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
Pain grew up in a minute railroad town named after one of the notorious land grabbing, buffalo slaughtering, natives infecting railroad barons who owned the politicians back then. I don't know much about The Garrett in question who had his name etched into the street signs leading into the slightly run down, occasionally trashy and sometimes charming burg in Indiana.
He dates his training and proclivity for waging the City Wars to early battles with neighborhood hillbilly's who lived in his neighborhood, which was isolated from the rest of the town by a series of railroad tracks on one side, and fields and woods on the other. An ever changing contigent of Bikers lived down on the corner, a bunch of brothers and sisters and their lovers; they parked their Harvey's, oil drippings and all, on the porch of the tiny house. They had a collective tribe of kids that was forever fluctuating, though was primarily led by Bobby Roy, who had a grandfather who became a statan worshiping white suprimist waorlock in prison (the warlock silliness is something poor Bobby's badly stuffed brain embraced for awhile in a druggie, post-high school phase before he became whatever mystery mark he did). Bobby was sometimes a good friend, especially when we were both into the weed, but as a kid he was a viscious gang fighter who was always raising the bar by throwing bricks at three years olds and shit...
You have to remember, this was a neighborhood where some one could 'give,' and if the other party refused to let up the beating, it was pretty agreed upon that anyone around had to break up the fight. Not that people were all into stopping fights back then. Crowds gathered, including occasionally this one hillbilly woman who came out once when her son, who was twice as big as Pain, was trying to kick his ass.... after fifteen minutes of insults and what not, that particular fight was called off.
After ten years in the Marines, he was recruited to join a private, highly secretive unit put together by the UN, with the consent of China, The Russians and Uncle Sam.
When the world changed forever into slaves and Salurnians, Johnny Pain was retired and writing a series of books meant to be read by dogs and cats once they gained the ability to read. He was well known for hiring Swedish doctors to implant vocal cords in various animals, and, before the occupation by the Religous Fascists from outer space, Pain was involved in a continous court battle to allow his trained Huskies and German Sheperds to be able to testify in the Suit he had brought against the Humane Society For, quote, "Animal Genocide and Ball Cutt Offing."
INTERVIEW WITH A SOLDIER ON THE FRONT...
By Sandra Lee Cookie dough diamond.
THIS FUCKING LIFE: Johnny Pain, what were you doing the day your war started?
PAIN: I had the dog out for an early walk, just woke up and took her out without showering of coffee... just a couple one hits and I was hunting up my keys. Oh, yea, I had to wait for my pills to hit, too.... so it must have been about noon or something
THIS FUCKING LIFE: They arrived over lake Michigan at 3:15 P.M.
PAIN: I really have to stop sleeping so fucking late, you know?
THIS FUCKING LIFE: Can we get back to the war... I mean, you are famous for digressing until the reporters time is up with you, and...
PAIN: Yea, I suck. Sorry. They came down out of this huge, mountainous cloud that looked like a scoop of ice cream, vanilla, maybe butter pecan with the tiny chunks you can't see. Coconut. Could have been anything, I suppose with all these artificial flavors and colors.... any ways, the cigar shaped silver ships looked like
stars, the sun hitting them and sending off hard to look at shards of hard white light. Like diamond chimps cutting slightly -- I mean, really slightly, into your eye.
THIS FUCKING LIFE: It would have to be pretty darn slightly, I mean, diamonds cut glass, and flesh is a lot softer. I mean, I have no evidence of that, but...
PAIN: Do you have any kind of measuring device that we could experiment with?
THIS FUCKING LIFE: "With my eye?"
PAIN: "Yea."
THIS FUCKING LIFE: "Then, no...."
PAIN: "I can see elaborate measurements hanging out of all of your pockets."
THIS FUCKING LIFE: "They aren't sterilized enough to go near an eyeball."
PAIN: "You're right. Now, why did you have to do all that lying before finally just coming out and saying that you don't want bloody, brown shit stained measuring devices cut up your cornea. I think I would have understood that, duh? Now, don't get me started on one of your tangents, I am here to talk about what I did while most of the world was sitting around partying, completly buying the entire Salurnian Rap about how they had arrived by folding time, coming instantaneously from their nitch in the universe to ours, and were here out of concern for all the species about to be lost to the imminent greenhouse effect. The new and wondrous varieties of life styles and consumer goods being offered was so long that 24 hour broadcasts on all stations commenced. No one would watch anything else.... no one would go to work, at first... Now me, I was pretty well lit up on some green and crystally that had me feeling ever so slightly paranoid. So when I saw these cigar shaped things come down out of the clouds, I thought the angels had been smoking up there and were leaving behind some nasty, toxic second smoke. I mean, I know there are no angels, but all those years of sitting in a pew feeling hell's fires lapping at my converse left some scars on me old toes, you know, and I react with that kid occasionally before the adult takes over."
THIS FUCKING LIFE: So, what happened when your 'adult' took over?"
JOHNNY PAIN: Well, adult, psycho, or terrorist... depending on who you talk to, I guess. The Adult of course went home, got together guns, ammo, the dog and cat and stole a caddilac, drove down and got M. out of work, and hit the highway for Tennessee. I was kind of half worried that the weed was just making me paranoid, because it it wouldn't be the... well, never mind all that.... I guess there is no reason to toot my band of out of tune trumphets any more than I have to for the troops.
At the time, though, I was pretty worried that I was wrong. I mean, I had to chloroform M., of course, and that worried me a little bit because I knew I was in for an ass kicking when she woke up -- there was no way she was going to listen to a good reason for drugging her and dragging her out to a stolen car and aiming a gun at her coworkers and such... at least not at first. I had to chain her up, then explain everything for a few days before I could trust her not to just fucking stangle me. Admittedly, I have lied to her another that there was little else she could do. And she did smack me a couple times, but that was deserved because I served her tea in a dirty mug once while she was captive... or at least that is what she told me.
THIS INTERVIEW WITH THE LEADER OF REBEL TROOPS PRESENTLY BATTLING THE SALARIANS IN THE GREATER CHICAGO AREA WILL CONTINUE AFTER WE MOVE TO ANOTHER LOCATION. OUR SECURITY OF COURSE DEMANDS THAT THE SALURANIANS, AND THIER ALLIES THE WOMBATS, MUST NEVER FIND THE SOURCE OF THESE WORDS.
MESSAGE FROM JOHNNY PAIN: During the break while we move to another site, Please hum, "We Shall Overcome" and imagine an older, chubbed out black women with too much make up just belting that song into the deepest recesses of your brain (anyone who sings this out loud with a shitty voice should be shot -- and if they are in my army, they will be).
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
the wino from outer space
I met a wino from outer space.... really. part 1 (edit - delete)
home
by Scott Ridgway
2005-04-03
8:32 AM
Who believes a guy like me? No one. I ask for change for food and they think I need booze. Everyone is suspicious of a bum looking dude who smells. I don't do much to get them over thier fears of course, since I no longer care what people think of me. I need to drink, sleep, eat when I get to puking too much to drink.
Writing any of this down even seems stupid, There isn't anything else I can do, though. I got the paper for free, old computer paper stained on the corner with what looks like coffee that I pulled out of a dumpster in lower wacker, the under-road that runs beneath the streets of downtown chicago and harbors those of us who are too far out there to live any place but the streets, jails and hospitals.
My breathing grows worse everyday, the dt's or the lack of breath will take me soon, some cold night as I croach over a heater duct, tucked in a dark corner of lower wacker where the cops will probably notice me a few days after the rats.
Try looking and smelling and living like a wino and being the only person on earth who has spoken to an alein... at least at length. I know secrets people all over the world would kill for, and I'm not even sure that I want to use them. They could save me, and others, I suppose, but I don't know why... the drink takes all my time, trying to keep the emotions running wild inside of me dull and at ease is about all I have time for -- well, that and getting together the change for a buzz and bite to eat every few days.
I wish I could say thta my life wasn't always a drunken mess, that some crises drove me down into this circle of hell . . . but no, I just liked to party more than I liked to work, and somehow muddled along that way, eating at soup kitchens and doing just about whatever it took to find the time to drink around the clock. Long after everyone I knew had checking accounts and apartments and women and kids, I was still the hard core guy who would whip out the weed and snort at parties, call the hookers...
I never noticed I was on a slippery slope until I was mired in the muck at the bottom, holes in my shows and the tread long wore off, leaving me old and ugly and smelly and pathetic enough to pull the heart strings required to obtain a few pennies from the crowds passing trhough downton chicago...
I lied in the title. I am not a wino from outer space. I did however meet a creature from far out in the distant stars, too far away for our microscopes and time limitations. He was dying. Something about the air that he explained to me once while we were drinking and I think I was thinking of something else or just spacing on the music... I didn't listen to him half the time... he was one of those guys who talks so much that sometimes you have to take a break and think about other things. No one would believe him either. He had come here in the form of an Elder, basing his research on outdated tv shows and sit that they could recieve out on the scientific research center -- an artificial satallite, where his crew had been monitoring human activity. There was a mechanical problem, his crew died, and there he was, waiting out his last few years ina flop house. He used to pay me to go out and get dr. pepper and thunderbird, which he lived on. He really did, too, which was the first indication to me that he was different, of course.
He didn't tell me his history until I discovered it on my own, after he had some kind of fever and babbled on for a week just before he died. He became normal somehow for the last day, after taking some pills he had, and that was when he decided that though I was hardly his choice, he was going to hope against hope that I could do something...
He had tried to contact the authorities a year before and ended up spending three weeks in a psych ward, where he was beaten and subjected to the drugs which set off the disease that was killing him -- or so he claimed, and he did sound like a doctor.
He had a face that looked like everything in his sinfilled life was etched on his pale, wrinkled face. Watery blue and red eyes, the deep lines of summers spent lazing on benches bumming smokes and change. According to his cultural norms, he was entering an elder one, who would be the most respected in the society. Ha.
During his last few days, he was liked hyped by the fever and mellowed by the vodka, and actually seemed a little relieved to be getting out of a mission he said he hated from the bginning. He seemed to become someone else, like a youthful rebel came bursting out of him, some idealistic kid swinging a protest poster or something. He said he had a device that could make anyone disappear, and that his team had planned on selectively culling the field; the device also gives something like immortality, as well as being something or a orgasm ray and other things that he explained to me in way more detailed than I could listen to while smoking weed and drinking dr peopper and vodka.
The plan, from what I could gather of it, was simply to shift the leadership of the planet to a more ecofreindly, less materialist culture.
it is hard to write drunk, so forgive me, alright? Not to mention I am sitting under a viaduct and the wind, as always, is trying to snatch all of my words and blow them out into the unheard nothingness.
You could see a slight blue tint to his skin, and light yellow green twinge to his neck. He was so old you just kind of assumed that he was the victim of some drink and drug ravaging or another.
Me, I knew better. I had been watching for signs of aleins most of my life, on and off. I had read enough books, during rainy afternoons in the public libraries where I took refuge in a study of all things other-worldy that might land here. Not being a mark, as the carnies say, I never found the kindof evidence that answered the question. My curiosity never died, though, and frequent forays into science fiction books and tv programs watched in dusty rec rooms in treatment centers and flop houses and all the shitty places ny drunken, horny chimp led me into.
. I was the only one who ever believed him. Like I think I wrote, the cops just picked up a wino with delusions, took him to a psyche ward, and they eventually released him to our flop house. A bunch of dividers in what used to an elks hall. Chicken wire roofs. You could smell everyone's socks and worse at all times, of course. Not that I minded so much when I was totally drunk. Who would? You could see a slight blue tint to his skin, and light yellow green twinge to his neck. He was so old you just kind of assumed that he was the victim of some drink and drug ravaging or another. Me, I knew better. I had been watching for signs of aleins most of my life, on and off. I had read enough books, during rainy afternoons in the public libraries where I took refuge in a study of all things other-worldy that might land here. Not being a mark, as the carnies say, I never found the kind of evidence that answered the question. My curiosity never died, though, and frequent forays into science fiction books and tv programs watched in dusty rec rooms in treatment centers and flop houses and all the shitty places ny drunken, horny chimp led me into.
He had come here in the form of an Elder, on a scientific research mission; where his crew had been monitoring human activity and were going to help us to correct some planet wide problems that were threatening to destroy the ecosphere. Harv said this about it once, “Something fucking went wrong, once we were in the area we should have sensed soul activity, found the ethereal beings we expected to use to approach humans…. Jesus, fucking christ deep fried and on a stick and dipped in chocolate, who the hell would have believed that you haven’t even developed souls.�
Harv’s big regret,of course, of course, was ending up in a soulless creature… according to him, most creatures have something like a soul that continues on after death, but humans have not yet developed an after life yet, because our ghosts held no love for their experiences with life. He really regretted not hopping into a dog or a cat, let me tell ya, who he claimed were off to explore the universe for good times and planets conducive to lots of napping. He even tried to get me to feed him to the half starved cats in the alley when he died. I just kind of ignored that shit when he said it, like a lot of the weirder proclamations to come out of his toothless mouth.
His lack of teeth made his chin appear almost directly under his nose, giving him a comical look, even when he was telling me, in his raspy, smoke charred voice, “I don’t what the hell is killing me, but since I am stuck in one of your sorry asses, I am going to never go home. You fucking humans. You really, really, really have your heads up your asses.�
He was bitter like that all the time, which I find funny and kind of soothing. He is the only person I've met who hates humans more than me. I didn't even care when he dissed me particularly, as long as he let me share his dr pepper and smoke his weed and drink the vodka out of his bongs. I mean, hell, plenty of afternoons I got enough change in my beat up paper cup from the passing suites downtown to get a bottle and just go up to his room and sit around, get drunk and eat his cold meat and bread. He bought it just for me, because I did his shopping. He existed, entirely, no shit, oin Dr. Pepper and Stoly’s vodka. They were the only human consumables he really liked, and he said that since he was infinite anyways now, he might as well do whatever the hell he wanted.
I guess before I ramble on too long about all the negative shit about the wino from outer space, let me also say that he was a funny guy at times, and generous to a fault. He just hated humans for being soul-less, which he considered a horrifying evolutionary error worse than any he had seen in his travels – which, if his often repeated stories can be trusted, were far and wide across the forever expanse of stars. He was one of those guys who talks so much that sometimes you have to take a break and think about other things. He had no luck on earth with the authorities, of course, who he believed would be interested in some of the technology he brought with him, because he had no idea who effect he would have on the world in the wrecked body of a wino that was way too addicted to drink for a weak willed, depressed alien to ever change. Whoever’s body he boarded is a mystery, by the way… but the Alien Harv, sure as hell chose one drunkard just a few stumbles away from falling off that last cliff; ending up frozen or baked in some corner of Chicago, shocking little kids and making the neighbors go on tv and say the required sentences of grief and shock.
So this is the story about how harv and me changed some shit around town to make a fw peoples lives easier. Not that I am some super hero or anything. Harv would have liked to have been, I think, but the blow to his psych from suddenly becoming infinite was way too much for him. "The Possibility, Macky, the possibilities... that's what I regret missing out on. I miss the fucking shit I will never see. With your pea brain, this probably makes about as much sense.... drink up, drink up."
Okay, so when the wino from outer space died, I took the secret device he had hidden under his bed, the heaven ray he liked to call it, and drank down every bit that was left. Old harv left me almost half a gallon of the stupid.
home
by Scott Ridgway
2005-04-03
8:32 AM
Who believes a guy like me? No one. I ask for change for food and they think I need booze. Everyone is suspicious of a bum looking dude who smells. I don't do much to get them over thier fears of course, since I no longer care what people think of me. I need to drink, sleep, eat when I get to puking too much to drink.
Writing any of this down even seems stupid, There isn't anything else I can do, though. I got the paper for free, old computer paper stained on the corner with what looks like coffee that I pulled out of a dumpster in lower wacker, the under-road that runs beneath the streets of downtown chicago and harbors those of us who are too far out there to live any place but the streets, jails and hospitals.
My breathing grows worse everyday, the dt's or the lack of breath will take me soon, some cold night as I croach over a heater duct, tucked in a dark corner of lower wacker where the cops will probably notice me a few days after the rats.
Try looking and smelling and living like a wino and being the only person on earth who has spoken to an alein... at least at length. I know secrets people all over the world would kill for, and I'm not even sure that I want to use them. They could save me, and others, I suppose, but I don't know why... the drink takes all my time, trying to keep the emotions running wild inside of me dull and at ease is about all I have time for -- well, that and getting together the change for a buzz and bite to eat every few days.
I wish I could say thta my life wasn't always a drunken mess, that some crises drove me down into this circle of hell . . . but no, I just liked to party more than I liked to work, and somehow muddled along that way, eating at soup kitchens and doing just about whatever it took to find the time to drink around the clock. Long after everyone I knew had checking accounts and apartments and women and kids, I was still the hard core guy who would whip out the weed and snort at parties, call the hookers...
I never noticed I was on a slippery slope until I was mired in the muck at the bottom, holes in my shows and the tread long wore off, leaving me old and ugly and smelly and pathetic enough to pull the heart strings required to obtain a few pennies from the crowds passing trhough downton chicago...
I lied in the title. I am not a wino from outer space. I did however meet a creature from far out in the distant stars, too far away for our microscopes and time limitations. He was dying. Something about the air that he explained to me once while we were drinking and I think I was thinking of something else or just spacing on the music... I didn't listen to him half the time... he was one of those guys who talks so much that sometimes you have to take a break and think about other things. No one would believe him either. He had come here in the form of an Elder, basing his research on outdated tv shows and sit that they could recieve out on the scientific research center -- an artificial satallite, where his crew had been monitoring human activity. There was a mechanical problem, his crew died, and there he was, waiting out his last few years ina flop house. He used to pay me to go out and get dr. pepper and thunderbird, which he lived on. He really did, too, which was the first indication to me that he was different, of course.
He didn't tell me his history until I discovered it on my own, after he had some kind of fever and babbled on for a week just before he died. He became normal somehow for the last day, after taking some pills he had, and that was when he decided that though I was hardly his choice, he was going to hope against hope that I could do something...
He had tried to contact the authorities a year before and ended up spending three weeks in a psych ward, where he was beaten and subjected to the drugs which set off the disease that was killing him -- or so he claimed, and he did sound like a doctor.
He had a face that looked like everything in his sinfilled life was etched on his pale, wrinkled face. Watery blue and red eyes, the deep lines of summers spent lazing on benches bumming smokes and change. According to his cultural norms, he was entering an elder one, who would be the most respected in the society. Ha.
During his last few days, he was liked hyped by the fever and mellowed by the vodka, and actually seemed a little relieved to be getting out of a mission he said he hated from the bginning. He seemed to become someone else, like a youthful rebel came bursting out of him, some idealistic kid swinging a protest poster or something. He said he had a device that could make anyone disappear, and that his team had planned on selectively culling the field; the device also gives something like immortality, as well as being something or a orgasm ray and other things that he explained to me in way more detailed than I could listen to while smoking weed and drinking dr peopper and vodka.
The plan, from what I could gather of it, was simply to shift the leadership of the planet to a more ecofreindly, less materialist culture.
it is hard to write drunk, so forgive me, alright? Not to mention I am sitting under a viaduct and the wind, as always, is trying to snatch all of my words and blow them out into the unheard nothingness.
You could see a slight blue tint to his skin, and light yellow green twinge to his neck. He was so old you just kind of assumed that he was the victim of some drink and drug ravaging or another.
Me, I knew better. I had been watching for signs of aleins most of my life, on and off. I had read enough books, during rainy afternoons in the public libraries where I took refuge in a study of all things other-worldy that might land here. Not being a mark, as the carnies say, I never found the kindof evidence that answered the question. My curiosity never died, though, and frequent forays into science fiction books and tv programs watched in dusty rec rooms in treatment centers and flop houses and all the shitty places ny drunken, horny chimp led me into.
. I was the only one who ever believed him. Like I think I wrote, the cops just picked up a wino with delusions, took him to a psyche ward, and they eventually released him to our flop house. A bunch of dividers in what used to an elks hall. Chicken wire roofs. You could smell everyone's socks and worse at all times, of course. Not that I minded so much when I was totally drunk. Who would? You could see a slight blue tint to his skin, and light yellow green twinge to his neck. He was so old you just kind of assumed that he was the victim of some drink and drug ravaging or another. Me, I knew better. I had been watching for signs of aleins most of my life, on and off. I had read enough books, during rainy afternoons in the public libraries where I took refuge in a study of all things other-worldy that might land here. Not being a mark, as the carnies say, I never found the kind of evidence that answered the question. My curiosity never died, though, and frequent forays into science fiction books and tv programs watched in dusty rec rooms in treatment centers and flop houses and all the shitty places ny drunken, horny chimp led me into.
He had come here in the form of an Elder, on a scientific research mission; where his crew had been monitoring human activity and were going to help us to correct some planet wide problems that were threatening to destroy the ecosphere. Harv said this about it once, “Something fucking went wrong, once we were in the area we should have sensed soul activity, found the ethereal beings we expected to use to approach humans…. Jesus, fucking christ deep fried and on a stick and dipped in chocolate, who the hell would have believed that you haven’t even developed souls.�
Harv’s big regret,of course, of course, was ending up in a soulless creature… according to him, most creatures have something like a soul that continues on after death, but humans have not yet developed an after life yet, because our ghosts held no love for their experiences with life. He really regretted not hopping into a dog or a cat, let me tell ya, who he claimed were off to explore the universe for good times and planets conducive to lots of napping. He even tried to get me to feed him to the half starved cats in the alley when he died. I just kind of ignored that shit when he said it, like a lot of the weirder proclamations to come out of his toothless mouth.
His lack of teeth made his chin appear almost directly under his nose, giving him a comical look, even when he was telling me, in his raspy, smoke charred voice, “I don’t what the hell is killing me, but since I am stuck in one of your sorry asses, I am going to never go home. You fucking humans. You really, really, really have your heads up your asses.�
He was bitter like that all the time, which I find funny and kind of soothing. He is the only person I've met who hates humans more than me. I didn't even care when he dissed me particularly, as long as he let me share his dr pepper and smoke his weed and drink the vodka out of his bongs. I mean, hell, plenty of afternoons I got enough change in my beat up paper cup from the passing suites downtown to get a bottle and just go up to his room and sit around, get drunk and eat his cold meat and bread. He bought it just for me, because I did his shopping. He existed, entirely, no shit, oin Dr. Pepper and Stoly’s vodka. They were the only human consumables he really liked, and he said that since he was infinite anyways now, he might as well do whatever the hell he wanted.
I guess before I ramble on too long about all the negative shit about the wino from outer space, let me also say that he was a funny guy at times, and generous to a fault. He just hated humans for being soul-less, which he considered a horrifying evolutionary error worse than any he had seen in his travels – which, if his often repeated stories can be trusted, were far and wide across the forever expanse of stars. He was one of those guys who talks so much that sometimes you have to take a break and think about other things. He had no luck on earth with the authorities, of course, who he believed would be interested in some of the technology he brought with him, because he had no idea who effect he would have on the world in the wrecked body of a wino that was way too addicted to drink for a weak willed, depressed alien to ever change. Whoever’s body he boarded is a mystery, by the way… but the Alien Harv, sure as hell chose one drunkard just a few stumbles away from falling off that last cliff; ending up frozen or baked in some corner of Chicago, shocking little kids and making the neighbors go on tv and say the required sentences of grief and shock.
So this is the story about how harv and me changed some shit around town to make a fw peoples lives easier. Not that I am some super hero or anything. Harv would have liked to have been, I think, but the blow to his psych from suddenly becoming infinite was way too much for him. "The Possibility, Macky, the possibilities... that's what I regret missing out on. I miss the fucking shit I will never see. With your pea brain, this probably makes about as much sense.... drink up, drink up."
Okay, so when the wino from outer space died, I took the secret device he had hidden under his bed, the heaven ray he liked to call it, and drank down every bit that was left. Old harv left me almost half a gallon of the stupid.
killing wild boar over the internet???? oh, dog, we are so damned now.
From the comfort of home, one can point a real, loaded gun at an animal and click that deer or wild boar or rabbit or mole into meat. For an extra fee, you can get the head mounted and the meat delivered -- presumably butchered and packaged to appear like any other old herbivore.
The below article is about people being able to hunt and kill animals over the net. The creeps want you to think this will good for the disabled. Well, if they are mentally disabled, maybe, you know? Most people in wheelchairs probably do have the occasional, normal urge to kill (it is too normal and so are all those lists that I make), but they should, like the rest of us, rise above.
We have to be reasoning beings. Not hunters. The deer's overpopulation is kind of the half thinking man's excuse for getting that close to being a butchure, which could easily be solved with birth control (which I am sure the pope is against probably). Others cite some ancient need to be hiking around in the woods trying to kill stuff-- I say, grow as a culture and give it up; admit you are an often idiotic monkey and try to rise above your base impulses (at least until one is in a sanctioned zone consisting of consenting adults, of course).
I mean, we are trying to develop a society here, create a human geography of like thinking, like loving, like working, like living next to each other people. The goal would be the whole world, but you can really only do it around your freinds and family, strangers you meet in the day to day. One thing I do not want my wheel chair bound neighbor doing is clicking onto a site and killing a couple deers. The creep factor is too high to imagine without naseua.
And don't forget that this blog, and your every action, is developing your human geography, which then creates the culture that begets the society that you live within. An echo really is there, bouncing from one of these huge, sweeping issues to the next.
I make fun of the act of killing all the time, because this is part of reality, this death stuff, and better to have a bitter laugh than a tear.... yet animals actually dying, and especially at my hand, is an entirely different matter. This is too god like for me, no matter how much meat I hypocritically eat. I had my childhood experience with killing a bird with a bee bee gun. My best buddy shot a turtle dove and we cried afterwards as we slowly watched the panting, frantic bird die. I thought I was the only person who this ever happened too, having grown up around hunting uncles and neighbors and farmers who did all sorts of killing, until I was in college and a dr lindsay at university of toledo surprised me by saying, "Like the first time you shoot a bird, see it die, and decide that you are not going to be a hunter." He just kind of assumed that no one is his four hundred level, secular class on transcendence was weird enough to enjoy killing. English majors are not exactly known for being serial killers, of course; we get inside so many heads through the reading to think we are god like enough to snuff out the kinds of personalites that we discover.
This sicko article below is also being pasted into the scrapbook of mental pictures that are slowly driving us to become vegetarians. What they do to farm animals is too appalling to even contemplate/you will never see a calendar showing normal rockwell paintings of your favorite foods being slaughtered.
This time, even some idiotic advocates for the disabled get on the wrong band wagon.... There, now, if you can stomach the article, it is below....
They should have a website where I can go and shoot these people who are hunting over the net. Now that, I would spend a little bud money on (well, not the bud money).
QUOTE:
QUOTE:
A new form of hunting which allows participants to shoot wild boar and antelope by a simple click of the mouse is stirring up great controversy in the United States.
Online hunting has outraged animal rights activists, gun advocates and politicians from 14 states, all trying to get the sport banned.
Participants control a video camera and a gun by remote control, carefully monitoring animals on a remote shooting range via the internet.
News: Last tally-ho for legal hunts
Latest: Today's top news
A click of the mouse from the comfort of your own armchair can discharge a round of bullets. For extra money, the meat or animal's head can be shipped to your home.
Founders and members of Live-Shot.com insist the practice is ethical, and in particular allows the disabled to experience the thrill of the sport.
Pay-per-view slaughter
But the concept raises several ethical issues and critics have branded it "pay-per-view slaughter".
The first paid-for live shoot is scheduled to take place on Saturday on a Texas ranch, the only online hunting facility in existence. But activists and politicians are racing to get it banned before it can begin.
The website warns participants this is not a video game. "This is real," it says.
"What you see on your screen thru (sic) the camera is what is there. When you activate the fire control, you are sending a signal to the firing mechanism which discharges a round."
The website's founder, John Lockwood, admits the concept would not appeal to everyone.
"The idea of hunting this way doesn't appeal to me," he told the Christian Science Monitor (CSM).
"Most of us love getting into the field. But there are many that cannot."
He said the idea was born from working with disabled hunters but he lists a soldier in Spain among supporters who wants to send meat to his family and a soldier in Iraq who simply misses the sport.
Mr Lockwood claims opponents simply do not understand how the system works and quite how many safety procedures are in place.
"I am in full agreement that there needs to be legislation and regulation controlling it," he said. "But people are under the impression that this is a slaughtering machine and that's not what it is."
Calls for ban
Groups joining forces to ban the practice are as diverse as the Humane Society of the United States, trophy hunting organisation Safari Club International and the National Rifle Association.
Michael Markarian from the Humane Society told the CSM: "Nobody ever said the wilderness had to be ADA (Americans with Disabilities Act) compliant.
"That is no justification for this practice, and it doesn't give (disabled) people a true hunting experience anyway. It's pay-per-view slaughter."
Virginia became the first state to ban internet hunting and Texas has proposed a ban for killing animals native to the state.
A Bill to outlaw online hunting for any species will be heard in the Texas House of Representatives next Tuesday.
The below article is about people being able to hunt and kill animals over the net. The creeps want you to think this will good for the disabled. Well, if they are mentally disabled, maybe, you know? Most people in wheelchairs probably do have the occasional, normal urge to kill (it is too normal and so are all those lists that I make), but they should, like the rest of us, rise above.
We have to be reasoning beings. Not hunters. The deer's overpopulation is kind of the half thinking man's excuse for getting that close to being a butchure, which could easily be solved with birth control (which I am sure the pope is against probably). Others cite some ancient need to be hiking around in the woods trying to kill stuff-- I say, grow as a culture and give it up; admit you are an often idiotic monkey and try to rise above your base impulses (at least until one is in a sanctioned zone consisting of consenting adults, of course).
I mean, we are trying to develop a society here, create a human geography of like thinking, like loving, like working, like living next to each other people. The goal would be the whole world, but you can really only do it around your freinds and family, strangers you meet in the day to day. One thing I do not want my wheel chair bound neighbor doing is clicking onto a site and killing a couple deers. The creep factor is too high to imagine without naseua.
And don't forget that this blog, and your every action, is developing your human geography, which then creates the culture that begets the society that you live within. An echo really is there, bouncing from one of these huge, sweeping issues to the next.
I make fun of the act of killing all the time, because this is part of reality, this death stuff, and better to have a bitter laugh than a tear.... yet animals actually dying, and especially at my hand, is an entirely different matter. This is too god like for me, no matter how much meat I hypocritically eat. I had my childhood experience with killing a bird with a bee bee gun. My best buddy shot a turtle dove and we cried afterwards as we slowly watched the panting, frantic bird die. I thought I was the only person who this ever happened too, having grown up around hunting uncles and neighbors and farmers who did all sorts of killing, until I was in college and a dr lindsay at university of toledo surprised me by saying, "Like the first time you shoot a bird, see it die, and decide that you are not going to be a hunter." He just kind of assumed that no one is his four hundred level, secular class on transcendence was weird enough to enjoy killing. English majors are not exactly known for being serial killers, of course; we get inside so many heads through the reading to think we are god like enough to snuff out the kinds of personalites that we discover.
This sicko article below is also being pasted into the scrapbook of mental pictures that are slowly driving us to become vegetarians. What they do to farm animals is too appalling to even contemplate/you will never see a calendar showing normal rockwell paintings of your favorite foods being slaughtered.
This time, even some idiotic advocates for the disabled get on the wrong band wagon.... There, now, if you can stomach the article, it is below....
They should have a website where I can go and shoot these people who are hunting over the net. Now that, I would spend a little bud money on (well, not the bud money).
QUOTE:
QUOTE:
A new form of hunting which allows participants to shoot wild boar and antelope by a simple click of the mouse is stirring up great controversy in the United States.
Online hunting has outraged animal rights activists, gun advocates and politicians from 14 states, all trying to get the sport banned.
Participants control a video camera and a gun by remote control, carefully monitoring animals on a remote shooting range via the internet.
News: Last tally-ho for legal hunts
Latest: Today's top news
A click of the mouse from the comfort of your own armchair can discharge a round of bullets. For extra money, the meat or animal's head can be shipped to your home.
Founders and members of Live-Shot.com insist the practice is ethical, and in particular allows the disabled to experience the thrill of the sport.
Pay-per-view slaughter
But the concept raises several ethical issues and critics have branded it "pay-per-view slaughter".
The first paid-for live shoot is scheduled to take place on Saturday on a Texas ranch, the only online hunting facility in existence. But activists and politicians are racing to get it banned before it can begin.
The website warns participants this is not a video game. "This is real," it says.
"What you see on your screen thru (sic) the camera is what is there. When you activate the fire control, you are sending a signal to the firing mechanism which discharges a round."
The website's founder, John Lockwood, admits the concept would not appeal to everyone.
"The idea of hunting this way doesn't appeal to me," he told the Christian Science Monitor (CSM).
"Most of us love getting into the field. But there are many that cannot."
He said the idea was born from working with disabled hunters but he lists a soldier in Spain among supporters who wants to send meat to his family and a soldier in Iraq who simply misses the sport.
Mr Lockwood claims opponents simply do not understand how the system works and quite how many safety procedures are in place.
"I am in full agreement that there needs to be legislation and regulation controlling it," he said. "But people are under the impression that this is a slaughtering machine and that's not what it is."
Calls for ban
Groups joining forces to ban the practice are as diverse as the Humane Society of the United States, trophy hunting organisation Safari Club International and the National Rifle Association.
Michael Markarian from the Humane Society told the CSM: "Nobody ever said the wilderness had to be ADA (Americans with Disabilities Act) compliant.
"That is no justification for this practice, and it doesn't give (disabled) people a true hunting experience anyway. It's pay-per-view slaughter."
Virginia became the first state to ban internet hunting and Texas has proposed a ban for killing animals native to the state.
A Bill to outlaw online hunting for any species will be heard in the Texas House of Representatives next Tuesday.
I'M NOW CALLING THIS BLOG HOME.
I flirted with ebloggy and got screwed and it wasn't fun once... then I let them convince me they would use a lubricant this time and of course they did not. Now, I am locked out of my site over there, for some odd reason that I can't fathom. Something like that, after being off the air for six weeks, makes all of my arguements about losing my audience innane. If people want to read what I am doing, they will find this blog. I'll tell my freinds and register with some new blog things and spread the word, like I did before.
I don't know if I will miss the elf's attic, but this one suits me fine for now. I have no idea how to make this site look all cool though. Any help apreciated.
I don't know if I will miss the elf's attic, but this one suits me fine for now. I have no idea how to make this site look all cool though. Any help apreciated.
THE GOD OF WAR LOVES YOU. REALLY.
Thesis Statement: This entry is a wave of my wand of words over the heads of a few elite soldiers who are being groomed to take over Paintopia should my life be cut by short by my enemies among the wombat lovers camp, or M. Gets particularly pissed at me and makes good on the threats that I am pretty sure are still jokes. It is a sad thought that these furry little patriots will still be fighting even after the cats and dog have eaten my flesh (if M. Is indeed the executioner standing at the end of my fate, at least; she claims she will do this if I, quote, 'end up getting yourself killed with these hamsters'). I would tear up if I was some pussy when I think of those multi colored little fuzzies out there miraculously raging a guerilla battle, leaping out at throats from air ducts, attacking ankles from sewers, and springing out from plenty of other top secret places, too, you can bet ...
I have them trained to fight in all environments, of course... Or at least that is the plan. So far, newspaper and cedar chips and a short foray out onto the balcony are the only environments they have been drilling on(by the way, when I took them out onto the balcony, just how the fuck was I to know that some of them were suicidal? M. Totally blames me for these hamsters exploding in the courtyard, too).
By then I will rule most civilized zones, mind you, and where you live is one of those places, all right, so FEAR ME and, and when I COMMAND, SEND frigging hamsters!!!
Okay, this elite leadership board has to be more than just the fighting droids, the primary ground forces that I am raising in the 24 hour access storage space that M. Rented down the street for her collectible toys (She decided to get them out of here because... Well, to be honest, I kept opening the pristine, collector-drooling-over packages and playing with the G.I. Joes' and garnishes and Pee Wee Herman and... Well, too many toys to remember now... I simply could not help myself when I got really, really stoned, I am afraid; some things, no matter how much I try to resist, they are too tempting for me in certain (un)frame(d)s of mind-- and this was like having pikes of toys laying around looking like a Christmas morning and tempting me every excruciating doggone day). The leaders can't have the same black and white view as the brigades bunked down in storage bin, obviously, since they will be setting the moral stage for the rest of mankindÂ’s little drama on this rock, and I will not have the continuation of destructive, black and white, bianary thinking as one of my legacies.
So this document, as this thesis statement should make clear, if my English degree is worth the piece of skin cut out of that damn, uneducated sheep, should record the cultural input that I have been subjecting the leadership board to, in my attempt to give them a well rounded view of how to rule humans.
Like a modern day Machiavelli, this text is grandiosely supposed to be the new prince's educational coloring book. Something has to replace the bible they have been using lately… I mean, let’s face it, politics and religion are getting all muddled, always have been, and until religion, the shit on the souls of all of our feet, is wiped off, there ain’t going to be no way to keep the rug clean. Like the environmental crap that I am always bitching about in here (and did actual hands on work once for like a year during my four or five years when I worked in politics – before finding out that I had crawled into a pit of scum where I was surrounded by comrades I didn’t care to fight with and basically getting my ass kicked, and being paid off with a patronage job (which is still, this being twenty years ago, the most money I have ever made). These hamsters have to use the humans to clean up the mess they have made. I figure the Bears will come over at some point, and after using every method possible to breed as many of them as possible (including using women, and other compatible species, for cub gestation), they can become the cops. No one would fuck with a grizzly bear in full body armor with a double-barreled shotgun firing small missiles capable of blowing an SUV off the road and right into a flaming hell.
DIGRESSIONÂ…
As if it all isn’t . . . I am sick of my orders for the hamsters to keep a strictly strategic silence in the presence of all humans, with the exception of me, who they refer to as, “The Beloved God War,” as some ridiculous indication that my army cannot talk, let alone take orders. M. seemed to infer this last night with the statement, “I know you are calling all of this research for a book, at least lately, but I am telling you, if you think you have a rat’s ass of a chance of building some little army to protect the apartment, I am going to make that doctor up your meds again. Or lower them, depending… you are lucky you are cute, I’m telling you.”
Back to thesis statement sanctioned prose..
The DEMOCRATIC, AUTOCRATIC, SOCIALIST HAMSTERÂ’S HIGH COUNCIL OF LEADERSHIP is being kept in a cage on the mantel over out white painted, some thirty years fireless, fireplace. This weekend I have been teaching them about the need to live to the fullest, to take command of our environments and confront evil with brute force, by subjecting them to repeated viewings of Donny Darko. The film, including the loud rock sound track, gets them into a heightened state of thinking where their urge to live is at its highest (this is the interpretation I am giving them, despite some religious mumbo jumbo in the directorÂ’s commentary). I then switch to combat training films.
The God OF War loves you. Really. 2 of 2
home
by Scott Ridgway
2005-03-28
4:52 PM
Once it was a pretty big secret, before the blogs startering blathering about it... that TheThree Stooges Movies are the most effective combat training films ever shot. So of late I have been teaching my reluctant rodents the deadly fighting style that the intelligence community calls, The Ear Flick of Death, by exposing the troops to the most devious and highly secret training method for assasines that the minds at the CIA ever came up with. I mean, those films have penetrated every culture, creating killers all over the world.... and the CIA lost control of most of them, unfortuantly. Ossama Bin Laden is probably the most known example; he specializes in the often underrated tactics of the deadly Zeppo School of Stoogery; in fact, my resources can pretty much be sure that Bin Laden has a projector welded to his dialysis machine and a small screen on his wheel chair, so he can watch the Stooges Training Films and be reminded at all times of the deadly nature of his martyrdom-he hardly keeps a secret of how proud he is of this, beleive me, and his freinds are pretty sick of hearing him go on about it, but who can blame them for saying something that will get them shot?.
Most critiques and biographers have remained quiet about the deadly slapping and ear flicking that was taught to hand to hand combat specialists throughout the world.
Why? Well, at the risk of just informing you about something you've already read... first, the government, of course, didnÂ’t want their deadly moves falling into soviet hands. Later, the remaining students of Master Curly let it be known that anyone who wrote about them, or certain of CurlyÂ’s indiscretions, would be beaten to pissing and twitching.
And this was no idle threat. They carried it out, oh yea.... Who could even guess how many times? Enough to make the main stream media shut up, that is for sure.
I have had limited success in getting the hamsters interested, though I have been lecturing them heartily and I am sure they will come along... fuck those neighbors banging on the walls and poking on the floor and...
THEY HAVE NO VISION!!!
That schtick might look like slapstick on tv but when used on another human being in real life, is quite a deadly form of martial arts. Curly was the real leader of course, the one who ended up opening the schools. He was called, in FBI notes written at the time, to be, America's Premiere Killing Machine. That's why they covered up all those people he killed in bars, and everyone else who fell victim to one mean, mean ass drunk.
People just used to ‘disappear’ from the Stooge sets, but the power of the Stooges was such that not even the cops would fuck with the popular often trio.
I guess Moe was just as cranky in real life, wouldnÂ’t hold back on some caterer who brought him cold corned beef, and in fact killed perhaps dozens of personal assistants over the years before getting old enough to be pussy whipped by any fine young thing that could wrinkle up her pretty nose and take on an old geezer if thatÂ’s what it takes for a few furs.
After the Stooges, I like to show them Donny Darko again, then blast them with a few hours of a tape I made of me reading lists of slogans that they can use to lead the masses of humans and other animals who they will need to martial to first save the earth, and then give all animals the rights they deserve. After we take over a few genetic labs, I am going to immediately start them working on growing and inserting vocal cords so that various species speech when it comes time to give the humans a really good bitching out for fucking up the planet so bad and a zillion other things that the will probably fill the courts for decades.
Slogans like, "SEE AN ASSHOLE, FIRE AWAY.”
“MAN SLEEPS ALL CUDDLY IN BED WITH SOMEONE ELSES KID? FIRE AWAY.”
‘GOD OF WAR IRRITATED BY MORMON AT DOOR, FIRE AWAY.”
Oh, I could go on listing the slogans all day I suppose if I thought it would do any good. You get the ideaÂ….. or do you? Probably not.
Today, in a continued program said to be sponsored by alein invaders that is meant to mess with our collective heads, some of you humans will be pulled out of your every day life and thrown into a room filled with men who seem to hate you, and they are interrogating you about someone you met at school and had lunch onceÂ… heÂ’s done something, they wonÂ’t tell you what, and they think you know more than you will tell themÂ… they beat you until you say whateverÂ… you admit guilt to things they donÂ’t even think you could have doneÂ… when they realize you are lying to them, they throw you in a cell for a year. Occasionally, out of nowhere, you are dragged from this cell, stripped naked and forced to endure the most disgusting shit you can think of.. A year later, upon your release, you will required to be thankful to your captors, and help them rebuild your country as if nothing has happened. I guess you probably know it, but it bears repeating, that the most likely evil aleins want to make sure that humans never just kind of shrug and laugh at themselves and move beyond war and start spending all their money and ingenuity towards star trekking out into the gorgous, endless cosmos and end up fucking things up there. I guess you probably know too that the aleins are encouraging the greenhouse effect, funding the religious rights take over of politics here, and the muslims taking over of politics over there, and... well, who am I to second guess superior aleins, but I still will, of course.... another of the hamsters slogans is, "See an evil alein, call in a mortar attack."
I'm telling you, denizens of this elf, the only way to put a dent in the monsters head is to rally the hamsters and send them to me... well, actually I am now accepting only cash, after the postal worker who delivers here was mawled by a particularly viscious hamster (and I applaud the twisted mind who sent this crazed killer with little razors already taped to his toes, and I do not blame them for causing me to now have to take money instead of proud, valiant hamsters). Oh, perhaps I am kidding myself... fat lot of good a bunch of unruly, stinky rodents can probably make... but, like martin luther king, ghandi, and Bono.... I just have to try, man...
Comments (0)
I have them trained to fight in all environments, of course... Or at least that is the plan. So far, newspaper and cedar chips and a short foray out onto the balcony are the only environments they have been drilling on(by the way, when I took them out onto the balcony, just how the fuck was I to know that some of them were suicidal? M. Totally blames me for these hamsters exploding in the courtyard, too).
By then I will rule most civilized zones, mind you, and where you live is one of those places, all right, so FEAR ME and, and when I COMMAND, SEND frigging hamsters!!!
Okay, this elite leadership board has to be more than just the fighting droids, the primary ground forces that I am raising in the 24 hour access storage space that M. Rented down the street for her collectible toys (She decided to get them out of here because... Well, to be honest, I kept opening the pristine, collector-drooling-over packages and playing with the G.I. Joes' and garnishes and Pee Wee Herman and... Well, too many toys to remember now... I simply could not help myself when I got really, really stoned, I am afraid; some things, no matter how much I try to resist, they are too tempting for me in certain (un)frame(d)s of mind-- and this was like having pikes of toys laying around looking like a Christmas morning and tempting me every excruciating doggone day). The leaders can't have the same black and white view as the brigades bunked down in storage bin, obviously, since they will be setting the moral stage for the rest of mankindÂ’s little drama on this rock, and I will not have the continuation of destructive, black and white, bianary thinking as one of my legacies.
So this document, as this thesis statement should make clear, if my English degree is worth the piece of skin cut out of that damn, uneducated sheep, should record the cultural input that I have been subjecting the leadership board to, in my attempt to give them a well rounded view of how to rule humans.
Like a modern day Machiavelli, this text is grandiosely supposed to be the new prince's educational coloring book. Something has to replace the bible they have been using lately… I mean, let’s face it, politics and religion are getting all muddled, always have been, and until religion, the shit on the souls of all of our feet, is wiped off, there ain’t going to be no way to keep the rug clean. Like the environmental crap that I am always bitching about in here (and did actual hands on work once for like a year during my four or five years when I worked in politics – before finding out that I had crawled into a pit of scum where I was surrounded by comrades I didn’t care to fight with and basically getting my ass kicked, and being paid off with a patronage job (which is still, this being twenty years ago, the most money I have ever made). These hamsters have to use the humans to clean up the mess they have made. I figure the Bears will come over at some point, and after using every method possible to breed as many of them as possible (including using women, and other compatible species, for cub gestation), they can become the cops. No one would fuck with a grizzly bear in full body armor with a double-barreled shotgun firing small missiles capable of blowing an SUV off the road and right into a flaming hell.
DIGRESSIONÂ…
As if it all isn’t . . . I am sick of my orders for the hamsters to keep a strictly strategic silence in the presence of all humans, with the exception of me, who they refer to as, “The Beloved God War,” as some ridiculous indication that my army cannot talk, let alone take orders. M. seemed to infer this last night with the statement, “I know you are calling all of this research for a book, at least lately, but I am telling you, if you think you have a rat’s ass of a chance of building some little army to protect the apartment, I am going to make that doctor up your meds again. Or lower them, depending… you are lucky you are cute, I’m telling you.”
Back to thesis statement sanctioned prose..
The DEMOCRATIC, AUTOCRATIC, SOCIALIST HAMSTERÂ’S HIGH COUNCIL OF LEADERSHIP is being kept in a cage on the mantel over out white painted, some thirty years fireless, fireplace. This weekend I have been teaching them about the need to live to the fullest, to take command of our environments and confront evil with brute force, by subjecting them to repeated viewings of Donny Darko. The film, including the loud rock sound track, gets them into a heightened state of thinking where their urge to live is at its highest (this is the interpretation I am giving them, despite some religious mumbo jumbo in the directorÂ’s commentary). I then switch to combat training films.
The God OF War loves you. Really. 2 of 2
home
by Scott Ridgway
2005-03-28
4:52 PM
Once it was a pretty big secret, before the blogs startering blathering about it... that TheThree Stooges Movies are the most effective combat training films ever shot. So of late I have been teaching my reluctant rodents the deadly fighting style that the intelligence community calls, The Ear Flick of Death, by exposing the troops to the most devious and highly secret training method for assasines that the minds at the CIA ever came up with. I mean, those films have penetrated every culture, creating killers all over the world.... and the CIA lost control of most of them, unfortuantly. Ossama Bin Laden is probably the most known example; he specializes in the often underrated tactics of the deadly Zeppo School of Stoogery; in fact, my resources can pretty much be sure that Bin Laden has a projector welded to his dialysis machine and a small screen on his wheel chair, so he can watch the Stooges Training Films and be reminded at all times of the deadly nature of his martyrdom-he hardly keeps a secret of how proud he is of this, beleive me, and his freinds are pretty sick of hearing him go on about it, but who can blame them for saying something that will get them shot?.
Most critiques and biographers have remained quiet about the deadly slapping and ear flicking that was taught to hand to hand combat specialists throughout the world.
Why? Well, at the risk of just informing you about something you've already read... first, the government, of course, didnÂ’t want their deadly moves falling into soviet hands. Later, the remaining students of Master Curly let it be known that anyone who wrote about them, or certain of CurlyÂ’s indiscretions, would be beaten to pissing and twitching.
And this was no idle threat. They carried it out, oh yea.... Who could even guess how many times? Enough to make the main stream media shut up, that is for sure.
I have had limited success in getting the hamsters interested, though I have been lecturing them heartily and I am sure they will come along... fuck those neighbors banging on the walls and poking on the floor and...
THEY HAVE NO VISION!!!
That schtick might look like slapstick on tv but when used on another human being in real life, is quite a deadly form of martial arts. Curly was the real leader of course, the one who ended up opening the schools. He was called, in FBI notes written at the time, to be, America's Premiere Killing Machine. That's why they covered up all those people he killed in bars, and everyone else who fell victim to one mean, mean ass drunk.
People just used to ‘disappear’ from the Stooge sets, but the power of the Stooges was such that not even the cops would fuck with the popular often trio.
I guess Moe was just as cranky in real life, wouldnÂ’t hold back on some caterer who brought him cold corned beef, and in fact killed perhaps dozens of personal assistants over the years before getting old enough to be pussy whipped by any fine young thing that could wrinkle up her pretty nose and take on an old geezer if thatÂ’s what it takes for a few furs.
After the Stooges, I like to show them Donny Darko again, then blast them with a few hours of a tape I made of me reading lists of slogans that they can use to lead the masses of humans and other animals who they will need to martial to first save the earth, and then give all animals the rights they deserve. After we take over a few genetic labs, I am going to immediately start them working on growing and inserting vocal cords so that various species speech when it comes time to give the humans a really good bitching out for fucking up the planet so bad and a zillion other things that the will probably fill the courts for decades.
Slogans like, "SEE AN ASSHOLE, FIRE AWAY.”
“MAN SLEEPS ALL CUDDLY IN BED WITH SOMEONE ELSES KID? FIRE AWAY.”
‘GOD OF WAR IRRITATED BY MORMON AT DOOR, FIRE AWAY.”
Oh, I could go on listing the slogans all day I suppose if I thought it would do any good. You get the ideaÂ….. or do you? Probably not.
Today, in a continued program said to be sponsored by alein invaders that is meant to mess with our collective heads, some of you humans will be pulled out of your every day life and thrown into a room filled with men who seem to hate you, and they are interrogating you about someone you met at school and had lunch onceÂ… heÂ’s done something, they wonÂ’t tell you what, and they think you know more than you will tell themÂ… they beat you until you say whateverÂ… you admit guilt to things they donÂ’t even think you could have doneÂ… when they realize you are lying to them, they throw you in a cell for a year. Occasionally, out of nowhere, you are dragged from this cell, stripped naked and forced to endure the most disgusting shit you can think of.. A year later, upon your release, you will required to be thankful to your captors, and help them rebuild your country as if nothing has happened. I guess you probably know it, but it bears repeating, that the most likely evil aleins want to make sure that humans never just kind of shrug and laugh at themselves and move beyond war and start spending all their money and ingenuity towards star trekking out into the gorgous, endless cosmos and end up fucking things up there. I guess you probably know too that the aleins are encouraging the greenhouse effect, funding the religious rights take over of politics here, and the muslims taking over of politics over there, and... well, who am I to second guess superior aleins, but I still will, of course.... another of the hamsters slogans is, "See an evil alein, call in a mortar attack."
I'm telling you, denizens of this elf, the only way to put a dent in the monsters head is to rally the hamsters and send them to me... well, actually I am now accepting only cash, after the postal worker who delivers here was mawled by a particularly viscious hamster (and I applaud the twisted mind who sent this crazed killer with little razors already taped to his toes, and I do not blame them for causing me to now have to take money instead of proud, valiant hamsters). Oh, perhaps I am kidding myself... fat lot of good a bunch of unruly, stinky rodents can probably make... but, like martin luther king, ghandi, and Bono.... I just have to try, man...
Comments (0)
WHY BOTHER SAVING THE EARTH WHEN WE ARE ALL GOING TO HEAVEN ANYWAYS?
by Scott Ridgway
When I worked for an environmental agency, I ran into a very polite black woman while going door to door in some chicago suburb or another. I told her about Citizens For A Better Environment. We stood on her steps and she nodded symphathetically as I told her about the environmental issues we were backing. BUT she didn't want to give me a dime because, as she said, "Well, the world is going to end in fire. You won't be able to stop that. It's in the bible."
The below is taken from the new york times, and was written by Bill Moyers, in an article about the christian right's lack of environmental concerns (they have a heaven to go to, unlike the sane, who are merely leaving our childrens childrens childrens a burned out husk of a world)
I read that the administrator of the US Environmental Protection Agency has declared the election a mandate for President Bush on the environment. This for an administration:
that wants to rewrite the Clean Air Act, the Clean Water Act, and the Endangered Species Act protecting rare plant and animal species and their habitats, as well as the national Environmental Policy Act that requires the government to judge beforehand if actions might damage natural resources;
that wants to relax pollution limits for ozone, eliminate vehicle tailpipe inspections, and ease pollution standards for cars, sport utility vehicles, and diesel-powered big trucks and heavy equipment;
that wants a new international audit law to allow corporations to keep certain information about environmental problems secret from the public;
that wants to drop all its New-Source Review suits against polluting coal-fired power plans and weaken consent decrees reached earlier with coal companies;
that wants to open the Arctic Wildlife Refuge to drilling and increase drilling in Padre Island National Seashore, the longest stretch of undeveloped barrier island in the world and the last great coastal wild land in America;
that is radically changing the management of our national forests to eliminate critical environmental reviews, open them to new roads, and give the timber companies a green light to slash and cut as they please.
I read the news and learned how the Environmental Protection Agency plotted to spend $9 million—$2 million of it from the President's friends at the American Chemistry Council—to pay poor families to continue the use of pesticides in their homes. These pesticides have been linked to neurological damage in children, but instead of ordering an end to their use, the government and the industry concocted a scheme to offer the families $970 each, as well as a camcorder and children's clothing, to serve as guinea pigs for the study.
I read that President Bush has more than one hundred high-level officials in his administration overseeing industries they once represented as lobbyists, lawyers, or corporate advocates—company insiders waved through the revolving door of government to assure that drug laws, food policies, land use, and the regulation of air pollu-tion are industry-friendly. Among the "advocates-turned-regulators" are a former meat industry lobbyist who helps decide how meat is labeled; a former drug company lobbyist who influences prescription drug policies; a former energy lobbyist who, while accepting payments for bringing clients into his old lobbying firm, helps to determine how much of our public lands those former clients can use for oil and gas drilling.
I read that civil penalties imposed by the Environmental Protection Agency against polluters in 2004 hit an fifteen-year low, in what amounts to an extended holiday for industry from effective compliance with environmental laws.
Yes, that is the Bill Moyer's.... mega god. Read the article for even more depressing news on how religion is destroying us apes.
When I worked for an environmental agency, I ran into a very polite black woman while going door to door in some chicago suburb or another. I told her about Citizens For A Better Environment. We stood on her steps and she nodded symphathetically as I told her about the environmental issues we were backing. BUT she didn't want to give me a dime because, as she said, "Well, the world is going to end in fire. You won't be able to stop that. It's in the bible."
The below is taken from the new york times, and was written by Bill Moyers, in an article about the christian right's lack of environmental concerns (they have a heaven to go to, unlike the sane, who are merely leaving our childrens childrens childrens a burned out husk of a world)
I read that the administrator of the US Environmental Protection Agency has declared the election a mandate for President Bush on the environment. This for an administration:
that wants to rewrite the Clean Air Act, the Clean Water Act, and the Endangered Species Act protecting rare plant and animal species and their habitats, as well as the national Environmental Policy Act that requires the government to judge beforehand if actions might damage natural resources;
that wants to relax pollution limits for ozone, eliminate vehicle tailpipe inspections, and ease pollution standards for cars, sport utility vehicles, and diesel-powered big trucks and heavy equipment;
that wants a new international audit law to allow corporations to keep certain information about environmental problems secret from the public;
that wants to drop all its New-Source Review suits against polluting coal-fired power plans and weaken consent decrees reached earlier with coal companies;
that wants to open the Arctic Wildlife Refuge to drilling and increase drilling in Padre Island National Seashore, the longest stretch of undeveloped barrier island in the world and the last great coastal wild land in America;
that is radically changing the management of our national forests to eliminate critical environmental reviews, open them to new roads, and give the timber companies a green light to slash and cut as they please.
I read the news and learned how the Environmental Protection Agency plotted to spend $9 million—$2 million of it from the President's friends at the American Chemistry Council—to pay poor families to continue the use of pesticides in their homes. These pesticides have been linked to neurological damage in children, but instead of ordering an end to their use, the government and the industry concocted a scheme to offer the families $970 each, as well as a camcorder and children's clothing, to serve as guinea pigs for the study.
I read that President Bush has more than one hundred high-level officials in his administration overseeing industries they once represented as lobbyists, lawyers, or corporate advocates—company insiders waved through the revolving door of government to assure that drug laws, food policies, land use, and the regulation of air pollu-tion are industry-friendly. Among the "advocates-turned-regulators" are a former meat industry lobbyist who helps decide how meat is labeled; a former drug company lobbyist who influences prescription drug policies; a former energy lobbyist who, while accepting payments for bringing clients into his old lobbying firm, helps to determine how much of our public lands those former clients can use for oil and gas drilling.
I read that civil penalties imposed by the Environmental Protection Agency against polluters in 2004 hit an fifteen-year low, in what amounts to an extended holiday for industry from effective compliance with environmental laws.
Yes, that is the Bill Moyer's.... mega god. Read the article for even more depressing news on how religion is destroying us apes.
pictures of pain
pictures of pain slide show.. post operative
home
by Scott Ridgway
2005-03-29
7:39 PM
I messed up on the address I put in here yesterday... so, here are the disgusting, gross pictures featuring me. I of course have had numerous surgeries since I last allowed my picture to surface at the public level. I used to be a spitting image of Mike Tyson, actually, but now I am following my idol, Peter Panter... massah jackoffyourson... well, whatever you call the king of slop...
http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/johnsridgway/slideshow?.dir=/39a0&.src=ph
home
by Scott Ridgway
2005-03-29
7:39 PM
I messed up on the address I put in here yesterday... so, here are the disgusting, gross pictures featuring me. I of course have had numerous surgeries since I last allowed my picture to surface at the public level. I used to be a spitting image of Mike Tyson, actually, but now I am following my idol, Peter Panter... massah jackoffyourson... well, whatever you call the king of slop...
http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/johnsridgway/slideshow?.dir=/39a0&.src=ph
BEAR CUT OFF A GUYS BALLS.
Bled him to death.
home
by Scott Ridgway
2005-04-01
10:44 PM
I met Bear in Wicker Park, back when the gang bangers were still holding open air markets where they called out, "You need anything' as they came up to the window and slid a good day into the windows of passing cabs. Bear was in a gang himself, but he was getting ready to be sentenced to prison, for the second time, and couldn't afford to be seen hanging out with other gang bangers or he could be charged under RICO (the anti-rackeetering law the FBI uses to put bangers away until they are middle aged). So he was stuck going down to a dealer and scoring like every fucking day.
The Bear was happy to have me as his cab driver, because I was one of the few who would take junkies to score. I always figured they were going to do it anyways, and since they paid twenty bucks extra for the service, I went ahead and put up with the little hassles of doing business with junkies.
Bear went out and bought a few eight balls now and then, at this tiny house on the west side. He would make me drive through all these alleys and shit so he could make sure no cops were around.
I liked him from the get go, because he jumped in my cab and says, "Oh, a white boy, huh?" Bear, like most of wicker park/Humbolt park, is mexican indian.
I laughed and came back in a flat, corporate voice, "Man, I am as white as they come."
" I stopped a white guy from getting raped in jail once."
He then told me the whole story and more as he nervously chattered away and looked here and there and everywhere for copse. He was extremely paranoid, because he had a lot to lose at that point...
Bear went to jail the first time for two years, for a murder rap. He cut the balls off a guy who he caught raping a little girl. The guy was a known pervert to the cops and the neighborhood, so law enforcement in general did their best to give Bear an easy time of it.
I knew Bear though when he was getting ready for round two in the pen. This time the FBI was taking him down for big time cocaine sales. He wasn't a braggart about this, just mentioned various trips to europe he took woth his beloved wife.
I never knew Bear'sname. He's somewhere in prison now, part of a gang, doing his eight balls and hanging around watching tv, working out, occasionally kicking some ass.
I think Bear should be employed to take care of rapists and child fuckers. No, something that cool, I am sure that people would demand to take turns.
So, if you feel amorous toward kids, housepets, or the cursed wombat, and are not a kid, a pet or a cursed wombat... cut your balls off now. It won't hurt at all. Actually, it makes you really high, like crack. Seriously, it does. And come on, face that part of yourself that is honest enough to know you could massah jack-off-your-sons balls with a grim smile of satisfaction over the knowledge that no more children were going to suffer... This act would make you the Catcher In The Rye. Any Hinckley-think-alikes out there who want to be the Catcher In The Rye? Then don't shoot a fucking beatle, you idiot, let alone the cool one.... go find the list pedophiles in your neighborhood and stalk them until you have the evidence you need to eviscerate them, or whatever....
yea, right... if I thought any of you (or me) had the balls to do this deballing, I suppose I wouldn't to write this... probably have to change my motto, too -- KILL YOURSELF AND OTHERS...
Bear claw
oh, bear claw
Where for art thou bear claw?
William Hatesclear
home
by Scott Ridgway
2005-04-01
10:44 PM
I met Bear in Wicker Park, back when the gang bangers were still holding open air markets where they called out, "You need anything' as they came up to the window and slid a good day into the windows of passing cabs. Bear was in a gang himself, but he was getting ready to be sentenced to prison, for the second time, and couldn't afford to be seen hanging out with other gang bangers or he could be charged under RICO (the anti-rackeetering law the FBI uses to put bangers away until they are middle aged). So he was stuck going down to a dealer and scoring like every fucking day.
The Bear was happy to have me as his cab driver, because I was one of the few who would take junkies to score. I always figured they were going to do it anyways, and since they paid twenty bucks extra for the service, I went ahead and put up with the little hassles of doing business with junkies.
Bear went out and bought a few eight balls now and then, at this tiny house on the west side. He would make me drive through all these alleys and shit so he could make sure no cops were around.
I liked him from the get go, because he jumped in my cab and says, "Oh, a white boy, huh?" Bear, like most of wicker park/Humbolt park, is mexican indian.
I laughed and came back in a flat, corporate voice, "Man, I am as white as they come."
" I stopped a white guy from getting raped in jail once."
He then told me the whole story and more as he nervously chattered away and looked here and there and everywhere for copse. He was extremely paranoid, because he had a lot to lose at that point...
Bear went to jail the first time for two years, for a murder rap. He cut the balls off a guy who he caught raping a little girl. The guy was a known pervert to the cops and the neighborhood, so law enforcement in general did their best to give Bear an easy time of it.
I knew Bear though when he was getting ready for round two in the pen. This time the FBI was taking him down for big time cocaine sales. He wasn't a braggart about this, just mentioned various trips to europe he took woth his beloved wife.
I never knew Bear'sname. He's somewhere in prison now, part of a gang, doing his eight balls and hanging around watching tv, working out, occasionally kicking some ass.
I think Bear should be employed to take care of rapists and child fuckers. No, something that cool, I am sure that people would demand to take turns.
So, if you feel amorous toward kids, housepets, or the cursed wombat, and are not a kid, a pet or a cursed wombat... cut your balls off now. It won't hurt at all. Actually, it makes you really high, like crack. Seriously, it does. And come on, face that part of yourself that is honest enough to know you could massah jack-off-your-sons balls with a grim smile of satisfaction over the knowledge that no more children were going to suffer... This act would make you the Catcher In The Rye. Any Hinckley-think-alikes out there who want to be the Catcher In The Rye? Then don't shoot a fucking beatle, you idiot, let alone the cool one.... go find the list pedophiles in your neighborhood and stalk them until you have the evidence you need to eviscerate them, or whatever....
yea, right... if I thought any of you (or me) had the balls to do this deballing, I suppose I wouldn't to write this... probably have to change my motto, too -- KILL YOURSELF AND OTHERS...
Bear claw
oh, bear claw
Where for art thou bear claw?
William Hatesclear
Breif History Of Pain.
A (a new story in draft)
home
by Scott Ridgway
2005-04-02
4:18 PM
Pain grew up in a minute railroad town named after one of the notorious land grabbing, buffalo slaughtering, natives infecting railroad barons who owned the politicians back then. I don't know much about The Garrett in question who had his name etched into the street signs leading into the slightly run down, occasionally trashy and sometimes charming burg in Indiana.
He dates his training and proclivity for waging the City Wars to early battles with neighborhood hillbilly's who lived in his neighborhood, which was isolated from the rest of the town by a series of railroad tracks on one side, and fields and woods on the other. An ever changing contigent of Bikers lived down on the corner, a bunch of brothers and sisters and their lovers; they parked their Harvey's, oil drippings and all, on the porch of the tiny house. They had a collective tribe of kids that was forever fluctuating, though was primarily led by Bobby Roy, who had a grandfather who became a statan worshiping white suprimist waorlock in prison (the warlock silliness is something poor Bobby's badly stuffed brain embraced for awhile in a druggie, post-high school phase before he became whatever mystery mark he did). Bobby was sometimes a good friend, especially when we were both into the weed, but as a kid he was a viscious gang fighter who was always raising the bar by throwing bricks at three years olds and shit...
You have to remember, this was a neighborhood where some one could 'give,' and if the other party refused to let up the beating, it was pretty agreed upon that anyone around had to break up the fight. Not that people were all into stopping fights back then. Crowds gathered, including occasionally this one hillbilly woman who came out once when her son, who was twice as big as Pain, was trying to kick his ass.... after fifteen minutes of insults and what not, that particular fight was called off.
After ten years in the Marines, he was recruited to join a private, highly secretive unit put together by the UN, with the consent of China, The Russians and Uncle Sam.
When the world changed forever into slaves and Salurnians, Johnny Pain was retired and writing a series of books meant to be read by dogs and cats once they gained the ability to read. He was well known for hiring Swedish doctors to implant vocal cords in various animals, and, before the occupation by the Religous Fascists from outer space, Pain was involved in a continous court battle to allow his trained Huskies and German Sheperds to be able to testify in the Suit he had brought against the Humane Society For, quote, "Animal Genocide and Ball Cutt Offing."
INTERVIEW WITH A SOLDIER ON THE FRONT...
By Sandra Lee Cookie dough diamond.
THIS FUCKING LIFE: Johnny Pain, what were you doing the day your war started?
PAIN: I had the dog out for an early walk, just woke up and took her out without showering of coffee... just a couple one hits and I was hunting up my keys. Oh, yea, I had to wait for my pills to hit, too.... so it must have been about noon or something
THIS FUCKING LIFE: They arrived over lake Michigan at 3:15 P.M.
PAIN: I really have to stop sleeping so fucking late, you know?
THIS FUCKING LIFE: Can we get back to the war... I mean, you are famous for digressing until the reporters time is up with you, and...
PAIN: Yea, I suck. Sorry. They came down out of this huge, mountainous cloud that looked like a scoop of ice cream, vanilla, maybe butter pecan with the tiny chunks you can't see. Coconut. Could have been anything, I suppose with all these artificial flavors and colors.... any ways, the cigar shaped silver ships looked like
stars, the sun hitting them and sending off hard to look at shards of hard white light. Like diamond chimps cutting slightly -- I mean, really slightly, into your eye.
THIS FUCKING LIFE: It would have to be pretty darn slightly, I mean, diamonds cut glass, and flesh is a lot softer. I mean, I have no evidence of that, but...
PAIN: Do you have any kind of measuring device that we could experiment with?
THIS FUCKING LIFE: "With my eye?"
PAIN: "Yea."
THIS FUCKING LIFE: "Then, no...."
PAIN: "I can see elaborate measurements hanging out of all of your pockets."
THIS FUCKING LIFE: "They aren't sterilized enough to go near an eyeball."
PAIN: "You're right. Now, why did you have to do all that lying before finally just coming out and saying that you don't want bloody, brown shit stained measuring devices cut up your cornea. I think I would have understood that, duh? Now, don't get me started on one of your tangents, I am here to talk about what I did while most of the world was sitting around partying, completly buying the entire Salurnian Rap about how they had arrived by folding time, coming instantaneously from their nitch in the universe to ours, and were here out of concern for all the species about to be lost to the imminent greenhouse effect. The new and wondrous varieties of life styles and consumer goods being offered was so long that 24 hour broadcasts on all stations commenced. No one would watch anything else.... no one would go to work, at first... Now me, I was pretty well lit up on some green and crystally that had me feeling ever so slightly paranoid. So when I saw these cigar shaped things come down out of the clouds, I thought the angels had been smoking up there and were leaving behind some nasty, toxic second smoke. I mean, I know there are no angels, but all those years of sitting in a pew feeling hell's fires lapping at my converse left some scars on me old toes, you know, and I react with that kid occasionally before the adult takes over."
THIS FUCKING LIFE: So, what happened when your 'adult' took over?"
JOHNNY PAIN: Well, adult, psycho, or terrorist... depending on who you talk to, I guess. The Adult of course went home, got together guns, ammo, the dog and cat and stole a caddilac, drove down and got M. out of work, and hit the highway for Tennessee. I was kind of half worried that the weed was just making me paranoid, because it it wouldn't be the... well, never mind all that.... I guess there is no reason to toot my band of out of tune trumphets any more than I have to for the troops.
At the time, though, I was pretty worried that I was wrong. I mean, I had to chloroform M., of course, and that worried me a little bit because I knew I was in for an ass kicking when she woke up -- there was no way she was going to listen to a good reason for drugging her and dragging her out to a stolen car and aiming a gun at her coworkers and such... at least not at first. I had to chain her up, then explain everything for a few days before I could trust her not to just fucking stangle me. Admittedly, I have lied to her another that there was little else she could do. And she did smack me a couple times, but that was deserved because I served her tea in a dirty mug once while she was captive... or at least that is what she told me.
THIS INTERVIEW WITH THE LEADER OF REBEL TROOPS PRESENTLY BATTLING THE SALARIANS IN THE GREATER CHICAGO AREA WILL CONTINUE AFTER WE MOVE TO ANOTHER LOCATION. OUR SECURITY OF COURSE DEMANDS THAT THE SALURANIANS, AND THIER ALLIES THE WOMBATS, MUST NEVER FIND THE SOURCE OF THESE WORDS.
MESSAGE FROM JOHNNY PAIN: During the break while we move to another site, Please hum, "We Shall Overcome" and imagine an older, chubbed out black women with too much make up just belting that song into the deepest recesses of your brain (anyone who sings this out loud with a shitty voice should be shot -- and if they are in my army, they will be).
home
by Scott Ridgway
2005-04-02
4:18 PM
Pain grew up in a minute railroad town named after one of the notorious land grabbing, buffalo slaughtering, natives infecting railroad barons who owned the politicians back then. I don't know much about The Garrett in question who had his name etched into the street signs leading into the slightly run down, occasionally trashy and sometimes charming burg in Indiana.
He dates his training and proclivity for waging the City Wars to early battles with neighborhood hillbilly's who lived in his neighborhood, which was isolated from the rest of the town by a series of railroad tracks on one side, and fields and woods on the other. An ever changing contigent of Bikers lived down on the corner, a bunch of brothers and sisters and their lovers; they parked their Harvey's, oil drippings and all, on the porch of the tiny house. They had a collective tribe of kids that was forever fluctuating, though was primarily led by Bobby Roy, who had a grandfather who became a statan worshiping white suprimist waorlock in prison (the warlock silliness is something poor Bobby's badly stuffed brain embraced for awhile in a druggie, post-high school phase before he became whatever mystery mark he did). Bobby was sometimes a good friend, especially when we were both into the weed, but as a kid he was a viscious gang fighter who was always raising the bar by throwing bricks at three years olds and shit...
You have to remember, this was a neighborhood where some one could 'give,' and if the other party refused to let up the beating, it was pretty agreed upon that anyone around had to break up the fight. Not that people were all into stopping fights back then. Crowds gathered, including occasionally this one hillbilly woman who came out once when her son, who was twice as big as Pain, was trying to kick his ass.... after fifteen minutes of insults and what not, that particular fight was called off.
After ten years in the Marines, he was recruited to join a private, highly secretive unit put together by the UN, with the consent of China, The Russians and Uncle Sam.
When the world changed forever into slaves and Salurnians, Johnny Pain was retired and writing a series of books meant to be read by dogs and cats once they gained the ability to read. He was well known for hiring Swedish doctors to implant vocal cords in various animals, and, before the occupation by the Religous Fascists from outer space, Pain was involved in a continous court battle to allow his trained Huskies and German Sheperds to be able to testify in the Suit he had brought against the Humane Society For, quote, "Animal Genocide and Ball Cutt Offing."
INTERVIEW WITH A SOLDIER ON THE FRONT...
By Sandra Lee Cookie dough diamond.
THIS FUCKING LIFE: Johnny Pain, what were you doing the day your war started?
PAIN: I had the dog out for an early walk, just woke up and took her out without showering of coffee... just a couple one hits and I was hunting up my keys. Oh, yea, I had to wait for my pills to hit, too.... so it must have been about noon or something
THIS FUCKING LIFE: They arrived over lake Michigan at 3:15 P.M.
PAIN: I really have to stop sleeping so fucking late, you know?
THIS FUCKING LIFE: Can we get back to the war... I mean, you are famous for digressing until the reporters time is up with you, and...
PAIN: Yea, I suck. Sorry. They came down out of this huge, mountainous cloud that looked like a scoop of ice cream, vanilla, maybe butter pecan with the tiny chunks you can't see. Coconut. Could have been anything, I suppose with all these artificial flavors and colors.... any ways, the cigar shaped silver ships looked like
stars, the sun hitting them and sending off hard to look at shards of hard white light. Like diamond chimps cutting slightly -- I mean, really slightly, into your eye.
THIS FUCKING LIFE: It would have to be pretty darn slightly, I mean, diamonds cut glass, and flesh is a lot softer. I mean, I have no evidence of that, but...
PAIN: Do you have any kind of measuring device that we could experiment with?
THIS FUCKING LIFE: "With my eye?"
PAIN: "Yea."
THIS FUCKING LIFE: "Then, no...."
PAIN: "I can see elaborate measurements hanging out of all of your pockets."
THIS FUCKING LIFE: "They aren't sterilized enough to go near an eyeball."
PAIN: "You're right. Now, why did you have to do all that lying before finally just coming out and saying that you don't want bloody, brown shit stained measuring devices cut up your cornea. I think I would have understood that, duh? Now, don't get me started on one of your tangents, I am here to talk about what I did while most of the world was sitting around partying, completly buying the entire Salurnian Rap about how they had arrived by folding time, coming instantaneously from their nitch in the universe to ours, and were here out of concern for all the species about to be lost to the imminent greenhouse effect. The new and wondrous varieties of life styles and consumer goods being offered was so long that 24 hour broadcasts on all stations commenced. No one would watch anything else.... no one would go to work, at first... Now me, I was pretty well lit up on some green and crystally that had me feeling ever so slightly paranoid. So when I saw these cigar shaped things come down out of the clouds, I thought the angels had been smoking up there and were leaving behind some nasty, toxic second smoke. I mean, I know there are no angels, but all those years of sitting in a pew feeling hell's fires lapping at my converse left some scars on me old toes, you know, and I react with that kid occasionally before the adult takes over."
THIS FUCKING LIFE: So, what happened when your 'adult' took over?"
JOHNNY PAIN: Well, adult, psycho, or terrorist... depending on who you talk to, I guess. The Adult of course went home, got together guns, ammo, the dog and cat and stole a caddilac, drove down and got M. out of work, and hit the highway for Tennessee. I was kind of half worried that the weed was just making me paranoid, because it it wouldn't be the... well, never mind all that.... I guess there is no reason to toot my band of out of tune trumphets any more than I have to for the troops.
At the time, though, I was pretty worried that I was wrong. I mean, I had to chloroform M., of course, and that worried me a little bit because I knew I was in for an ass kicking when she woke up -- there was no way she was going to listen to a good reason for drugging her and dragging her out to a stolen car and aiming a gun at her coworkers and such... at least not at first. I had to chain her up, then explain everything for a few days before I could trust her not to just fucking stangle me. Admittedly, I have lied to her another that there was little else she could do. And she did smack me a couple times, but that was deserved because I served her tea in a dirty mug once while she was captive... or at least that is what she told me.
THIS INTERVIEW WITH THE LEADER OF REBEL TROOPS PRESENTLY BATTLING THE SALARIANS IN THE GREATER CHICAGO AREA WILL CONTINUE AFTER WE MOVE TO ANOTHER LOCATION. OUR SECURITY OF COURSE DEMANDS THAT THE SALURANIANS, AND THIER ALLIES THE WOMBATS, MUST NEVER FIND THE SOURCE OF THESE WORDS.
MESSAGE FROM JOHNNY PAIN: During the break while we move to another site, Please hum, "We Shall Overcome" and imagine an older, chubbed out black women with too much make up just belting that song into the deepest recesses of your brain (anyone who sings this out loud with a shitty voice should be shot -- and if they are in my army, they will be).
I KNOW A WINO FROM OUTER SPACE...oh, sure.
The Wino From Outer Space... story start
home
by Scott Ridgway
2005-04-03
2:32 AM
Who believes a guy like me? No one. I ask for change for food and they think I need booze. Everyone is suspicious of a bum looking dude who smells. I don't do much to get them over thier fears of course, since I no longer care what people think of me. I need to drink, sleep, eat when I get to puking too much to drink.
Writing any of this down even seems stupid, There isn't anything else I can do, though. I got the paper for free, old computer paper stained on the corner with what looks like coffee that I pulled out of a dumpster in lower wacker, the under-road that runs beneath the streets of downtown chicago and harbors those of us who are too far out there to live any place but the streets, jails and hospitals.
My breathing grows worse everyday, the dt's or the lack of breath will take me soon, some cold night as I croach over a heater duct, tucked in a dark corner of lower wacker where the cops will probably notice me a few days after the rats.
Try looking and smelling and living like a wino and being the only person on earth who has spoken to an alein... at least at length. I know secrets people all over the world would kill for, and I'm not even sure that I want to use them. They could save me, and others, I suppose, but I don't know why... the drink takes all my time, trying to keep the emotions running wild inside of me dull and at ease is about all I have time for -- well, that and getting together the change for a buzz and bite to eat every few days.
I wish I could say thta my life wasn't always a drunken mess, that some crises drove me down into this circle of hell . . . but no, I just liked to party more than I liked to work, and somehow muddled along that way, eating at soup kitchens and doing just about whatever it took to find the time to drink around the clock. Long after everyone I knew had checking accounts and apartments and women and kids, I was still the hard core guy who would whip out the weed and snort at parties, call the hookers...
I never noticed I was on a slippery slope until I was mired in the muck at the bottom, holes in my shows and the tread long wore off, leaving me old and ugly and smelly and pathetic enough to pull the heart strings required to obtain a few pennies from the crowds passing trhough downton chicago...
I lied in the title. I am not a wino from outer space. I did however meet a creature from far out in the distant stars, too far away for our microscopes and time limitations. He was dying. Something about the air that he explained to me once while we were drinking and I think I was thinking of something else or just spacing on the music... I didn't listen to him half the time... he was one of those guys who talks so much that sometimes you have to take a break and think about other things. No one would believe him either. He had come here in the form of an Elder, basing his research on outdated tv shows and sit that they could recieve out on the scientific research center -- an artificial satallite, where his crew had been monitoring human activity. There was a mechanical problem, his crew died, and there he was, waiting out his last few years ina flop house. He used to pay me to go out and get dr. pepper and thunderbird, which he lived on. He really did, too, which was the first indication to me that he was different, of course.
He didn't tell me his history until I discovered it on my own, after he had some kind of fever and babbled on for a week just before he died. He became normal somehow for the last day, after taking some pills he had, and that was when he decided that though I was hardly his choice, he was going to hope against hope that I could do something...
He had tried to contact the authorities a year before and ended up spending three weeks in a psych ward, where he was beaten and subjected to the drugs which set off the disease that was killing him -- or so he claimed, and he did sound like a doctor.
During that last day, he was liked hyped by the fever and mellowed by the vodka, and actually seemed a little relieved to be getting out of a mission he said he hated from the bginning. He seemed to become someone else, like a youthful rebel came bursting out of him, some idealistic kid swinging a protest poster or something. He said he had a device that could make anyone disappear, and that his team had planned on selectively culling the field; the device also gives something like immortality, as well... The plan, from what I could gather of it, was simply to shift the leadership of the planet to a more ecofreindly, less materialist culture.
You can guess the rest, but there wouldn't be much of a story here if I left you too... oh, whatever... it is hard to write drunk, so forgive me, alright? Not to mention I am sitting under a viaduct and the wind, as always, is trying to snatch all of my words and blow them out into the unheard nothingness.
I have been working on my disappation for so many years that I am afraid to suddenly reverse the polarity of my entire existence. I hate a lot of people and fear I would kill myself if I became like them. I live for the hope there of and the drunk, which sounds pathetic to anyone who has never begged up a couple hours worth of change in exchange for a few more hours afloat in warm, mother water oblivion.
I am going to start by telling his story, and then mine, and give a few hints of where I am taking this train next....
The device Frankolinny gave
home
by Scott Ridgway
2005-04-03
2:32 AM
Who believes a guy like me? No one. I ask for change for food and they think I need booze. Everyone is suspicious of a bum looking dude who smells. I don't do much to get them over thier fears of course, since I no longer care what people think of me. I need to drink, sleep, eat when I get to puking too much to drink.
Writing any of this down even seems stupid, There isn't anything else I can do, though. I got the paper for free, old computer paper stained on the corner with what looks like coffee that I pulled out of a dumpster in lower wacker, the under-road that runs beneath the streets of downtown chicago and harbors those of us who are too far out there to live any place but the streets, jails and hospitals.
My breathing grows worse everyday, the dt's or the lack of breath will take me soon, some cold night as I croach over a heater duct, tucked in a dark corner of lower wacker where the cops will probably notice me a few days after the rats.
Try looking and smelling and living like a wino and being the only person on earth who has spoken to an alein... at least at length. I know secrets people all over the world would kill for, and I'm not even sure that I want to use them. They could save me, and others, I suppose, but I don't know why... the drink takes all my time, trying to keep the emotions running wild inside of me dull and at ease is about all I have time for -- well, that and getting together the change for a buzz and bite to eat every few days.
I wish I could say thta my life wasn't always a drunken mess, that some crises drove me down into this circle of hell . . . but no, I just liked to party more than I liked to work, and somehow muddled along that way, eating at soup kitchens and doing just about whatever it took to find the time to drink around the clock. Long after everyone I knew had checking accounts and apartments and women and kids, I was still the hard core guy who would whip out the weed and snort at parties, call the hookers...
I never noticed I was on a slippery slope until I was mired in the muck at the bottom, holes in my shows and the tread long wore off, leaving me old and ugly and smelly and pathetic enough to pull the heart strings required to obtain a few pennies from the crowds passing trhough downton chicago...
I lied in the title. I am not a wino from outer space. I did however meet a creature from far out in the distant stars, too far away for our microscopes and time limitations. He was dying. Something about the air that he explained to me once while we were drinking and I think I was thinking of something else or just spacing on the music... I didn't listen to him half the time... he was one of those guys who talks so much that sometimes you have to take a break and think about other things. No one would believe him either. He had come here in the form of an Elder, basing his research on outdated tv shows and sit that they could recieve out on the scientific research center -- an artificial satallite, where his crew had been monitoring human activity. There was a mechanical problem, his crew died, and there he was, waiting out his last few years ina flop house. He used to pay me to go out and get dr. pepper and thunderbird, which he lived on. He really did, too, which was the first indication to me that he was different, of course.
He didn't tell me his history until I discovered it on my own, after he had some kind of fever and babbled on for a week just before he died. He became normal somehow for the last day, after taking some pills he had, and that was when he decided that though I was hardly his choice, he was going to hope against hope that I could do something...
He had tried to contact the authorities a year before and ended up spending three weeks in a psych ward, where he was beaten and subjected to the drugs which set off the disease that was killing him -- or so he claimed, and he did sound like a doctor.
During that last day, he was liked hyped by the fever and mellowed by the vodka, and actually seemed a little relieved to be getting out of a mission he said he hated from the bginning. He seemed to become someone else, like a youthful rebel came bursting out of him, some idealistic kid swinging a protest poster or something. He said he had a device that could make anyone disappear, and that his team had planned on selectively culling the field; the device also gives something like immortality, as well... The plan, from what I could gather of it, was simply to shift the leadership of the planet to a more ecofreindly, less materialist culture.
You can guess the rest, but there wouldn't be much of a story here if I left you too... oh, whatever... it is hard to write drunk, so forgive me, alright? Not to mention I am sitting under a viaduct and the wind, as always, is trying to snatch all of my words and blow them out into the unheard nothingness.
I have been working on my disappation for so many years that I am afraid to suddenly reverse the polarity of my entire existence. I hate a lot of people and fear I would kill myself if I became like them. I live for the hope there of and the drunk, which sounds pathetic to anyone who has never begged up a couple hours worth of change in exchange for a few more hours afloat in warm, mother water oblivion.
I am going to start by telling his story, and then mine, and give a few hints of where I am taking this train next....
The device Frankolinny gave
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