Mostly I am on my other blog lately, http://theelvesattic.blogspot.com and my site where I am pounding out my late3st book, http://wakingupjesus.blogspot.com
... or I am going to smack ya!!!!! Don't get me riled over this, go on, put it down!!!"
Maybe I am delusional to tell this kind of thing to a dog, but only time will tell. I just don't want animals to make the same mistakes that lead humans to become such hypocritical clouds of shit specks.
Though M., with her tendency to JUMP TO CONCLUSIONS, thinks I am wasting time that I should be spent working on that 'amned book,'and painting more salable landscapes and what not. Oh, how cold my soul grows at the thought of painting hotel room landscapes.. that is probably her plan for me in the end though, I might as well admit it. This explains a lot, because I can' figure out why she would keep a darko like me around.
Of late she has gone from naysayer to censor, by the way. She wonâ' let me tell other people about the security checks we went through when I became, foolishly enough, convinced she had connections to osama bin laden. Hey, I had some evidence, that has been since lost, but yea, not supposed to be writing about that. M. can be very mean about this shit. I hope she is comfortable wearing the cloak of a censor, that is all I can sayâ?¦.
LATER: M IS MAKING ME ADD THAT SHE IS NOT PRO CENSORSHIP IN ANYWAY AND ... now M. is reading over my shoulder..., OKAY... AND I AM A BUTT BREATHED BUTTERFLY WHO SUCKS WORSE THAN M. SHE MADE ME SAY THAT TOO.)
(now M. is making me come back and say that she really didn't call me names, and also didn't say anything at all except that she wasnâ??t sure she liked being used a censor).
I'm not letting her read this anymore. A strategical error, for sure.
I painted one sorta traditional landscape of the moon over the lake, and now she thinks I am going to continue the style, just because people 'like it so much.' This alone would be enough for me to never, ever paint a traditional landscape again, but that M., she is a materialist and gets all weird when the electricity goes out and stuff. At times like this I have a tendency to tell her, 'Hey, deal with it whine-ass,' since I always forget that it is beyond her, or something, because of instead of the expected laugh, she gets all pissed. There is no logic to her moods!!!
Ruby dog is the only one who listens to my lectures now that the hamsters are gone. Of course, no matter how weighty and important my words, Ruby mistakes any and all attempts at communication as a hint that we are going for a walk. I have tried in no less than four languages to tell her how to kill, still won't listen, just starts bounding about and chasing the cats and all sorts of other somewhat baffling signs of perfect happiness that she experiences at the merest thought of a walk. No dark side at all. With the possible exception of hamster eating, though the verdict is still out on that one and probably will be until M. backs off this stiffling No Torture policy.
I have to talk to them. I don't care if the neighbors bitch. Sometimes my lectures get heated. What can I say. You try reasoning with these three all day, as they contemptuously keep their silence, letting you go on and on. They talk amongst themselves, I am convinced of this (even though I faked tapes that I tried to tell M. was the cats and the dogs talking, and now there seems no way to even approach this topic with her. Like I say, just no logic to that woman's moods.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
THE BEST JOB IN THE WORLD?
Driving in demolition derbies, of fucking course!!! Everyone, except M., seems to know this. Just driving around smashing into other cars and actually getting paid for the privilege! Instead of locked up 'until sober' and sentenced to make restitution and do community service.. . . I told the police on the scene that I was just preparing for a career change -- which is totally fucking true, so I figured they would understand. Two of my fellow working men, that's what I thought these cops were . . . not HATERS of aspiring demolition derby drivers, which they did indeed turn out to be. I say again, damn them and their human rules!!! When I am supreme ruler of this pathetic rock spinning out in the middle of nowhere, you can bet that people who want to be demolition drivers will be treated like fucking kings!!
Should the oppressor, M., decide to let me once again, 'so much as even talk about,' being a demolition derby driver so I can get this job , I would hope, for the only time in my whole damn life, that the cars are covered in bright, impossible to avoid, advertisements -- like those billboards that are shooting around on the ovals these days at 250 miles per hour.
Should the oppressor, M., decide to let me once again, 'so much as even talk about,' being a demolition derby driver so I can get this job , I would hope, for the only time in my whole damn life, that the cars are covered in bright, impossible to avoid, advertisements -- like those billboards that are shooting around on the ovals these days at 250 miles per hour.
THE BALLAD OF JOHNNY PAIN
Johnny Pain stumbles on stage with a gut full of pills and coffee, head full of smoke, holding in front of his waist, in trembling fingers, a clipboard filled with twenty some pages of writing.
He looks out at the crowd and remembers once asking a writing teacher, "What are we supposed to do, huh? Are we supposed to save the world?" The teacher had no answer.
He still isn't sure if he is supposed to try to save the world or what, though he has a few notions that tend to make him believe as much at times, during certain periods of often drug induced earnestness that he can never sustain for long.
He stands in the spotlight holding the clipboard, reads his stuff slow, makes sure every word gets out into the far corners of the room, hoping to somehow do something that means something with his words, even though he really doesn't think reading means anything at all except during the heady, nervous moments he is actually on stage getting laughs and applause and in general being enjoyed as a performer and then all it seems to mean is that he's played some game of being a host and a reader, a simple game with just a few easily boofed through rules..
He dreams of hamsters night after night. Like vicious rats he remembers from his squalid childhood, the hamsters are huge, as big as his forearm, their teeth gnashing slicers of both flesh and bone. He lays in bed after the dream feeling the sheets cold and wet under his body. The dream didn't require a Freud to interpret; he was a writer working on a new character, an asshole with dreams of solving the world's problems with his own personal mercenary armies. More along the lines of waking up a cockroach than an anti-war novel, he had been writing Johnny Pain for close to six months. The character was closer to himself than he liked to write, based on his days driving a cab in college, when he worked out a lot and boxed some, and was just head strong enough to think he was going to kick the worlds ass all by himself. A revolutionary without a revolution, a bemused psychiatrist had once told him as he reassured him that he was normal, going tobe fine, just going through the usual struggles mankind had dealt with since religions first infected our brains with mush...
The writing was affecting his conscious mind as much as his unconscious. The new character, Johnny Pain, was filling his mind with a voice that silently narrated the events of his day to day in a dark, cynical sneer of a tone. Based on a human hating period of Mark Twain's life and other dark shit before and since that he felt had faced the inferno. Pain translated the mundane of the writers day into the horror, the horror; the afternoon before he had sat in a coffee shop falling too far into a new york times article on the wars and ended up coming back into his day to day life bruised and torn and unsure who he would cry for if he even could cry anymore. .
She has been dragged out to a comedy club with a black eye still showing from a fight with a crack salesman the week before. Her sister thought she was crazy to be a cop, and even crazier to be with a high school sweetheart who got drunk and hit her once in a while. Her sister won't believe the black eye is from the job. She half listens as her near twin, says, "I think he hits you for because you can carry a gun and he can't.. You should cut his fucking balls off, or at least him arrested."
"He doesn't mean to do it. He has issues, you know? He just has to quit drinking. He tries."
"You're too embarrassed to let the other cops know?"
"Well, yeah..."
The comedian comes on stage and starts off reading an absurdity about raising a hamster army to do his bidding throughout the world, righting the worlds evil with a bunch of vicious rodents. He is non-chalant about the reading, feels like his work was already done by the time he arrived on stage, the words written down and uploaded to his website, were now about to be read once and then left behind, like the rest of his work, caste off like orphans from his thoughts to wander around in the cyber world searching for publishers.¦
"This next one is more of a rant, than a comedy rant. You can laugh or boo or whatever the hell? Just know, if I am bothered by something you do while I am on stage or off, I will shoot first, okay? This is called A MISANTHROPIC SLIDE DOWN THE SLIPPERY SLOPES. Valid functions abound. Haircuts and ties are required. You will have to learn to do a few corporate dances, kneel properly and kiss proverbial rings, should you wish meat thrown in your cage. Like a weak chimp baring its ass to the alpha male, sooner or later, now and then, no matter how you bare your teeth and growl and plot revenge, you are going to take it in the rear. There is too little time to waste years paying for the fleeting satisfaction of the big crime. I would have killed hundreds with impunity; would have been a hellion cab driver:, shot down every smart mouth, snide yuppie. Pushy old lady, drunken bravado boof and enough etcetera to fill volumes and volumes and volumes. . .
There is too much odious about humanity to avoid becoming a bit of a misanthropic,
A hater of self and others. I am skulking wallpaper wearing black on black to better disappear into the shadows of my mind; a cynical sneer drawing ugly across a face.
I stare back at the mystics from the center of their every doubt. My Black Sabbath of a blog a mere mockery of their delusions. Hating for all I am worth, aching to destroy the unclean, to fire magic bullets that cut down the enemies and leave the little kids alone.
I turn here and there and fire at shadows real and imagined
We rely on the accepted apparatus to kill, accept pulling levers and taking aim through an assassins scope, dropping bombs. During wars and at killings we jump up and down at the foot of the gallows, howling like apes driven into a killing-lust by the smell of salty blood. The wordy ones pretend Nietzsche's theories on a need for revenge have been replaced by a pseudo-stance rap about deterring criminals and terrorists.
We still fry the worst of the killers, declare them no longer worthy of mercy or forgiveness; define all their moments in life by just a few usually drunken crazy moments
.
We send our words around the globe hoping to add definitions of women and slaves and votes and human worth and are rebuffed by the same old evils entrenched since time immortal; those who want control to be the top predators, the ones who still asininely believe there is something to win on this here rock in space, instead of just an endless list to fix. Most pretend some effect every four years, caste a once stolen vote and pretend they want another of the non-choices offered the poor by the rich. All sounds so simple and banal . . .a hamster army might not even prove enough to sway the blood dimmed tide. I would have a lot better idea if you would send me a few?
He moves on to something funnier, reads another ten minutes and becomes filled with the feeling that he should stop reading. He ignores the feeling and goes on, doing his entire forty minute set of murder and mayhem mirth.
The two similar looking women in the front row both listen as the skinny white guy with long hair and stoned looking thin slits of blue eyes starts talking about how he wants to kill people for all the various offenses that his esque view sees in the world. She isn't sure what is so funny about the act, but she is laughing at the words placed in the ways her mind thought of as jokes, with punch lines and surprise twists, touches of the absurdity.... it certainly got better than the slow opening.
He notices the women in front of the stage, slim black and dressed to the nines, sisters obviously; one has a dress showing her milk chocolate shoulders and an enticing view of ample cleavage. One has a badge and a gun, he sees both when she gives the waitress a credit card for their drinks; he wonders if he should back off the truer tales of his dark comedy?
He was what he said he was in a language hidden under laughs, the character he based on his life as a cab driver who killed just to get rid of 'rude fucks.' He goes ahead and talks about how he saw too guys run over a cat, laugh and then back up to kill the wounded animal, how he followed them home, got their names and addresses, and then killed them to avenge the animal. Somehow even this gory tales made the audience laugh. He tells them another, this so dark only a few laughs are created by the words, about an old woman who gets mugged repeatedly by a crack whore, who the cops won't help because they have to catch the crack whore in the act, and they never do. Happens like four times and she tells this cab driver about it and a few days later there is one less crack whore on division street. There didn't seem to be any other way, at the time.then he started writing about his batman adventures on his website, calling the murders fiction, and his numbers starting jumping up into the tens of thousands… before his latest economic down slide, he had wrote comedy well enough that he lived off the talent, worked in TV, a few movies, back when he was less stoned, just out of college and full of shit.
After getting fired for doing drugs, then publishing a revenge story that turned intoa career-killing rep for saying that he wasn't about to work for anyone who wanted a 'drug free'clause in their contracts. He had just went back to cab driving again, started keeping a web site and performing what he called˜black as a midnight Sabbath comedy. If not for being broke all the time, he would have preferred his life to the better times.
He watches the woman cop as she starts to make sense of the stories he is telling, noticing the details he adds to the murder stories, what happened to make him kill, the kind of weapons he keeps in his car. He goes through all four murders and watches her expression go from smiling to stone cold sober. He was just starting the fourth story when she left her table, went to the front of the bar near the entrance and made a call on her cell phone. Then she pulled out her gun and held it to her side, seemingly guarding the only door out of the club.
He can hardly believe she is going to arrest him, isn't sure why he didn't expect as much when he continued his act, even when he knew better. The Johnny Pain voice had just kept talking, going on with his rant about the rude and the senseless mobs, reciting his litany of unsolved crimes that fit his descriptions too well for a mere newspaper reading.
Their eyes meet across the club. She shows him her badge and the gun at her side and motions for him to come to her. He raises his hands like he is giving up, then put his hands in front of him like he was ready to be cuffed and walks down from the stage, moving between the tables, slowly making his way toward her.
He has a pistol under his shirt, in his waist band, and is pretty sure he could shoot her before she could react. She was looking at his smile, his defeated demeanor. He doesn't want to kill her and he didn't want to go to jail. She was innocent though he wondered if she was about to stop his mission, she was still an innocent?
He turns his back to the crowd and pours himself a glass of water, composing himself to turn around and take out his .45... He turns back to the crowd, microphone and clipboard in one hand, and the glass of water in the other.
The police woman has run up behind him, cuffs his hands before he quite figures what is going on. He is relieved when he see's her take his gun from his waist.
Before he can make up his mind, she surprises him by spinning him around, throwing him into the wall and slapping handcuffs on his wrists.
Other cops start showing up, asking him questions he won't answer, searching his cab and finding guns, knives, rope.
He looks out at the crowd and remembers once asking a writing teacher, "What are we supposed to do, huh? Are we supposed to save the world?" The teacher had no answer.
He still isn't sure if he is supposed to try to save the world or what, though he has a few notions that tend to make him believe as much at times, during certain periods of often drug induced earnestness that he can never sustain for long.
He stands in the spotlight holding the clipboard, reads his stuff slow, makes sure every word gets out into the far corners of the room, hoping to somehow do something that means something with his words, even though he really doesn't think reading means anything at all except during the heady, nervous moments he is actually on stage getting laughs and applause and in general being enjoyed as a performer and then all it seems to mean is that he's played some game of being a host and a reader, a simple game with just a few easily boofed through rules..
He dreams of hamsters night after night. Like vicious rats he remembers from his squalid childhood, the hamsters are huge, as big as his forearm, their teeth gnashing slicers of both flesh and bone. He lays in bed after the dream feeling the sheets cold and wet under his body. The dream didn't require a Freud to interpret; he was a writer working on a new character, an asshole with dreams of solving the world's problems with his own personal mercenary armies. More along the lines of waking up a cockroach than an anti-war novel, he had been writing Johnny Pain for close to six months. The character was closer to himself than he liked to write, based on his days driving a cab in college, when he worked out a lot and boxed some, and was just head strong enough to think he was going to kick the worlds ass all by himself. A revolutionary without a revolution, a bemused psychiatrist had once told him as he reassured him that he was normal, going tobe fine, just going through the usual struggles mankind had dealt with since religions first infected our brains with mush...
The writing was affecting his conscious mind as much as his unconscious. The new character, Johnny Pain, was filling his mind with a voice that silently narrated the events of his day to day in a dark, cynical sneer of a tone. Based on a human hating period of Mark Twain's life and other dark shit before and since that he felt had faced the inferno. Pain translated the mundane of the writers day into the horror, the horror; the afternoon before he had sat in a coffee shop falling too far into a new york times article on the wars and ended up coming back into his day to day life bruised and torn and unsure who he would cry for if he even could cry anymore. .
She has been dragged out to a comedy club with a black eye still showing from a fight with a crack salesman the week before. Her sister thought she was crazy to be a cop, and even crazier to be with a high school sweetheart who got drunk and hit her once in a while. Her sister won't believe the black eye is from the job. She half listens as her near twin, says, "I think he hits you for because you can carry a gun and he can't.. You should cut his fucking balls off, or at least him arrested."
"He doesn't mean to do it. He has issues, you know? He just has to quit drinking. He tries."
"You're too embarrassed to let the other cops know?"
"Well, yeah..."
The comedian comes on stage and starts off reading an absurdity about raising a hamster army to do his bidding throughout the world, righting the worlds evil with a bunch of vicious rodents. He is non-chalant about the reading, feels like his work was already done by the time he arrived on stage, the words written down and uploaded to his website, were now about to be read once and then left behind, like the rest of his work, caste off like orphans from his thoughts to wander around in the cyber world searching for publishers.¦
"This next one is more of a rant, than a comedy rant. You can laugh or boo or whatever the hell? Just know, if I am bothered by something you do while I am on stage or off, I will shoot first, okay? This is called A MISANTHROPIC SLIDE DOWN THE SLIPPERY SLOPES. Valid functions abound. Haircuts and ties are required. You will have to learn to do a few corporate dances, kneel properly and kiss proverbial rings, should you wish meat thrown in your cage. Like a weak chimp baring its ass to the alpha male, sooner or later, now and then, no matter how you bare your teeth and growl and plot revenge, you are going to take it in the rear. There is too little time to waste years paying for the fleeting satisfaction of the big crime. I would have killed hundreds with impunity; would have been a hellion cab driver:, shot down every smart mouth, snide yuppie. Pushy old lady, drunken bravado boof and enough etcetera to fill volumes and volumes and volumes. . .
There is too much odious about humanity to avoid becoming a bit of a misanthropic,
A hater of self and others. I am skulking wallpaper wearing black on black to better disappear into the shadows of my mind; a cynical sneer drawing ugly across a face.
I stare back at the mystics from the center of their every doubt. My Black Sabbath of a blog a mere mockery of their delusions. Hating for all I am worth, aching to destroy the unclean, to fire magic bullets that cut down the enemies and leave the little kids alone.
I turn here and there and fire at shadows real and imagined
We rely on the accepted apparatus to kill, accept pulling levers and taking aim through an assassins scope, dropping bombs. During wars and at killings we jump up and down at the foot of the gallows, howling like apes driven into a killing-lust by the smell of salty blood. The wordy ones pretend Nietzsche's theories on a need for revenge have been replaced by a pseudo-stance rap about deterring criminals and terrorists.
We still fry the worst of the killers, declare them no longer worthy of mercy or forgiveness; define all their moments in life by just a few usually drunken crazy moments
.
We send our words around the globe hoping to add definitions of women and slaves and votes and human worth and are rebuffed by the same old evils entrenched since time immortal; those who want control to be the top predators, the ones who still asininely believe there is something to win on this here rock in space, instead of just an endless list to fix. Most pretend some effect every four years, caste a once stolen vote and pretend they want another of the non-choices offered the poor by the rich. All sounds so simple and banal . . .a hamster army might not even prove enough to sway the blood dimmed tide. I would have a lot better idea if you would send me a few?
He moves on to something funnier, reads another ten minutes and becomes filled with the feeling that he should stop reading. He ignores the feeling and goes on, doing his entire forty minute set of murder and mayhem mirth.
The two similar looking women in the front row both listen as the skinny white guy with long hair and stoned looking thin slits of blue eyes starts talking about how he wants to kill people for all the various offenses that his esque view sees in the world. She isn't sure what is so funny about the act, but she is laughing at the words placed in the ways her mind thought of as jokes, with punch lines and surprise twists, touches of the absurdity.... it certainly got better than the slow opening.
He notices the women in front of the stage, slim black and dressed to the nines, sisters obviously; one has a dress showing her milk chocolate shoulders and an enticing view of ample cleavage. One has a badge and a gun, he sees both when she gives the waitress a credit card for their drinks; he wonders if he should back off the truer tales of his dark comedy?
He was what he said he was in a language hidden under laughs, the character he based on his life as a cab driver who killed just to get rid of 'rude fucks.' He goes ahead and talks about how he saw too guys run over a cat, laugh and then back up to kill the wounded animal, how he followed them home, got their names and addresses, and then killed them to avenge the animal. Somehow even this gory tales made the audience laugh. He tells them another, this so dark only a few laughs are created by the words, about an old woman who gets mugged repeatedly by a crack whore, who the cops won't help because they have to catch the crack whore in the act, and they never do. Happens like four times and she tells this cab driver about it and a few days later there is one less crack whore on division street. There didn't seem to be any other way, at the time.then he started writing about his batman adventures on his website, calling the murders fiction, and his numbers starting jumping up into the tens of thousands… before his latest economic down slide, he had wrote comedy well enough that he lived off the talent, worked in TV, a few movies, back when he was less stoned, just out of college and full of shit.
After getting fired for doing drugs, then publishing a revenge story that turned intoa career-killing rep for saying that he wasn't about to work for anyone who wanted a 'drug free'clause in their contracts. He had just went back to cab driving again, started keeping a web site and performing what he called˜black as a midnight Sabbath comedy. If not for being broke all the time, he would have preferred his life to the better times.
He watches the woman cop as she starts to make sense of the stories he is telling, noticing the details he adds to the murder stories, what happened to make him kill, the kind of weapons he keeps in his car. He goes through all four murders and watches her expression go from smiling to stone cold sober. He was just starting the fourth story when she left her table, went to the front of the bar near the entrance and made a call on her cell phone. Then she pulled out her gun and held it to her side, seemingly guarding the only door out of the club.
He can hardly believe she is going to arrest him, isn't sure why he didn't expect as much when he continued his act, even when he knew better. The Johnny Pain voice had just kept talking, going on with his rant about the rude and the senseless mobs, reciting his litany of unsolved crimes that fit his descriptions too well for a mere newspaper reading.
Their eyes meet across the club. She shows him her badge and the gun at her side and motions for him to come to her. He raises his hands like he is giving up, then put his hands in front of him like he was ready to be cuffed and walks down from the stage, moving between the tables, slowly making his way toward her.
He has a pistol under his shirt, in his waist band, and is pretty sure he could shoot her before she could react. She was looking at his smile, his defeated demeanor. He doesn't want to kill her and he didn't want to go to jail. She was innocent though he wondered if she was about to stop his mission, she was still an innocent?
He turns his back to the crowd and pours himself a glass of water, composing himself to turn around and take out his .45... He turns back to the crowd, microphone and clipboard in one hand, and the glass of water in the other.
The police woman has run up behind him, cuffs his hands before he quite figures what is going on. He is relieved when he see's her take his gun from his waist.
Before he can make up his mind, she surprises him by spinning him around, throwing him into the wall and slapping handcuffs on his wrists.
Other cops start showing up, asking him questions he won't answer, searching his cab and finding guns, knives, rope.
THE FOUNDLINGS
FOUNDLINGS
Another short, mean, petty story translated from the scars of Johnny Pain.
The foundlings were always known by the villagers to be different. Swirling in the myths of their time next to witches and fairies and evil eyes and distant thunder sometimes mistaken for the roar of dragons, the twins struck the educated few as another of the peasant’s myths. Nothing was made of them until one of the princes came across the craft that they had come crashing down into the village within, a burning ball of fire witnessed only the old man and woman who had eventually taken in the quite, wide blue eyed twins. Two boys with slightly odd features that people found difficult to pin down and describe– some said their eyes were too far apart, their lips too small. . Since their parentage was a source of mystery, all kinds of answers presented themselves to the village gossips – ranging from Satan himself to traveling gypsies.
The foundlings themselves offered no explanation of where they had come from, or indeed they were. They rather quickly learned the English spoken in the middle ages, yet could offer no memories of before being found unconscious in the hot metal pod. The farmer had used the ship for a wagon, attaching wheels and pulling the glittering steel around with oxen’s, until the strange sight attracted the attentions of an inquisitive prince from the palace, who upon hearing that the strange looking apparatus was some kind of weapon, a bomb of sorts to be catapulted over the castles dirt and wooden walls. The ship sat in the courtyard of the palace for a week before the king’s sorcerer took notice of the strange, shining object with markings seemingly in some form of writing unknown to him… Horace was more of an herbalist than a believer in spells and magic, though his times made him a conduit for certain mystical beliefs in the healing powers of leeches and bloodletting.
He had the object brought into the barn that passed for his work area and set about trying to decipher the unexpected mystery of the object. When he heard the prince’s tale about two foundlings coming to earth in the pod of steel in some sort of blast of fire and brimstone, he dismissed the story as more of the idiocy of the superstitious villagers. After a week of searching through old texts, he begged the king for the money to take the object to Rome, to a university where there were enough texts that he would surely find a way to read the writing on the object. The king was unimpressed by his wizard’s curiosity.
He was a blunt man, a devil of a foe in battle who spent his times away from battle campaigns drinking and whoring away as much of the day as possible. He had indulged the wizard’s passions in the past, but he valued his console too much to lose him to a two-year journey that held enough hazards to make his return altogether theoretical.
The wizard Horace, his other avenues of research stymied by the king’s lack of interest, finally called for the prince and asked him to get the foundlings and bring them to him.
As they grew from young boys, their height alone, among the short, malnourished peasants would have made them stand out even without their odd features. They never seemed to show emotion to humans, their faces always masks of contemplation when being spoken to, as if they had to listen intently to whatever was said because they were learning much more than the speaker was saying… the effect spooked most people, and would have provoked the bullies in the village if not for the last of their known strangenesses – both could beat anyone who attacked them with a flurry of punches that came so fast that witnesses saw mostly just a blur and a then a bloody, falling victim. They were also said to bring their pets back to life, even a badly mangled cat.
The prince listened to all the rumors about the foundlings as he searched for them through the squalid, mud village on the edge of the Commons; as a student of the Wizard Horace and his father’s intellectual arrogance, the prince smiled and listened and did not believe so much as a word of what he was hearing… until he actually saw them, when his doubts began to caste their first shadows in his mind, and for the first time in his short life, he would begin to wonder if he could accept the wisdom of his teachers – his arrogant father …
As he rode up on his horse he saw them sitting in the dirt road in front of their shack, looking tall and thin and their features inexplicably other worldly. As soon as he turned the last corner in the labyrinth of mud shacks, he saw them already rising from their seats in the dirt at the doorstep of their shack. Peasants always moved out of the road when royalty road through the village, though this seemed different; the prince had the sense that they were rising to meet him, ready for him to arrive – that some force he knew nothing of had alerted them… he shook away the feeling, telling himself the peasants had temporarily infected him with their superstitions. He followed the intellectual arrogance of his father, who had once traveled the world bouncing from religion to religion, before coming back to his castle to declare himself a godless ruler, a man of science… and hiring the prince’s other teacher, the wizard Horace, who was fond of saying that no one should believe anything that cannot be measured with a ruler. The wizard was considered quite mad for his beliefs by the villagers, who occasionally blamed bouts of bad luck on the wizard, saying his godlessness was bringing down the wrath of god. Such talk was more than moderated though by his supporters, who while conceding he was mad, were very grateful for the small innovations the wizards mechanical tinkering had brought to the village in the way of a sewer that carried some of the garbage out of the slums, and the boiling of all drinking water – which had seemed to miraculously cure people who did not even know they were sick… dysentery, the main killer of their children, was almost gone from their village… The king’s beliefs on the other hand were the last thing a peasant would question -- literally. No dissent was allowed in the kingdom, and there were in fact a lot of benefactor’s of the king’s rule, odd religions that had been driven from some of the other land that the king chose to ignore as a ‘necessary madness,’ like wine soaked festivals and other peasant habits.
And then the foundlings went to the castle and killed all the royalty and then led a peasent army to free the whole world and created a paradise for all concerned… Really.
Another short, mean, petty story translated from the scars of Johnny Pain.
The foundlings were always known by the villagers to be different. Swirling in the myths of their time next to witches and fairies and evil eyes and distant thunder sometimes mistaken for the roar of dragons, the twins struck the educated few as another of the peasant’s myths. Nothing was made of them until one of the princes came across the craft that they had come crashing down into the village within, a burning ball of fire witnessed only the old man and woman who had eventually taken in the quite, wide blue eyed twins. Two boys with slightly odd features that people found difficult to pin down and describe– some said their eyes were too far apart, their lips too small. . Since their parentage was a source of mystery, all kinds of answers presented themselves to the village gossips – ranging from Satan himself to traveling gypsies.
The foundlings themselves offered no explanation of where they had come from, or indeed they were. They rather quickly learned the English spoken in the middle ages, yet could offer no memories of before being found unconscious in the hot metal pod. The farmer had used the ship for a wagon, attaching wheels and pulling the glittering steel around with oxen’s, until the strange sight attracted the attentions of an inquisitive prince from the palace, who upon hearing that the strange looking apparatus was some kind of weapon, a bomb of sorts to be catapulted over the castles dirt and wooden walls. The ship sat in the courtyard of the palace for a week before the king’s sorcerer took notice of the strange, shining object with markings seemingly in some form of writing unknown to him… Horace was more of an herbalist than a believer in spells and magic, though his times made him a conduit for certain mystical beliefs in the healing powers of leeches and bloodletting.
He had the object brought into the barn that passed for his work area and set about trying to decipher the unexpected mystery of the object. When he heard the prince’s tale about two foundlings coming to earth in the pod of steel in some sort of blast of fire and brimstone, he dismissed the story as more of the idiocy of the superstitious villagers. After a week of searching through old texts, he begged the king for the money to take the object to Rome, to a university where there were enough texts that he would surely find a way to read the writing on the object. The king was unimpressed by his wizard’s curiosity.
He was a blunt man, a devil of a foe in battle who spent his times away from battle campaigns drinking and whoring away as much of the day as possible. He had indulged the wizard’s passions in the past, but he valued his console too much to lose him to a two-year journey that held enough hazards to make his return altogether theoretical.
The wizard Horace, his other avenues of research stymied by the king’s lack of interest, finally called for the prince and asked him to get the foundlings and bring them to him.
As they grew from young boys, their height alone, among the short, malnourished peasants would have made them stand out even without their odd features. They never seemed to show emotion to humans, their faces always masks of contemplation when being spoken to, as if they had to listen intently to whatever was said because they were learning much more than the speaker was saying… the effect spooked most people, and would have provoked the bullies in the village if not for the last of their known strangenesses – both could beat anyone who attacked them with a flurry of punches that came so fast that witnesses saw mostly just a blur and a then a bloody, falling victim. They were also said to bring their pets back to life, even a badly mangled cat.
The prince listened to all the rumors about the foundlings as he searched for them through the squalid, mud village on the edge of the Commons; as a student of the Wizard Horace and his father’s intellectual arrogance, the prince smiled and listened and did not believe so much as a word of what he was hearing… until he actually saw them, when his doubts began to caste their first shadows in his mind, and for the first time in his short life, he would begin to wonder if he could accept the wisdom of his teachers – his arrogant father …
As he rode up on his horse he saw them sitting in the dirt road in front of their shack, looking tall and thin and their features inexplicably other worldly. As soon as he turned the last corner in the labyrinth of mud shacks, he saw them already rising from their seats in the dirt at the doorstep of their shack. Peasants always moved out of the road when royalty road through the village, though this seemed different; the prince had the sense that they were rising to meet him, ready for him to arrive – that some force he knew nothing of had alerted them… he shook away the feeling, telling himself the peasants had temporarily infected him with their superstitions. He followed the intellectual arrogance of his father, who had once traveled the world bouncing from religion to religion, before coming back to his castle to declare himself a godless ruler, a man of science… and hiring the prince’s other teacher, the wizard Horace, who was fond of saying that no one should believe anything that cannot be measured with a ruler. The wizard was considered quite mad for his beliefs by the villagers, who occasionally blamed bouts of bad luck on the wizard, saying his godlessness was bringing down the wrath of god. Such talk was more than moderated though by his supporters, who while conceding he was mad, were very grateful for the small innovations the wizards mechanical tinkering had brought to the village in the way of a sewer that carried some of the garbage out of the slums, and the boiling of all drinking water – which had seemed to miraculously cure people who did not even know they were sick… dysentery, the main killer of their children, was almost gone from their village… The king’s beliefs on the other hand were the last thing a peasant would question -- literally. No dissent was allowed in the kingdom, and there were in fact a lot of benefactor’s of the king’s rule, odd religions that had been driven from some of the other land that the king chose to ignore as a ‘necessary madness,’ like wine soaked festivals and other peasant habits.
And then the foundlings went to the castle and killed all the royalty and then led a peasent army to free the whole world and created a paradise for all concerned… Really.
DAMN ART FUCKS….
The hardest part of being an artist is not the poverty, or the nay-sayers, or the part of my mind that is always telling me that I am a worthless man without a real job that gets my clothes dirty and buys a spilt level house and a garage decorated in power tools . . .. No, the hardest part of being an artist is dealing with art-fucks. And this weekend, much to my dismay, I once more found myself surrounded by a bunch of pseudopeople who talk like they are the most important beings on the planet, and dismiss everyone who doesn’t notice as an uneducated fool.
This dismal affair was on a day when the sun was a harsh, hot, unrelenting enemy in the sky, making me sweat and fret like some piggo noticing an empty tray at an old Country Buffet. There was no shade, no weed, and no one who had the remotest idea that they were still human under all those berets and male skirts and tattoos and face metal. M. was behind my being there, as she is behind most of the tortures in my life (as well as the pleasures). She is on the committee putting on an adult prom at the big star on October 2nd (which I refused to volunteer for, though of course I am now ‘helping’ her design and implement the decorations; which is okay, I guess… I will do anything for her, and my favorite people are involved, so I have to go, even though my prom experience was not exactly anything I want to repeat – in fact, see the next entry for a prom warning).
I tried to meld into the background, standing around smiling slightly as the mostly art institute ass’s talked about themselves. With a good buzz on, I could have taken this a lot more philosophically, of course, but sadly enough, I am finding myself straight with an alarming frequency of late… One after another they all said that they were ‘performance artists.’ M. walked up from chirping with someone about then, and thought she was doing me a favor by pointing me out to them and saying, “Johnny sells a lot of paintings, but he says it’s just a hobby.�
She doesn’t seem to notice the sneers this evokes in the ‘real artists’. Forced to speak, I ask them what kind of performance art they do?
One girl says that she shoots video of herself. Then they all nod like this is what they do. “What kind of subject matter do you use?� I ask, not realizing, silly enough their faces seem to say, that they consider themselves subject matter enough.
“I spit on myself in the last one.�
“What did you mean by that?� I ask.
“What? I said that I spit on myself.�
“I know, but . . . what was the metaphorical meaning?�
“I think that is for the audience to decide, not me.�
“Was this a project for school?�
“Well, it was a little more than that.� The whole group laughs derisively—I would discover a few minutes later why, when they all told me that they went to the art institute, where they indeed made their ‘performance videos.’
“Yea, well, I’d slap the shit out anyone who spit on me, including myself.�
M. shoots me a withering look, then follows the spitter as she walks off. I hear M. telling her something to the effect of, “He thinks that kind of thing is funny, I’m sure he didn’t mean…�
“Who is that?� One of the girls asks me. I realize again that my looks and my lack of a wedding ring are giving the wrong message, but I go with it…
“I’m not sure… I think she bought one of my paintings, or saw my TV show… I don’t know? Did you hear that girl who said she was spitting on herself?�
They all look embarrassed, and then, swear to dog, they all went on to tell me that they too had spit on themselves on video. Like five of them. . . and none could tell me why?
I then use my standard way of getting out of conversations with pretentious women who think I will lower myself onto them, flipping my wrist and acting all decorator, I say, “Jesus, there isn’t one hot piece of male ass in this place. Too fishy for a swishy…� Then I kind of sashay over to the next group. I see M. watching me from across the crowd, looking at me with what I know is her, ‘Don’t make me kick your ass’ look.
Hoping against hope that someone will offer me some weed, I tell myself that I will go from group to group acting like I am whatever will get me stoned… This time I walk up on some guy talking who has bushy brown hair and is wearing all black, including a beret and a hanker-chief tied around his throat, despite the 89 degrees of heat lying on our flesh us like hot, damp towels… He looks for all the world like he is acting like he is smoking the cigarette in his hand, waving it this way and that as he goes on and on in a way that makes him sweat even more than his asinine outfit. I stand there for a few minutes hearing little else than my own voice in my mind saying, “You have to be nice to these people, they might have weed… you have to be nice to these people, they might…�
He pauses at some point in his act to acknowledge my presence by looking down his long nose and asking me, “You’re the television writer?�
I wrote for television a long time ago, but for some reason this is still about the only thing that I have done that impresses people… which means that some of my worst work impresses people the most—which should be a lesson to all, but of course is not.
I think all this, saying only, “A long time ago… I just write for the sheer hell of it now.�
Sensing the upcoming period in my sentence, he starts speaking the split-second that I pause, “I’m an actor, myself….� He then proceeds to talk about himself, telling me this and that about school and plays he was in and other stuff I could give a crusty rat’s ass hair about.
He speaks in this stagy voice that sounds vaguely English – which interests me more than anything he is saying, so I finally interject a question during one of his too numerous dramatic pauses, and ask where he is from?
I am slightly puzzled to hear him reply, “The humble environs of Kansas, is indeed where this tornado came bursting out of.�
“Do you rehearse that line before parties?�
M. seems to appear of nowhere just in time to give me a shove and say, “Johnny! He thinks he’s a comedian. Just ignore him, that’s what everyone else does. Even our dog�
He laughs stagely at M.’s joke, and then continues talking about his favorite topic, “When I came to Chicago, I thought it would be hard to break into show business, but it hasn’t been, at all. Not for me, at least… one hears stories, of course. I’ve only been here a month, and I’m already starring in a rather exciting new production.�
“Where is the theater?� I don’t believe him until someone asks the name of the theater.
“The Whipple Room.� He replies, like everyone standing around will know the place, though of the five people there, I suspect that M. and I are the only ones who do, because he did indeed managed to impress a couple clerks and a waitress who call themselves performance artists.
“Are they still at Belmont, next to Western?� I ask him in a voice that is way under impressed, because I can’t hide such things well even when I want to, and I can tell he is a little annoyed by me.
“Yes.�
Before he can say anything else, I ask him real quick, “Do you have any weed?�
His eyebrows kind of rise as he replies, “No, no… my body is a temple.�
Relieved that I don’t have to pretend like I like I can tolerate him, I point at the drink in his hand and say, “A temple for beer?�
This makes everyone laugh except M. and the actor sees the look in my eyes and takes my hand and squeezes hard enough to hurt as she leans over and whispers in my ear, “I will beat you down.�
This ‘show business’ that the pretentious one has ‘broke into’ is a less than an entire store-front, has no stage, linoleum tile of a pukey brown color on the floors that is left over from a hardware store, a few rusty folding chairs, a badly painted sign, and some egomaniacal jerk who writes all the plays and then suckers fools like this into making his pedestrian, boring vision take life. M and I went to one of their productions once, to be nice to someone, and I left the place telling myself that I would no longer ever, ever hang out with anyone who had anything to do with that theatre. I lean in close to M.’s ear and say, “You know how very, very difficult it is for me not to just punch him. I should get to say something, at least.�
PART THREE OF ART FUCKS
M takes me by the arm and starts to lead me away, “Let’s go get another burger.�
�No. I won’t eat another one of those…� I say in a loud voice.
M. whispers to me, “They are not cat burgers.�
“I’m telling you, I found whiskers in mine, and a paw!� I say as loud as I can get away with.
“Not another word about the hamburgers.�
“Sure, babe. You know, I think breaking into show business requires getting paid, or at least not having to actually take tickets.�
She hits me again. “Why did you have to make that face when he named the theater?�
“I didn’t…�
“And you wonder why I always think you are lying…�
“You know how shitty that fucking theatre is . . . even then, I’m surprised they aren’t charging him to act there.�
“Shhhhh!�
I look over and see the actor is looking at me, evidently having overheard.
M. whispers that she is too embarrassed to stay at the party. This made me happier than I could show – I even made a mental note to remember to use this ‘embarrassment thing’ again to get us out of other social situations. “Any old asshole can get work in the arts in Chicago, if they use the word ‘work’ the way most people use the word ‘hobby’.� The actor is now just standing there alone, doing his best to pretend that he can’t hear me as he looks off into the distance and puffs his clove cigarette like he actually has a thought to ponder.
“Will you shut up, he can still hear you!!!� M. tells me as she punches me on the arm hard enough to leave a bruise.
I make out like I am surprised he can hear me, since I can’t hear in one ear and indeed do make such mistakes occasionally… though my intention is to tell him the truth, even if he isn’t ready to accept as much and M. doesn’t want me to. And not just to be mean, like M. thinks, though that should be reason enough . . .
I might have to kick that pretentious actor’s ass if I see him again, just so he can bleed out a little of his pretensions. I can see myself asking him in my quiet voice, “You ever played someone’s who’s ass is getting kicked for being the most deluded, pretentious fuck that I have met in years?� No, why should I bother, since I am sure the real world is going to beat me to him all to hell soon enough, when he realizes that he is not going to be ‘discovered’ in a theater that will always have more roaches than audience members.… Well, he will if he is lucky… more than likely, with his ego, this guy will probably delude himself through theater after small, soon to close theater. . . call himself an artist long after everyone around him just thinks he is a pretentious, smelly drunken moocher.
M. mentioned our reading at this picnic, and of course they all said they would come – even the fucking actor, which, even though I am thinking of this right now, is another reason I had to be cruel, because though I assumed they are as full as shit as all the other weenie whackers who are always promising me that they will come to the show for some undogly reason that I can’t fathom, one of them might have actually came to the big star café and spit on themselves, or something else as stupid and unsanitary, and of course, of course, then I would wind me up in jail for assault, again.
You see, Chicago is a city of drama. Every neighborhood has a few theaters tucked away in this or that empty space. A few people put up a sign and started doing plays, having parties to raise money, and try to stay open as long as possible before going bust and dissolving into a small history of an insignificant, existential experience.—an experience that is usually more important to the performer’s ego than the audience. Like a lot of aspiring artists, I came to Chicago and was surprised how easily the arts community embraced me, put me on a stage, trusted me to be worth having in their troop, shooting their film, etc… until I realized that as long as I volunteered my time, some fool would be more than happy to sucker me into working for them. In fact, within a couple years of living in Chicago, I was compiling an impressive resume in the arts, which I have since found is worth considerably less than its own weight in manure. Yes, I found a half ass famous theater, an imrov guru who started the movement, filmmakers, bands… etc.. who would let me work for free.
If you did this in business, offering to work for free, think of all the great firms that you could work for? That stupid, ugly-souled bastard Trump would let you into his business in a second, maybe even give you a title if that’s what it takes for you to work for free?
This dismal affair was on a day when the sun was a harsh, hot, unrelenting enemy in the sky, making me sweat and fret like some piggo noticing an empty tray at an old Country Buffet. There was no shade, no weed, and no one who had the remotest idea that they were still human under all those berets and male skirts and tattoos and face metal. M. was behind my being there, as she is behind most of the tortures in my life (as well as the pleasures). She is on the committee putting on an adult prom at the big star on October 2nd (which I refused to volunteer for, though of course I am now ‘helping’ her design and implement the decorations; which is okay, I guess… I will do anything for her, and my favorite people are involved, so I have to go, even though my prom experience was not exactly anything I want to repeat – in fact, see the next entry for a prom warning).
I tried to meld into the background, standing around smiling slightly as the mostly art institute ass’s talked about themselves. With a good buzz on, I could have taken this a lot more philosophically, of course, but sadly enough, I am finding myself straight with an alarming frequency of late… One after another they all said that they were ‘performance artists.’ M. walked up from chirping with someone about then, and thought she was doing me a favor by pointing me out to them and saying, “Johnny sells a lot of paintings, but he says it’s just a hobby.�
She doesn’t seem to notice the sneers this evokes in the ‘real artists’. Forced to speak, I ask them what kind of performance art they do?
One girl says that she shoots video of herself. Then they all nod like this is what they do. “What kind of subject matter do you use?� I ask, not realizing, silly enough their faces seem to say, that they consider themselves subject matter enough.
“I spit on myself in the last one.�
“What did you mean by that?� I ask.
“What? I said that I spit on myself.�
“I know, but . . . what was the metaphorical meaning?�
“I think that is for the audience to decide, not me.�
“Was this a project for school?�
“Well, it was a little more than that.� The whole group laughs derisively—I would discover a few minutes later why, when they all told me that they went to the art institute, where they indeed made their ‘performance videos.’
“Yea, well, I’d slap the shit out anyone who spit on me, including myself.�
M. shoots me a withering look, then follows the spitter as she walks off. I hear M. telling her something to the effect of, “He thinks that kind of thing is funny, I’m sure he didn’t mean…�
“Who is that?� One of the girls asks me. I realize again that my looks and my lack of a wedding ring are giving the wrong message, but I go with it…
“I’m not sure… I think she bought one of my paintings, or saw my TV show… I don’t know? Did you hear that girl who said she was spitting on herself?�
They all look embarrassed, and then, swear to dog, they all went on to tell me that they too had spit on themselves on video. Like five of them. . . and none could tell me why?
I then use my standard way of getting out of conversations with pretentious women who think I will lower myself onto them, flipping my wrist and acting all decorator, I say, “Jesus, there isn’t one hot piece of male ass in this place. Too fishy for a swishy…� Then I kind of sashay over to the next group. I see M. watching me from across the crowd, looking at me with what I know is her, ‘Don’t make me kick your ass’ look.
Hoping against hope that someone will offer me some weed, I tell myself that I will go from group to group acting like I am whatever will get me stoned… This time I walk up on some guy talking who has bushy brown hair and is wearing all black, including a beret and a hanker-chief tied around his throat, despite the 89 degrees of heat lying on our flesh us like hot, damp towels… He looks for all the world like he is acting like he is smoking the cigarette in his hand, waving it this way and that as he goes on and on in a way that makes him sweat even more than his asinine outfit. I stand there for a few minutes hearing little else than my own voice in my mind saying, “You have to be nice to these people, they might have weed… you have to be nice to these people, they might…�
He pauses at some point in his act to acknowledge my presence by looking down his long nose and asking me, “You’re the television writer?�
I wrote for television a long time ago, but for some reason this is still about the only thing that I have done that impresses people… which means that some of my worst work impresses people the most—which should be a lesson to all, but of course is not.
I think all this, saying only, “A long time ago… I just write for the sheer hell of it now.�
Sensing the upcoming period in my sentence, he starts speaking the split-second that I pause, “I’m an actor, myself….� He then proceeds to talk about himself, telling me this and that about school and plays he was in and other stuff I could give a crusty rat’s ass hair about.
He speaks in this stagy voice that sounds vaguely English – which interests me more than anything he is saying, so I finally interject a question during one of his too numerous dramatic pauses, and ask where he is from?
I am slightly puzzled to hear him reply, “The humble environs of Kansas, is indeed where this tornado came bursting out of.�
“Do you rehearse that line before parties?�
M. seems to appear of nowhere just in time to give me a shove and say, “Johnny! He thinks he’s a comedian. Just ignore him, that’s what everyone else does. Even our dog�
He laughs stagely at M.’s joke, and then continues talking about his favorite topic, “When I came to Chicago, I thought it would be hard to break into show business, but it hasn’t been, at all. Not for me, at least… one hears stories, of course. I’ve only been here a month, and I’m already starring in a rather exciting new production.�
“Where is the theater?� I don’t believe him until someone asks the name of the theater.
“The Whipple Room.� He replies, like everyone standing around will know the place, though of the five people there, I suspect that M. and I are the only ones who do, because he did indeed managed to impress a couple clerks and a waitress who call themselves performance artists.
“Are they still at Belmont, next to Western?� I ask him in a voice that is way under impressed, because I can’t hide such things well even when I want to, and I can tell he is a little annoyed by me.
“Yes.�
Before he can say anything else, I ask him real quick, “Do you have any weed?�
His eyebrows kind of rise as he replies, “No, no… my body is a temple.�
Relieved that I don’t have to pretend like I like I can tolerate him, I point at the drink in his hand and say, “A temple for beer?�
This makes everyone laugh except M. and the actor sees the look in my eyes and takes my hand and squeezes hard enough to hurt as she leans over and whispers in my ear, “I will beat you down.�
This ‘show business’ that the pretentious one has ‘broke into’ is a less than an entire store-front, has no stage, linoleum tile of a pukey brown color on the floors that is left over from a hardware store, a few rusty folding chairs, a badly painted sign, and some egomaniacal jerk who writes all the plays and then suckers fools like this into making his pedestrian, boring vision take life. M and I went to one of their productions once, to be nice to someone, and I left the place telling myself that I would no longer ever, ever hang out with anyone who had anything to do with that theatre. I lean in close to M.’s ear and say, “You know how very, very difficult it is for me not to just punch him. I should get to say something, at least.�
PART THREE OF ART FUCKS
M takes me by the arm and starts to lead me away, “Let’s go get another burger.�
�No. I won’t eat another one of those…� I say in a loud voice.
M. whispers to me, “They are not cat burgers.�
“I’m telling you, I found whiskers in mine, and a paw!� I say as loud as I can get away with.
“Not another word about the hamburgers.�
“Sure, babe. You know, I think breaking into show business requires getting paid, or at least not having to actually take tickets.�
She hits me again. “Why did you have to make that face when he named the theater?�
“I didn’t…�
“And you wonder why I always think you are lying…�
“You know how shitty that fucking theatre is . . . even then, I’m surprised they aren’t charging him to act there.�
“Shhhhh!�
I look over and see the actor is looking at me, evidently having overheard.
M. whispers that she is too embarrassed to stay at the party. This made me happier than I could show – I even made a mental note to remember to use this ‘embarrassment thing’ again to get us out of other social situations. “Any old asshole can get work in the arts in Chicago, if they use the word ‘work’ the way most people use the word ‘hobby’.� The actor is now just standing there alone, doing his best to pretend that he can’t hear me as he looks off into the distance and puffs his clove cigarette like he actually has a thought to ponder.
“Will you shut up, he can still hear you!!!� M. tells me as she punches me on the arm hard enough to leave a bruise.
I make out like I am surprised he can hear me, since I can’t hear in one ear and indeed do make such mistakes occasionally… though my intention is to tell him the truth, even if he isn’t ready to accept as much and M. doesn’t want me to. And not just to be mean, like M. thinks, though that should be reason enough . . .
I might have to kick that pretentious actor’s ass if I see him again, just so he can bleed out a little of his pretensions. I can see myself asking him in my quiet voice, “You ever played someone’s who’s ass is getting kicked for being the most deluded, pretentious fuck that I have met in years?� No, why should I bother, since I am sure the real world is going to beat me to him all to hell soon enough, when he realizes that he is not going to be ‘discovered’ in a theater that will always have more roaches than audience members.… Well, he will if he is lucky… more than likely, with his ego, this guy will probably delude himself through theater after small, soon to close theater. . . call himself an artist long after everyone around him just thinks he is a pretentious, smelly drunken moocher.
M. mentioned our reading at this picnic, and of course they all said they would come – even the fucking actor, which, even though I am thinking of this right now, is another reason I had to be cruel, because though I assumed they are as full as shit as all the other weenie whackers who are always promising me that they will come to the show for some undogly reason that I can’t fathom, one of them might have actually came to the big star café and spit on themselves, or something else as stupid and unsanitary, and of course, of course, then I would wind me up in jail for assault, again.
You see, Chicago is a city of drama. Every neighborhood has a few theaters tucked away in this or that empty space. A few people put up a sign and started doing plays, having parties to raise money, and try to stay open as long as possible before going bust and dissolving into a small history of an insignificant, existential experience.—an experience that is usually more important to the performer’s ego than the audience. Like a lot of aspiring artists, I came to Chicago and was surprised how easily the arts community embraced me, put me on a stage, trusted me to be worth having in their troop, shooting their film, etc… until I realized that as long as I volunteered my time, some fool would be more than happy to sucker me into working for them. In fact, within a couple years of living in Chicago, I was compiling an impressive resume in the arts, which I have since found is worth considerably less than its own weight in manure. Yes, I found a half ass famous theater, an imrov guru who started the movement, filmmakers, bands… etc.. who would let me work for free.
If you did this in business, offering to work for free, think of all the great firms that you could work for? That stupid, ugly-souled bastard Trump would let you into his business in a second, maybe even give you a title if that’s what it takes for you to work for free?
GILFORD TUTTLE, WHITE, CHRISTIAN, COLUMNIST.
Jesus is Buff and has a blond crew cut
Hello readers of the Elves Attic, and welcome to my new weekly column, where I hope to spread em wide for Christ!! I am very proud to introduce myself as Gilford Tuttle, white Christian warrior, savior of all white fetuses and follower of the one and true, well muscled and white, short, blonde haired Jesus H. Christ.
I am known throughout the greater Fort Wayne area as the first lay minister to object to the long haired, hippyed out versions of our Teutonic Deity, Jesus H. Christ. I am proud to say that I have in the works a t-shirt, which will show Our Son Of God as he was, is, and always shall be – with a short, blonde crew cut and a strong, manly physic. God is on our side, so we will destroy all the false images of Christ that show Him looking skinny and weak with the long, curling hair of a harlot.
A prophet at my church had a vision that Satan himself designed this demeaning view or Our lord and savior, and then inserted this blasphemous seed into homosexual artists by acts of sodomy. Yes, that prophet was me, too, though I don’t like to say because this is bragging; I was not top of my class, but like they said at the mail order seminary school where I paid 87.45, my handwriting is legible (don’t be afraid to look this word ‘legible’ up – I had to, and I am blessed by god, as my minister said, ‘with the ability to say words to other people’).
I wanted to use my first column here to make you aware of the Blonde, Buff Christ Almighty, who is said to have balls as big as mountains in heaven. In the course of the next few weeks, I am going to convert you. God has told me as much in my prayers, so this is written in stone. Let’s start by me repeating something that really woke them up in the pews on the day when I said this during open testimonials. “My Jesus is not a satanic, hippy, Jewish homosexual! No, not my Jesus.� This should be enough, I am told, to convert even the most devil riddled heathen, and that it does no speaks of the immense powers of the dark, skinny, long haired Satan!!!
Let me end this with the message that I had put on buttons to hand out to my Sunday school classes, and I urge you to do the same at your church (Jesus just told me that he will be very pissed if you don’t): GOD WANTS YOU TO SAY NO TO HIPPY SATANIC JEWISH HOMOSEXUAL JESUS OR HE IS GOING TO LET SATAN PAINFULLY ASS FUCK YOU FOR ALL ETERNITY.
Please go in peace,
Hello readers of the Elves Attic, and welcome to my new weekly column, where I hope to spread em wide for Christ!! I am very proud to introduce myself as Gilford Tuttle, white Christian warrior, savior of all white fetuses and follower of the one and true, well muscled and white, short, blonde haired Jesus H. Christ.
I am known throughout the greater Fort Wayne area as the first lay minister to object to the long haired, hippyed out versions of our Teutonic Deity, Jesus H. Christ. I am proud to say that I have in the works a t-shirt, which will show Our Son Of God as he was, is, and always shall be – with a short, blonde crew cut and a strong, manly physic. God is on our side, so we will destroy all the false images of Christ that show Him looking skinny and weak with the long, curling hair of a harlot.
A prophet at my church had a vision that Satan himself designed this demeaning view or Our lord and savior, and then inserted this blasphemous seed into homosexual artists by acts of sodomy. Yes, that prophet was me, too, though I don’t like to say because this is bragging; I was not top of my class, but like they said at the mail order seminary school where I paid 87.45, my handwriting is legible (don’t be afraid to look this word ‘legible’ up – I had to, and I am blessed by god, as my minister said, ‘with the ability to say words to other people’).
I wanted to use my first column here to make you aware of the Blonde, Buff Christ Almighty, who is said to have balls as big as mountains in heaven. In the course of the next few weeks, I am going to convert you. God has told me as much in my prayers, so this is written in stone. Let’s start by me repeating something that really woke them up in the pews on the day when I said this during open testimonials. “My Jesus is not a satanic, hippy, Jewish homosexual! No, not my Jesus.� This should be enough, I am told, to convert even the most devil riddled heathen, and that it does no speaks of the immense powers of the dark, skinny, long haired Satan!!!
Let me end this with the message that I had put on buttons to hand out to my Sunday school classes, and I urge you to do the same at your church (Jesus just told me that he will be very pissed if you don’t): GOD WANTS YOU TO SAY NO TO HIPPY SATANIC JEWISH HOMOSEXUAL JESUS OR HE IS GOING TO LET SATAN PAINFULLY ASS FUCK YOU FOR ALL ETERNITY.
Please go in peace,
way too, too true tales
Another all too sadly TRUE STORY from the Pain Vault.
Opening the door to the blue room in the back of the chase café, he expected the reading to be like the week before, just a few friendly folk reading to one another. At least twenty readers and listeners are already sitting around smoking and talking in the huge room, which to him almost seemed even larger because the ceiling and walls were painted to seem a dark blue sky with warm, sunset reddened clouds drifting everywhere. The denizens range from a table of old black men with beat up looking clothes and the faint scent of wine to hip hop looking black guys to kids too young to maybe even hear what he was writing about? They looked to him, as he steeled himself to stay and read and just do his best and not really care who liked it and who didn’t, those people he stared into the table to avoid having to acknowledge seemed to range from punked out kids to death metal sensitives to book wormed up and otherwised
He realizes that he is just being angry because he is nervous, taking things too seriously. He looks up from the candle that he has been gazing into, seeing the entire room from his vantage point in the back. A voice that seems almost Satanic starts mumbling in the back of his mind, hating all the people around him, steeling himself to not care how they feel so he can get over his stage fright. The voice is cynical, afraid of being hurt, and translates his surroundings to his conscious mind; the fearful one on the edge of fight or flight finds a landscape of the most cliché bunch of poets that he’s seen. He feels out of place, too black and African in his beaded hat. Most everyone else is white, except the old men over in the corner who look like winos. He feels a bolt of hate for every punked out faced metal dude, book wormed up carrier of this and that weighty volume, angry black lesbo-licker shaped like wallaby. . .
He smiles and waves at an older woman a next table, a writer he has seen here before who is always friendly. She is shuffling papers about, going over her poems, too distracted to notice he was trying to get her attention. At the table past hers, a young woman does see him wave; she looks at him coldly for a moment without expression, then turns back to talk to the woman beside her and the dead, blank stare she gave him immediately becomes animated, a mask of friendship and interest. He feels way more alone.
He lights a cigarette and pretends to watch the smoke rising from his cigarette… waiting and waiting and waiting for the show to start and take his attention away from the fear of going in front of people and seeing if they could hear what he saw, feel what he felt.. . see all he’d discovered along the path. He drinks all his coffee waiting; his muscles feels taut, ready to spring out of his chair and take the stage—his stomach is a gray dull ache tinged with the green of nausea. Every play he was in during school had been the same. He knew it would pass. And after all, all poets read their work, and that’s what he was—‘not some goddamn clerk at Rudy’s hot dogs, hell no… ‘.
He doesn’t mean to say, “Hell no,� out loud and almost can’t believe he did as everyone around him looks over his way – like he was being dissen’ the reader. He wishes he could disappear and closes his eyes for a moment. He can barely notices the woman reading, can’t follow her words because his own are so loud in his head, they are insistent, imperative…
�Sorry,� he whispers.
He tries to concentrate on her poem, something about clean sheets . . . worrying about detergent? Her kids? Some bird now… kids and rivers…. the planet… something…
One after another they go up on stage and he doesn’t look up to see what they look like, just stares into the candle and hears his own words pouring though his mind, some hating him and telling him he’s nothing, that he’s some crazy who has to see a shrink.. other voices bicker with the satanic ones, say he’s a poet, an artist, a guy who faces the shit and sometimes it depressed him.. He hears his name and it doesn’t seem to mean anything. He hears it again and seems to suddenly be coming up on shore, noticing he was in a room of people watching him slowly get up as the host called his name out, in a slightly annoyed voice, for the third time.
He raises his hand hesitantly, “Uhh, hey, that’s me.� He sees the people around him looking at him like they don’t expect much, like they are angry at him, like the host sounded, because he hadn’t heard his name? He steps in front of the microphone and silently as he watches the host sit down, lights a cigarette and has a sip of coffee.
His new poem is a series of sounds and yells; words he corralled onto paper after he read that humans use just forty sounds to describe the entire universe…. He looks up finally and smiles at the crowd and remembers the woman who had read his poem a few days before, at the café, and listened to how and why he wrote it and told him that he should come down and read on Tuesday night. Looking down and reading the poem he didn’t think it looked like a poem at all and for a second feared no one else would think it was a poem either… He had worried about this earlier, a day before, and settled on the decision that since the sounds felt like one of his poems, filling him with the same electric shards bouncing angrily through his chest, like he’d touched some secret current flowing through the universe and acted as a conductor for words.
He clears his throat in the mic and it sounds loud. Someone in the audience whispers, “Christ, that sounds like shit.�
He starts using his lips to make a smacking noise that blast out loud as hell out from huge black speakers on the sides of the small stage. He is trying to make the noises and count them at the same time, so there are only forty…. He loses count too quick to have any idea of where to even start again and just keeps making more noises; some annoying and horrible, like war, and others funny, , some sad… he can feel the sounds as he stares into the black microphone and listens to the sounds of coming from the speakers, sounding so much more important at a loud volume, like he was hearing them for the first time… he closes his eyes and keeps making the noise until he is way past forty…
A woman with a loud voice that he recognizes as a reader of drunken, slurred angry words slamming her ex-husband, yells at him from the back of the room, “This sucks, get the fuck off the stage!�
Her voice slaps him silent . His eyes open wide.
The audience starts clapping and congratulating the woman for shutting him up. His poem slips from his hand and wafts slowly back and forth, then settles in the dust on the black stage His tears make him even more embarrassed. He pulls a black scarf out of his pocket and holds it over his face as he weaves through the tables of people never once looking up from his feet, completely and utterly terrorized by the through that if he looks up he will confirm his fear that the audience is silently laughing at him.
He gets back to his table and stops, stares down into the surface of his half empty cup of coffee and hears the host introduce the next reader. The audience gives the person following him a bigger applause than any one else yet – way more than they offered him when he was introduced..
He has felt like there is no reason to go on living so often that he no longer fights the sensation, simply sits down in his chair, covers his head with a black scarf, and gives into the bitter-sweet melancholy of giving up, losing all responsibilities and worries and regrets and sins behind once and for all. A lot of nights he can only sleep if he reassures himself that he will kill himself when he wakes up the next day, rather than go through the torture of suffering again He stands beside his chair staring into his coffee as the host introduces someone new. . He wishes he was dead. Just fucking dead. Feels the urge to die so strong that it seems like his will alone should kill him. He sits down in a chair, carefully keeping the scarf over his head.
He tells himself that he should just leave, but he isn’t sure he wants to be alone, thinks it might be worse… he doesn’t know why. He can’t think while he is crying… keeps losing his train of thought as images flash through his mind of lying to his mother, stealing money, saying the wrong thing to a girl, having the wrong answer in school… what the doctor called, “Tiny embarrassments that over the years have grown into festering sores in your mind.�
He tries to think of somewhere he can go, shit he can do that will make him feel better?. His mood seems to sink even deeper into ennui as he realizes that he has been asking himself all his life to try and make himself feel what most people do, normal and comfortable in their skins. better – feels like he has wasted his life locked in a battle most never have to fight, handicapped by having to expend most of his energy wrestling the demons in his head, instead of just going about a normal life of school, business and family and all the other signs people hold up to one another to signal that they have their shit together…that he was wasting his life just fighting off the demons in his head, had no time for shit like classes and work, and stuff…. sinking, has put these questions to himself what seems just then to be millions of times.
had the same thought so many times, put he recalls what seem millions of times that he has thought the same thought and feels even more weary, his body instantly exhausted. Nothing that comes into his mind inspires him with any real hope of avoiding the torture of being so embarrassed with himself that he seems unworthy to live.
Sounds break off from the words coming from the stage, become nonsense sounds like his poem . . . he wishes there was someone there who he could lean over and tell how the poems were similar in the way they sounded; be barely finishes the thought before another dark voice from the shadows of his mind tells him that he is full of shit, just pretending the poems sound the same?
A few hours later he is on the beach in a warm, summer night. He remembers how delighted he was with the water when he was young; the kid he was would have went swimming, splashed around, had no problem at all finding a little fun.
He walks out into the water until he is chest high, then begins swimming out toward the middle of the lake…
Four days, a worried, tearful black woman in her early forties comes into the café with his picture and asks the clerks if they had seen him? The woman behind the counter recognizes him as the kid who got a hard time at the reading, finds out that he never came home after the reading. Michelle tells the mother how he was criticized, how sorry she is that it happened, says she wasn’t there herself… somehow she knows the kid is dead already. Confirmation comes a few days later when the police come around asking what happened at the reading that could have caused a kid to drown himself….
Opening the door to the blue room in the back of the chase café, he expected the reading to be like the week before, just a few friendly folk reading to one another. At least twenty readers and listeners are already sitting around smoking and talking in the huge room, which to him almost seemed even larger because the ceiling and walls were painted to seem a dark blue sky with warm, sunset reddened clouds drifting everywhere. The denizens range from a table of old black men with beat up looking clothes and the faint scent of wine to hip hop looking black guys to kids too young to maybe even hear what he was writing about? They looked to him, as he steeled himself to stay and read and just do his best and not really care who liked it and who didn’t, those people he stared into the table to avoid having to acknowledge seemed to range from punked out kids to death metal sensitives to book wormed up and otherwised
He realizes that he is just being angry because he is nervous, taking things too seriously. He looks up from the candle that he has been gazing into, seeing the entire room from his vantage point in the back. A voice that seems almost Satanic starts mumbling in the back of his mind, hating all the people around him, steeling himself to not care how they feel so he can get over his stage fright. The voice is cynical, afraid of being hurt, and translates his surroundings to his conscious mind; the fearful one on the edge of fight or flight finds a landscape of the most cliché bunch of poets that he’s seen. He feels out of place, too black and African in his beaded hat. Most everyone else is white, except the old men over in the corner who look like winos. He feels a bolt of hate for every punked out faced metal dude, book wormed up carrier of this and that weighty volume, angry black lesbo-licker shaped like wallaby. . .
He smiles and waves at an older woman a next table, a writer he has seen here before who is always friendly. She is shuffling papers about, going over her poems, too distracted to notice he was trying to get her attention. At the table past hers, a young woman does see him wave; she looks at him coldly for a moment without expression, then turns back to talk to the woman beside her and the dead, blank stare she gave him immediately becomes animated, a mask of friendship and interest. He feels way more alone.
He lights a cigarette and pretends to watch the smoke rising from his cigarette… waiting and waiting and waiting for the show to start and take his attention away from the fear of going in front of people and seeing if they could hear what he saw, feel what he felt.. . see all he’d discovered along the path. He drinks all his coffee waiting; his muscles feels taut, ready to spring out of his chair and take the stage—his stomach is a gray dull ache tinged with the green of nausea. Every play he was in during school had been the same. He knew it would pass. And after all, all poets read their work, and that’s what he was—‘not some goddamn clerk at Rudy’s hot dogs, hell no… ‘.
He doesn’t mean to say, “Hell no,� out loud and almost can’t believe he did as everyone around him looks over his way – like he was being dissen’ the reader. He wishes he could disappear and closes his eyes for a moment. He can barely notices the woman reading, can’t follow her words because his own are so loud in his head, they are insistent, imperative…
�Sorry,� he whispers.
He tries to concentrate on her poem, something about clean sheets . . . worrying about detergent? Her kids? Some bird now… kids and rivers…. the planet… something…
One after another they go up on stage and he doesn’t look up to see what they look like, just stares into the candle and hears his own words pouring though his mind, some hating him and telling him he’s nothing, that he’s some crazy who has to see a shrink.. other voices bicker with the satanic ones, say he’s a poet, an artist, a guy who faces the shit and sometimes it depressed him.. He hears his name and it doesn’t seem to mean anything. He hears it again and seems to suddenly be coming up on shore, noticing he was in a room of people watching him slowly get up as the host called his name out, in a slightly annoyed voice, for the third time.
He raises his hand hesitantly, “Uhh, hey, that’s me.� He sees the people around him looking at him like they don’t expect much, like they are angry at him, like the host sounded, because he hadn’t heard his name? He steps in front of the microphone and silently as he watches the host sit down, lights a cigarette and has a sip of coffee.
His new poem is a series of sounds and yells; words he corralled onto paper after he read that humans use just forty sounds to describe the entire universe…. He looks up finally and smiles at the crowd and remembers the woman who had read his poem a few days before, at the café, and listened to how and why he wrote it and told him that he should come down and read on Tuesday night. Looking down and reading the poem he didn’t think it looked like a poem at all and for a second feared no one else would think it was a poem either… He had worried about this earlier, a day before, and settled on the decision that since the sounds felt like one of his poems, filling him with the same electric shards bouncing angrily through his chest, like he’d touched some secret current flowing through the universe and acted as a conductor for words.
He clears his throat in the mic and it sounds loud. Someone in the audience whispers, “Christ, that sounds like shit.�
He starts using his lips to make a smacking noise that blast out loud as hell out from huge black speakers on the sides of the small stage. He is trying to make the noises and count them at the same time, so there are only forty…. He loses count too quick to have any idea of where to even start again and just keeps making more noises; some annoying and horrible, like war, and others funny, , some sad… he can feel the sounds as he stares into the black microphone and listens to the sounds of coming from the speakers, sounding so much more important at a loud volume, like he was hearing them for the first time… he closes his eyes and keeps making the noise until he is way past forty…
A woman with a loud voice that he recognizes as a reader of drunken, slurred angry words slamming her ex-husband, yells at him from the back of the room, “This sucks, get the fuck off the stage!�
Her voice slaps him silent . His eyes open wide.
The audience starts clapping and congratulating the woman for shutting him up. His poem slips from his hand and wafts slowly back and forth, then settles in the dust on the black stage His tears make him even more embarrassed. He pulls a black scarf out of his pocket and holds it over his face as he weaves through the tables of people never once looking up from his feet, completely and utterly terrorized by the through that if he looks up he will confirm his fear that the audience is silently laughing at him.
He gets back to his table and stops, stares down into the surface of his half empty cup of coffee and hears the host introduce the next reader. The audience gives the person following him a bigger applause than any one else yet – way more than they offered him when he was introduced..
He has felt like there is no reason to go on living so often that he no longer fights the sensation, simply sits down in his chair, covers his head with a black scarf, and gives into the bitter-sweet melancholy of giving up, losing all responsibilities and worries and regrets and sins behind once and for all. A lot of nights he can only sleep if he reassures himself that he will kill himself when he wakes up the next day, rather than go through the torture of suffering again He stands beside his chair staring into his coffee as the host introduces someone new. . He wishes he was dead. Just fucking dead. Feels the urge to die so strong that it seems like his will alone should kill him. He sits down in a chair, carefully keeping the scarf over his head.
He tells himself that he should just leave, but he isn’t sure he wants to be alone, thinks it might be worse… he doesn’t know why. He can’t think while he is crying… keeps losing his train of thought as images flash through his mind of lying to his mother, stealing money, saying the wrong thing to a girl, having the wrong answer in school… what the doctor called, “Tiny embarrassments that over the years have grown into festering sores in your mind.�
He tries to think of somewhere he can go, shit he can do that will make him feel better?. His mood seems to sink even deeper into ennui as he realizes that he has been asking himself all his life to try and make himself feel what most people do, normal and comfortable in their skins. better – feels like he has wasted his life locked in a battle most never have to fight, handicapped by having to expend most of his energy wrestling the demons in his head, instead of just going about a normal life of school, business and family and all the other signs people hold up to one another to signal that they have their shit together…that he was wasting his life just fighting off the demons in his head, had no time for shit like classes and work, and stuff…. sinking, has put these questions to himself what seems just then to be millions of times.
had the same thought so many times, put he recalls what seem millions of times that he has thought the same thought and feels even more weary, his body instantly exhausted. Nothing that comes into his mind inspires him with any real hope of avoiding the torture of being so embarrassed with himself that he seems unworthy to live.
Sounds break off from the words coming from the stage, become nonsense sounds like his poem . . . he wishes there was someone there who he could lean over and tell how the poems were similar in the way they sounded; be barely finishes the thought before another dark voice from the shadows of his mind tells him that he is full of shit, just pretending the poems sound the same?
A few hours later he is on the beach in a warm, summer night. He remembers how delighted he was with the water when he was young; the kid he was would have went swimming, splashed around, had no problem at all finding a little fun.
He walks out into the water until he is chest high, then begins swimming out toward the middle of the lake…
Four days, a worried, tearful black woman in her early forties comes into the café with his picture and asks the clerks if they had seen him? The woman behind the counter recognizes him as the kid who got a hard time at the reading, finds out that he never came home after the reading. Michelle tells the mother how he was criticized, how sorry she is that it happened, says she wasn’t there herself… somehow she knows the kid is dead already. Confirmation comes a few days later when the police come around asking what happened at the reading that could have caused a kid to drown himself….
BUSH FAMILY INTERVENTION ATTEMPT OF W ENDS IN GUNFIRE.
An attempt by the Bush Family, and various friends of the president, to force the recently constantly drunk W into a treatment program, ended in gunfire today when the W called in troops and had the entire facility placed under arrest.
After a breif gun battle between the ex-presidents body guards and 300 national guard troops, the Bush family formally surrendered and asked that they be treated with the accords of the Geneva Convention, which caused the thinking world to collectively snicker and mutter, "oh, yea right... "
The W left the treatment center smiling today, saw the gathered press and looked distressed."Hey, this wasn't about me, man? I'm cool. Uh, they were planning a coup. Sadly enough, we have pictures of that therapist in there with Bin Laden, and the others... well, I'm going to have to have their asses kicked, but they're family, so .... Hell, I'll banish em. I can banish people, right? Thank god. "
When asked about his inability to draw a sober breath, W first looked embarrassed, then angry, and finally kind of sad as he answered, "MAn, I drink to think, okay? Thinking hurts, but man, if that's what Bono says it takes to make my band work, well... rock n roll ain't all babes and doobies, you know? Not that I'm saying it shouldn't be... I'll probably pass a law about this? You know, get that thinking shit out of music. Somebody take a goddamn note and remind me about this later." s
After a breif gun battle between the ex-presidents body guards and 300 national guard troops, the Bush family formally surrendered and asked that they be treated with the accords of the Geneva Convention, which caused the thinking world to collectively snicker and mutter, "oh, yea right... "
The W left the treatment center smiling today, saw the gathered press and looked distressed."Hey, this wasn't about me, man? I'm cool. Uh, they were planning a coup. Sadly enough, we have pictures of that therapist in there with Bin Laden, and the others... well, I'm going to have to have their asses kicked, but they're family, so .... Hell, I'll banish em. I can banish people, right? Thank god. "
When asked about his inability to draw a sober breath, W first looked embarrassed, then angry, and finally kind of sad as he answered, "MAn, I drink to think, okay? Thinking hurts, but man, if that's what Bono says it takes to make my band work, well... rock n roll ain't all babes and doobies, you know? Not that I'm saying it shouldn't be... I'll probably pass a law about this? You know, get that thinking shit out of music. Somebody take a goddamn note and remind me about this later." s
DEMOCRATIC POLITICIANS DISAPPEAR FROM WASHINGTON!!
Democratic senators and congresspeople all disappeared from Washington last night. Police reports say they were first noticed missing a couple hours after the bars closed.
The president was asked about the phenomena, as he came into the White House early this morning on a brand new harley davidson, wearing camoflouge fatigues stained with what the w told the press corp was ' . . . . ketchup, or some shit."
When asked about the missing democrats, W responded, "Oh, can't you people just let anything go. I mean, why do you have to be so negative. Tell some of the good stuff sometime. So, what the hell else do you want?"When the w was again asked about the missing democrats, he answered, "Oh, them, yeah... they left a note ... uh, saying they were too cowardly to go on and were just going to all go live . . . uh . .. under the sea. You guys get the flyers on my new band? Cool. Rock on. Gotta crash now, dudes."
The W then roared off onto the white house lawn where he spun a few wheelies for the press before going inside to 'crash.'
The new White House Press Secretary, Howard Stern, came out and addressed the press corp later, in an evident attempt to try to shade the presidents statement by saying, "The W. meant to say that they left a note saying they were leaving forever because they were in touch with their cowardly sides or some such pseudo feminist crap... shit... excrement.... fucking squirrels, uh, with rooster heads... man, I can say anything now."
Family members of missing democratic senators and congresspeople were frantic this afternoon, calling all the sleazy motels, race tracks and strip clubs in Washington trying to locate their lost relatives.
Republican response has ranged from Dick Cheney's continued vow to 'say nothing sensical to the press,' (a move the vp considers part of his overall 'plausible denial philosophy,' which he outlined in an article in Readers Digest last year),' to Speaker Tom Delay's evident surprise when he was told. The speaker seemed stunned by the news and responded by mumbling, "Oh, shit... that was today? I mean, well, that's something else, isn't it?"
The president was asked about the phenomena, as he came into the White House early this morning on a brand new harley davidson, wearing camoflouge fatigues stained with what the w told the press corp was ' . . . . ketchup, or some shit."
When asked about the missing democrats, W responded, "Oh, can't you people just let anything go. I mean, why do you have to be so negative. Tell some of the good stuff sometime. So, what the hell else do you want?"When the w was again asked about the missing democrats, he answered, "Oh, them, yeah... they left a note ... uh, saying they were too cowardly to go on and were just going to all go live . . . uh . .. under the sea. You guys get the flyers on my new band? Cool. Rock on. Gotta crash now, dudes."
The W then roared off onto the white house lawn where he spun a few wheelies for the press before going inside to 'crash.'
The new White House Press Secretary, Howard Stern, came out and addressed the press corp later, in an evident attempt to try to shade the presidents statement by saying, "The W. meant to say that they left a note saying they were leaving forever because they were in touch with their cowardly sides or some such pseudo feminist crap... shit... excrement.... fucking squirrels, uh, with rooster heads... man, I can say anything now."
Family members of missing democratic senators and congresspeople were frantic this afternoon, calling all the sleazy motels, race tracks and strip clubs in Washington trying to locate their lost relatives.
Republican response has ranged from Dick Cheney's continued vow to 'say nothing sensical to the press,' (a move the vp considers part of his overall 'plausible denial philosophy,' which he outlined in an article in Readers Digest last year),' to Speaker Tom Delay's evident surprise when he was told. The speaker seemed stunned by the news and responded by mumbling, "Oh, shit... that was today? I mean, well, that's something else, isn't it?"
PRESIDENT USES IMMINENT DOMAIN LAWS TO TAKE OVER A GOLF COURSE.
The W used Public Domain laws to take over a golf course last night, where three hundred of what the w called his 'closest party buddies and their chickies' could play 'strip golf.'
The golf course was returned the next morning and damage was said, by a government source, to be 'minimal.'
This assesment, however, was disputed by the courses owner, Donny Donofrio, who told reporters, "They were pretty wasted when they came in here. You could hear them miles off, all of them had their guns out shooting them off as they came up the road... Bush was hanging on to the side of one of those new presidential humvees he has, the red ones with detailing by R. Crumb. He was buck naked and howling like a coyote. They drove like that for... well, miles... I guess they were at a bar and when they tried to close, the president invited them all out for some 'Strip Golf.' They shot their way into my house, for christ's sake. Without even trying to knock. I would have anwered. I mean, they didn't have to take my family hostage until they were 'safely off the property' or whatever the hell that Justice department guy said. They didn't have to kill my pets to show me how serious they were, either. . . . I mean, I would have just given them the golf course for the night..."
The golf course was returned the next morning and damage was said, by a government source, to be 'minimal.'
This assesment, however, was disputed by the courses owner, Donny Donofrio, who told reporters, "They were pretty wasted when they came in here. You could hear them miles off, all of them had their guns out shooting them off as they came up the road... Bush was hanging on to the side of one of those new presidential humvees he has, the red ones with detailing by R. Crumb. He was buck naked and howling like a coyote. They drove like that for... well, miles... I guess they were at a bar and when they tried to close, the president invited them all out for some 'Strip Golf.' They shot their way into my house, for christ's sake. Without even trying to knock. I would have anwered. I mean, they didn't have to take my family hostage until they were 'safely off the property' or whatever the hell that Justice department guy said. They didn't have to kill my pets to show me how serious they were, either. . . . I mean, I would have just given them the golf course for the night..."
PRESIDENT DECLARES MIDGETS ARE ELVES!!
Speaking to reporters while standing in the door of the white house waiting for a late pizza delivery, the W told a shocked and confused electorate, "You know, man, Midgets are elves... I wish to god they would just accept this!!! They should all be dressed up in silly costumes and employed by the state to dance around like jesters!!! Like they do in civilized countries!! This isn't cruel either. They would love these jobs. Getting drunk and dancing around is right up there with sex, for god's sake. I mean, can you imagine being paid to dance around all day? I sure can. But, no, here we have these stiffling Equal Rights Laws.... can you imagine how much better the world would be with drunken elves dancing around on the street corners? The world would finally be like the inside of my head . . . "
The W then presented a bill to the journalists aimed at demolishing all Equal Rights Law, saying, "I was going to have to go give some speech, but since you pack of weasels are here, go on and take this down to the senate for me."
When asked why he was demolishing equal rights, the W snapped, "You really don't know shit, do you? You think I want you peasents to have the same rights as me, we're on two different damn planets, okay? I'm a rock star, man."
The W then presented a bill to the journalists aimed at demolishing all Equal Rights Law, saying, "I was going to have to go give some speech, but since you pack of weasels are here, go on and take this down to the senate for me."
When asked why he was demolishing equal rights, the W snapped, "You really don't know shit, do you? You think I want you peasents to have the same rights as me, we're on two different damn planets, okay? I'm a rock star, man."
THE PRESIDENT FORMERLY KNOWN AS BUSH CHANGES NAME TO W AND DECLARES HIMSELF A ROCK STAR!!
SECRET service agents interrupted the Conan O'Brian show last night, stopping a derogatory skit about the president in mid-stream. The W could be heard off stage egging the secret service agents on as they first cuffed, and then beat Conan O'brian to death with repeated punches to the stomach, doing permanent damage to the popular hosts' trademark red pompdour.
The W, as the president now requires by law that he is referred to in all press articles, then ordered the agents to, "Mace all their asses up good, and if they cry, you just go all ape shit on them alright? Cowards.... I won't have em', not in my country."
The W. then took a seat at Conan's Desk and addressed the late night talk show demographic wearing what has become his trademark look -- impenetrable black sun glasses and all black leather from his ankle length coat, shirt, pants, and steel toed boots. Sporting a new diamond ear ring, a blonde die job, and a tattoo, still bloody, of a cross on his forearm, the president then announced to a stunned world, "From here on in, the w is all about the music. Yea, the w is getting a band and the w is living hard, man... a new town, a new chick every night, man... like the w used to dream of.... before, you know, the w found out that he wasn't cool. Back then. He's cool now, of course. Hell I'm cool. AIn't I boys? See them secret service boys think the w is cool. SOrry guys about trying to get ya to eat those microphones last week. I was playing quarters with the girls before I came out for that speech. Tonight, the w sticking to the weed and beer and wine -- no hard stuff. Oh, yea, weed's federally legal now, blah, blah, blah... Just try and bust the w, man. The w got all his body guards smoking a doobie every two hours, man, and they are paranoid, more keyed up than ever. Don't let those red eyes fool ya. Unless your thinking they're crazy mad killers, and then you would be right. Now, the w is still gonna be president, I mean what the hell? But from this day forward, the w will basically be living for tunes, man. Just playing music, recording, touring.... the w has been told he can be a rock star. Man, ain't that the shits? The w means, president is cool, but.... shit, rock star's a lot cooler. My daughters are gonna sing back up. I guess this started as their idea... maybe? You know Clinton really thought he'd be able to jump from the presidency into playing in a band, and man, he wasn't happy when he couldn't pull it off and had to go back to lawyering (We have a secret tape of him lamenting all the 'pussy' he lost by never touring with a band).Anyways, see all the schools and libraries and shit will have to buy my record, because I'm prez., so we got a built in audience. The w got a cool band, too. . Ozzie of course is singing back up, with eninem and slash base and shit... whatever they do... for the lead singer, we're gonna have that guy who did Alvin and The Chimpmunks come in... that shits funny, and it touches me, man, like Elvis..... Weird Al is writing all the lyrics. The w made him poet loreaute of america today, too, which can only help the band. As far as running the office, it's always been a family business, and will continue to be. Dad will be around answering phones, and mom and other folks, you know, that I trust. Hell, whatever they say is fine. The w will come in one day a week, and whatever normal work falls on that day, the w will do it. No more, though -- the w don't want shit piled up on my desk when he comes in, remember that, or more will die mother fuckers. Rock on."
Bush then abruptly left the studio.
O'brian's signature pompodour survived the attack that took the late night hosts life, and was able to finish out the show. NBC was so happy with 'little reds' performance that the puffy locks was offered a full time gig as the new host of the late show.
Brian Tannedtocancer, the nbc executive in charge of late night programming, announced the new host at a brunch this morning that started out as a wake for Conan but quickly turned into a photo op for the irrespressible 'lil red.' The pompodour impressed the executives ast night by taking the reigns of the Conan show, after host had just been beaten to death by a surprisingly legal presidential decree, and taking up right where Conan left off -- despite the handicap of haveing to get the audience laughing and run the show, from the top of the head of the dead body of his predeccesser.
The W, as the president now requires by law that he is referred to in all press articles, then ordered the agents to, "Mace all their asses up good, and if they cry, you just go all ape shit on them alright? Cowards.... I won't have em', not in my country."
The W. then took a seat at Conan's Desk and addressed the late night talk show demographic wearing what has become his trademark look -- impenetrable black sun glasses and all black leather from his ankle length coat, shirt, pants, and steel toed boots. Sporting a new diamond ear ring, a blonde die job, and a tattoo, still bloody, of a cross on his forearm, the president then announced to a stunned world, "From here on in, the w is all about the music. Yea, the w is getting a band and the w is living hard, man... a new town, a new chick every night, man... like the w used to dream of.... before, you know, the w found out that he wasn't cool. Back then. He's cool now, of course. Hell I'm cool. AIn't I boys? See them secret service boys think the w is cool. SOrry guys about trying to get ya to eat those microphones last week. I was playing quarters with the girls before I came out for that speech. Tonight, the w sticking to the weed and beer and wine -- no hard stuff. Oh, yea, weed's federally legal now, blah, blah, blah... Just try and bust the w, man. The w got all his body guards smoking a doobie every two hours, man, and they are paranoid, more keyed up than ever. Don't let those red eyes fool ya. Unless your thinking they're crazy mad killers, and then you would be right. Now, the w is still gonna be president, I mean what the hell? But from this day forward, the w will basically be living for tunes, man. Just playing music, recording, touring.... the w has been told he can be a rock star. Man, ain't that the shits? The w means, president is cool, but.... shit, rock star's a lot cooler. My daughters are gonna sing back up. I guess this started as their idea... maybe? You know Clinton really thought he'd be able to jump from the presidency into playing in a band, and man, he wasn't happy when he couldn't pull it off and had to go back to lawyering (We have a secret tape of him lamenting all the 'pussy' he lost by never touring with a band).Anyways, see all the schools and libraries and shit will have to buy my record, because I'm prez., so we got a built in audience. The w got a cool band, too. . Ozzie of course is singing back up, with eninem and slash base and shit... whatever they do... for the lead singer, we're gonna have that guy who did Alvin and The Chimpmunks come in... that shits funny, and it touches me, man, like Elvis..... Weird Al is writing all the lyrics. The w made him poet loreaute of america today, too, which can only help the band. As far as running the office, it's always been a family business, and will continue to be. Dad will be around answering phones, and mom and other folks, you know, that I trust. Hell, whatever they say is fine. The w will come in one day a week, and whatever normal work falls on that day, the w will do it. No more, though -- the w don't want shit piled up on my desk when he comes in, remember that, or more will die mother fuckers. Rock on."
Bush then abruptly left the studio.
O'brian's signature pompodour survived the attack that took the late night hosts life, and was able to finish out the show. NBC was so happy with 'little reds' performance that the puffy locks was offered a full time gig as the new host of the late show.
Brian Tannedtocancer, the nbc executive in charge of late night programming, announced the new host at a brunch this morning that started out as a wake for Conan but quickly turned into a photo op for the irrespressible 'lil red.' The pompodour impressed the executives ast night by taking the reigns of the Conan show, after host had just been beaten to death by a surprisingly legal presidential decree, and taking up right where Conan left off -- despite the handicap of haveing to get the audience laughing and run the show, from the top of the head of the dead body of his predeccesser.
PRESIDENT PUSHES THROUGH BILL THE DEM.'S ARE CALLING 'THE I AM NOT A WIMP' LAW.
NOT-SO-PRESIDENT PUSHED A NEW LAWTHROUGH CONGRESS LATE FRIDAY with unprecedented speed, so quickly that evidently no one voted on the bill except for Dick Cheney, who is claiming he can't speak about anything anymore because of what he tells reporters is, 'the power of plausible denial."
Democrats were out partying when the vote was taken and are feeling none too kind this morning as they line up, despite their holiday hangovers, to drink bloody mary's and roundly criticize the new law which they dubbed the, I AM NOT A WIMP, EITHER law.
At the signing in ceremony last night, reporters asked the not-so-pres. what the new law entailed.The president took on his trademark smug smirk, leaned forward on the podium and answered in a voice filled with conviction and even joy." I will from now on order the new head of all the fucking spies, okay, to have all the intelligence services and the armed forces at my command, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, to just kick whoever's ass I want them too. It's gonna be frigging cool."
An anonymous source in the administration had quite a bit to say why Bush put the law through:
"He really just wants to get revenge on anyone who ever did anything to him that he didn't like. And I do mean anything. And he kept these fucking lists, okay? His mom helped him, I guess. She did the same. He has a team of ex Navy Seals working around the clock getting even with people his mom hates alone, I guess... He doesn't always have good reasons, you know... There are people he hates for things like acting like characters he doesn't like -- and yes, more actors than you would guess die from just this right now.... You gotta remember, as a politician, he's had to suck everyone's ass all his life -- and this is what kept him going, this dream of his to become a second term president and then just fucking wreak revenge. He starts sweating and shaking when he talks about this and... well, humm, he becomes visably aroused -- you know, the little tent? I guess, he doesn't, you know, since the love making accident he had, slipping out and taking a nasty fall off some silk sheets... he refuses to allow anyone to speak of it. That's a capital offense at the moment, in fact. He snuck that one right by the press. Now, on this new campaign of his, he has teachers on there from his second grade in school on -- anyone who gave him a ‘C’ or less.... the list is just.... well, long, okay... He gets drunk once in awhile and lets other people add names, too. He's holding strategy meetings now with top co's from accross the country, generals, think tanks... has them all targeting his first waves of objectives -- anyone who picked on him when they were kids. I mean, we're talking about older men and women who don't even remember these incidents, and he has these agents just driving a fucking tank into their houses in the middle of the night, dragging them out in front of their neighbors and beating them to piss and trembles, you know? In fact, he is so serious that Bush is hiring private contracters, because he is afraid that government workers will 'slack off a lot ' and 'barely put anything into the punches.' When someone in the cabinet was foolish enough to point out to w. that he's a government worker, too, Bush at first tried to make it out like he knew that, then like he didn't give a shit about the dig, saying, "Hell, I do slack off a lot... if that's what you mean and of course that is what you mean... You know what, I don't need to throw any of my own goddamned punches, though, because I can afford fucking help. Like to meet the help?' Then he sicked these secret service guys on the cabinet member ... In fact, he ranted for awhile on how from now on, the government worked for him. Wasn't pretty. This is about when he started in on the malt liquor spiked with tequila, too; something he said was 'his daughters favorite waker upper.' That night, in some kind of midnite ceremony which Bush says is based on skull and bones, he made everyone do shots and beat off to really old porno with seventies disco tracks in the back ground. . . you would not believe how much of nasa's budget has been diverted to making masterbatory devices for this man... anyways, then we all went out into this tent set up on the white house lawn, where he had the guy who pissed him off at the meeting drawn and quartered by these four Budweiser horses. Guy squirted straight up for a change. To keep everything quite, we may or may not have been involved in all those tourists dying in washington that day. I mean, they all died, every single tourist that day... a sad coincidence... but... well, I got to save something for my fucking book, right? I mean, how else is a politician supposed to support his family when he goes to prison? Yea, and you can bet, if we had to kill everyone who was on vacation in washington that day. . . . that was a job. Jeez, the ones we might shoot in my book were really, just like the president said at the time, getting the better of the deal. See what I mean?"
Bush was later again confronted by reporters, this time outside of a well known DC barbecue eatery, where he walked out with his belt undone and the top button of his pants open, his shirt tail half out and covered in the same dark purple sauce that covered his face and suit and white shirt and tie. When asked by reporters, 'Isn’t this law immoral and just plain a bad precedence? By the way, should one of your stature look so . . . common?"The not-so president responded, "Somebody say something? Because if somebody was to say something, I brought some ass kickers here with me today for emergency jobs? Somebody say something about this sauce? I am the fucking president!!! Yea, doggie!!! Look at ya stink weasel liberals to the bone... You know what, send your fastest fucking secret service agent back to that place and get me a me a bottle of that barbacue sauce and have every man here spread it on their faces, and if anyone fucking gives you a look, just one damn disrepectful look, you cap their asses... What is that? Silence? I guess the so called free press doesn't have shit to say to that, huh? Yea, I fucking didn't think so. That's right, you just better keep your damn French and other languages speaking pie holes shut. Now, where the fuck is that sauce, goddamn it ? That guy you sent is too fucking slow -- kill him when he gets back. And you better hope the next one runs faster when I need sauce like this, by god."
Bush was then seen going into a fast food restaurant, where he angrily stopped in the entryway and tore down a sign in the window saying, "No Public Restroom.' The enraged w .startled the teenage girls at the counter by waving the tattered sign in their faces and screaming, "You know, punks, I can take a goddamn shit on your head if I want to!!"When the teens started crying loudly, Bush reoportedly was reminded of his own daughters, and ordered a near by cabinet member to apologize to the kids.W then told the young women,"Hell, kids, I'll tell you what. I'll buy you some fucking beers, okay? In fact, close this place fucking down. In fact, tear this shit down. Yes, right fucking now. Light it up. Call in the goddamned national guard if you want, I don't give a damn. Disobey me and die, motherfuckers!!! Now, get that limo over here and me and these young lassses are going to drink some brewskis.... then we'll stop over at my kids place, do some bongs, whatever . . . I'm the most powerful mother fucker on the planet!!! Whhoooo, doggie, yeaaaaa!!!"
The teenager were seen being thrown out of the limo's window just a block away. While waiting for an ambulance, the one who could speak told reporters," He was only being nice, he said, because thought we had weed... when we didn't, he told this guy, 'toss em, just toss their asses."
Penguins on the scene refused to comment, despite questioning by curious reporters trying to get to the bottom of the appearance of thousands of penguins in washington, dc. Ignoring even the most doggedly badgerous, the penguins merely stood around in shadowed doorways displaying bad posture, smoking, and looking bitter . . . very, very bitter...
Puffins were more forth coming with their views, but when they tried to talk to reporters secret service agents were sent in to stomp them to death.
Democrats were out partying when the vote was taken and are feeling none too kind this morning as they line up, despite their holiday hangovers, to drink bloody mary's and roundly criticize the new law which they dubbed the, I AM NOT A WIMP, EITHER law.
At the signing in ceremony last night, reporters asked the not-so-pres. what the new law entailed.The president took on his trademark smug smirk, leaned forward on the podium and answered in a voice filled with conviction and even joy." I will from now on order the new head of all the fucking spies, okay, to have all the intelligence services and the armed forces at my command, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, to just kick whoever's ass I want them too. It's gonna be frigging cool."
An anonymous source in the administration had quite a bit to say why Bush put the law through:
"He really just wants to get revenge on anyone who ever did anything to him that he didn't like. And I do mean anything. And he kept these fucking lists, okay? His mom helped him, I guess. She did the same. He has a team of ex Navy Seals working around the clock getting even with people his mom hates alone, I guess... He doesn't always have good reasons, you know... There are people he hates for things like acting like characters he doesn't like -- and yes, more actors than you would guess die from just this right now.... You gotta remember, as a politician, he's had to suck everyone's ass all his life -- and this is what kept him going, this dream of his to become a second term president and then just fucking wreak revenge. He starts sweating and shaking when he talks about this and... well, humm, he becomes visably aroused -- you know, the little tent? I guess, he doesn't, you know, since the love making accident he had, slipping out and taking a nasty fall off some silk sheets... he refuses to allow anyone to speak of it. That's a capital offense at the moment, in fact. He snuck that one right by the press. Now, on this new campaign of his, he has teachers on there from his second grade in school on -- anyone who gave him a ‘C’ or less.... the list is just.... well, long, okay... He gets drunk once in awhile and lets other people add names, too. He's holding strategy meetings now with top co's from accross the country, generals, think tanks... has them all targeting his first waves of objectives -- anyone who picked on him when they were kids. I mean, we're talking about older men and women who don't even remember these incidents, and he has these agents just driving a fucking tank into their houses in the middle of the night, dragging them out in front of their neighbors and beating them to piss and trembles, you know? In fact, he is so serious that Bush is hiring private contracters, because he is afraid that government workers will 'slack off a lot ' and 'barely put anything into the punches.' When someone in the cabinet was foolish enough to point out to w. that he's a government worker, too, Bush at first tried to make it out like he knew that, then like he didn't give a shit about the dig, saying, "Hell, I do slack off a lot... if that's what you mean and of course that is what you mean... You know what, I don't need to throw any of my own goddamned punches, though, because I can afford fucking help. Like to meet the help?' Then he sicked these secret service guys on the cabinet member ... In fact, he ranted for awhile on how from now on, the government worked for him. Wasn't pretty. This is about when he started in on the malt liquor spiked with tequila, too; something he said was 'his daughters favorite waker upper.' That night, in some kind of midnite ceremony which Bush says is based on skull and bones, he made everyone do shots and beat off to really old porno with seventies disco tracks in the back ground. . . you would not believe how much of nasa's budget has been diverted to making masterbatory devices for this man... anyways, then we all went out into this tent set up on the white house lawn, where he had the guy who pissed him off at the meeting drawn and quartered by these four Budweiser horses. Guy squirted straight up for a change. To keep everything quite, we may or may not have been involved in all those tourists dying in washington that day. I mean, they all died, every single tourist that day... a sad coincidence... but... well, I got to save something for my fucking book, right? I mean, how else is a politician supposed to support his family when he goes to prison? Yea, and you can bet, if we had to kill everyone who was on vacation in washington that day. . . . that was a job. Jeez, the ones we might shoot in my book were really, just like the president said at the time, getting the better of the deal. See what I mean?"
Bush was later again confronted by reporters, this time outside of a well known DC barbecue eatery, where he walked out with his belt undone and the top button of his pants open, his shirt tail half out and covered in the same dark purple sauce that covered his face and suit and white shirt and tie. When asked by reporters, 'Isn’t this law immoral and just plain a bad precedence? By the way, should one of your stature look so . . . common?"The not-so president responded, "Somebody say something? Because if somebody was to say something, I brought some ass kickers here with me today for emergency jobs? Somebody say something about this sauce? I am the fucking president!!! Yea, doggie!!! Look at ya stink weasel liberals to the bone... You know what, send your fastest fucking secret service agent back to that place and get me a me a bottle of that barbacue sauce and have every man here spread it on their faces, and if anyone fucking gives you a look, just one damn disrepectful look, you cap their asses... What is that? Silence? I guess the so called free press doesn't have shit to say to that, huh? Yea, I fucking didn't think so. That's right, you just better keep your damn French and other languages speaking pie holes shut. Now, where the fuck is that sauce, goddamn it ? That guy you sent is too fucking slow -- kill him when he gets back. And you better hope the next one runs faster when I need sauce like this, by god."
Bush was then seen going into a fast food restaurant, where he angrily stopped in the entryway and tore down a sign in the window saying, "No Public Restroom.' The enraged w .startled the teenage girls at the counter by waving the tattered sign in their faces and screaming, "You know, punks, I can take a goddamn shit on your head if I want to!!"When the teens started crying loudly, Bush reoportedly was reminded of his own daughters, and ordered a near by cabinet member to apologize to the kids.W then told the young women,"Hell, kids, I'll tell you what. I'll buy you some fucking beers, okay? In fact, close this place fucking down. In fact, tear this shit down. Yes, right fucking now. Light it up. Call in the goddamned national guard if you want, I don't give a damn. Disobey me and die, motherfuckers!!! Now, get that limo over here and me and these young lassses are going to drink some brewskis.... then we'll stop over at my kids place, do some bongs, whatever . . . I'm the most powerful mother fucker on the planet!!! Whhoooo, doggie, yeaaaaa!!!"
The teenager were seen being thrown out of the limo's window just a block away. While waiting for an ambulance, the one who could speak told reporters," He was only being nice, he said, because thought we had weed... when we didn't, he told this guy, 'toss em, just toss their asses."
Penguins on the scene refused to comment, despite questioning by curious reporters trying to get to the bottom of the appearance of thousands of penguins in washington, dc. Ignoring even the most doggedly badgerous, the penguins merely stood around in shadowed doorways displaying bad posture, smoking, and looking bitter . . . very, very bitter...
Puffins were more forth coming with their views, but when they tried to talk to reporters secret service agents were sent in to stomp them to death.
MORE EVIDENCE THAT I REALLY, REALLY SUCK.
mary ann
Her pain is a pressure in my chest, makes me breath faster
I am the one who causes this grieving in my lovers
Hurting most the ones I love most
What ape inside is this that comes out and embarrasses me?
How do I ever act like that?
These kind of thoughts come later
When the improv is over and I am left alone, stripped of character
Naked before her
A child
No
But something less than the mythic man
The well argued reasons are many and the excuses aplenty
Emotion overpowers reason, slashes that wenches throat and leaves her dead.
I am left with her hurting at my behest
She is caught in the problems of my failures like a fly in an old, unused spider’s web
She can fight here way out of this web, easily fly away.
Hurting the one I wish to bring only laughter and warmth and joy
If I could change the world…. But I can’t.
If I could change myself… But I can’t… though I can adjust
Perhaps enough for her love to ease my mind again
How does the story go from ‘I knew the first time I saw you’ to ‘I can’t anymore.’
that path where tender love and pits of punji sticks are arbitrarily dispersed
I don’t know don’t know don’t know what it was but I want to take it all back
Shift that and this incident into the corners of our minds
Look elsewhere, see ourselves as lovers again,
Art types taking on the world, suffering for our differences,
A bomb went off in New York and she lost her job in Chicago
And then there is me
Veering from the sane man
To a foolish boof,
Sometimes so diminished I use the shield of a braggart
Embarrass her.
Lie to her to keep the peace and then find she didn’t want that at all but the peace is somehow shattered by my telling her anyway… as I knew it would be
Love above and beyond all the petty
Keeps me deep in gray until she accepts me again
Her pain is a pressure in my chest, makes me breath faster
I am the one who causes this grieving in my lovers
Hurting most the ones I love most
What ape inside is this that comes out and embarrasses me?
How do I ever act like that?
These kind of thoughts come later
When the improv is over and I am left alone, stripped of character
Naked before her
A child
No
But something less than the mythic man
The well argued reasons are many and the excuses aplenty
Emotion overpowers reason, slashes that wenches throat and leaves her dead.
I am left with her hurting at my behest
She is caught in the problems of my failures like a fly in an old, unused spider’s web
She can fight here way out of this web, easily fly away.
Hurting the one I wish to bring only laughter and warmth and joy
If I could change the world…. But I can’t.
If I could change myself… But I can’t… though I can adjust
Perhaps enough for her love to ease my mind again
How does the story go from ‘I knew the first time I saw you’ to ‘I can’t anymore.’
that path where tender love and pits of punji sticks are arbitrarily dispersed
I don’t know don’t know don’t know what it was but I want to take it all back
Shift that and this incident into the corners of our minds
Look elsewhere, see ourselves as lovers again,
Art types taking on the world, suffering for our differences,
A bomb went off in New York and she lost her job in Chicago
And then there is me
Veering from the sane man
To a foolish boof,
Sometimes so diminished I use the shield of a braggart
Embarrass her.
Lie to her to keep the peace and then find she didn’t want that at all but the peace is somehow shattered by my telling her anyway… as I knew it would be
Love above and beyond all the petty
Keeps me deep in gray until she accepts me again
ANGELS
Angels
She’s late. The local’s pause in the road, stare at the limo, then slowly move out of the way. "Why don’t they move a little faster, for God’s sake? Johnny, when we get to the flower stall on Marquez, I need to make a quick stop."
His feet strike the road and brown dust rises. Black drops fall from his pant-legs. The street is lined with piles of bananas and apples and fish. Vendors pause to watch his hands as he passes.
¨
She had heard people say the heat made them lazy, and though she would never in her life have repeated such a thing, she could see why some people believed it. Johnny was laying on the horn and the locals were acting like they were granting them some favor just by moving out of the way.
He runs by too fast to hear an apple vendor turn to his squatting wife and whisper, "It's a shame, a damn shame."
"Johnny, if any ghosts get in the way, you can drive right through them, you know? The Day of the Dead, Jesus. The women here spend all week cooking, only to leave the food out to rot. I thought half this country was starving? Next, we’re off to Switzerland. The civilized world. I shouldn’t say that. This party tonight will be nice. Who doesn’t love to dress up?�
Her halo shines the gold of sun. Her wings are the white of morning doves. Her eyes the blue of river water. He knows her from the book that the priest brought to the village. She is the angel who will take him to heaven.
She imagines a portly Swiss banker in a black suit stooping down to set a china platter of filet mignon on a manicured grave, lays her head back into the upholstery and laughs silently. A sickly thin face appears inches away from her eyes, in the window, a boy, a baby, filthy and crying, blood coming out his noise, mouth . . .
She sits up straight, pulls down the blind and tells herself, '’Dam it, I need at least one night without this.’
Johnny thinks that she is talking to him and looks into the back seat and asks,
“What?�
“Oh, nothing.� She sounds more irritated than she wants to.
¨
Julio said that he was going to get something to eat. He came back with apples. The soldier followed.
Before coming to the country, she read a company brochure on the street urchins. She memorized how the experts said to deal with them. Still that first day, as she walked into the airport and was surrounded by dozens of children with distended stomachs, her heart shouted. She gave away all of her change, three or four dollars, at least--exactly what the brochure said that she wasn’t supposed to do. Of course, a huge crowd of them gathered and there wasn't enough. One of the boys -- who she had just given money to -- grabbed her purse and tried to jerk it out of her hands. She was close to hysterical by the time her driver started pushing them away.
Everything exploded . . . then he was waking up crying. Julio was on top of him. His face was torn up, bloody and scary like a monster in a movie. He tried to crawl away. It hurt too much. He turned his head away. Two people passing the alley looked down, saw him and moved past quick. Then he saw the angel and was up and running. She would take him to his mother. Like the priest said at the funeral.
He remembers that he should pray for forgiveness of his sins and he does.
She steps out of the limo with her eyes on the flowers, then turns toward the sound of yelling. The boy is running straight at her. She takes hold of her purse with both hands, looks back at the car and sees Johnny getting out.
His fingers near her face. Someone grabs him around the waist and jerks him up into the sky.
A soldier raises a muscle-cut forearm over the boy’s impossibly thin neck and then slams his fist down hard. She hears the bones in his neck crack. Her stomach convulses. Yellow bile explodes from her lips, splatters over her breasts and flows down her white satin costume.
She’s late. The local’s pause in the road, stare at the limo, then slowly move out of the way. "Why don’t they move a little faster, for God’s sake? Johnny, when we get to the flower stall on Marquez, I need to make a quick stop."
His feet strike the road and brown dust rises. Black drops fall from his pant-legs. The street is lined with piles of bananas and apples and fish. Vendors pause to watch his hands as he passes.
¨
She had heard people say the heat made them lazy, and though she would never in her life have repeated such a thing, she could see why some people believed it. Johnny was laying on the horn and the locals were acting like they were granting them some favor just by moving out of the way.
He runs by too fast to hear an apple vendor turn to his squatting wife and whisper, "It's a shame, a damn shame."
"Johnny, if any ghosts get in the way, you can drive right through them, you know? The Day of the Dead, Jesus. The women here spend all week cooking, only to leave the food out to rot. I thought half this country was starving? Next, we’re off to Switzerland. The civilized world. I shouldn’t say that. This party tonight will be nice. Who doesn’t love to dress up?�
Her halo shines the gold of sun. Her wings are the white of morning doves. Her eyes the blue of river water. He knows her from the book that the priest brought to the village. She is the angel who will take him to heaven.
She imagines a portly Swiss banker in a black suit stooping down to set a china platter of filet mignon on a manicured grave, lays her head back into the upholstery and laughs silently. A sickly thin face appears inches away from her eyes, in the window, a boy, a baby, filthy and crying, blood coming out his noise, mouth . . .
She sits up straight, pulls down the blind and tells herself, '’Dam it, I need at least one night without this.’
Johnny thinks that she is talking to him and looks into the back seat and asks,
“What?�
“Oh, nothing.� She sounds more irritated than she wants to.
¨
Julio said that he was going to get something to eat. He came back with apples. The soldier followed.
Before coming to the country, she read a company brochure on the street urchins. She memorized how the experts said to deal with them. Still that first day, as she walked into the airport and was surrounded by dozens of children with distended stomachs, her heart shouted. She gave away all of her change, three or four dollars, at least--exactly what the brochure said that she wasn’t supposed to do. Of course, a huge crowd of them gathered and there wasn't enough. One of the boys -- who she had just given money to -- grabbed her purse and tried to jerk it out of her hands. She was close to hysterical by the time her driver started pushing them away.
Everything exploded . . . then he was waking up crying. Julio was on top of him. His face was torn up, bloody and scary like a monster in a movie. He tried to crawl away. It hurt too much. He turned his head away. Two people passing the alley looked down, saw him and moved past quick. Then he saw the angel and was up and running. She would take him to his mother. Like the priest said at the funeral.
He remembers that he should pray for forgiveness of his sins and he does.
She steps out of the limo with her eyes on the flowers, then turns toward the sound of yelling. The boy is running straight at her. She takes hold of her purse with both hands, looks back at the car and sees Johnny getting out.
His fingers near her face. Someone grabs him around the waist and jerks him up into the sky.
A soldier raises a muscle-cut forearm over the boy’s impossibly thin neck and then slams his fist down hard. She hears the bones in his neck crack. Her stomach convulses. Yellow bile explodes from her lips, splatters over her breasts and flows down her white satin costume.
THE IMMORALITY ODE...
I cruise a black and white womb namah H.G. Wells
A slick sliding embryonic space slicer
Don’t respect just saying no
Don’t hold with no time delineation
Kevin is dispatching crusty orders through his plump purple lips,
That man got chins flowing right downs into them button-up shirts
Says one day he’ll be bowling in the P.G.A.
Got a God complex and wears the darkest damn shades
He fucks the cabbies who won’t ignore him always feeding his favorites
He don’t appreciate no ‘ass hole college boy’
claiming he has rights’
ain’t taken none of my shit.
He spits out, “96, go to 4444 St. Louis, compartment 5�
I scoop up a gray pompadour moussed slick
He wants to go to his ‘property’
He keeps saying property so I ask what it is
and have to twice before he
says Rally Hamburger’s.
That man’s got secrets don’t nobody know.
His hands talking away like Horatio Alger got puppet strings hanging down from heaven.
He brags on them burgers.
He’s got that fucking boring ass glass-eyed script down.
A greasy cardboard after-taste coagulates over my Marlboro morning mouth.
I mumble something having an ‘eclectic palate ‘
And don’t eat no Rally burgers – catch myself too late, can’t salvage no tip
Careen under a viaduct and confront the Jeep plant.
Them Jeep boys got blue jeans pulled up high over their hips
Got wide belts with Harley Davidson buckles bold
Got steel toes & diluadid in their pockets
Crack & H & anything that will make eight hours fly by, fly by
Cadillac’s and Catalina’s are posted in an open-air market across from the plant.
A lot of money moves through those gray winter shift changes,
Buys all the feelings needed for a good day.
At Detroit and Auburn the stores are ply-boarded up
On a white poster huge black word read WARNING
If ya look close, the fine print says that the Vatican has control of time and Newsweek and ABC
Ya gotta look close.
Pick up a salesman from another life
He asks me if things are ‘okay.’
Like he cares,
Like something bad happened for me to be driving cab
He asks about the wife and I tell her she’s dead just to have a story to tell
I lie so unconscious to the rubes that I half-believe myself
I blast the radio over Kevin’s orders
Guns and Roses mourn patience
Implore patience
Park by the courthouse and read a little Whitman
Afterwards I start seeing bards under the wino’s stubble
Hear Bukowski mumbling about needing some change
Take an order off the crackling waves
Drive by Beko Brother’s Oakwood & Lawrence Corner Store
The bloods have spray painted their name in blue dog piss
The crips pissed a red x over the blue
There is gonna be war at Beko’s
Slip under Starr Avenue
See orange paint
dripping like blood
Say
THE AGONY OF MY SOUL GAVE VENT IN ONE SCREAM VIETNAM
I feel that graffito man every time Old H.G. slices a womb
Ol H.G. is collecting screams like flotsam on ah white wave
H.G. is gonna make sense
of all the images splattering on my eyes
Drive past a waving shiny woman in a purple jumpsuit
she lifts up her skirt to show her pussy and
I almost check to see how much I have
before I remember that I hate whores
Silent pocket comes between fares rapping with Rimbaud
Watch him grow into a mile high symb-o-list
drunkenly laughing at the madness
He got one foot crushing Robies bar 6 am serious sippers
Got the other foot crushing those Ottawa Hills rose gardens.
His hands are earthmovers
lifting Toledo up into a tweed colored sky
He tosses that shit around
Tastes it
Scrunches up his face and spits black bubbles
That drift out over the sun and make dark from day
My twelve-hour shift stumbles deranged into the cityscape
One drop of tired sand in the city
I hang out in the dispatch office and breath in misty morning might
Listen to Chuckles caress the voice of some Parkview nurses
Hear him saying it ain’t our fault it ain’t anybody’s fault.
A late blood delivery cost one gushing life.
Paite parks his carnie camper on the taxi lot when the winter white shuts the mid-way
down.
I trudge out there swollen with the streets
feeling like a 21st century poet
One Godless motherfucker drunk on drama
Tainted well beyond media accepted standards of electibility.
We smoke fine dope
And scramble the streets like eggs
Paite can tell carnie stories that make ya smell popcorn
Man got 5 voices for every story.
Tells about escaping from a chain gang and getting shot at
Because it was the sixties
And he noticed and some red neck cops didn’t.
He tries to teach me to short change customers
I say I’m too honest and he tells me,
“Kid, that’s a handicap like any handicap, and we can work on it.�
I tell him that I read a poem that said
one breathe away,
I might of lived differently
Paite smiles forty years of doing what he damn well pleases and says
“I know, kid. I know.�
This is dedicated to Paite, who died a couple years ago.
A slick sliding embryonic space slicer
Don’t respect just saying no
Don’t hold with no time delineation
Kevin is dispatching crusty orders through his plump purple lips,
That man got chins flowing right downs into them button-up shirts
Says one day he’ll be bowling in the P.G.A.
Got a God complex and wears the darkest damn shades
He fucks the cabbies who won’t ignore him always feeding his favorites
He don’t appreciate no ‘ass hole college boy’
claiming he has rights’
ain’t taken none of my shit.
He spits out, “96, go to 4444 St. Louis, compartment 5�
I scoop up a gray pompadour moussed slick
He wants to go to his ‘property’
He keeps saying property so I ask what it is
and have to twice before he
says Rally Hamburger’s.
That man’s got secrets don’t nobody know.
His hands talking away like Horatio Alger got puppet strings hanging down from heaven.
He brags on them burgers.
He’s got that fucking boring ass glass-eyed script down.
A greasy cardboard after-taste coagulates over my Marlboro morning mouth.
I mumble something having an ‘eclectic palate ‘
And don’t eat no Rally burgers – catch myself too late, can’t salvage no tip
Careen under a viaduct and confront the Jeep plant.
Them Jeep boys got blue jeans pulled up high over their hips
Got wide belts with Harley Davidson buckles bold
Got steel toes & diluadid in their pockets
Crack & H & anything that will make eight hours fly by, fly by
Cadillac’s and Catalina’s are posted in an open-air market across from the plant.
A lot of money moves through those gray winter shift changes,
Buys all the feelings needed for a good day.
At Detroit and Auburn the stores are ply-boarded up
On a white poster huge black word read WARNING
If ya look close, the fine print says that the Vatican has control of time and Newsweek and ABC
Ya gotta look close.
Pick up a salesman from another life
He asks me if things are ‘okay.’
Like he cares,
Like something bad happened for me to be driving cab
He asks about the wife and I tell her she’s dead just to have a story to tell
I lie so unconscious to the rubes that I half-believe myself
I blast the radio over Kevin’s orders
Guns and Roses mourn patience
Implore patience
Park by the courthouse and read a little Whitman
Afterwards I start seeing bards under the wino’s stubble
Hear Bukowski mumbling about needing some change
Take an order off the crackling waves
Drive by Beko Brother’s Oakwood & Lawrence Corner Store
The bloods have spray painted their name in blue dog piss
The crips pissed a red x over the blue
There is gonna be war at Beko’s
Slip under Starr Avenue
See orange paint
dripping like blood
Say
THE AGONY OF MY SOUL GAVE VENT IN ONE SCREAM VIETNAM
I feel that graffito man every time Old H.G. slices a womb
Ol H.G. is collecting screams like flotsam on ah white wave
H.G. is gonna make sense
of all the images splattering on my eyes
Drive past a waving shiny woman in a purple jumpsuit
she lifts up her skirt to show her pussy and
I almost check to see how much I have
before I remember that I hate whores
Silent pocket comes between fares rapping with Rimbaud
Watch him grow into a mile high symb-o-list
drunkenly laughing at the madness
He got one foot crushing Robies bar 6 am serious sippers
Got the other foot crushing those Ottawa Hills rose gardens.
His hands are earthmovers
lifting Toledo up into a tweed colored sky
He tosses that shit around
Tastes it
Scrunches up his face and spits black bubbles
That drift out over the sun and make dark from day
My twelve-hour shift stumbles deranged into the cityscape
One drop of tired sand in the city
I hang out in the dispatch office and breath in misty morning might
Listen to Chuckles caress the voice of some Parkview nurses
Hear him saying it ain’t our fault it ain’t anybody’s fault.
A late blood delivery cost one gushing life.
Paite parks his carnie camper on the taxi lot when the winter white shuts the mid-way
down.
I trudge out there swollen with the streets
feeling like a 21st century poet
One Godless motherfucker drunk on drama
Tainted well beyond media accepted standards of electibility.
We smoke fine dope
And scramble the streets like eggs
Paite can tell carnie stories that make ya smell popcorn
Man got 5 voices for every story.
Tells about escaping from a chain gang and getting shot at
Because it was the sixties
And he noticed and some red neck cops didn’t.
He tries to teach me to short change customers
I say I’m too honest and he tells me,
“Kid, that’s a handicap like any handicap, and we can work on it.�
I tell him that I read a poem that said
one breathe away,
I might of lived differently
Paite smiles forty years of doing what he damn well pleases and says
“I know, kid. I know.�
This is dedicated to Paite, who died a couple years ago.
whore, whores, whores and more whores... another taxi tale
Paite gets an account with a massage parlor, to run the women up from Toledo to the airport in Detroit. They are all gorgeous asian women who find me to be a cute little green card and are almost too friendly. He usually takes the fares himself. The woman who runs the massage parlor prefers that the drivers take a massage instead of money, but I turn that down, pretty much because my girlfriend is very, very, very AIDS conscious. I've been tested six times during my time with her. They are very scary things to take.
I get a call from the dispatcher to call him on the phone. He patches me over to Paite who is at the Detroit airport, with the owner of the massage parlor, and she has forgotten a bag. She is about to miss an international flight which only takes off daily and will pay any speeding tickets and a 50 dollar tip if I can make it there in a rather ridiculously short amount of time. I do so.
As I pull into the airport, there is Paite, all dramatic like, running out to get the rest of the woman's luggage (which I later found out had like 50 thousand dollars in it).
I hand him the bag through the window and he bolts into the airport.
I park, get out and walk into the terminal just and hear Paite scream, "No!" As the Asian woman accidently puts his breifcase on the belt to be checked, complete with his .38 automatic.
Bells go off and there alarms everywher, two plain clothes cops and all three of the security guards pull their guns and point at the man who seems to be running toward his gun.
Paite stops, smiles, holds up his hands and says in a confident, take charge voice, "You gentlement are going to laugh when you realize who you pulled your guns on, okay? This is all just a big misunderstanding. She threw the wrong breifcase on the belt, that's all that is happening here." He'd spent enough time in jail, getting arrested and in courtthat he knew how to get control of men who were holding guns on him.
(In court, Paite took great pleasure in practicing law with his jailhouse license and made a lot of money off insurance fraud. The only way he went to jail, as he told it, was that they framed him. He also claimed that was when he gave up his life of total crime, because the cops, to him, were breaking the rules by framing (though they knew and could not prove anything all the time along the way)
Back in the airport.... Well, Paite gives me a signal at some point to stay back, which I take to mean be ready to bail him out or something. They take him away in cuffs and he is talking away, already making them smile. He worked the carny enough years that he could almost hypnotize some people. . I wait around for about four hours, hear nothing, and finally just drive back to Toledo. The Asian woman made her flight because Paite insisted the gun was his, not hers, and that they shouldn't hold her up.
About ten that night, I cruise by the cab office and Paite tells me, "Well,I guess I could have been put away for like fifteen years." He puffs away on fat joints and Marlboro's as he talks fast; he waves his hands a lot and ashes fly tend to be flitting about in the air around him. "They took me to an FBI agent and, Man, when he pulled up my record, I was sweating, boy. He wanted to throw me in jail just for having the gun, mind you, in an airport. Well, I tell him that someone left the gun in my cab last night, and I called my brother, a cop, and I was gonna turn it in to him tonight."
"He didn't beleive a word of it, mother fucker. Goes 'Your brother is not a cop, don't lie to me.' So I give him the number of the sherriff's office, he calls my brother, found out he was a cop, and then he asked if I called about a gun. Of course, he covered my ass. Me and him, we'll say anything for each other. Blood is thicker than law. I got six people who will testify to anything I want them to. I'd do the same for them. Six witnesses is usually enough to get off for anything."
The story ended with Paite on a writing campaign which went on for years, trying to get the FBI to give him back the gun, because he had found it was intitled to have it returned to him by law. Paite was the jailhouse lawyer.
I use his real name and shit because he is dead and if his kids do ever come across my writing by some fluke, they should know I loved their dad like a brother/dad/mentor. He told me once I was his best friend. For awhile I was, in Toledo.
Oh, there is one more point to this story. (well, saying there is a point to any of this might be a stretch, but) This asian woman, she later tried to hire Paite to break another woman's legs. This woman 0wned the massage parlor and owed her money (the way it worked was, they came over here and worked for one woman, then that woman eventually set them up in business, but this woman, after getting a year of free work, was reniging on what was a tight custom in their prostitute/massage parlor culture. At the time, Paite had a lot of influence over me, and I hate to hear of people getting wronged. We talked for a day though like we might just have to do it, which probably had more, for me, to do with my having a huge fight with my girlfriend. But going in cold and breaking a woman's legs over a financial debt? That is not batman enough.
We told her that she shouldn't do that in this country. I don't know what she did. She told us we weren't men. I'm sure she probably eventually found someone to do it. This woman was not going to get screwed again, not after taking it for a year without a dime coming her way. I almost hope that woman's legs were broken, because there was no court this prostitute could go to, and it would be justice... but, when you work in a criminal world with criminals, you should expect them to be criminals, right?
I would never trust a hooker. Like I have said in here, my near death experience came at the hands of a whore with a butcher knife -- and my life was saved that night by a little old black lady who started screaming for the girl to 'Get out of my can. I got to go to work. Get out of there." And, since the yells of the women probably woke the whole project (on clybourn and damen), the whore got out. I describe this elsewhere, it went on with the whore... I am trying to stick to one story at a time here, so... another time.
I get a call from the dispatcher to call him on the phone. He patches me over to Paite who is at the Detroit airport, with the owner of the massage parlor, and she has forgotten a bag. She is about to miss an international flight which only takes off daily and will pay any speeding tickets and a 50 dollar tip if I can make it there in a rather ridiculously short amount of time. I do so.
As I pull into the airport, there is Paite, all dramatic like, running out to get the rest of the woman's luggage (which I later found out had like 50 thousand dollars in it).
I hand him the bag through the window and he bolts into the airport.
I park, get out and walk into the terminal just and hear Paite scream, "No!" As the Asian woman accidently puts his breifcase on the belt to be checked, complete with his .38 automatic.
Bells go off and there alarms everywher, two plain clothes cops and all three of the security guards pull their guns and point at the man who seems to be running toward his gun.
Paite stops, smiles, holds up his hands and says in a confident, take charge voice, "You gentlement are going to laugh when you realize who you pulled your guns on, okay? This is all just a big misunderstanding. She threw the wrong breifcase on the belt, that's all that is happening here." He'd spent enough time in jail, getting arrested and in courtthat he knew how to get control of men who were holding guns on him.
(In court, Paite took great pleasure in practicing law with his jailhouse license and made a lot of money off insurance fraud. The only way he went to jail, as he told it, was that they framed him. He also claimed that was when he gave up his life of total crime, because the cops, to him, were breaking the rules by framing (though they knew and could not prove anything all the time along the way)
Back in the airport.... Well, Paite gives me a signal at some point to stay back, which I take to mean be ready to bail him out or something. They take him away in cuffs and he is talking away, already making them smile. He worked the carny enough years that he could almost hypnotize some people. . I wait around for about four hours, hear nothing, and finally just drive back to Toledo. The Asian woman made her flight because Paite insisted the gun was his, not hers, and that they shouldn't hold her up.
About ten that night, I cruise by the cab office and Paite tells me, "Well,I guess I could have been put away for like fifteen years." He puffs away on fat joints and Marlboro's as he talks fast; he waves his hands a lot and ashes fly tend to be flitting about in the air around him. "They took me to an FBI agent and, Man, when he pulled up my record, I was sweating, boy. He wanted to throw me in jail just for having the gun, mind you, in an airport. Well, I tell him that someone left the gun in my cab last night, and I called my brother, a cop, and I was gonna turn it in to him tonight."
"He didn't beleive a word of it, mother fucker. Goes 'Your brother is not a cop, don't lie to me.' So I give him the number of the sherriff's office, he calls my brother, found out he was a cop, and then he asked if I called about a gun. Of course, he covered my ass. Me and him, we'll say anything for each other. Blood is thicker than law. I got six people who will testify to anything I want them to. I'd do the same for them. Six witnesses is usually enough to get off for anything."
The story ended with Paite on a writing campaign which went on for years, trying to get the FBI to give him back the gun, because he had found it was intitled to have it returned to him by law. Paite was the jailhouse lawyer.
I use his real name and shit because he is dead and if his kids do ever come across my writing by some fluke, they should know I loved their dad like a brother/dad/mentor. He told me once I was his best friend. For awhile I was, in Toledo.
Oh, there is one more point to this story. (well, saying there is a point to any of this might be a stretch, but) This asian woman, she later tried to hire Paite to break another woman's legs. This woman 0wned the massage parlor and owed her money (the way it worked was, they came over here and worked for one woman, then that woman eventually set them up in business, but this woman, after getting a year of free work, was reniging on what was a tight custom in their prostitute/massage parlor culture. At the time, Paite had a lot of influence over me, and I hate to hear of people getting wronged. We talked for a day though like we might just have to do it, which probably had more, for me, to do with my having a huge fight with my girlfriend. But going in cold and breaking a woman's legs over a financial debt? That is not batman enough.
We told her that she shouldn't do that in this country. I don't know what she did. She told us we weren't men. I'm sure she probably eventually found someone to do it. This woman was not going to get screwed again, not after taking it for a year without a dime coming her way. I almost hope that woman's legs were broken, because there was no court this prostitute could go to, and it would be justice... but, when you work in a criminal world with criminals, you should expect them to be criminals, right?
I would never trust a hooker. Like I have said in here, my near death experience came at the hands of a whore with a butcher knife -- and my life was saved that night by a little old black lady who started screaming for the girl to 'Get out of my can. I got to go to work. Get out of there." And, since the yells of the women probably woke the whole project (on clybourn and damen), the whore got out. I describe this elsewhere, it went on with the whore... I am trying to stick to one story at a time here, so... another time.
A too, too True Toledo Taxi Tale
I'm younger than I can believe I ever was, driving the most beat up fucking cab imaginable; an old chevy wagon that actually has holes in the floorboards, in back and front, covered with cardboard. Such a shitty car. My boss is a theif/criminal/carny, who has one nice car that he sends in for all inspections, and then uses the plates on other cars. I don't think he pays anyone off, but he wouldn't tell me if he did (like all criminals, he's cagey).
I get a call into the ghettos, where most cab drivers in Toledo will not go -- super anti rascist batman, I am, I drive anywhere and pick up everyone... I pull down a tree lined street of small, kind of beat up houses, see a group of woman out on a porch crying and screaming and carrying on. As I pull up, one of them walks up to the cab with a hammer and a can of gasoline and gives me twenty bucks.
I don't know what to say, so I take her to her address as she quietly cries. We get there and she directs me to a parking lot beside a small bar, telling me she is going to need a ride home. I pull into the lot.
She gets out, goes over to a dark blue buick and takes that hammer and round houses the metal head into the back window, smashing it out in one fucking peice. Then she dumps the can of gas into the car.... as this is taking place, I am cursing myself for parking myself into a corner where I would have had to run her over to get out, and frantically calling my dispatcher, a vietnam vet who took stoic to the point of half-dead.
I am 24, new at this job and this night and the ghetto and panicking and am calling basically, for cops and help, "96, this passanger of mine, she's lighting a car on fire."
"Has she hurt you?"
"No." I can't believe how flat and bored his voice sounds.
"Has she paid you?" Same voice.
"Yea."
"Doesn't sound like a problem to me. Okay, who was trying to call in while that crap was coming in?"
I try to say something more and he cuts me off with. "96, stay off the air."
SHe comes back to the cab and jumps in and we literally just start to pull away as this huge black guy comes running out of the bar, straight for the cab, screaming at me to stop. Not an option.
I take her home, she gets out, asks for change from her twenty and doesn't waste another word on me.
I don't take home any lessons from the night of hammers and fire... just add it to the list of things I will never understand, could never do, but find so fascinating...
I get a call into the ghettos, where most cab drivers in Toledo will not go -- super anti rascist batman, I am, I drive anywhere and pick up everyone... I pull down a tree lined street of small, kind of beat up houses, see a group of woman out on a porch crying and screaming and carrying on. As I pull up, one of them walks up to the cab with a hammer and a can of gasoline and gives me twenty bucks.
I don't know what to say, so I take her to her address as she quietly cries. We get there and she directs me to a parking lot beside a small bar, telling me she is going to need a ride home. I pull into the lot.
She gets out, goes over to a dark blue buick and takes that hammer and round houses the metal head into the back window, smashing it out in one fucking peice. Then she dumps the can of gas into the car.... as this is taking place, I am cursing myself for parking myself into a corner where I would have had to run her over to get out, and frantically calling my dispatcher, a vietnam vet who took stoic to the point of half-dead.
I am 24, new at this job and this night and the ghetto and panicking and am calling basically, for cops and help, "96, this passanger of mine, she's lighting a car on fire."
"Has she hurt you?"
"No." I can't believe how flat and bored his voice sounds.
"Has she paid you?" Same voice.
"Yea."
"Doesn't sound like a problem to me. Okay, who was trying to call in while that crap was coming in?"
I try to say something more and he cuts me off with. "96, stay off the air."
SHe comes back to the cab and jumps in and we literally just start to pull away as this huge black guy comes running out of the bar, straight for the cab, screaming at me to stop. Not an option.
I take her home, she gets out, asks for change from her twenty and doesn't waste another word on me.
I don't take home any lessons from the night of hammers and fire... just add it to the list of things I will never understand, could never do, but find so fascinating...
a Christian Accused ME of not thinking...
Someone just wrote in and asked why I hate god? The truth is I feel only hate when I think of the lie I was told about god and all the wars fought simply to prove one lie is better than another and all the priests fucking kids -- and that happens in all religions, believe me. Religion is the past. The future will look at it as a mental virus. For gods' sake, go to a college and learn what is real and what isn't.
Now someone named butterfly kiss has sought to give me advice, too. Unfortunatley, her brain does not work in cohesive enough of a manner for their to be a point to her message. Stick to the weed, or start smoking girl if you don't... yea, a Christy telling me to think? Not until there is a fucking law! Like in the muslim slave worlds created by the rich sheiks and stupid ass goat, backward thinking goat herders (and I read both arab and american press and sympathize). 'We are all innocent," the song sings.
Now that is a good one, a christen telling me to think when they admit steering their entire lives toward taking other people's word as gospel, so they don't have to think (it hurts sometimes); Dino's from Fred Flintsone, ready to serve the master, whether he be a shaggy chinned god or a promiser of virgin fucking... mysticism is wrong. Give up the gods and find the beauty of being a human hidden far underneath, okay?
Now someone named butterfly kiss has sought to give me advice, too. Unfortunatley, her brain does not work in cohesive enough of a manner for their to be a point to her message. Stick to the weed, or start smoking girl if you don't... yea, a Christy telling me to think? Not until there is a fucking law! Like in the muslim slave worlds created by the rich sheiks and stupid ass goat, backward thinking goat herders (and I read both arab and american press and sympathize). 'We are all innocent," the song sings.
Now that is a good one, a christen telling me to think when they admit steering their entire lives toward taking other people's word as gospel, so they don't have to think (it hurts sometimes); Dino's from Fred Flintsone, ready to serve the master, whether he be a shaggy chinned god or a promiser of virgin fucking... mysticism is wrong. Give up the gods and find the beauty of being a human hidden far underneath, okay?
MASSAH JACKOFFYOURSON WOWS COPS BY BLOWING LLAMA!
Massah jackoffyourson allegedly staved off a child molestation accusation in 1990 with a $2 million payment to the son of an employee at his Neverland Ranch, according to a television report, which went on to say he also paid out another fifty three dollars to the family of a neighborhood pig, who refuses to be identified because he is afraid he will be labeled, quote, 'another one of massah jackoffyourson's washed up, ex-celebrity, rubba bubbas... like one of them corey's.'
The television news magazine, Grapevine on JPC, which reported the payment in a segment to be broadcast Friday night, did not disclose its source of information, though it is suspected they merely went to a jackoffyourson fan sight and checked out the section where the kids took polls on things like, "Did you enjoy massah jackoffyourson's mouth on your anus?"
The poll was taken by over three hundred children, and seemingly not one was into anal ligulas.In the segment, a retired Santa Barbara County Sheriff, said his office investigated Jackson in 1993 in connection with one boy's claim and came upon the second accusation. The ex sheriff spit repeatedly on the ground as emphasis of his disgust as he told reporters, "Yea, we knew he was a chicken chaser from way back, just couldn't get none of the parents to let them kids talk, not after getting to be millionaire's all sudden and signing away their rights. These are poor people who he victimizes, ones he can actually impress with all his fancy surgeries and highly advanced oral sex techniques on llama's and chimps. You think he can sing? You should see how he blows llama! You gotta respect something like that a little, but the kids? Now, if I had arrested him, I'd of shoved his sick, pus dripping ass out of my squad car when I was doing about ninety, and then turned around and run him over a couple times, then shot the hell out of whatever was left for trying to flee from a police officer.
"The first boy reportedly was paid $15 million to $20 million by massah Jackoffyourson to avoid what the jaskoffyourson's attorney's claim was an 'allegation' that would damage massah jackoffyourson's career even if proven untrue. Which is of course just another lie from their putrid lips, because, as all people not on the jaskoffyourson's payroll will now admit, it could only be good for massah jackoffyourson's career to just once be proven not guilty of molesting children, which is of course, impossible....Reporters laughed in the beak of jackoffyourson's press agent when the talking parrot dressed in leather chaps told them, "Massah Jackoffyourson denies, ark . . . ever harming any child. . . . and is… Rubba, let's all do shots and play rubba... ark, cracker... is currently fighting charges he molested a boy in 2003. He says he can, lie and buy his way out … ark... he owes me a lot of crackers... ark... for shitting in his mouth, like he demands... ark, crackers."Jackoffyourson is reported to have stated repeatedly that he was going to, quote, 'bitch slap that damn charge,' though his attorney has tried to explain to jackoffyourson that this is impossible, his efforts to get jackoffyourson to understand the nature of the rule of law was purely in vain. “He’s obviously… ark… a lot dummer than me, a goddamn parrot… ark… do shot! Rubba!!! Crackers….�
His attorney, the Scum Sucker, as his closest call him, went on to say, "My theory is, he thinks these kids are baby llamas. Arck... doesn't matter to me though, win or lose, I get paid a fucking barrel of money!!!! I'll say or do anything!!! Hell, if I hadn't shirked legal responsibility for all of my kids, ..ark... he could rubba them for this kind of money!! Ark!"The retired sheriff interviewed on the newsmagazine, Grapevine’s JPC, told reporters, `We always believed there were eight to 10 other children out there.'' ``
The sheriff also said that the employee's son did not file charges and didn't want to testify, saying, " He was afraid his friends would think he was a homosexual, or even worse -- a pig fucker or a llama blower or a chimp eater outer, or a parrot but lickerm or ... Well, quite frankly the kid went on and on -- two officers vomited half way through... Let me tell you, buddy, it is just pitiful what that freak does to those animals. He has leather costumes for those damn llamas... hell, the pigs, too. One pig he dresses up like Elvis all the time, even has a black pompadour he pastes on it’s head. He claims that he has captured Elvis’s soul in the pig, by some ritual he made up with peanut butter and banana sandwiches -- which were indeed the king’s favorite, so we are also investigating the possibility that the king lives, and may have, god forbid, been sodomized."The retired sheriff has previously discussed the boy's claim, but said he wasn't sure until the GRAPVINE report that massah Jackoffyourson had paid the boy $2 million.``GRAPEVINE'' said the settlement contained a clause barring it from being discussed publicly.The sheriff said the 12-year-old accused Jackson of ``fondling him through his clothes,'' which could be the basis of misdemeanor charges. No charges were ever filed because officers on the scene were too busy eating the free donuts and pizza and watching jackoffyourson perform amazing oral feats on both a lusty llama and a bi-sexual yak.J
Jackoffyourson, 45, has pleaded not guilty to committing a lewd act upon a child, administering an intoxicating agent and conspiring to commit child abduction, false imprisonment and extortion -- as well as a series of sodomy charges on a list of animals that would make the Los Angeles Zoo green with envy. His trial is set to start Jan. 31, 2005.
Not so president, when he heard that jackoffyourson would still be in possession of his children, went on telvevision with an impassioned speech calling for any al queda sleeper agents to never, ever blow up massah jackoffyourson.
Democratic candidate, Mr. 'I don’t have an RV… oh those seven, well, the wife owns those….' Responded by saying, "Oh, his asinine attempt at reverse psychology is not going to work."Not so president responded to democratic charges by saying, "How the hell did they find out about reverse psychology? Find me that damn press leak... now!!! Have the cia kill them with paper clips, a slow death from a thousand points of paper clips... Yea, I like that there sound of words there... A thousand points of paper clips... Might work for torturing them camel riding yahoos, too. Now, tell me again, just what the hell were we talking about.
Massah Jackoffyourson recently renamed his never, never land ranch to simply, “No I Never, Never Played No Rubba With their Cute Little Asses Ranch.’
When asked by reporters what the fuck is up with the new name, jackoffyourson responded, “My attorney thingy, he says I mean don keys… What, oh… No, donkeys. They have cute asses… you ever stick your head in a donkey’s ass? It’s all warm and juicy, like Jiz Taylor’s pee pee thingy.�At that point Jackoffyourson was led away by a parrot, who could be heard by reporters saying, over and over as he lured the reluctant jackoffyourson away from the spotlight and into an awaiting limo filled with children, “The children in the limo are getting cold. Ark…The Children in the limo are getting cold….�
The television news magazine, Grapevine on JPC, which reported the payment in a segment to be broadcast Friday night, did not disclose its source of information, though it is suspected they merely went to a jackoffyourson fan sight and checked out the section where the kids took polls on things like, "Did you enjoy massah jackoffyourson's mouth on your anus?"
The poll was taken by over three hundred children, and seemingly not one was into anal ligulas.In the segment, a retired Santa Barbara County Sheriff, said his office investigated Jackson in 1993 in connection with one boy's claim and came upon the second accusation. The ex sheriff spit repeatedly on the ground as emphasis of his disgust as he told reporters, "Yea, we knew he was a chicken chaser from way back, just couldn't get none of the parents to let them kids talk, not after getting to be millionaire's all sudden and signing away their rights. These are poor people who he victimizes, ones he can actually impress with all his fancy surgeries and highly advanced oral sex techniques on llama's and chimps. You think he can sing? You should see how he blows llama! You gotta respect something like that a little, but the kids? Now, if I had arrested him, I'd of shoved his sick, pus dripping ass out of my squad car when I was doing about ninety, and then turned around and run him over a couple times, then shot the hell out of whatever was left for trying to flee from a police officer.
"The first boy reportedly was paid $15 million to $20 million by massah Jackoffyourson to avoid what the jaskoffyourson's attorney's claim was an 'allegation' that would damage massah jackoffyourson's career even if proven untrue. Which is of course just another lie from their putrid lips, because, as all people not on the jaskoffyourson's payroll will now admit, it could only be good for massah jackoffyourson's career to just once be proven not guilty of molesting children, which is of course, impossible....Reporters laughed in the beak of jackoffyourson's press agent when the talking parrot dressed in leather chaps told them, "Massah Jackoffyourson denies, ark . . . ever harming any child. . . . and is… Rubba, let's all do shots and play rubba... ark, cracker... is currently fighting charges he molested a boy in 2003. He says he can, lie and buy his way out … ark... he owes me a lot of crackers... ark... for shitting in his mouth, like he demands... ark, crackers."Jackoffyourson is reported to have stated repeatedly that he was going to, quote, 'bitch slap that damn charge,' though his attorney has tried to explain to jackoffyourson that this is impossible, his efforts to get jackoffyourson to understand the nature of the rule of law was purely in vain. “He’s obviously… ark… a lot dummer than me, a goddamn parrot… ark… do shot! Rubba!!! Crackers….�
His attorney, the Scum Sucker, as his closest call him, went on to say, "My theory is, he thinks these kids are baby llamas. Arck... doesn't matter to me though, win or lose, I get paid a fucking barrel of money!!!! I'll say or do anything!!! Hell, if I hadn't shirked legal responsibility for all of my kids, ..ark... he could rubba them for this kind of money!! Ark!"The retired sheriff interviewed on the newsmagazine, Grapevine’s JPC, told reporters, `We always believed there were eight to 10 other children out there.'' ``
The sheriff also said that the employee's son did not file charges and didn't want to testify, saying, " He was afraid his friends would think he was a homosexual, or even worse -- a pig fucker or a llama blower or a chimp eater outer, or a parrot but lickerm or ... Well, quite frankly the kid went on and on -- two officers vomited half way through... Let me tell you, buddy, it is just pitiful what that freak does to those animals. He has leather costumes for those damn llamas... hell, the pigs, too. One pig he dresses up like Elvis all the time, even has a black pompadour he pastes on it’s head. He claims that he has captured Elvis’s soul in the pig, by some ritual he made up with peanut butter and banana sandwiches -- which were indeed the king’s favorite, so we are also investigating the possibility that the king lives, and may have, god forbid, been sodomized."The retired sheriff has previously discussed the boy's claim, but said he wasn't sure until the GRAPVINE report that massah Jackoffyourson had paid the boy $2 million.``GRAPEVINE'' said the settlement contained a clause barring it from being discussed publicly.The sheriff said the 12-year-old accused Jackson of ``fondling him through his clothes,'' which could be the basis of misdemeanor charges. No charges were ever filed because officers on the scene were too busy eating the free donuts and pizza and watching jackoffyourson perform amazing oral feats on both a lusty llama and a bi-sexual yak.J
Jackoffyourson, 45, has pleaded not guilty to committing a lewd act upon a child, administering an intoxicating agent and conspiring to commit child abduction, false imprisonment and extortion -- as well as a series of sodomy charges on a list of animals that would make the Los Angeles Zoo green with envy. His trial is set to start Jan. 31, 2005.
Not so president, when he heard that jackoffyourson would still be in possession of his children, went on telvevision with an impassioned speech calling for any al queda sleeper agents to never, ever blow up massah jackoffyourson.
Democratic candidate, Mr. 'I don’t have an RV… oh those seven, well, the wife owns those….' Responded by saying, "Oh, his asinine attempt at reverse psychology is not going to work."Not so president responded to democratic charges by saying, "How the hell did they find out about reverse psychology? Find me that damn press leak... now!!! Have the cia kill them with paper clips, a slow death from a thousand points of paper clips... Yea, I like that there sound of words there... A thousand points of paper clips... Might work for torturing them camel riding yahoos, too. Now, tell me again, just what the hell were we talking about.
Massah Jackoffyourson recently renamed his never, never land ranch to simply, “No I Never, Never Played No Rubba With their Cute Little Asses Ranch.’
When asked by reporters what the fuck is up with the new name, jackoffyourson responded, “My attorney thingy, he says I mean don keys… What, oh… No, donkeys. They have cute asses… you ever stick your head in a donkey’s ass? It’s all warm and juicy, like Jiz Taylor’s pee pee thingy.�At that point Jackoffyourson was led away by a parrot, who could be heard by reporters saying, over and over as he lured the reluctant jackoffyourson away from the spotlight and into an awaiting limo filled with children, “The children in the limo are getting cold. Ark…The Children in the limo are getting cold….�
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