washing dishes and reading a lot at libraries.

A few years later, Admo was sitting alone having breakfest in an empty house reading the paper and came across three names he recognized from the cult -- all dead from a serial killer, who just happened to be able to sing an almost uncanny Elvis.

"Shit, there just is no fucking Moral to anything, is there?" He told a peice of toast.

A cat walked up to his chair, rubbed against the leg. Admo reached down and petted the gray tiger, then scooped it up and set the purring cat on his lap. "Maybe I should have kept them as pets?"



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THE MIGHTY BEAT THEM TO TWITCHES AND PISS HAMSTER ARMY IS LEAN AND RESTLESS AND SIDLINED...

THE MIGHTY BEAT THEM TO TWITCHES AND PISS HAMSTER ARMY HAS BEEN SIDELINED AND THEY ARE PISSED. Their whiskers are twitching madly in dismay. This Army should be fighting those sunni's by now, leaping out of cameflouged holes in the ground and just going all shit to the fan, scratching and tearing at their ankles, and other hamster accessible target areas. To say more would be to break my security oath. The little furry whiskered ones would have been shipping out to Iraq today, like the W. said when we talked on the phone. I can't write much about this matter, and you will see why if you read on...

This morning I get this very strange call from some educated white sounding guy. He said he was with 'the administration.' though he would not tell me his name. He said that he was following up on all th I took this to mean the republican. He was calling up the people who the W. had told classified information. Or that's what they said at first, at least.

In a stern voice that was just enough like Troy Mclurg to make me laugh, "Do you know what would happen if people knew about the presidents consumption of drinkee poos, as he calls them. You gotta love that jokester. He is the product of the fraternity system, you know? The man who will sit naked on a block of ice for eight hours, he is a true frat who can do anything. Anyways, Mr. Pain, Johnny, middle initial S., born in Garrett, Indiana in 1962... you have a cat and a dog that you are somewhat overly attatched to, eh? Pet them a bit too much. Seeking your lost sense of security perhaps?"
"Oh, no, dude, I am not going to listen to you slander my cat and dog. You can dis me, but not the bubbas. I just treat them...."
"Save it for someone who cares, okay? I got to get through this with you and call some more people. Man, I wish he would quit calling Michael Jackson. That creep with his little boys all dressed up like the characters from Peter Pan... Makes me wish I could kill the rich and powerful, but... hey, they pay the bills. Now Pain, if you violate this directive to remain silent about anything The Rockstar W. said over the phone -- and we have a tape, so we know what he prattled on about... god, it was insufferable... anyways, we will haul your ass in and charge your scrawny white self with terrorism, and send you on a lovely little trip to a cage in the hot Cuban sun. With the Patriot Act, we can leave you strapped to a cot, laying in your own excrement, going crazier and crazier, for as long as we consider you a threat, and I will make sure that is forever. Upi will forget who you fucking are... Or should I say, used to be? You will be a worthless shit after this, scared of everything and everyone, wandering the goddamn streets looking for a buzz to take the edge off the horror the horror of trying to get by living on the streets. You'll be getting your ass kicked by drunken, communist leaning teenagers...
In fact, research into the twisted, warping of the minds of serial killers (who are usually the product of extreme emotional and sexual abuse, but not always--there are those born without an ability to emphasize with the pain in the world. The only way you will find satisfaction will be to inflict harm on others, to be honest. Irony, huh? It's everywhere these days. Well, you'll find out about all that on your own, when you are in the federal house of corrections, I suppose. Unless you do as I say... and let me say, you'll be something of hero. So, what is it prison, or helping out the The US government, which is counting on you, man. Do not fuck this up. The war effort itself could be in jeopardy. We thought about killing you, by the way. Almost did. Shit, you would be dead by now. I could going down to the pound to watch them euthanize animals. Oh, well..."

"Well, look, I watch Columbo, and Starsky And Hutch, and their informants always get a few bucks. I think fifty bucks would be apropriate. I mean, there is also all the time I spent on preperations for a massive troop movements -- we were ready to go all ape shit on them Sunni's, wipe out all the terrorist in three hours. Seriouslyu, this has taken hours and billable hours of of my valuable time, here bucko?"
"The CIA is happy to compensate civilians for working with us."
"Oh, cool. I just asked because what the hell, if I got a few bucks, which I seriously need, then all the better, right?"
"In six to eight weeks, you will receive in the mail something much nicer, what is considered quite a nice little toaster. They go for over 200 dollars retail, though I think we get some kind of knock off from China for 12 bucks. You can bet little kids were losing fingers in some hell hole factory to get these toasters this cheap. Hey, all this is confidential, okay? I had some scotch and coke and I'm feeling chattered... Chattered, get it? The Rolling Stones?"
"Yea, yea, I get it... a toaster? I have a goddamned toaster."
"Keep these events secret or risk getting strapped down on a metal bed where you will lay in your own waste and be fed just enough to make you feel like you are starving every damn day... beatings, poor German Sheperds forced to attack. The suffering. . . yes, daily, unrelenting suffering until we know everything we need. We will break your mind, and your every thoughts will be like jagged pieces of glass cutting into your deepest selves."
"Wow."
"That's from my book."
"Oh." I tremble in fear at the thought of this spy boring me unto death with a sloppy description of a book that only he loves. Luckily, he is militant and cuts to the chase. "Look, Pain, no one hears about the president's feloniously alleged, though perfectly legal, use of alcohol. The way this goes, when he gets drunk, like he has at least a few times since his supposed 'VOW OF ABSTINANCE.
(THIS HAPPENS TO BE TRUE: my source is The Bush Dyslexicon -- which radicalizes readers in a seemingly productive manner).



part two below


Well, this is a little ass backwards, but I suppose I should write about my converstaion with W. The call was generated by a letter I sent to him asking him to kindly acknowledge the green house effect, so money can be funnelled into trying to stop the eventual destruction of the ecoshpere. Evidently Bush read the letter and had no idea what it said. All he read, and what he mentioned, was my salutation, the one I presently always use, 'Respect and Love.' He started going on about new weapons systems, talking about them like they were chicks. And I swear, he started breathing heavy for about two minutes, then grunted and stopped. As I talked to him, I heard him mumble quietly to himself, "Where in the hell is that jiz rag?"
We didn't just talk about weapons and shit, though he did go on about that stuff like some guys discuss pussy, I must say...
The W. introduced himself as the rockstar president w, then started rambling fast and frantic, all neal cassidy... I don't know what he was on, but he was tapping his foot and twiddling his thumbs as he said, "Some goddamn shrink thinks I call up you average citizens who love me and will shower me with praise simply to boost my ego. But hell no, that ain't it. I make these peoples day, give the whole family a tale they can tell. Now, what the fuck... am I on the radio, tv, or something?"

"No, just the phone."
"What's your goddamn name?" He demanded in an irritated voice, then in an even more crusty and loud voice said, "Oh, never the hell mind, You know, when I make these here calls, I love to just touch myself. . . you know, rub the boys and big daddy, you know..."
"Uhm, okay, dog... are you doing this right now?"
"Maybe I am, maybe I ain't.":
"I choose to believe you are not doing it."
"Nah, I am just playing one of my famouos little tricks on people, like when I called up all those people and told them their kids were dead, when they weren't.. had to hush that up, but it seemed like a good idea... no, kid, I only touch myself when I am talking to girls... I call guys during my rest period, while I wait for the dragon to rise up again, you know. Ha, I got you man. This is like that show with the people on it who trick people. And animals, I think. I like tricking my dog into thinking it is going for a walk, and then beat the hell out of it until it pisses out of fear whenever it sees you... ah, now that is a rush. Oh, well. . . all that is not true, and none of this can be proven, you hear me? Don't make me disappear your sorry white ass. I will do it!"


"Hey Johnny these are fawning women, man, and they take orders sometimes from this old commander and chief... when I am alone I pull up some hot porno action on the computer. I wipe the spurts of jiz into what has become a fairly stiff hankerchef. I keep that bastard jiz rag hid behind my desk drawer, where the maid or the Russians or anycan't take it and try to sell it to someone to clone my highly electible ass. I keep my very most favorite stuff in that drawer. The button to set off the nuclear bombs is in there.. I havemy very most favorite marbles and a religious coloring book. I can honestly say, that while I can't quite stay in the lines when I do these damn things, this colorable book told the kind of story that I honestly could understand and I damn well did grow into some nicer persony thing. I don't want to get too tecnical and throw the bone heads in the audience, like me! Why the hell aren't you ungrateful elephant fuckers laughing at my joke? Oh, well, I couldn't hear them. What the hell am I talking about? why did I call you when I was in a meeting?"
"Liquor."
"Oh, yea... They all pretend I'm not whacking frog, just continue their meetings. Hell, I have to stay for a half hour, every day. That is about the shortest work week man, and really, isn't that what it is all about in the end?"
I told him, "Look, dude, I do not feel comfortable hearing about your jiz rag..."
"What did you say?" His voice changed, became cold and steely, reminded me of cops ordering criminals around. I was talking to the w, a man who has a personal secret police foirce ready to do whatever he orders. And an entire goddamn armies to fuck with people. Nuclear bombs... suddenly I was slightly afraid for the people around me, the animals that rely on me... I am strangely ambivilent about my own death.

Hoping to put out the flames on our burning bridge, I added, "Sorry if my stupid fear of jizz rags made me say that to you, our commander and cheif. Damn devil made me do it. Get behind me satan... I gotta say, too, that your honest view on the topic of coloring books is genius, sheer genius... in fact, in your sharp and wily mind, I believe there is a warrior, poet, genius."

"Well, hell yes, my momma done told me that I was a friggin genius so many times... I believed her until college, where this old gray thingy in skull proved no match for shit like math and english and crap.... didn't need it, and some how I knew that. This is what it is like to be great. You know goddamn well what? All those damn reporters that write about me like I am some dum, psychopedillwhip, or something... They are actually saying that my Mom, who has known about my genius since before I was born, is lying. Dammit, that riles up my blood!!
Shit, this means I am going to have to put a serious hurt on those bastards. No one goes after my mummy doo. Mum is so smart. She once said Steven Hawkins was a genius, after he was on tv talking some gibberish, and later on I read he was a genius. How did she know? Shit, the dog just pissed on the goddamn bed. Right on the comforter beside me... I ain't in our bedroom, I'm in this guest room where I keep my porno and shit. I made it illegal for anyone to entire this room. It's a death penalty offense. Oh, sweet lord, that damn beagle really let loose... I'm laying here in some room with a goddamn name that I can't ever pronounce. hat the hell are we talking about?"
"Oh, we were done sir, just ready to hang up."
He immediately called back. I didn't pick up the phone. He called again and again. Then I started imagining the w sending a swat team in to grab me. So I picked up the phone.

"Are you alright little buddy? Did you have a goddamn heart attack from the sheer joy of being almost in my personal very presence. I always thought this would happen. Yea, doggie... Anyhoo, I have an ambulance on the way... No, I told them they had to use a helicopter, because they are a trip to ride in, man. A fucking trip."

An ambulance showed up, a cop, paramedics... someone passed out coffee, just before the helicopter arrived; the whirling blades sucked the hot coffee out of the cups and splashed instant fire onto the faces of the hurting people who got hit.

I'm really not supposed to write about what we talked about next, but since nobody in thier right mind would read down this far in this entry, let me just add for you twisted folk that one united states president was very excited about my idea about training hamsters to replace our human troops. He especially liked how much money the government will save by making the small hamster armies.

He told me, "You could make like about thirty seven, maybe thirty six and a half, outfits for hamsters from just one goddamn human soldiers outfit. Hot damn!!" cloths."

This and other advantages of using hamsters were discussed. I can't write anymore about this matter, because the mighty beat them to twitches and piss hamster army must keep its strategies out of enemy hands. I got nervous and jumpy -- I did not want to be strapped to a couch encased in my own excrement. I kept picturing it and could actually feel the putrid straps across my chest.

Finally, he changed the subject back to himself, and started lecturing me, not letting me say anything, just drunkenley talking over my every word. He gave graphic descriptions of various 'enemy kills in in Iraq and Afganistan, which he considered his own psychopathic kills; he kept calling the body count his 'precious,' which is way over done but still a little funny to me.

I really wanted to hang up on W. The risks were just too damn high. I sat there listening to him go on an on thinking about how he could have me killed just like that and my whole life and work could be disappeared (saw it on x files, choose to believe it for the hell of it). He went on until someone came in to clean up the doig piss on the bed. "Oh, you're here."

and then he just hung up without so much as a goodbye.

I hung up my own phone and for some reason, now I feel kind of soiled inside, like I used to feel when women slept with me only to have fun, then left with little pieces of my hear... ashamed of myself... My self-esteem was gone... Don't know why?

May you have a day that reminds you of guantamano bay so well that you will need plastic surgery to make your mangled genitilia recognizable as a sex organ.

(*about this ending.. I used to put on all my entries a blurb wishing people very nasty days. I did this mostly for kicks, I admit, but I also feel deeply for the people trapped in that prison, and the torturing of American prisoner has to be fessed up to and confronted--the majority must decide how nasty they want the carriers of their name to be. And don't fool yourself, just being anti-bush will not change how much the world hates us right now.





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THOUGHTS ON BUSH

Various strains of thought have been rumbling through my mind over the last few days, a lot of silent moments on the beach staring out over the lake at the horizon. My scheming and fiction plotting and thinking about issues is all done in a hidden world in the grayish sponge in my skull. My physical form painted and is very fucking happy with the results, thank you very much, walked the dog through the park and into the lake, read a long introduction to a copy WALT WHITMANS LEAVES OF GRASS; in a book that contained the way he first published the book, which grew over 200 pages as the poet added to the work he considered his 'bible (Walk basically worked on this book all his life, and became a bit deluded in the end and started feeling like he was the gods choice to bring a new gospel to America; regardless, the book is fabulous, even if this one critic who obviously knows a hell of a lot more about the topic than kind of disses it in the introduction to this edition, which has Walt on the cover, and a nice marketing ribbon attatched to mark my page; let me just end this digression by saying that reading walk Whitman aloud in the bath tub is a transcendental experience -- he was trying to evoke religiosity and nationalism and love in the reader/listener, and firmly believed that only when his work was read aloud was there magic in the air). Wow... Really digressed, there eh?

Digressing on to another topic to avoid having to confront seeing THE LORD OF THE FLIES acted out by way, way too many of the supposedly civilized poor, mostly black they thought there was a golden lining to this heavy, heavy cloud... How would I feel, left in the city to fend for myself? I would have to break in someplace and get food -- the dog and cat have to eat, and I would not hesitate to blow away some nonsharing fucking jerk with a shotgun to feed my precious ones... But, this was not the case with most of these looters. Most of them are thieves all the time, some just shyster types who don't return the money when a cashier mistakenly gives them too much, and then of course there were the otherwise good people driven half mad by the storm, and seeking some emotional solace by obtaining new BRIGHT AND SHINY THANGS!!!

There is a map that I was looking at today that charts what land the oceans will reclaim due to the greenhouse melting the arctic ice, and New Orleans is expected to be a nice place to scuba dive for relics. I may get unlazy and call my buddy, whose house I was at when we got to discussing this matter and I told him of seeing the map on the net and told him the site. J Bird pulled up a blue outline of the united states, and the text at the top explained that the red shows what will soon be under water, due to all these cars and industrial growth shit... Yea, we seem to have fucked ourselves big time here...


WELCOME TO THE POST-ORIGINAL ENVIRONMENT PHASE OF HUMANITIES MESSY JOURNEY

All I can say is a whisper to a cat
words fall to the floor
smash

embedded in vowels and consonants
sounds usually amusing to my mind
bring nothing to the party

Humans Pray And Beg And Steal and some act
with no regard to others,
fuck some guy in prison
who is screaming and bleeding
and they don't give a damn...

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Now they government doesn't want the beat them to piss and twitches hamster army.

They would have been shipping out to Iraq today, like the W, said when we talked on the phone. I can't write much about this matter, and you will see why if you read on...

This morning I get this very strange call from some educated white sounding guy. He said he was with 'the administration,' though he would not tell me his name. He said that he was following up on all the people W. had contacted during his binge and given away national security secrets. That's what they said, at least.
"Do you know what would happen if people knew about the presidents consumption of drinkee poos, as he calls them. you gotta love that jokester.... Anyways, if you violate this mandate, we will haul your ass in under the Patriot Act and leave you strapped to a cot, laying in your own excrement, going crazier and crazier, until you forget who you fucking are... Or should I say, used to be? Because you will be a worthless shit after this, scared of everything and everyone, wandering the goddamn streets getting your ass kicked by drunken, communist leaning teenagers... In fact, the only way you will find satisfaction will be to inflict harm on others, to be honest.. Well, you'll find out about all that on your own, when you are in the federal house of corrections, I suppose. The US government is counting on you, man, so do not fuck this up. The war effort itself could be in jeopardy. We thought about killing you, by the way. Almost did. Shit, you would be dead by now. Oh, well..."

"Is there any money involved in this?"
"You get what is quite a nice little toaster."
"A toaster," I asked. "I have a goddamned toaster."
"Do it to keep from getting strapped to a cot. It will break your mind, your thoughts will be like jagged pieces of glass cutting into your deepest selves."
"Wow."
"That's from my book."
"Oh." I tremble in fear at the thought of him lecturing me on his book. Luckily, he finally cuts to the chase... Turns out, they don't want anyone to say the W. Is still getting drunk -- or at least has numerous times since his alleged vow at 40 to get rid of his frathouse demeanor and 'act' like a man. (my source is The Bush Dyslexicon -- radicalized ones thinking in a very productive manner).

I guess I should write more about the call from the W. We didn't just talk about weapons and shit, though he did go on about that stuff like some guys discuss pussy, I must say...
First thing he did was tell m, "Some goddamn shrink thinks he calls up average citizens to boost my ego. But hell no, that ain't it. What's your goddamn name? Oh, never the hell mind, I won't keep ahold of nothing about now... You know, when I make these here calls, I sometimes touch myself. Only while talking to the girls. Ha, got you man." These are fawning women, man, and they take orders sometimes from this old commander and chief... I sin into what has become a fairly stiff hankerchef. Keep that bastard hid behind my desk drawer, where the maid can't take it and try to sell it to someone to clone my highly electible ass. I keep a lot of nice stuff in that drawer... got my very most favorite marbles and a religious coloring book. I can honestly say, that while I can't quite stay in the lines, this colorable book tells the kind of story that I honestly understand and can damn well grow from into some nice thing... Yea, some very, very nice thing. Oh, what the hell am I talking about?"

I told him, "Look, dude, I do not feel comfortable hearing about your jiz rag..." I suddenly had this cold feeling run down my spine as I realized that the psycho I was talking to had secret police and entire goddamn armies to fuck with people. So I added, "Not that that matters much. Sorry if my stupid fear of jizz rags made me say that to our commander and cheig. I gotta say, too, that your honest view on the topic of coloring books is genius, sheer genius... in fact, in your sharp and wily mind, I believe there is a warrior, poet, genius."

"Well, hell yes, my momma done told me that so many times... You know goddamn well what? All those damn reporters that write about me like I am some dum, psychopedillwhip, or something... They are actually saying that my Mom, who has known about my genius since before I was born. She could tell, she said. Everyone in my damn family is a genius, and Mom can tell. She said Steven Hawkins was a genius, and he is too... man, when I found that I out I called Mom and... Shit, the dog just pissed on the goddamn bed. I'm laying here in some room with a damn name I can't ever pronounce (sic) all right and such, and the dog pissess... Goddamn it. I was watching a little porn, then when it was break time, I called people. What the hell are we talking about?"
"Oh, we were done sir, just ready to hang up.
He immediately called back. I didn't pick up the phone, and he called again and again. Finally I picked up the phone.

"Are you alright little buddy? You had a goddamn heart attack from the sheer joy of being in my presence. I always thought this would happen. Yea, doggie... Anyhoo, I have an ambulance on the way... No, I told them they had to use a helicopter, because they are a trip to ride in, man. A fucking trip."

Then I had to tell all these damn people to go away... The helicopter sucked the coffees I was taking to them up in the air and spit the hot java into the faces of some paramedic -- who used the ambulance to get his extensive facial burns looked at.

I'm really not supposed to write about what we talked about next, but since nobody in their right mind would read down this far in this entry, let me just add for you twisted folk that one united states president was very excited about my idea about training hamsters to replace our human troops. He especially liked how much money the government will save by making the small hamster armies. He told me, "You could make like about thirty seven, maybe thirty six and a half, outfits for hamsters from just one goddamn humans cloths."

This and other advantages of using hamsters were discussed, but I shouldn't write anymore, just in case... I am suddenly nervous and jumpy -- I do not want to be strapped to a couch encased in my own excrement.


Suddenly he changed the subject back to himself, and started telling me about all the kills in Iraq, which he considered his own psychopathic kills. I really wanted to hang up on him, but you just never know... He could have me killed just like that and my whole life and work could be disappeared (saw it on x files, choose to believe it for the hell of it)He went on until someone came in to clean up the piss and then he just hung up without so much as a goodbye. I hung up my own phone and for some reason, now I feel kind of used and ashamed of myself... Don't know why?


May you have a day that reminds you of guantamano bay so well that you will need plastic surgery to make your mangled genitilia recognizable as a sex organ.


(*about this ending.. I used to put on all my entries a blurb wishing people very nasty days. I did this mostly for kicks, I admit, but I also feel deeply for the people trapped in that prison, and the torturing of American prisoner has to be fessed up to and confronted--the majority must decide how nasty they want the carriers of their name to be. And don't fool yourself, just being anti-bush will not change how much the world hates us right now.


I guess I should write more about the call from the W. We didn't just talk about weapons and shit, though he did go on about that stuff like some guys discuss pussy, I must say...
First thing he did was tell m, "Some goddamn shrink thinks he calls up average citizens to boost my ego. But hell no, that ain't it. What's your goddamn name? Oh, never the hell mind, I won't keep ahold of nothing about now... You know, when I make these here calls, I sometimes touch myself. Only while talking to the girls. Ha, got you man." These are fawning women, man, and they take orders sometimes from this old commander and chief... I sin into what has become a fairly stiff hankerchef. Keep that bastard hid behind my desk drawer, where the maid can't take it and try to sell it to someone to clone my highly electible ass. I keep a lot of nice stuff in that drawer... got my very most favorite marbles and a religious coloring book. I can honestly say, that while I can't quite stay in the lines, this colorable book tells the kind of story that I honestly understand and can damn well grow from into some nice thing... Yea, some very, very nice thing. Oh, what the hell am I talking about?"




I told him, "Look, dude, I do not feel comfortable hearing about your jiz rag..." I suddenly had this cold feeling run down my spine as I realized that the psycho I was talking to had secret police and entire goddamn armies to fuck with people. So I added, "Not that that matters much. Sorry if my stupid fear of jizz rags made me say that to our commander and cheig. I gotta say, too, that your honest view on the topic of coloring books is genius, sheer genius... in fact, in your sharp and wily mind, I believe there is a warrior, poet, genius."




"Well, hell yes, my momma done told me that so many times... You know goddamn well what? All those damn reporters that write about me like I am some dum, psychopedillwhip, or something... They are actually saying that my Mom, who has known about my genius since before I was born. She could tell, she said. Everyone in my damn family is a genius, and Mom can tell. She said Steven Hawkins was a genius, and he is too... man, when I found that I out I called Mom and... Shit, the dog just pissed on the goddamn bed. I'm laying here in some room with a damn name I can't ever pronounce (sic) all right and such, and the dog pissess... Goddamn it. I was watching a little porn, then when it was break time, I called people. What the hell are we talking about?"
"Oh, we were done sir, just ready to hang up.
He immediately called back. I didn't pick up the phone, and he called again and again. Finally I picked up the phone.




"Are you alright little buddy? You had a goddamn heart attack from the sheer joy of being in my presence. I always thought this would happen. Yea, doggie... Anyhoo, I have an ambulance on the way... No, I told them they had to use a helicopter, because they are a trip to ride in, man. A fucking trip."




Then I had to tell all these damn people to go away... The helicopter sucked the coffees I was taking to them up in the air and spit the hot java into the faces of some paramedic -- who used the ambulance to get his extensive facial burns looked at.




I'm really not supposed to write about what we talked about next, but since nobody in their right mind would read down this far in this entry, let me just add for you twisted folk that one united states president was very excited about my idea about training hamsters to replace our human troops. He especially liked how much money the government will save by making the small hamster armies. He told me, "You could make like about thirty seven, maybe thirty six and a half, outfits for hamsters from just one goddamn humans cloths."




This and other advantages of using hamsters were discussed, but I shouldn't write anymore, just in case... I am suddenly nervous and jumpy -- I do not want to be strapped to a couch encased in my own excrement.





Suddenly he changed the subject back to himself, and started telling me about all the kills in Iraq, which he considered his own psychopathic kills. I really wanted to hang up on him, but you just never know... He could have me killed just like that and my whole life and work could be disappeared (saw it on x files, choose to believe it for the hell of it)He went on until someone came in to clean up the piss and then he just hung up without so much as a goodbye. I hung up my own phone and for some reason, now I feel kind of used and ashamed of myself... Don't know why?





May you have a day that reminds you of guantamano bay so well that you will need plastic surgery to make your mangled genitilia recognizable as a sex organ.





(*about this ending.. I used to put on all my entries a blurb wishing people very nasty days. I did this mostly for kicks, I admit, but I also feel deeply for the people trapped in that prison, and the torturing of American prisoner has to be fessed up to and confronted--the majority must decide how nasty they want the carriers of their name to be. And don't fool yourself, just being anti-bush will not change how much the world hates us right now.







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