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.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

w. the rockstar president holds my bubbas hostage

Just so you know... The w. demands a twenty one gun salute and lots of flag waving after every successful bowl movement, a Bush tradition that has helped them to often achieve potty training. No word yet though on when W. will finally win his personal battle with 'bad potty.' Until then, they will continue the other Bush tradition that anyone who mentions Depends in their prescence, for any reason, will have their buts corked until they die. . . don't ask him if he farted, or in any way indicate that someone needs to be changed. I've seen him kill for this too often. Those huge but corks that they punish the peasents with are painful. I wouldn't want to wear one for longer than a couple hours...


It was like 6 am in the morning when the red phone rang, the one W. had installed when he determined he could mooch weed off of me. I pick up and he's already talking.

"YEA, AND, MAN, I JUST GOT A REPORT FROM THAT DAMNED DRUG ENFORCEMENT BURRO THAT YOU GOT WEED. Man, you said you would call me when you had some budidge?"

"Don't you ever buy weed? I mean, you're the president, so..."
"None of these fuckers smoke up here, man... and they wouldn't give me any if they did, man... My mom, the old gray tank, she'll cut off their balls. She cut up my first couple connects, now... hell, I can't find a damned banana peel. You got any of those?"
"Banana peels don't get you high."
"Snort enough coke with em, and sure they do."
"They let you have coke, but not pot? That's fucking crazy."
"Coke keeps me cocky, pissed at them fucking liberal maggot breaths... hey, maggot breaths. That's... what the hell was I talking about? No, what were talking about,, I mean?"
"Why do they let you use coke, which is like, a terrible drug? And then the little weed, which enhances rather..."
"Made em agree to it before I would run. I told dad, said, look pops, I gots to have the brewskis and the nose candy, but other than that.. I'll do whatever. Hell, sure, I can send thousands of kids to their deaths to get revenge for you, dad... At least I think that is the way it went. I get my breifs every morning in the form of little cartoons they draw. Only way I will read anything. That's in my little agreement too. They made me sign it with the blood of a dead hooker, which is how the skull and bones sign everything, even grocery lists... shit, quit talking about the skull and bones. I have nothing to say about them."
"Uh, okay."
"I'm glad I could clear that up for you, fine american."
"You forgot my name again?
"No, your... checking the phone records for something, not your name, no... Guy With Weed."
"Well, like I told you, I let you smoke some more of my weed, you got to let me lead a team of navy seals in to Bahrain, to take out Michael Jack-Off-Your-Son."
"You promise you will kill those damn lamas?"
"No, dog dammit, I will not... I keep forgotting you will forget everything we talk about. Tell your secret service guys that I get to kill the child fucking freak?"
"Yea, you heard him.... it's all on speaker phone, so I can color. What the hell are you talking about? Painting doors? Yea, yea, I am definantly for painting doors. What the hell? I mean, what the hell? We're discussing painting doors? Why the hell do you keep calling me? Hey, we're right outside your place."

I pulled the curtain aside and it was true, there he was, crawling out of a black limosine that seemed to literally be stuffed with slutty dressed whores of all shapes and sizes and enthnic back-o-ground.

I hate the man, but what can you do when someone will have your pets killed if you don't pick up the phone? He means this shit, has all kinds of people across the country getting thier asses kicked for dissing him in the past. Like he started with people who gave him the quote 'evil eye' in kindergarten. It's like, everyone in his class. He was known, like some idiot savant, in college for being able to remember everyones names. Who knew it was because he put them all on lists to get their asses kicked -- at the behest of his mother, of course.. the true power behind the Bush Dynasty (remember when she said the people in the lousiana disaster were better off since they were poor and had less to lose... ugh... pictures of lives long lost are worth more than their mansions. Rich folk get so sick, especially the dynastic ones.. the bushes go back to psuedo english royalty... in fact, we are more than likely related... as much as this sickens).

Two secret service guys burst in. One grabbed Buk and held a knife to the squirming cats throat, the other grabbed ruby and held a forty five to her head as she licked his hand...

W. always does this because he thinks I have a tendency to bogart, which I do not, and he swears a pet will die next time. He always forgets this, but his secret service guys don't. They love to kill small animals. I asked them about it once and they were all like, "Uh, that's for training."
"Why do you masterbate while your doing it, then?" I asked these two of them, all dressed in black fatigues and dark sunglasses and field hats with the floppy brim pulled down over their foreheads.
"In case we are called on to rape someone to death. Happened to my dad all the time in Nam."
"Yea," the quiter one added, "we do it because one day, we may have to protect... your children."
"I don't have any children."
"Did you kill em? I know how it is... They get to yelling and you pull a knife out of your boot and gut em, then cut the ears off and wear em around your neck and dance, just dance until you can't dance anymore."
"No! Goddamn, it...."

But that was another day... Today, I met the W. at the door and just gave him my weed. I can always call up Spike and get more. The agents then tried to leave with my pets, but I called em on it... with my fine little black Uzi aimed at their balls (a present from the W., meaning he needed weed so he took a gun off one of his bodyguards and gave it to me pretending it was a thoughtful gift.. and he will never pay that guy back, you can just bet). W. grabbed the weed without a word, went back to his limo. When he opened the door, I caught another glimpse of the whores, and a flat screen showing porn that was so disgusting I immediantly repressed it and now, in my memory, see only happy dancing bunnies on the screen...

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