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
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.
«
chicago
blogs »
-->
Saturday, February 12, 2005
I BOUGHT NINETY HAMSTERS
You would think this would be a good thing.... but like so much of my life, things have gone horribly, horribly wrong.
This sad tale began when M. had to go to Indiana for a week to spend time with what I can't help imagining is an ailing, snively, elephant with an elaborately moussed display of gray hair between her ears. . . . and indeed she is visitng what has to be the closest human equivalent, M.'s porked out, whiny mother. Now, normally she keeps all the cash from me, because . . . well, just never you mind why... well, might as well be honest now... okay, truth be told, she keeps the cash away from exactly because of episodes like this.Regardless . . . this time, she left me the rent.
810 dollars cash in the hand. Green and hot. Now, M., she will just spend money without even thinking about investing, but me? I'm all about the occasional investment opportunity (someday I will make money off one of them, too, M.). So I started thinking immediately about ways to take the rent and make more money out of it, then spend that money and still have money for the rent... I figured the best bet way was to have a marauding army that I can send out on a crusade to gather gold and cash with their usual ruthless, blood splattered methods...
Then it came to me, the most logical thing that one can do with 815.00 bucks -- so I went out and bought ninety hamsters, a veritable living field from which I can grow a profitable and yet cuddly army (though knowing M., with her known tendency to second guess me, will probably find some tiny, meaningless reason to nit-pick this decision, too . . . I expect she will keep up the bitching right up until she is made queen). The guy at the pet store said that these horny little, fuzzy faced killers would wham bam at such a prodigious pace that within a month my troop strength would be up to over a thousand... and from that thousand, the tens, and then hundreds of thousands I need just to take over this neighborhood.
First thing I did when I got home was go to the bedroom and remove everything, put up a Bruce Lee poster and a series of little sayings that I think will help them be better soldiers, stuff like -- HUMANS LOVE CATS, and KILL ALL OF THE HUMANS OR THEY WILL LET CATS EAT YOU, DESERTERS WILL BE EATEN BY A CATS, etc.. Painted the walls dark green, and wrote KILL, KILL, KILL all over the place--ceiling, walls, floor... I set up these little cots that I made out of toothpicks and some green jean jacket of M.'s that she almost never wears. I even cut up some junior mints and put them on each of their pillows... since I myself always find 'welcome mints' the perfect touch for a guest room.. That bedroom really shaped up into a nice barracks, if I do say so myself. And I'm sure that M. will adjust to sleeping in the dining room, as long as I can convince her that this is temporary, and that within a couple years she will have the entire wing of a palace? I can only hope her intellect is up to the task of taking in my sweeping, Napoleonic vision...
Once the troops were bedded down for the night, I got to thinking about how I had said too much to that geeky dude at the pet store who smelled, ever so vaguely, of dog feces. . . This underpaid tool of the puppy mills more than likely called some terrorist hotline and reported a dark shadow is about to fall on america... So, I kind of got all paranoid, you know, with the weed and all, and then just. . Well, I got completely carried away; there is no real way to deny that... I mean, you can barely move through the apartment because of all the barbed wire -- I kept open only little passages for cooking and bathing purposes... not to mention all the booby traps on all the doors and windows. I may even be responsible for the squirrels that have been exploding all morning out on the balcony... Regardless, the next day I turned my often adequate mind to the task of breeding killers. I started by moving a cd player into the barracks and putting on a tape I made of Foghat playing Slow Ride over and over, then I lit some spicy, scented candles -- for both their wonderful, fresh scent and that warm, comforting glow. When I checked back a few minutes later, only three of the hamsters were humping. They get off fast, their little furry pelvises a blur for less than a minute... Then they were going right to the next lass, and the next... with only occasional breaks for laying about gasping for air and twitching. I figured the rest of them were still adjusting to the hell of war, and that in a few hours they would get their mojo back.The next day I went in to bring them breakfast and found those three same hamsters were still going away at it. They were skinnier, and humping significantly slower, but none were showing any signs of quitting their marathon boffing.
The next day I went in to bring them breakfast and found those three same hamsters were still going away at it. They were skinnier, and humping significantly slower, but none were showing any signs of quitting their marathon boffing. This went on all day, and all night...
On their third day, during a nine-hour indoctrination lecture, the three were still mounting one after another of the females. . . They were moving very, very slowly by then and wobbling from side to side as they walked... their ribs showing. They looked like they were not long for this world, which they weren't... one after another, first one during my lecture and then the other two in the night that followed, fell off their host hamsters and gasped and twitched again, but instead of kind of catching their breath and recovering enough to slowly crawl over to the next female, they keeled over dead and grew stiff one last time...
After the three fuckers were gone, the hamsters ceased having any kind of sex. The other hamster armies had always been so sexed up that when I put my hand in their cage to feed them one of them was always hopping on and trying to get off a hump.... Two days passed like this... then the mystery of why they were all suddenly acting like up tight, fundamentalist wombats was solved.... when I came walking in after taking Ruby down to the beach to find that they had taken down my 'kill-kill-kill slogans' and put up instead a poster of K. D. Lang. They were singing along with a Melissa Etheridge tape, one of those late, stupid ones... which they turned off a few minutes later, just long enough to watch Ellen.
I stood there looking at them and then it hit me...I had bought three males, and eighty seven females, and the shock of going without sex, and having no foreseeable sex in the future, had turned all the females into lap happy lesbos . . . that was kind of disturbing, because my breeding plans were just fucked by that shit... I thought it couldn't get much worse, but I'm no fortuneteller, that's for damn sure.
Next, they read me a list of demands, in these high pitched, superior sounding voices, that said they were becoming Lesbian Separatists and as such were banning me, and all males and cats of any sex, from the barracks.
Then, believe it or not, it got even worse....How could this get worse, you wonder? Well, they decided that as part of their discussion with what they called a 'mystical mother' during their 'Wicca sessions' that they had become . . . PACIFISTS!!!! . . And further, they were leaving the army to, 'find the spirit of the great mother within.' They claimed that they could never be forced to fight, but you can bet that they changed their fuzzy little minds when I got so pissed that I let Ruby-dog and the kitty bums into the barracks for an all day hamster feast.
This sad tale began when M. had to go to Indiana for a week to spend time with what I can't help imagining is an ailing, snively, elephant with an elaborately moussed display of gray hair between her ears. . . . and indeed she is visitng what has to be the closest human equivalent, M.'s porked out, whiny mother. Now, normally she keeps all the cash from me, because . . . well, just never you mind why... well, might as well be honest now... okay, truth be told, she keeps the cash away from exactly because of episodes like this.Regardless . . . this time, she left me the rent.
810 dollars cash in the hand. Green and hot. Now, M., she will just spend money without even thinking about investing, but me? I'm all about the occasional investment opportunity (someday I will make money off one of them, too, M.). So I started thinking immediately about ways to take the rent and make more money out of it, then spend that money and still have money for the rent... I figured the best bet way was to have a marauding army that I can send out on a crusade to gather gold and cash with their usual ruthless, blood splattered methods...
Then it came to me, the most logical thing that one can do with 815.00 bucks -- so I went out and bought ninety hamsters, a veritable living field from which I can grow a profitable and yet cuddly army (though knowing M., with her known tendency to second guess me, will probably find some tiny, meaningless reason to nit-pick this decision, too . . . I expect she will keep up the bitching right up until she is made queen). The guy at the pet store said that these horny little, fuzzy faced killers would wham bam at such a prodigious pace that within a month my troop strength would be up to over a thousand... and from that thousand, the tens, and then hundreds of thousands I need just to take over this neighborhood.
First thing I did when I got home was go to the bedroom and remove everything, put up a Bruce Lee poster and a series of little sayings that I think will help them be better soldiers, stuff like -- HUMANS LOVE CATS, and KILL ALL OF THE HUMANS OR THEY WILL LET CATS EAT YOU, DESERTERS WILL BE EATEN BY A CATS, etc.. Painted the walls dark green, and wrote KILL, KILL, KILL all over the place--ceiling, walls, floor... I set up these little cots that I made out of toothpicks and some green jean jacket of M.'s that she almost never wears. I even cut up some junior mints and put them on each of their pillows... since I myself always find 'welcome mints' the perfect touch for a guest room.. That bedroom really shaped up into a nice barracks, if I do say so myself. And I'm sure that M. will adjust to sleeping in the dining room, as long as I can convince her that this is temporary, and that within a couple years she will have the entire wing of a palace? I can only hope her intellect is up to the task of taking in my sweeping, Napoleonic vision...
Once the troops were bedded down for the night, I got to thinking about how I had said too much to that geeky dude at the pet store who smelled, ever so vaguely, of dog feces. . . This underpaid tool of the puppy mills more than likely called some terrorist hotline and reported a dark shadow is about to fall on america... So, I kind of got all paranoid, you know, with the weed and all, and then just. . Well, I got completely carried away; there is no real way to deny that... I mean, you can barely move through the apartment because of all the barbed wire -- I kept open only little passages for cooking and bathing purposes... not to mention all the booby traps on all the doors and windows. I may even be responsible for the squirrels that have been exploding all morning out on the balcony... Regardless, the next day I turned my often adequate mind to the task of breeding killers. I started by moving a cd player into the barracks and putting on a tape I made of Foghat playing Slow Ride over and over, then I lit some spicy, scented candles -- for both their wonderful, fresh scent and that warm, comforting glow. When I checked back a few minutes later, only three of the hamsters were humping. They get off fast, their little furry pelvises a blur for less than a minute... Then they were going right to the next lass, and the next... with only occasional breaks for laying about gasping for air and twitching. I figured the rest of them were still adjusting to the hell of war, and that in a few hours they would get their mojo back.The next day I went in to bring them breakfast and found those three same hamsters were still going away at it. They were skinnier, and humping significantly slower, but none were showing any signs of quitting their marathon boffing.
The next day I went in to bring them breakfast and found those three same hamsters were still going away at it. They were skinnier, and humping significantly slower, but none were showing any signs of quitting their marathon boffing. This went on all day, and all night...
On their third day, during a nine-hour indoctrination lecture, the three were still mounting one after another of the females. . . They were moving very, very slowly by then and wobbling from side to side as they walked... their ribs showing. They looked like they were not long for this world, which they weren't... one after another, first one during my lecture and then the other two in the night that followed, fell off their host hamsters and gasped and twitched again, but instead of kind of catching their breath and recovering enough to slowly crawl over to the next female, they keeled over dead and grew stiff one last time...
After the three fuckers were gone, the hamsters ceased having any kind of sex. The other hamster armies had always been so sexed up that when I put my hand in their cage to feed them one of them was always hopping on and trying to get off a hump.... Two days passed like this... then the mystery of why they were all suddenly acting like up tight, fundamentalist wombats was solved.... when I came walking in after taking Ruby down to the beach to find that they had taken down my 'kill-kill-kill slogans' and put up instead a poster of K. D. Lang. They were singing along with a Melissa Etheridge tape, one of those late, stupid ones... which they turned off a few minutes later, just long enough to watch Ellen.
I stood there looking at them and then it hit me...I had bought three males, and eighty seven females, and the shock of going without sex, and having no foreseeable sex in the future, had turned all the females into lap happy lesbos . . . that was kind of disturbing, because my breeding plans were just fucked by that shit... I thought it couldn't get much worse, but I'm no fortuneteller, that's for damn sure.
Next, they read me a list of demands, in these high pitched, superior sounding voices, that said they were becoming Lesbian Separatists and as such were banning me, and all males and cats of any sex, from the barracks.
Then, believe it or not, it got even worse....How could this get worse, you wonder? Well, they decided that as part of their discussion with what they called a 'mystical mother' during their 'Wicca sessions' that they had become . . . PACIFISTS!!!! . . And further, they were leaving the army to, 'find the spirit of the great mother within.' They claimed that they could never be forced to fight, but you can bet that they changed their fuzzy little minds when I got so pissed that I let Ruby-dog and the kitty bums into the barracks for an all day hamster feast.
THE PUMPKIN PIMP
This tale occured three days before halloweed, though I could only write about the events once the court proceedings were over. Even now, I am under orders not to 'promote man vegetable love.' Like I would, jeez... All because I happened to stop at a road side farmer's market, and like I told the judge, had the misfortune of accidently running into a vegetable pimp.
He was there in court and I pointed at him as I told the judge, "He was keeping those vegetables on the street all day, and all night, forcing them to keep servicing clients by the usual brutal, horrifying methods of pimpery... "
That damned judge just told me to shut up and my attorney started looking all embarrassed for what seemed like the hundredth time (I assumed this constant uncomfortablness on my attorney's part was caused by some psychological damage that had been done to him by a sarcastic clergyman at an all male secondary school in England, and when I indeed asked him as much to prove my speculation, he answered, "You do think that, don't you?" Which I could only take as an affirmation, of course).
I only stopped at the stand to buy a pumpkin for halloweed related stuff. It was nothing like that veg. pimp said when he testified. The creaky old bastard had the nerve to wear the usual outfit of a vegetable pimp into court-- overalls and a truckers cap, but when I pointed this out to the judge, he had me gagged.
I'll never forget that old fart telling the shocked courtroom, "Now, he came up looking sorta normal... but then he kept rubbing all the squash and moaning. Hell, I thought he was sick to the stomach... Me and Ma didn't even know freaks like this existed. She is still in shock,you know? Can't even get her to cook any vegetable at this point. No, not a one."
Now, none of this happened ... No, I remember this quite different. I went up to the stand and this 'player' was all like, "We got some real hotties here. These bitches been out in the sun all day, geting hot and ready for you."
When he said this, I didn't even know what he was talking about. He could see I was confused, so he started suggestively rubbing the nubile yet rough and ready exterior of a dwarf pumpkin. When I realized what he meant, I was a little insulted that he assumed that I only needed a dwarf pumpkin.... This is also when his wife happened be coming up from the house while on the phone with her daughter, the local mayor, and they both heard me say, "Now, a dwarf pumpkin would barely hold the head of my monstrously large genitilia."
I mean, I never would have said this, let alone loud enough that those neighbors down the way would hear, if I was a vegetable rapist. No, I would keep everthing hushy-hush. On the other hand, when your penis has been declared tiny by someone who has no chance of ever being able to see if you are lying or not, one has to declare their manhood massive, if not outright freakishly large. Everybody knows this... except that damm judge and the jury and of course my lawyer.
I had to lie about everything to M.... I told her that I was going to court for punching out this senior citizen because his walker was taking up too much of the sidewalk, again... She didn't like this one bit, but it was believable, because there have been incidences... and this is a hell of a lot better than trying to explain to her why my pet name for her is Squashy.
Thank dog M. had to work on the court date. I came home from court and told her I had been found innocent, because I payed off a nurses aide to give the complaning party enough kaopectate that he wouldn't be leavingthe toilet this week. I knew if I said something criminal, she would respond with her usual wariness about being charged as an accesory and tell me not to tell her.... and yes, it worked.
The real trick will be convincing her that my campaign to stop the greenhouse effect from being the latest sin of the 'wealthy don't give a fucks' (a campaign I will keep up, until it involves more than spouting a few words) is now evolving into a plan of action, with me going out and picking up garbage along county roads. I added that I should wear a bright color, maybe even orange, and that if I could get enough people to go with me, we might even qualify for a police escort?. SHe seemed to buy all this... we'll see.
Knowing M., she'll do something sneaky like read the paper tommorrow and see that damn mug shot of me -- where I have one eye closed, one half open, toungue half out, long hair inexplicably standing straight up on the sides and top.... they even have some kind of special camera that was able to show my six hours worth of stubble!!! The cop who took the mug show was like a reverse artist -- he had to take like eight pictures before he had one ugly enough to be a mug shot. And of course under tha vile photo will read... GUILTY... CHARGED WITH... VEGETABLE MOLESTATION... TEN HOURS OF COMMUNITY SERVICE IN A VEGETABLE FREE ENVIRONMENT....
They'll probably quote the judge making his asssanine remark after the trial, "Hell, if I could, I would keep this freak out of every vegetable aisle in this country. I sure as hell hope he runs from a cop or something on his way home. You hear me sherriff? I said I sure as hell hope...."
What the judge didn't know about the sherriff was that he shook my hand once when no one was around and told me, almost in tears, about the love he had during his teen years, for a small summer squash named ethel, who he had to horrifyingly enough watch rot away....
He was there in court and I pointed at him as I told the judge, "He was keeping those vegetables on the street all day, and all night, forcing them to keep servicing clients by the usual brutal, horrifying methods of pimpery... "
That damned judge just told me to shut up and my attorney started looking all embarrassed for what seemed like the hundredth time (I assumed this constant uncomfortablness on my attorney's part was caused by some psychological damage that had been done to him by a sarcastic clergyman at an all male secondary school in England, and when I indeed asked him as much to prove my speculation, he answered, "You do think that, don't you?" Which I could only take as an affirmation, of course).
I only stopped at the stand to buy a pumpkin for halloweed related stuff. It was nothing like that veg. pimp said when he testified. The creaky old bastard had the nerve to wear the usual outfit of a vegetable pimp into court-- overalls and a truckers cap, but when I pointed this out to the judge, he had me gagged.
I'll never forget that old fart telling the shocked courtroom, "Now, he came up looking sorta normal... but then he kept rubbing all the squash and moaning. Hell, I thought he was sick to the stomach... Me and Ma didn't even know freaks like this existed. She is still in shock,you know? Can't even get her to cook any vegetable at this point. No, not a one."
Now, none of this happened ... No, I remember this quite different. I went up to the stand and this 'player' was all like, "We got some real hotties here. These bitches been out in the sun all day, geting hot and ready for you."
When he said this, I didn't even know what he was talking about. He could see I was confused, so he started suggestively rubbing the nubile yet rough and ready exterior of a dwarf pumpkin. When I realized what he meant, I was a little insulted that he assumed that I only needed a dwarf pumpkin.... This is also when his wife happened be coming up from the house while on the phone with her daughter, the local mayor, and they both heard me say, "Now, a dwarf pumpkin would barely hold the head of my monstrously large genitilia."
I mean, I never would have said this, let alone loud enough that those neighbors down the way would hear, if I was a vegetable rapist. No, I would keep everthing hushy-hush. On the other hand, when your penis has been declared tiny by someone who has no chance of ever being able to see if you are lying or not, one has to declare their manhood massive, if not outright freakishly large. Everybody knows this... except that damm judge and the jury and of course my lawyer.
I had to lie about everything to M.... I told her that I was going to court for punching out this senior citizen because his walker was taking up too much of the sidewalk, again... She didn't like this one bit, but it was believable, because there have been incidences... and this is a hell of a lot better than trying to explain to her why my pet name for her is Squashy.
Thank dog M. had to work on the court date. I came home from court and told her I had been found innocent, because I payed off a nurses aide to give the complaning party enough kaopectate that he wouldn't be leavingthe toilet this week. I knew if I said something criminal, she would respond with her usual wariness about being charged as an accesory and tell me not to tell her.... and yes, it worked.
The real trick will be convincing her that my campaign to stop the greenhouse effect from being the latest sin of the 'wealthy don't give a fucks' (a campaign I will keep up, until it involves more than spouting a few words) is now evolving into a plan of action, with me going out and picking up garbage along county roads. I added that I should wear a bright color, maybe even orange, and that if I could get enough people to go with me, we might even qualify for a police escort?. SHe seemed to buy all this... we'll see.
Knowing M., she'll do something sneaky like read the paper tommorrow and see that damn mug shot of me -- where I have one eye closed, one half open, toungue half out, long hair inexplicably standing straight up on the sides and top.... they even have some kind of special camera that was able to show my six hours worth of stubble!!! The cop who took the mug show was like a reverse artist -- he had to take like eight pictures before he had one ugly enough to be a mug shot. And of course under tha vile photo will read... GUILTY... CHARGED WITH... VEGETABLE MOLESTATION... TEN HOURS OF COMMUNITY SERVICE IN A VEGETABLE FREE ENVIRONMENT....
They'll probably quote the judge making his asssanine remark after the trial, "Hell, if I could, I would keep this freak out of every vegetable aisle in this country. I sure as hell hope he runs from a cop or something on his way home. You hear me sherriff? I said I sure as hell hope...."
What the judge didn't know about the sherriff was that he shook my hand once when no one was around and told me, almost in tears, about the love he had during his teen years, for a small summer squash named ethel, who he had to horrifyingly enough watch rot away....
HAMSTERS ARE TOO KILLERS!!!!
HAMSTERS ARE TOO KILLERS.
I am thinking of taking in students and becoming a home schooling teacher. I will do this not out of any concern for kids or anything, of course, it's all part of my plan to become supreme commander, which is written out in no less than twenty seven spiral notebooks of 350 sheets of lined paper apiece. Changes will be swift and deadly on that day.
You know me, I don't care who I kill, but some folks do deserve it more than others and my sense of justice demands that they be shot first. For example, Massa jackoffyourson. There are thousands of people who would show up to shoot him, if someone with balls would pass a law that you could kill child fucking freaks. This is exactly the kind of creative solution I will bring to bear on societies problems from the lofty seat of supreme commanderdom.
I already have an army. well, I have some presently unruly and slightly traitorous hamsters, but they are coming along. They.. Ummm...already eat on command. And they take after their supreme commander in many, many waysâ?¦ I am proud to say that they have picked up some of Johnny Pain's smooth moves too, because these little fuzz faced fucks are humping any damn thing thats close. I may have even taught them too well. I can't even stick my hand in the cage without one of them trying to violate me.
I was sure I knew what I was doing, too, but these damn hamsters wonâ??t follow most of my rules. I don't know where I went wrong? I started out by decimating them (killing every tenth soldier to instill discipline; an oldie but a goody, when it comes to military training). I only could afford seven of them, though, so I had to pretend like I was in the other room killing a hamsterâ?¦ let me tell you, buster, I am pretty sure that I could see the fear in their eyes when I came back into the roomâ?¦
I have yet to identify a special little Rambo to be one of my generals. You would think something as important as the number two spot in a scheme for world domination would be more interesting than pellets of grass, but no I read them all my notes and they just sit there and act like they are not even listening.
Still, you just better watch it, like I told M., because these babies got Murder written all over them.
When I told her this, she asked me if that was why I shaved them, to write on their skin? She doesn't understand anything about aerodynamics (that hair would have slowed them down, dammit, and I won't have it!). But that is a good idea about writing Murder all over the Hamsters might blow their cover, though? Hmmm... I can already tell there will be notes scribbled about this quandary... lots and lots of scribbled notes.
I am trying to face the possibility that the hamsters may only turn out to be good practice for my humans. I don't really need them. When I told M. about this she just laughed like I was joking and responded in her usual nay-sayer way, "Oh, big surprise, you couldn't train hamsters to kill. You think I would let you have them if you could wait a minute, you're not taking this shit seriously, right?"
Due to the somewhat disgusted look on her face when she said this, there was no way in hell I was going to tell her about how serious I am, or how many notes I'm taking, or how the hamsters will lead the kids. No, I just said, it'sjust a joke."
"Don't make me beat you down."
"hey are hamsters, for dogs sake!"
"ill you quit saying for dogs sake?"
"ith my last breath."
"What?"
"Nothing. You know, I am teaching the hamsters to act all lovey-dovey. You saw them with the blow up doll?."
"Until they can get close enough to rip open jugulars, that was the plan, right? You are a really pathetic liar. I better not come home and find you spent the whole day messing with those hamsters. The cats are going to get them if you arenâ??t more careful. By the way, why did you call my mom and ask her to sew some tiny green jackets?"
"Wasn't me."
"Are you sure?"
"I think I would remember something like that."
"Really?"
"What does that mean?"
"You forget stuff, that is one of the side effects of your beloved herb. Tell me that you are not going to waste time with those hamsters today. Say it."
"Well, I could spend the day thinking about penguins spinning around real fast screaming, "Oh, the shits with you!!"
"You know what, you could, couldn't you?"
She seemed surprised by this for some fucked up reason that I can't fathom?
I made it out like it was a joke, but I really can't stop these penguins.
"If you have to mess around with the hamsters, clean the cage, but don't take them to the beach anymore; they are not concerned about their tans, no matter how convinced you are, silly."
Everything is a joke to her, I swear. Would you want shaved, pale as hell assed hamsters around? I didn't think so. The tans really help.
"I have to go to work. Be good today."
"I can't face a day without hamsters."
"Stop it."
After she left, I of course got right to work, pulling out the little cardboard minefields that I made and placing the plump hamsters in various strategic positions/
I didnâ??t even have a chance to tell her about training little kids into a deadly fighting force, who the hamsters will lead out into battle for both justice and whimsy. M. will probably find some reason to nit-pick at that plan, too.
Consider me taking on students from this day forward, call and I'll see if I can use you... if a woman answers though, just hang up real quick and call back later.
I am thinking of taking in students and becoming a home schooling teacher. I will do this not out of any concern for kids or anything, of course, it's all part of my plan to become supreme commander, which is written out in no less than twenty seven spiral notebooks of 350 sheets of lined paper apiece. Changes will be swift and deadly on that day.
You know me, I don't care who I kill, but some folks do deserve it more than others and my sense of justice demands that they be shot first. For example, Massa jackoffyourson. There are thousands of people who would show up to shoot him, if someone with balls would pass a law that you could kill child fucking freaks. This is exactly the kind of creative solution I will bring to bear on societies problems from the lofty seat of supreme commanderdom.
I already have an army. well, I have some presently unruly and slightly traitorous hamsters, but they are coming along. They.. Ummm...already eat on command. And they take after their supreme commander in many, many waysâ?¦ I am proud to say that they have picked up some of Johnny Pain's smooth moves too, because these little fuzz faced fucks are humping any damn thing thats close. I may have even taught them too well. I can't even stick my hand in the cage without one of them trying to violate me.
I was sure I knew what I was doing, too, but these damn hamsters wonâ??t follow most of my rules. I don't know where I went wrong? I started out by decimating them (killing every tenth soldier to instill discipline; an oldie but a goody, when it comes to military training). I only could afford seven of them, though, so I had to pretend like I was in the other room killing a hamsterâ?¦ let me tell you, buster, I am pretty sure that I could see the fear in their eyes when I came back into the roomâ?¦
I have yet to identify a special little Rambo to be one of my generals. You would think something as important as the number two spot in a scheme for world domination would be more interesting than pellets of grass, but no I read them all my notes and they just sit there and act like they are not even listening.
Still, you just better watch it, like I told M., because these babies got Murder written all over them.
When I told her this, she asked me if that was why I shaved them, to write on their skin? She doesn't understand anything about aerodynamics (that hair would have slowed them down, dammit, and I won't have it!). But that is a good idea about writing Murder all over the Hamsters might blow their cover, though? Hmmm... I can already tell there will be notes scribbled about this quandary... lots and lots of scribbled notes.
I am trying to face the possibility that the hamsters may only turn out to be good practice for my humans. I don't really need them. When I told M. about this she just laughed like I was joking and responded in her usual nay-sayer way, "Oh, big surprise, you couldn't train hamsters to kill. You think I would let you have them if you could wait a minute, you're not taking this shit seriously, right?"
Due to the somewhat disgusted look on her face when she said this, there was no way in hell I was going to tell her about how serious I am, or how many notes I'm taking, or how the hamsters will lead the kids. No, I just said, it'sjust a joke."
"Don't make me beat you down."
"hey are hamsters, for dogs sake!"
"ill you quit saying for dogs sake?"
"ith my last breath."
"What?"
"Nothing. You know, I am teaching the hamsters to act all lovey-dovey. You saw them with the blow up doll?."
"Until they can get close enough to rip open jugulars, that was the plan, right? You are a really pathetic liar. I better not come home and find you spent the whole day messing with those hamsters. The cats are going to get them if you arenâ??t more careful. By the way, why did you call my mom and ask her to sew some tiny green jackets?"
"Wasn't me."
"Are you sure?"
"I think I would remember something like that."
"Really?"
"What does that mean?"
"You forget stuff, that is one of the side effects of your beloved herb. Tell me that you are not going to waste time with those hamsters today. Say it."
"Well, I could spend the day thinking about penguins spinning around real fast screaming, "Oh, the shits with you!!"
"You know what, you could, couldn't you?"
She seemed surprised by this for some fucked up reason that I can't fathom?
I made it out like it was a joke, but I really can't stop these penguins.
"If you have to mess around with the hamsters, clean the cage, but don't take them to the beach anymore; they are not concerned about their tans, no matter how convinced you are, silly."
Everything is a joke to her, I swear. Would you want shaved, pale as hell assed hamsters around? I didn't think so. The tans really help.
"I have to go to work. Be good today."
"I can't face a day without hamsters."
"Stop it."
After she left, I of course got right to work, pulling out the little cardboard minefields that I made and placing the plump hamsters in various strategic positions/
I didnâ??t even have a chance to tell her about training little kids into a deadly fighting force, who the hamsters will lead out into battle for both justice and whimsy. M. will probably find some reason to nit-pick at that plan, too.
Consider me taking on students from this day forward, call and I'll see if I can use you... if a woman answers though, just hang up real quick and call back later.
Is Torture Okay If IT Saves Lives??????
I'm saying yea, but I don't come from a dictatorship in south america.
NETSCAPE NEWS: "Suspected al Qaeda militants killed 16 people, including Westerners, and seized 50 foreign hostages on Saturday in a second major attack in a month aimed at destabilizing the top world oil exporter, Saudi Arabia."
What, exactly, causes some people to engage in sadistic behavior is something of a mystery, they say. But most cite the strangeness of a war zone, where otherwise honorable people - awash in feelings of duty, camaraderie, and revenge - sometimes lose the moral compass that guided their behavior in their former lives.
Some see humankind perpetually struggling with a dark desire to wish enemies humiliated and to laugh when they are.
Christian Science Monitor:
James Waller, social psychologist at Whitman College and author of "Becoming Evil: How Ordinary People Commit Genocide and Mass Killing," says soldiers called upon to humiliate the enemy must either learn to relish the task or run the risk of being paralyzed by guilt.
Yes, they have shown us how noble they are, how well they treat prisoners.
Makes me think about how awful it was for us to try to find out where they were going to strike next, and how to destroy them, by humiliating their manhood (which is a tactic of war more ancient than any language, and I write that as a fact, not with a value judgment attached). Americans collectively gasped over our soldiers, those extensions of ourselves, who were acting like complete boofs (as part of a larger program to get vital information that may have saved your life; about five years ago I saw statistics showing that the fbi/cia had that year stopped over two thousand terrorist attacks before they happened--which astounded me at the time, because so much of that stuff is top secret that little of it is reported on by the press.).
Not to be an apologist for big brother, but believe me,
the CIA would prefer to send an agent into a prisoners cell for coffee and donuts and have them calmly discuss the prisoners past, what their options of punishment or release are, and then give the talkers a break and send the silent ones to jail forever. But, war is not at all like afternoon tea. Getting the intelligence it takes to foil thousands of terrorist attempts takes more than crumpets and a sensible argument. No, they are dealing with prisoners who do not want to give up a promise of 72 virgins to come down and live in this here old world with all its real problems. So, the army tries to balance our commitment to being the good guys with our need to operate in a world filled with bad guys. .
They have to use something more than logic. I think they should be able to drug them up, but only with fun stuff. If that isn't enough, then... well, save a thousand lives. I guess this is my sad, little insignificant opinion. Peace would be so much better, but that has never been an option in my lifetime. .
. The muslims are killing because recent historical events, specifically, allah the virgin promiser/creator of cultures where woman are powerless, slave/servants acceptable, and the excesses of the rich ignored.
I knew some Saudi princes in Toledo. I tutored them for 75 dollars an hour. The one was pious, but my buddy was a weed head and so rich... he had like six cars. He told me that since he was royalty, they didn't have to go through customs, so they would fly to another country, get a bunch of liquor and drugs and whores, and fly them in for a weekend party...He slept with a maid (which he said was done as part of his culture a lot) when he was twelve. I really did like that guy, but I went to dinner one night over there when a bunch of islamic fanatics were there berating him. He kept telling them, and me, that when he went back to Saudi Arabia, he would totally change into a muslim, etc.
He told me once that to see an ankle on a Saudi Arabian woman turned him on more than an American woman in a bikini. Maybe that is why they keep them covered up? To make them more tempting? I can't take any religion seriously, let alone one so barbaric that it says. "Should they see a half clad young boy or a woman's ankle, our men can't be expected to control their urges to rape." To that I say, oh just grow up...
NETSCAPE NEWS: "Suspected al Qaeda militants killed 16 people, including Westerners, and seized 50 foreign hostages on Saturday in a second major attack in a month aimed at destabilizing the top world oil exporter, Saudi Arabia."
What, exactly, causes some people to engage in sadistic behavior is something of a mystery, they say. But most cite the strangeness of a war zone, where otherwise honorable people - awash in feelings of duty, camaraderie, and revenge - sometimes lose the moral compass that guided their behavior in their former lives.
Some see humankind perpetually struggling with a dark desire to wish enemies humiliated and to laugh when they are.
Christian Science Monitor:
James Waller, social psychologist at Whitman College and author of "Becoming Evil: How Ordinary People Commit Genocide and Mass Killing," says soldiers called upon to humiliate the enemy must either learn to relish the task or run the risk of being paralyzed by guilt.
Yes, they have shown us how noble they are, how well they treat prisoners.
Makes me think about how awful it was for us to try to find out where they were going to strike next, and how to destroy them, by humiliating their manhood (which is a tactic of war more ancient than any language, and I write that as a fact, not with a value judgment attached). Americans collectively gasped over our soldiers, those extensions of ourselves, who were acting like complete boofs (as part of a larger program to get vital information that may have saved your life; about five years ago I saw statistics showing that the fbi/cia had that year stopped over two thousand terrorist attacks before they happened--which astounded me at the time, because so much of that stuff is top secret that little of it is reported on by the press.).
Not to be an apologist for big brother, but believe me,
the CIA would prefer to send an agent into a prisoners cell for coffee and donuts and have them calmly discuss the prisoners past, what their options of punishment or release are, and then give the talkers a break and send the silent ones to jail forever. But, war is not at all like afternoon tea. Getting the intelligence it takes to foil thousands of terrorist attempts takes more than crumpets and a sensible argument. No, they are dealing with prisoners who do not want to give up a promise of 72 virgins to come down and live in this here old world with all its real problems. So, the army tries to balance our commitment to being the good guys with our need to operate in a world filled with bad guys. .
They have to use something more than logic. I think they should be able to drug them up, but only with fun stuff. If that isn't enough, then... well, save a thousand lives. I guess this is my sad, little insignificant opinion. Peace would be so much better, but that has never been an option in my lifetime. .
. The muslims are killing because recent historical events, specifically, allah the virgin promiser/creator of cultures where woman are powerless, slave/servants acceptable, and the excesses of the rich ignored.
I knew some Saudi princes in Toledo. I tutored them for 75 dollars an hour. The one was pious, but my buddy was a weed head and so rich... he had like six cars. He told me that since he was royalty, they didn't have to go through customs, so they would fly to another country, get a bunch of liquor and drugs and whores, and fly them in for a weekend party...He slept with a maid (which he said was done as part of his culture a lot) when he was twelve. I really did like that guy, but I went to dinner one night over there when a bunch of islamic fanatics were there berating him. He kept telling them, and me, that when he went back to Saudi Arabia, he would totally change into a muslim, etc.
He told me once that to see an ankle on a Saudi Arabian woman turned him on more than an American woman in a bikini. Maybe that is why they keep them covered up? To make them more tempting? I can't take any religion seriously, let alone one so barbaric that it says. "Should they see a half clad young boy or a woman's ankle, our men can't be expected to control their urges to rape." To that I say, oh just grow up...
Da Sadly No More Cocoa Bean Reading....
READING AT A SMALL VENUE IN CHICAGO'S ROGERS PARK
I went to the poetry reading at the cocoa bean last night. The usual rectangular space, one wall of exposed brick, various artists on the wall -- ranging from very cool prints of human organs, to something to do with torture that I put in my 'why does anyone take this fool seriously?,' category. The El track was accross the street, and passing trains could be heard and seen buzzing by behind the stage.
We arrived early, me in jeans so torn up that I kept thinking a strong wind was going to leave me naked, M. looking very hot in a black blouse and tight jeans that accented her incredible figure... we sat opposite the stage at a small table and waited. It is a tradition here to only start the show when everyone shows up, so the hosts showed up around ten after. Josh and Kate.
Kate is very cute, and sexy in that way some swingers are -- like there is a sign over her saying -- GOOD TIME. She actually ended the last reading I saw her at with, "Does anyone want to fuck?" On the surface, she could come off frivilous, but when she reads her poetry, her depth and clarity of vision are astounding. Everytime I have seen her read, she is head and shoulders above everyone in the room. Her partner is this every thursday night reading, Josh, was funnier than hell. I actually wrote down one of his jokes to use (I asked him during the break if he wrote his own jokes and he told me it was all off the top of his head; a real natural).
I ended up being part of the show. It's funny, M. has barely ever seen me perform, because I was out of the scene when I met her, staying away from stages with the thought that they were just an ego stroke that took me away from work. Anyways, M. saw me give a reading last year, where the people were laughing their asses off... but, at the reading two weeks ago, I sucked. I read the wrong shit. People laughed at this peice before, but they were warmed up a bit. The scene is in here, stoned artist talks to a cat, and if you look at it you will think I was nuts to even try to read it. Especially after Jason, who takes control of the crowd like he is leading a symphony of laughing people.
So, last night I told her that I thought I should read at this cocoa bean and her face fell. "You're going to read?"
I was amused by this, since my ego is intact. I took the bad reading as a mistake that I could easily correct, and ultimatly meaningless. I sucked, so what? The show was great anyways. I chose to read Rlynn, which is in here, too. And I practiced. Once she heard the piece and laughed throughout both reads (a short work that was is also a comic and a painting), she felt better, but I could tell by all the advice she was giving me that she was still nervous -- I mean, she seldom says anything about my work, because I am the expert. I am glad to say that my preperation paid off.
I was treated as a little celeb at the thing, which is cool, but I didn't announce the reading or say anything more than my first name (accidently), then I read. When I sat back down M. was beaming at me, so happy to be with me, etc... that made the whole thing worth it.
I gave Kate some flyers about her reading for me on sunday, and she liked them a lot. M. came up with the idea of making the collage about Kate, so we put a bunch of sexy pictures admist the usual soldiers and stuff I have been putting in the posters that I'm making for all the readings.
I went to the poetry reading at the cocoa bean last night. The usual rectangular space, one wall of exposed brick, various artists on the wall -- ranging from very cool prints of human organs, to something to do with torture that I put in my 'why does anyone take this fool seriously?,' category. The El track was accross the street, and passing trains could be heard and seen buzzing by behind the stage.
We arrived early, me in jeans so torn up that I kept thinking a strong wind was going to leave me naked, M. looking very hot in a black blouse and tight jeans that accented her incredible figure... we sat opposite the stage at a small table and waited. It is a tradition here to only start the show when everyone shows up, so the hosts showed up around ten after. Josh and Kate.
Kate is very cute, and sexy in that way some swingers are -- like there is a sign over her saying -- GOOD TIME. She actually ended the last reading I saw her at with, "Does anyone want to fuck?" On the surface, she could come off frivilous, but when she reads her poetry, her depth and clarity of vision are astounding. Everytime I have seen her read, she is head and shoulders above everyone in the room. Her partner is this every thursday night reading, Josh, was funnier than hell. I actually wrote down one of his jokes to use (I asked him during the break if he wrote his own jokes and he told me it was all off the top of his head; a real natural).
I ended up being part of the show. It's funny, M. has barely ever seen me perform, because I was out of the scene when I met her, staying away from stages with the thought that they were just an ego stroke that took me away from work. Anyways, M. saw me give a reading last year, where the people were laughing their asses off... but, at the reading two weeks ago, I sucked. I read the wrong shit. People laughed at this peice before, but they were warmed up a bit. The scene is in here, stoned artist talks to a cat, and if you look at it you will think I was nuts to even try to read it. Especially after Jason, who takes control of the crowd like he is leading a symphony of laughing people.
So, last night I told her that I thought I should read at this cocoa bean and her face fell. "You're going to read?"
I was amused by this, since my ego is intact. I took the bad reading as a mistake that I could easily correct, and ultimatly meaningless. I sucked, so what? The show was great anyways. I chose to read Rlynn, which is in here, too. And I practiced. Once she heard the piece and laughed throughout both reads (a short work that was is also a comic and a painting), she felt better, but I could tell by all the advice she was giving me that she was still nervous -- I mean, she seldom says anything about my work, because I am the expert. I am glad to say that my preperation paid off.
I was treated as a little celeb at the thing, which is cool, but I didn't announce the reading or say anything more than my first name (accidently), then I read. When I sat back down M. was beaming at me, so happy to be with me, etc... that made the whole thing worth it.
I gave Kate some flyers about her reading for me on sunday, and she liked them a lot. M. came up with the idea of making the collage about Kate, so we put a bunch of sexy pictures admist the usual soldiers and stuff I have been putting in the posters that I'm making for all the readings.
BUSH REFUSES TO GO TO THE NAACP DINNER!
As he has every year since he was president (of course he went when he was first running for office, but that was before they disqualified all those black and jewish voters in florida when they stole the election; now he will probably try to do it again, since the supreme court that put him in office was packed by reagen and his dad with right wing fucks).
What does this say about the Great White Mope? Well, I think we all know how an elitist millionare from texas with a silver spoon in his mouth and under his nose feels about blacks.
And what is it with that black woman he is always having his picture taken though? Rice is always surrounded by all these old white guys in those shots. Doesn't she realize she is a sad attempt to appeal to a demographic that Bush doesn't actually give a shit about? How doe she feel about the President of the United States when he spits in the face of blacks by refusing to meet with their best and brightest? She looks like a traitor to me. Maybe I am too white to tell?
No one who cares about race relations can in good conscious vote for this Shrub. The elephants are also starting a smear campaign against gays, which is thinly veiled under their refusal to grant them basic rights of marriage. I say if one person stays home to raise the kids, they should be on the provider's health insurance. Why is that so hard for people to get? If your neighbor was in this situation, or any gay you knew, how would you feel if they lived with someone for twenty years and then gets kicked out penniless into the street when a homophobic family takes possession of all legal inheretances?
We all have ethical circles, and those inside it are the ones we care about. I repeat myself, but it is important. We may not have the perfect choice for president, but at least they have a larger ethical circle than Shrub.
I think the Dem.'s will be making a mistake if they run against the war. Then I will vote for Nader, because I strongly believe in freeing this fucking world with guns. Until the pre-scientific cultures come around, we are going to have to fight to let progress continue. THis experiment of ours with 'democracy' will end if muslims fundamentalists continue grow into a huge force of hatred.
Remember: 'All political formulas are fiction; only the force produced is real' (modern irregular warfare).
What does this say about the Great White Mope? Well, I think we all know how an elitist millionare from texas with a silver spoon in his mouth and under his nose feels about blacks.
And what is it with that black woman he is always having his picture taken though? Rice is always surrounded by all these old white guys in those shots. Doesn't she realize she is a sad attempt to appeal to a demographic that Bush doesn't actually give a shit about? How doe she feel about the President of the United States when he spits in the face of blacks by refusing to meet with their best and brightest? She looks like a traitor to me. Maybe I am too white to tell?
No one who cares about race relations can in good conscious vote for this Shrub. The elephants are also starting a smear campaign against gays, which is thinly veiled under their refusal to grant them basic rights of marriage. I say if one person stays home to raise the kids, they should be on the provider's health insurance. Why is that so hard for people to get? If your neighbor was in this situation, or any gay you knew, how would you feel if they lived with someone for twenty years and then gets kicked out penniless into the street when a homophobic family takes possession of all legal inheretances?
We all have ethical circles, and those inside it are the ones we care about. I repeat myself, but it is important. We may not have the perfect choice for president, but at least they have a larger ethical circle than Shrub.
I think the Dem.'s will be making a mistake if they run against the war. Then I will vote for Nader, because I strongly believe in freeing this fucking world with guns. Until the pre-scientific cultures come around, we are going to have to fight to let progress continue. THis experiment of ours with 'democracy' will end if muslims fundamentalists continue grow into a huge force of hatred.
Remember: 'All political formulas are fiction; only the force produced is real' (modern irregular warfare).
GOT A LETTER FROM THE CIA TODAY. WE'RE COOL.
wrote them last night, just a quick message that said only, "Thank you for doing a vital job."
I did not want to say too much and risk accidently pissing off someone in the CIA.
Oddly enough, today they wrote back, saying that they were grateful to have my support.
I hated them when I was a teenager, because I considered them part of the probem. They never were, really -- just part of a bloody, disgusting solution that my romantic youth could make no sense of. The CIA really gets blamed for a lot of things that are not their fault. They could hardly believe it when George Bush said he wanted them to start torturing Iraquis. Torture is something the other guys do. Not the CIA. They certainly hire people to, or use indigenous troops, but the official policy, and by and large how they act, is to not torture anyone. I studied them in college, under a radical leftest proffessor who had a begrudging respect for them -- and a lot of connec tions there with good people who want the truth to be told.
The CIA even helped stop the vietnam war. I am not going to explain it here except to say the anti-war protests in america died at kent state, then the cia revived it by letting 26 planes get shot down on christmas eve (they were bombing the north with impunity at that point, because the NSA could tell the pilots when a radar was locked on them, and they could easily then evade the north vietnamese anti-aircraft fire.; the CIA simply stopped telling the pilots they wer locked on by enemy radar, and the ensuing furor of anti-war protests stopped the war--check it out for yourself. My sources for this last digression are fbi files on operation garden plot, and a source who worked for the NSA at the time, as well as a class at Northeastern Illinois University, with Dr Stern).
So, don't judge the spooks until you have all the facts, and don't expect most people who talk about them to know a damn thing -- because if they do, more than likely they can't say.
Below is the actual letter. It makes me important.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Thank you for the kind comment about the CIA .
Rest assured the men and women of CIA work tirelessly to ensure the security of our nation and the best possible intelligence for our policymakers.
Regards,
Molly
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Bet you didn't know they go by Molly, did you? Just another fascinating bit of near truth from your not very intrepid reporter, Johnny Pain, who is now signing off with the usaul salutation based upon torture in my continued, long running joke with myself about a president who encouraged the military to torture my fellow human beings.....
Have a day so tortured that no one will talk to your whiny ass.
I did not want to say too much and risk accidently pissing off someone in the CIA.
Oddly enough, today they wrote back, saying that they were grateful to have my support.
I hated them when I was a teenager, because I considered them part of the probem. They never were, really -- just part of a bloody, disgusting solution that my romantic youth could make no sense of. The CIA really gets blamed for a lot of things that are not their fault. They could hardly believe it when George Bush said he wanted them to start torturing Iraquis. Torture is something the other guys do. Not the CIA. They certainly hire people to, or use indigenous troops, but the official policy, and by and large how they act, is to not torture anyone. I studied them in college, under a radical leftest proffessor who had a begrudging respect for them -- and a lot of connec tions there with good people who want the truth to be told.
The CIA even helped stop the vietnam war. I am not going to explain it here except to say the anti-war protests in america died at kent state, then the cia revived it by letting 26 planes get shot down on christmas eve (they were bombing the north with impunity at that point, because the NSA could tell the pilots when a radar was locked on them, and they could easily then evade the north vietnamese anti-aircraft fire.; the CIA simply stopped telling the pilots they wer locked on by enemy radar, and the ensuing furor of anti-war protests stopped the war--check it out for yourself. My sources for this last digression are fbi files on operation garden plot, and a source who worked for the NSA at the time, as well as a class at Northeastern Illinois University, with Dr Stern).
So, don't judge the spooks until you have all the facts, and don't expect most people who talk about them to know a damn thing -- because if they do, more than likely they can't say.
Below is the actual letter. It makes me important.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Thank you for the kind comment about the CIA .
Rest assured the men and women of CIA work tirelessly to ensure the security of our nation and the best possible intelligence for our policymakers.
Regards,
Molly
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Bet you didn't know they go by Molly, did you? Just another fascinating bit of near truth from your not very intrepid reporter, Johnny Pain, who is now signing off with the usaul salutation based upon torture in my continued, long running joke with myself about a president who encouraged the military to torture my fellow human beings.....
Have a day so tortured that no one will talk to your whiny ass.
DOES THE YOU THAT YOU THINK OF AS YOU REALLY EXIST?
'Does who you think of as you really exist' sounds like one of those questions that are too stupid to care about, like how many angels can dance on the head of a pin (which those knucklehead Catholics wasted millions of words and hours and thoughts on). Yet, in a time when culture controls our dress, phrases used, hair style, brand of toothpaste, body type, etc... the question begins to make a bit more sense.
Foucolt, a French philosopher who I won't claim to understand too well, says that the Self that you think of as You, is barely there. He uses the example that if a person were to stand in river of culture, only their fingertips would be above water--just a tiny little bit of the brain that is really, truly, ours. That little bitty pea of space is filled with a relatively few number of templates, running from saint to sadist, etc...
This is why, when I ask if you exist, you might want to ask yourself where you do think independently. As any intellectual knows who follows democratic politics, the masses can be manipulated into thinking whatever the propagandists wish them to. Look at other countries, where people are less media savvy, and they are saying in Pravda that aliens are landing and other yellow journalism. America went through a period like this at the turn of the century. Poe wrote during this period, publishing novels in serial form in newspapers that were taken, by the masses, as the truth. The Voyages of Arthur Gordon Pym is the example I always give.
So, if you do exist, are you a combination of the thoughts that you have been exposed to? If yes, then what thoughts are your culture cramming down your throat. Do you easily go with the flow, making your skin change into whatever color the political season demands?
There is also the sociobiological factor, that a lot of your thoughts about the other sex are merely the echoes of the cries of your genes.
In fact, I think that genes are in control of everything. They are in a war for survival and will do anything, however cruel, to keep moving up into the future. Aliens live in them, and they are using us for eternal life, skipping form generation to generation through our seed.... Oh, wait, no that is a dream I had..... but, our behavior is kind of like that, hard wired in, and we all think the same thoughts, basically, from generation to generation. Hedonism and drugs and such isn't new -- it is older than culture, the first way we were, what culture tries to distant us from, take us to some other word created place where we are not chimps, but near gods.
But only words can take you to such a place, because only in words does such a place exist. Here on earth, we are chimps, barely in control of our base impulses, growling at each other in traffic all day, hating the weak for needing us, etc... all things E.O. Wilson found the apes doing (without a countless number of libraries full of ever changing reasons, mind you.
So, try just believing what can be proven for awhile. There is more than one person can ever know that we already do know... So why not start there when building your own personal Cosmology (which is your world view, or the ethics that ground your behavior; a killer would have one seeing blood, a sex addict would be in one surrounded by fucks, etc.... Everyone's cosmology is slighly different. Even those who claim, like in a church, to share the same cosmology, they really can't. Environment and genes and education, etc... shape this cosmology.
That cosmology is the you that feels like you when you think of you. It is also the ape that takes over when you lose control and have to save face to keep your place in the tribe (though it seems like you are just yelling at the dog at the time, or being snide with your partner).
So, do you exist? Or are you just a puzzle of pieces put together by your time?
Foucolt, a French philosopher who I won't claim to understand too well, says that the Self that you think of as You, is barely there. He uses the example that if a person were to stand in river of culture, only their fingertips would be above water--just a tiny little bit of the brain that is really, truly, ours. That little bitty pea of space is filled with a relatively few number of templates, running from saint to sadist, etc...
This is why, when I ask if you exist, you might want to ask yourself where you do think independently. As any intellectual knows who follows democratic politics, the masses can be manipulated into thinking whatever the propagandists wish them to. Look at other countries, where people are less media savvy, and they are saying in Pravda that aliens are landing and other yellow journalism. America went through a period like this at the turn of the century. Poe wrote during this period, publishing novels in serial form in newspapers that were taken, by the masses, as the truth. The Voyages of Arthur Gordon Pym is the example I always give.
So, if you do exist, are you a combination of the thoughts that you have been exposed to? If yes, then what thoughts are your culture cramming down your throat. Do you easily go with the flow, making your skin change into whatever color the political season demands?
There is also the sociobiological factor, that a lot of your thoughts about the other sex are merely the echoes of the cries of your genes.
In fact, I think that genes are in control of everything. They are in a war for survival and will do anything, however cruel, to keep moving up into the future. Aliens live in them, and they are using us for eternal life, skipping form generation to generation through our seed.... Oh, wait, no that is a dream I had..... but, our behavior is kind of like that, hard wired in, and we all think the same thoughts, basically, from generation to generation. Hedonism and drugs and such isn't new -- it is older than culture, the first way we were, what culture tries to distant us from, take us to some other word created place where we are not chimps, but near gods.
But only words can take you to such a place, because only in words does such a place exist. Here on earth, we are chimps, barely in control of our base impulses, growling at each other in traffic all day, hating the weak for needing us, etc... all things E.O. Wilson found the apes doing (without a countless number of libraries full of ever changing reasons, mind you.
So, try just believing what can be proven for awhile. There is more than one person can ever know that we already do know... So why not start there when building your own personal Cosmology (which is your world view, or the ethics that ground your behavior; a killer would have one seeing blood, a sex addict would be in one surrounded by fucks, etc.... Everyone's cosmology is slighly different. Even those who claim, like in a church, to share the same cosmology, they really can't. Environment and genes and education, etc... shape this cosmology.
That cosmology is the you that feels like you when you think of you. It is also the ape that takes over when you lose control and have to save face to keep your place in the tribe (though it seems like you are just yelling at the dog at the time, or being snide with your partner).
So, do you exist? Or are you just a puzzle of pieces put together by your time?
why has charles ng not been killed in prison?
CHARLES NG IS STILL ALIVE
I just watched american justice and they had the serial killer Charles Ng on. In the end, he is in a california prison feeling okay sometimes, enjoying food and sex or some sort or another.... while his victims exist now only in sad memories.
I think of China, where all the legal rangling that kept ng first in canada for twelve years, and now with the other 200 some killers on California's death row, would have been mute. This fuck isn't worth the cost of a bullet.
What is going on with those prisoners' in san quinten anyways, don't they have some kind of code of ethics that involves killing Ng's.
I am writing a book now with some characters who kill, and I thought a lot about what makes a killer, did all the usual research into the childhood signs and all.... read too many gruesome books and watched City Confidential and American Justice enough time to almost alwayts know which case Law and Order is basing their latest episode on. But I never could get to somewhere inside myself that could relate to a certain type of killing, the senseless rape shit.... and I guess I think it comes down to a lack of emphatic abilities (is not conscious of other people's feelings; this is the first thing they work on when trying to rehabilitate gangbangers, by the way). But, it is a mix of genes and environment and brain damage and.... there is no easy answer, obviously, and this is not a site about taking them.....
I like to look at issues from all sides. Stand Point theory is one way of doing it. Standpoint looks at events from the view of the peasents and the losers as well as the winners and the writers. I learned about this stuff ina philosophy class with Dr. sarah hoagland. I could listen to her talk for a year or so. She ithe wittgenstein scholar I mentioned before. She is also a bit too much of a conspiracy theorist for me, and at least sometimes believes in Feminist Seperatism, which basically means that the women have nothing to do with us men. Oh, welll..... I too hate a lot of me.
For awhile, after being molested as a teenager, I suspected the motives of any man I met, and totallyt preferred being with women. I am handsome, so it was easy for me to always have at least one girlfreiind. In my twenties, when I was seeing a female therapist, she finally made me confront this and sent me to a big burly therapist, Mac, who went to men's groups and otherr things that strike me as silly (I have a policy against letting men piss on me; or spit, which is part of at least one of those things).
There is something Nietchien (spelling?) about the men's groups. Like the great blue eyed blond haired pure animalistic man that Nietsche, unwittingly, lead the Nazi's to adapt and warp into their own little religion.
Nietsche declared that god is dead, according to time magazine. Yeats, whose quote is in here, is another of those intellectuals who lived at a time when everyone was desperatly looking for something to replace religion as teh glue of society. They took different paths. Nietsche is more respected, because Yeats became a bit of a mystic. I hate mysticism, religion, and all forms of thought diseases. All of them are many things, but one thing they share in common is that they obscure the truth, hide it behind a veil of words that produce the sensation of 'belief.' in humans. Belief is just a state of mind, not an arbitrator of what is real and what isn't.
Like wittgenstein says, the context of a word determines its meaning more than any fact associated with the word. Like when we say something like justice, which means something different to everyone to such a degree that we spend zillions on our court systems, it means something different in an american court than in a CHinese court. In China, Ng would have been shot right off the bat. We would not have spent 14 million dollars trying him. And that would be justice, but here we have agreed to define the word differently.
I am not saying either is really right (I know the secret police and all the innocents shot that go along without having the rule of law and the thin blue line and all that). I am just saying that agreement is more important in language usage than facts. If you agree there is a god, and whoever you are talking to decides to play a language game where the rule is that there is a god, than in your conversation there is a god. But that doesn't mean that your conversation is tied to any facts in the world, and thus, basically rhetoric.
This is why people can convert to other religions at the drop of a hat sometimes -- all of the changes are made purely in the made up world of words.
Well, if anyone out there reads this and wants to teach me more about any philosopher or anything, I am a student for life.
I just watched american justice and they had the serial killer Charles Ng on. In the end, he is in a california prison feeling okay sometimes, enjoying food and sex or some sort or another.... while his victims exist now only in sad memories.
I think of China, where all the legal rangling that kept ng first in canada for twelve years, and now with the other 200 some killers on California's death row, would have been mute. This fuck isn't worth the cost of a bullet.
What is going on with those prisoners' in san quinten anyways, don't they have some kind of code of ethics that involves killing Ng's.
I am writing a book now with some characters who kill, and I thought a lot about what makes a killer, did all the usual research into the childhood signs and all.... read too many gruesome books and watched City Confidential and American Justice enough time to almost alwayts know which case Law and Order is basing their latest episode on. But I never could get to somewhere inside myself that could relate to a certain type of killing, the senseless rape shit.... and I guess I think it comes down to a lack of emphatic abilities (is not conscious of other people's feelings; this is the first thing they work on when trying to rehabilitate gangbangers, by the way). But, it is a mix of genes and environment and brain damage and.... there is no easy answer, obviously, and this is not a site about taking them.....
I like to look at issues from all sides. Stand Point theory is one way of doing it. Standpoint looks at events from the view of the peasents and the losers as well as the winners and the writers. I learned about this stuff ina philosophy class with Dr. sarah hoagland. I could listen to her talk for a year or so. She ithe wittgenstein scholar I mentioned before. She is also a bit too much of a conspiracy theorist for me, and at least sometimes believes in Feminist Seperatism, which basically means that the women have nothing to do with us men. Oh, welll..... I too hate a lot of me.
For awhile, after being molested as a teenager, I suspected the motives of any man I met, and totallyt preferred being with women. I am handsome, so it was easy for me to always have at least one girlfreiind. In my twenties, when I was seeing a female therapist, she finally made me confront this and sent me to a big burly therapist, Mac, who went to men's groups and otherr things that strike me as silly (I have a policy against letting men piss on me; or spit, which is part of at least one of those things).
There is something Nietchien (spelling?) about the men's groups. Like the great blue eyed blond haired pure animalistic man that Nietsche, unwittingly, lead the Nazi's to adapt and warp into their own little religion.
Nietsche declared that god is dead, according to time magazine. Yeats, whose quote is in here, is another of those intellectuals who lived at a time when everyone was desperatly looking for something to replace religion as teh glue of society. They took different paths. Nietsche is more respected, because Yeats became a bit of a mystic. I hate mysticism, religion, and all forms of thought diseases. All of them are many things, but one thing they share in common is that they obscure the truth, hide it behind a veil of words that produce the sensation of 'belief.' in humans. Belief is just a state of mind, not an arbitrator of what is real and what isn't.
Like wittgenstein says, the context of a word determines its meaning more than any fact associated with the word. Like when we say something like justice, which means something different to everyone to such a degree that we spend zillions on our court systems, it means something different in an american court than in a CHinese court. In China, Ng would have been shot right off the bat. We would not have spent 14 million dollars trying him. And that would be justice, but here we have agreed to define the word differently.
I am not saying either is really right (I know the secret police and all the innocents shot that go along without having the rule of law and the thin blue line and all that). I am just saying that agreement is more important in language usage than facts. If you agree there is a god, and whoever you are talking to decides to play a language game where the rule is that there is a god, than in your conversation there is a god. But that doesn't mean that your conversation is tied to any facts in the world, and thus, basically rhetoric.
This is why people can convert to other religions at the drop of a hat sometimes -- all of the changes are made purely in the made up world of words.
Well, if anyone out there reads this and wants to teach me more about any philosopher or anything, I am a student for life.
Update on the latest novel, and a bit of bitching and ranting
posted by johnnypain @ 1:15 AM
My characters have to write a manifesto, and hopefully this will not come off as pretentious as the idea of writing a manifesto seems.
I mean, if you follow my mind at all on the path it is weaving through these blogs, you know I want to make something of a statement with my book, too.
Nothing obvious like save the trees and whales -- fuck those trees and whales (My dad was killed by a half tree/ half whale in Nam ,and I still have ISSUES, okay? And don't get me started on that fucking rain forest...). No, Preaching to the choir is boring, like cheating at a game. I hate art with such obvious messages that you think, "I could have said that better in one sentence."
That is why my paintings are about bringing beauty into the world, and my writing is about fighting the culture war. I have my own little culture I am endorsing, of course, and hope to insert it into the big discussion, you know?
Writing can can be done by writers just to make money, but like I always say, and even sometimes mean, "Money isn't reason enough to work."
Don Delillo had a character who was so desperate for a niche market that he started writing porno aimed at kids. Americana. I like white noise better -- it's about a pop culture professor of Hitler who can't speak german, or admit as much to anyone. Made me laugh out loud. And I am one of those guys who rubs his chin after hearing a joke and just says something flat like, Hey, that is a good joke,' etc... like I am back in a meeting trying to write skit comedy.
And this brings us back to the manifesto that my characters have to write. I am going to use a little of the prose in here from Why I Write, or some such entry.
They are basically going to do something along the lines of Dogma 29 or whatever that film group was that was trying to film naturally, with less of the fakeness of hollywood, or something... I did like their ideas, though they all went on to bigger and better things as soon as the budget's went up. Never dig your heels in about an opinion about how you will do your art forever, because your art may have other ideas. God, that is a little mystical for me.
Well, time to hit the novel. So far, I have everything set up to write a big scene involving rape... which is not going to be fun.
I want to say in here, too, that I really am grateful all of you folk out there are responding so well to my writing. I am getting more people already than I would have ever expected, topping 1,000 yesterday and 1100 today. I hope you all come back now, ya hear?
I will report on how the writing went later on tonight. My girlfreind is out so I finally have the place to myself for a change. Since she has been laid off, she gets in my way a lot, but I love her too much to make a big deal out of it, and she tries to give me time to create. WIthout her, god knows, you scribe here would be living in public housing, since, as you know, my body is crippled.
My characters have to write a manifesto, and hopefully this will not come off as pretentious as the idea of writing a manifesto seems.
I mean, if you follow my mind at all on the path it is weaving through these blogs, you know I want to make something of a statement with my book, too.
Nothing obvious like save the trees and whales -- fuck those trees and whales (My dad was killed by a half tree/ half whale in Nam ,and I still have ISSUES, okay? And don't get me started on that fucking rain forest...). No, Preaching to the choir is boring, like cheating at a game. I hate art with such obvious messages that you think, "I could have said that better in one sentence."
That is why my paintings are about bringing beauty into the world, and my writing is about fighting the culture war. I have my own little culture I am endorsing, of course, and hope to insert it into the big discussion, you know?
Writing can can be done by writers just to make money, but like I always say, and even sometimes mean, "Money isn't reason enough to work."
Don Delillo had a character who was so desperate for a niche market that he started writing porno aimed at kids. Americana. I like white noise better -- it's about a pop culture professor of Hitler who can't speak german, or admit as much to anyone. Made me laugh out loud. And I am one of those guys who rubs his chin after hearing a joke and just says something flat like, Hey, that is a good joke,' etc... like I am back in a meeting trying to write skit comedy.
And this brings us back to the manifesto that my characters have to write. I am going to use a little of the prose in here from Why I Write, or some such entry.
They are basically going to do something along the lines of Dogma 29 or whatever that film group was that was trying to film naturally, with less of the fakeness of hollywood, or something... I did like their ideas, though they all went on to bigger and better things as soon as the budget's went up. Never dig your heels in about an opinion about how you will do your art forever, because your art may have other ideas. God, that is a little mystical for me.
Well, time to hit the novel. So far, I have everything set up to write a big scene involving rape... which is not going to be fun.
I want to say in here, too, that I really am grateful all of you folk out there are responding so well to my writing. I am getting more people already than I would have ever expected, topping 1,000 yesterday and 1100 today. I hope you all come back now, ya hear?
I will report on how the writing went later on tonight. My girlfreind is out so I finally have the place to myself for a change. Since she has been laid off, she gets in my way a lot, but I love her too much to make a big deal out of it, and she tries to give me time to create. WIthout her, god knows, you scribe here would be living in public housing, since, as you know, my body is crippled.
Edgar Allen Poe --- hoaxster extrodinaire'.
Like I have written in here before, Edgar Allen Poe once wrote serials for newspapers that were fictional, though taken for the truth in a way that we can't imagine now. Now, our consciousness, what you think of yourself, etc. once thought everything it read was true, until the rise of advertisements. Ad's changed the way look at things, who are, etc. There is a book, forgot the title, about the changes that took place in the everyday world of thought that most people live within when advertising started.
I am thinking about Hoax's because of the novel that I am working on. They don't necessarily play a traditional hoax on anyone, but they do use New Journalism techniques, which is a school of writing that merges fiction and reality to get at the higher truth. Tom Wolfe headlines a book filled with new journalist. Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear And Loathing On The Campaign Trail has a classic scene where hunter s. Is smoking weed in Nixon’s limo, and they drive by the open fuselage of a train and he considers the possibility of blowing up Nixon, before the secret service attacked him or something...
I now have about 30 pages of the book that I am fairly happy with. I have what I have yet to write broke down into writing assignments, so whenever I sit down I know what to do, rather than sit here waiting for some muse to come in and blow inspiration in my ear.
I like framing stories and having characters exploring other characters like they are fictional, in a sense. In my last book, a spy in a think tank has to research a ghostwriter, which allowed me to write in first person, give more voice, have an excuse to be wordy -- the poet's journals is what the passage is called in his journal. I wrote my ass off for years trying to find the perfect words for a very good poet to say, and I don't think I really succeeded at that, but I did find workable words for a novelist.
My girlfriend’s unemployment is set to run out next week, and today she got a job -- temp for 30 days but paying pretty good. The agency is training her in all these programs so she can get about 50k a year -- nine grand more than the job that those fucking 9-11 assholes lost for her by collapsing our economy.
I wanted to say something about those soldiers who mistreated the Iraqi’s just because I seem to be the only one in the world who compares the American military to other militaries -- who rape and pillage and slaughter with barely a word of international out cry --- and see that after being shot at for months by these guys and having your buddies killed, etc. I might get drunk and want to kick one of their asses. I am not saying what they did is right, I am just saying that it needs to be put in an honest perspective -- not one of those 'all Americans are angels' attitude that is fostered so treacle in this here country.
I am thinking about Hoax's because of the novel that I am working on. They don't necessarily play a traditional hoax on anyone, but they do use New Journalism techniques, which is a school of writing that merges fiction and reality to get at the higher truth. Tom Wolfe headlines a book filled with new journalist. Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear And Loathing On The Campaign Trail has a classic scene where hunter s. Is smoking weed in Nixon’s limo, and they drive by the open fuselage of a train and he considers the possibility of blowing up Nixon, before the secret service attacked him or something...
I now have about 30 pages of the book that I am fairly happy with. I have what I have yet to write broke down into writing assignments, so whenever I sit down I know what to do, rather than sit here waiting for some muse to come in and blow inspiration in my ear.
I like framing stories and having characters exploring other characters like they are fictional, in a sense. In my last book, a spy in a think tank has to research a ghostwriter, which allowed me to write in first person, give more voice, have an excuse to be wordy -- the poet's journals is what the passage is called in his journal. I wrote my ass off for years trying to find the perfect words for a very good poet to say, and I don't think I really succeeded at that, but I did find workable words for a novelist.
My girlfriend’s unemployment is set to run out next week, and today she got a job -- temp for 30 days but paying pretty good. The agency is training her in all these programs so she can get about 50k a year -- nine grand more than the job that those fucking 9-11 assholes lost for her by collapsing our economy.
I wanted to say something about those soldiers who mistreated the Iraqi’s just because I seem to be the only one in the world who compares the American military to other militaries -- who rape and pillage and slaughter with barely a word of international out cry --- and see that after being shot at for months by these guys and having your buddies killed, etc. I might get drunk and want to kick one of their asses. I am not saying what they did is right, I am just saying that it needs to be put in an honest perspective -- not one of those 'all Americans are angels' attitude that is fostered so treacle in this here country.
Love, sex, and all the sticky stuff in between. More on How I was a teenage slut.
had my first real crush on women in porno magazines, when I was really young, six and seven. I had older brothers who were not exactly diescreet about their magazines; the first real love was a girl named lori latissa(or somthing like that). It didn't last long because I was cool, but chubby, and that was too much for a seventh grade girl, I guess.
You have to go a long way, years, up to my next one. Jeannette Graber. She acted like a virgin to get me to think of her as more than a fuck, led me on with head and such for three months, than finally let me fuck her on the very night that I was breaking up with her. I can't remember why?
The next one was dizzy, who I did wrong. I loved her so much and it ended badly, because I had sex with a man and though she did not mind me fucking all kinds of women (she loaned me to freind so she could lose her virginity to a good fuck; they threw a party and all-- there was no penthouse forum ending, either, because like most of my wildest sexual experiences, something went wrong... this involved a guy on the porch, while I was upstairs trying to live up this don juan reputation, screaming at me for 'using' women (he would later turn out to be gay and to have a crush on me). And not only did I have a screaming nelly on the front porch, upstairs was the girlfreind of the girl who was supposed to be llosing her virginity. We could hear her crying occasionally (I would later discover these women were sleeping together). And this was with a ballerina, Gwen, who was one of the best people I ever met. Unfortunatly, I was mentally addled with hormones.
My genes were in control, and all they want is conquest. I wonder if my ancestors, who if you follow this along were the first kings of enlgland (seriously), felt these genes when they went into battle? Was it part of why rape is such a huge part of armies winning battles?
I know I am fundamentally little different in some ways from the men who walked around with my genes some 1600 years ago, but our similarities are more striking. We all acted a little like apes, a little like angels (especially the one who started westminster abbey, and all the ones who joined monastaries (I like to think they joined the intellectual ones, but knowing my family, they might have been at one of the drunken whoring partying monastaries, of which there were quite a few before this and that reformation.
Next on my love roster came a series of faceless women who used me and I used them, the faces of guys bobbing on my crotch that I can barely remember as I'm leanig back against a wall behind some bar, getting blow jobs in front of my freinds because this one chick got off on it and half my freinds were gay at that point and thought it was cool that I was so open.
I really did think I knew it all at seventeen. I spent a year paralyzed before that and read almost three books a day (speed reading, a stupid thing Bill Cosby commercials got me started on that I later learned destroys comprehension --damn bill cosby and his pudding from hell!).
had my first real crush on women in porno magazines, when I was really young, six and seven. I had older brothers who were not exactly diescreet about their magazines; the first real love was a girl named lori latissa(or somthing like that). It didn't last long because I was cool, but chubby, and that was too much for a seventh grade girl, I guess.
You have to go a long way, years, up to my next one. Jeannette Graber. She acted like a virgin to get me to think of her as more than a fuck, led me on with head and such for three months, than finally let me fuck her on the very night that I was breaking up with her. I can't remember why?
The next one was dizzy, who I did wrong. I loved her so much and it ended badly, because I had sex with a man and though she did not mind me fucking all kinds of women (she loaned me to freind so she could lose her virginity to a good fuck; they threw a party and all-- there was no penthouse forum ending, either, because like most of my wildest sexual experiences, something went wrong... this involved a guy on the porch, while I was upstairs trying to live up this don juan reputation, screaming at me for 'using' women (he would later turn out to be gay and to have a crush on me). And not only did I have a screaming nelly on the front porch, upstairs was the girlfreind of the girl who was supposed to be llosing her virginity. We could hear her crying occasionally (I would later discover these women were sleeping together). And this was with a ballerina, Gwen, who was one of the best people I ever met. Unfortunatly, I was mentally addled with hormones.
My genes were in control, and all they want is conquest. I wonder if my ancestors, who if you follow this along were the first kings of enlgland (seriously), felt these genes when they went into battle? Was it part of why rape is such a huge part of armies winning battles?
I know I am fundamentally little different in some ways from the men who walked around with my genes some 1600 years ago, but our similarities are more striking. We all acted a little like apes, a little like angels (especially the one who started westminster abbey, and all the ones who joined monastaries (I like to think they joined the intellectual ones, but knowing my family, they might have been at one of the drunken whoring partying monastaries, of which there were quite a few before this and that reformation.
Next on my love roster came a series of faceless women who used me and I used them, the faces of guys bobbing on my crotch that I can barely remember as I'm leanig back against a wall behind some bar, getting blow jobs in front of my freinds because this one chick got off on it and half my freinds were gay at that point and thought it was cool that I was so open.
I really did think I knew it all at seventeen. I spent a year paralyzed before that and read almost three books a day (speed reading, a stupid thing Bill Cosby commercials got me started on that I later learned destroys comprehension --damn bill cosby and his pudding from hell!).
fooling ourselves again and again and again and... stop. take control.
My mother in law is 76 and moves in an elephantine manner, hobbles slowly around with her cane. Obese and a bit lazy and bored with life, she is now, according to her son, getting into his religion and having 'out of body' experiences. This is funny because I was once all into trying this stuff.
I broke my back when I was seventeen, and spent a year paralyzed, and I had a freind whose father was a parapsychologist, and he brought me all these books on out of body expereinces, etc.. claimed he could do it. He took me and brother through a reincarnationt therapy session where we both had vivid dreams of being Native Americans...
This guy turned out to be scizophrenic. Disabled and everything. Amazing. Another guy I knew who said he could do this died young, in the army. Both of these two had mothers who died when they were young? I don't know.
I had this book about it and was paralyzed so I tried al lthe methods and twice, it seemed, my spirit flew up out of my body. I only flew around the room I was in, but it was as if my eyes were suddenly by the ceiling, then whoosing past the wall.
I have also been in buddhist meditations where group hypnosis was used to make us all have vivd dreams of gods and demons -- used in a Jungain manner to fight mental demons, I guess was the point, though to me it was all just relaxing fun. But, the point is, all of this may or may not exist, but my ability to fool myself about this sort of thing definatley does exist.
Now I look at all of that time as wasted. I should have just been concentrating on my art and education. Those are the times that led me to the places I like best.
Next up, my sex club experiences, and orgies and stuff....
My mother in law is 76 and moves in an elephantine manner, hobbles slowly around with her cane. Obese and a bit lazy and bored with life, she is now, according to her son, getting into his religion and having 'out of body' experiences. This is funny because I was once all into trying this stuff.
I broke my back when I was seventeen, and spent a year paralyzed, and I had a freind whose father was a parapsychologist, and he brought me all these books on out of body expereinces, etc.. claimed he could do it. He took me and brother through a reincarnationt therapy session where we both had vivid dreams of being Native Americans...
This guy turned out to be scizophrenic. Disabled and everything. Amazing. Another guy I knew who said he could do this died young, in the army. Both of these two had mothers who died when they were young? I don't know.
I had this book about it and was paralyzed so I tried al lthe methods and twice, it seemed, my spirit flew up out of my body. I only flew around the room I was in, but it was as if my eyes were suddenly by the ceiling, then whoosing past the wall.
I have also been in buddhist meditations where group hypnosis was used to make us all have vivd dreams of gods and demons -- used in a Jungain manner to fight mental demons, I guess was the point, though to me it was all just relaxing fun. But, the point is, all of this may or may not exist, but my ability to fool myself about this sort of thing definatley does exist.
Now I look at all of that time as wasted. I should have just been concentrating on my art and education. Those are the times that led me to the places I like best.
Next up, my sex club experiences, and orgies and stuff....
EXPLAINING WITTGENSTEIN AND EO WILSON AND OTHER RISKY MENTAL ENDEAVORS.
Wittgenstein and E.O. Wilson are the gods of our consciousness, the men who's research effects all the people around you who create what we think of as our culture -- the beliefs that make us Americans.
Now, the people who are in the Witt. camp think that we are mostly created by our language, and what kind of language games we play. In a cult, they keep all the conversation nutty so the sane can never cure their mental infections. Games require rules, of course, and Witt. said that our agreement on the rules means more than whatever the word might (or might not) refer to in the material world.
An example would be that guys who make a certain type of windows, would say "I made 20 windows today," and his factory mate would know in great detail what he meant. They use the word 'window' as a tool, that they have agreed to use in a certain way.
These language games are so powerful that you can play them right into goosestepping behind Hitler, or swallowed Kool aid with Jim Jones (if that wasn't an MLK mind drug CIA thing, which I have an underground, well documented book claiming it is).
NOw, How does e.o. Wilson come in? He puts human behavior in the realm of the animal, finds where we do things in much the same way the apes do -- though, as I always write, the nearly wordless apes don't fill libraries with different reasons and ways and the complications of something like fucking. They just do it every ten minutes or so. Man, what a life. Another popular misconception, by the way, is that ancient, tribal man (who were intellectually as smart as any of us now, and much the same beings) spent all their time working their asses off. They worked three hours a day on average, and they used all kinds of drugs to amuse themselves, bring drama into their life, etc... Not to mention, they sexed as they sexed, with the dominate male often not being enough to satisfy pregnant males, so they also got the smart, nerdy ones babies too .
If I could make this world face the implications of two men's research and then change in kind..... too utopian for me to go there.
Well, my next writing project on the novel is to write the fucking artist's manifesto. I want this to sound like really high falutin prose, written for the ages, but still a little smirky, not taking itself that seriously..... but see in the end this manifesto will drive them to out into the fields with guns in their hands. The novel is all about my writing these slacker stoner intellectual painters lovers good men with deep hearts, revolutionaries without a revolution.... into going out into a field with guns into their hands, driven to protecting their principles on the most basic, ape-like level.... which unfortunately their enemies run on most of the time -- drunken gang bangers with no respect for shit.
And I ran into some cool bangers when I was a cab driver, okay, but the best of them always talked about getting out. I almost was killed by these guys twice, too. I will be putting all that stuff in the new entries entitled, The cab stories of Johnny Pain, which I will be writing, exclusively, in this blog. Though in the end, I will send it off for print publication because I hate fucking trees.
Now, the people who are in the Witt. camp think that we are mostly created by our language, and what kind of language games we play. In a cult, they keep all the conversation nutty so the sane can never cure their mental infections. Games require rules, of course, and Witt. said that our agreement on the rules means more than whatever the word might (or might not) refer to in the material world.
An example would be that guys who make a certain type of windows, would say "I made 20 windows today," and his factory mate would know in great detail what he meant. They use the word 'window' as a tool, that they have agreed to use in a certain way.
These language games are so powerful that you can play them right into goosestepping behind Hitler, or swallowed Kool aid with Jim Jones (if that wasn't an MLK mind drug CIA thing, which I have an underground, well documented book claiming it is).
NOw, How does e.o. Wilson come in? He puts human behavior in the realm of the animal, finds where we do things in much the same way the apes do -- though, as I always write, the nearly wordless apes don't fill libraries with different reasons and ways and the complications of something like fucking. They just do it every ten minutes or so. Man, what a life. Another popular misconception, by the way, is that ancient, tribal man (who were intellectually as smart as any of us now, and much the same beings) spent all their time working their asses off. They worked three hours a day on average, and they used all kinds of drugs to amuse themselves, bring drama into their life, etc... Not to mention, they sexed as they sexed, with the dominate male often not being enough to satisfy pregnant males, so they also got the smart, nerdy ones babies too .
If I could make this world face the implications of two men's research and then change in kind..... too utopian for me to go there.
Well, my next writing project on the novel is to write the fucking artist's manifesto. I want this to sound like really high falutin prose, written for the ages, but still a little smirky, not taking itself that seriously..... but see in the end this manifesto will drive them to out into the fields with guns in their hands. The novel is all about my writing these slacker stoner intellectual painters lovers good men with deep hearts, revolutionaries without a revolution.... into going out into a field with guns into their hands, driven to protecting their principles on the most basic, ape-like level.... which unfortunately their enemies run on most of the time -- drunken gang bangers with no respect for shit.
And I ran into some cool bangers when I was a cab driver, okay, but the best of them always talked about getting out. I almost was killed by these guys twice, too. I will be putting all that stuff in the new entries entitled, The cab stories of Johnny Pain, which I will be writing, exclusively, in this blog. Though in the end, I will send it off for print publication because I hate fucking trees.
I WANT TO SELL OUT, BUT I DON'T KNOW WHO TO GO TO????
The dilemma is this, okay,? I've written a bunch of smarmy little essay's and various little comedic shit mounds, so now, I am trying to figure out how can I milk this pile of words for a few bucks? You know, sell out? I am looking around for those proverbial teats that I have being hearing about since I was a kid, though now that I am finally ready to indeed sell out, they are nowhere to be found!!! Damn them to the seventh circle!!
I mean, getting paid for your work is nothing bad, though getting too much or too little might really, really suck... but I ain't talking about a manision on the hill here, or fancy habit trails, no, just a fucking three bedroom apartment where I can let my mother in law live out her dying days with her daughter... and, perhaps, fund a small fighting force of hamsters, merely to protect the old chubby wrinkle rot... I mean, the old dear.
I am not asking you to send me a lot money, just live hamsters.
Spend a couple joints and send these murderous rodents express, okay? For dog's sake, they are little use to me dead... Yes, as M. almost uncannily predicted, all attempts at reanimation on that one I wrote about last week, the hamster that I found in the neighbor's garbage bin, have all failed.... so, if you read my plea last week, when I was sure that I would be able to reanimate the hamster, just stop even thinking about sending me those dead ones that I requested, okay? If indeed, any of you lazy stoners did.
Oh, yea... I will sell these hamsters to fund a better life style for all the elderly, including my mother in law, who I was only joking about in here when I called her an 'elephantine hodge podge of molecules taking up otherwise valuable space.' And no, M. is not making me say this one... this one is from the heart. Really.
Send those hamsters, and for dog's sake do it soon -- if we can't afford a three bedroom before that oldster wants to move in with us, I will kick her ass out on the street.... well, no, no, I won't. My heart is too big for that. How about yours?
Is the old lady worth a hamster or two? I have my doubts, but I will let your kindness be my guide....
NOW, SEND ME SOME FUCKING HAMSTERS!!!! And, umm, thank you, in advance, for being there for the elderly, by sending one lousy hamster (or more). This kind act will make you suck significantly less in my eyes, though I doubt this will in anyway stop the neighborhood kids from hitting you with sticks.
Have a day where you are tortured by the thought of all the people who need to be killed just when you have been effectively neutralized by the loss of your army to traitorous pets who once seemed like your very best friends.... and decide that the only way you will ever be safe in this fucking bloody ass punji stick pit of a jungle, is to be protected by hamsters with training, discipline, and courage.... .. which indeed seems pitiful, unless you have hundreds, in which case --- ass can be kicked!!!
I mean, getting paid for your work is nothing bad, though getting too much or too little might really, really suck... but I ain't talking about a manision on the hill here, or fancy habit trails, no, just a fucking three bedroom apartment where I can let my mother in law live out her dying days with her daughter... and, perhaps, fund a small fighting force of hamsters, merely to protect the old chubby wrinkle rot... I mean, the old dear.
I am not asking you to send me a lot money, just live hamsters.
Spend a couple joints and send these murderous rodents express, okay? For dog's sake, they are little use to me dead... Yes, as M. almost uncannily predicted, all attempts at reanimation on that one I wrote about last week, the hamster that I found in the neighbor's garbage bin, have all failed.... so, if you read my plea last week, when I was sure that I would be able to reanimate the hamster, just stop even thinking about sending me those dead ones that I requested, okay? If indeed, any of you lazy stoners did.
Oh, yea... I will sell these hamsters to fund a better life style for all the elderly, including my mother in law, who I was only joking about in here when I called her an 'elephantine hodge podge of molecules taking up otherwise valuable space.' And no, M. is not making me say this one... this one is from the heart. Really.
Send those hamsters, and for dog's sake do it soon -- if we can't afford a three bedroom before that oldster wants to move in with us, I will kick her ass out on the street.... well, no, no, I won't. My heart is too big for that. How about yours?
Is the old lady worth a hamster or two? I have my doubts, but I will let your kindness be my guide....
NOW, SEND ME SOME FUCKING HAMSTERS!!!! And, umm, thank you, in advance, for being there for the elderly, by sending one lousy hamster (or more). This kind act will make you suck significantly less in my eyes, though I doubt this will in anyway stop the neighborhood kids from hitting you with sticks.
Have a day where you are tortured by the thought of all the people who need to be killed just when you have been effectively neutralized by the loss of your army to traitorous pets who once seemed like your very best friends.... and decide that the only way you will ever be safe in this fucking bloody ass punji stick pit of a jungle, is to be protected by hamsters with training, discipline, and courage.... .. which indeed seems pitiful, unless you have hundreds, in which case --- ass can be kicked!!!
MASSAH JACKOFFYOURSON BACK IN COURT ..
SQUEALING FOR ALL WHO WILL STILL LISTEN TO THE RANCID RUNNY SHIT POURING OUT BETWEEN HIS FREAKISH LIPS, THAT HE IS INNOCENT OF keeping a kid as a drunken prisoner and forcing this kid to make a tape saying that he was not indeed doing shots and playing rubba.
Jackson actually told some kids in the crowd of any old asshole licking well wishers outside the court that they could come to Never Never Land whenever they want to... and something about peter pan teaching them to how to really fly with forty ouncers.
Proving once again that celebrity dancing and singing and flashing your tit at little kids on tv has nothing to do with intelligence or morality, VARIOUS OF MASSAH JACKOFFYOURSON'S DUM AS HAMSTER SHIT SIBLINGS ACTUALLY DRESSED IN WHITE AND WALKED THAT SHIT INTO COURT CLAIMING HE IS, GET THIS, INNOCENT!!!
FOR THAT ALONE THE WHOLE CLAN SHOULD BE IMPRISIONED AND RAPED WITH A BROOM ON A TRI-HOURLY BASIS FOR, OH, THE REST OF THEIR UN-NATURAL, FREAKISH LIVES-- AND I DO NOT MEAN THE END OF THE BROOM WITH A HANDLE!! Unless, as in Massah Jackoffson's case, this is something they enjoy... he will have to be slow roasted over charcoal for a couple days, and then, when his vocal cords are shredded from screaming, he should be dropped into the flames and burned alive -- at the very fucking least.
I know I write about this a lot, but I am amazed each and every time I see this pervert is still interacting with children and people are not just fucking converging on him and ripping him to shreds with their bare hands.... If this isn't proof that we should be replaced by cockroaches, I sure as hell don't know what is?
Jackson actually told some kids in the crowd of any old asshole licking well wishers outside the court that they could come to Never Never Land whenever they want to... and something about peter pan teaching them to how to really fly with forty ouncers.
Proving once again that celebrity dancing and singing and flashing your tit at little kids on tv has nothing to do with intelligence or morality, VARIOUS OF MASSAH JACKOFFYOURSON'S DUM AS HAMSTER SHIT SIBLINGS ACTUALLY DRESSED IN WHITE AND WALKED THAT SHIT INTO COURT CLAIMING HE IS, GET THIS, INNOCENT!!!
FOR THAT ALONE THE WHOLE CLAN SHOULD BE IMPRISIONED AND RAPED WITH A BROOM ON A TRI-HOURLY BASIS FOR, OH, THE REST OF THEIR UN-NATURAL, FREAKISH LIVES-- AND I DO NOT MEAN THE END OF THE BROOM WITH A HANDLE!! Unless, as in Massah Jackoffson's case, this is something they enjoy... he will have to be slow roasted over charcoal for a couple days, and then, when his vocal cords are shredded from screaming, he should be dropped into the flames and burned alive -- at the very fucking least.
I know I write about this a lot, but I am amazed each and every time I see this pervert is still interacting with children and people are not just fucking converging on him and ripping him to shreds with their bare hands.... If this isn't proof that we should be replaced by cockroaches, I sure as hell don't know what is?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
