Welcome to the mind of John Scott Ridgway. Beware falling rocks and angels.

YOU ARE ABOUT TO ENTER WHAT THE INTELLIGENCE COMMUNITY CALLS THE 'WITTING.' The implication being anyone who doesn't know what is truly going on in the world is 'unwitting.' I have an academic/artist background that includes three books, oil painting, radio and tv... though mostly, I write on the web and give the words away. Better read than dead, I always say. I studyied military intelligence, cults, english, history, and philosophy, among other subjects that I took in my quest to have something to say in my work.... I am proud to say I studied under peaceful warriors, like Dr. Danial Stern, an icon in the sixties who hung out with the panthers, dealt with agent provocaters, spies.


Find me on facebook at john scott ridgway... there are two of me... one is active. I trust you can figure it out. Doing a lot of stuff there. Basically showing my daily trek throughout the dozens of papers I peruse while waiting in some bush, pr parked somewhere, you know, out stalking, or whatever, you know... hunting humans, maybe... but not in an illegal way. Really.

I urge you to try out my new Jesus, blog, too. He is nothing like you have read before. This creature from the planet Heaven is mistaken for an alien, a cult leader, a terrorist.... Military intelligence agents and secrets are thrown all over in this blog.... please spread my writing whereever forfree... The book is not just for Christians. I am almost an agnostic... I, Christ... will lead you to heaven, or at least give you a lot to think about. After years of getting mostly a's in college, I can at least parrot a few things you have not heard.

Friday, September 02, 2005


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."
"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?"
"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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