CAGED KIDS??? Makes all too much sense to me.

Fucking ill conceived humans!!! Why is there suddenly all this rage about a few kids being in cages when they do this to dogs and cats and most all other animals with impunity!!!! Not to mention the general lack of concern in the world over force fed fucking geese with a tube going down their throat and into their stomach through which grain is stuffed until their liver explodes...

Come on, we are no better than they are... if we can cage dogs and cats (don't even get me started on farm animals), then why not really stupid, destructive people? Wait, hey, we do that with prisons already!!!!

The foam from my mouth is covering the keyboard, soaking down into the keys and slowly sh ortin g out my com pppp uter....

Nah, just kidding... that was terrible for those innocents, of course... but no charges have been filed, and there may be a reason for that which surfaces yet? I mean, they would probably be in jail already, had a PSYCHOLOGIST NOT RECOMMENDED THIS TREATMENT!!!

Hey, I expect the worst of humans, and these parents may just turn out to be collecting government checks on kids they don't care about, but I still have to chuckle over something today, so it might as well be over what hypocrites we are.

There is a certain liberation in realizing that you are a hypocrite -- a softening of the soul ensues when you realize that you are no better than anyone else at all, merely a different set of genes and environment playing all the same old ape games that our minds are THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

elvis saves?

listening to old love songs to feel something more
than
the slow

thinning of my soul


this dissolution into dust
goes on

and


on


some days
minutes grow long as years go by in a blink


My soul feels crinkly
like used cellophane
wrinkled and stained

"We're caught in a trap,"


elvis screams "I can't walk out,
because I love you too much baby."





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whispers to a cat

Chadwinkle pulled his mouth away from the bong and let out a long breath of pungent white and gray weed clouds. "We're in, like, the post hero period. The Simpsons, anti-heros of cinema... the herioc act has become a shining moment in otherwise boring or flawed lives... and those who still do buy the myths of the hero are so fucking backward. Damn the christians the muslims and the jews amd all the other mind crappers."
As he talks to the small party of friends who ended up coming home with him when the bar closed, he takes a straightened paper clip and shoves it into the bowl and pushes the gray ashes down into the water, then packs another round of the lime green weed. "Look at tv. The differences between the heros has changed dramatically in the last few years. They are the tip of some iceburg, these writers... I mean, literature has been this forever. Writers and other degenerates definantly have known about this one forever."


He hands the red plastic bong, stained black on the sides from a few years use, over to his Frinks, a slim, balding, dark haired man in his mid thirties who always wore a baseball cap. Frinks was part of the reason the Chadwinkle made his guests play what he claimed was a parlor game. Frinks was the chattering Neal Cassidy in their crowd, the way loudest voice. There was no stopping him from dominating the conversation, usually. So, whenever very stoned people came home with him after some event, he would pretend to have a hard and fast rule that whoever had the bong has to speak, and the rest have to remain silent. He told them, and it was sort of true, in a vague way, that he wanted everyone to tell their stories, even the quiet ones, because he was on a quest to know everything about everything, including people, and he would not be robbed of the introverts opinions.

The party game lie was always taken with good cheer by his friends, who all secretly thought Chadwinkle always dominated the conversation, though they all had to admit, among themselves when he wasn't around and the topic of his word spewing came up, that he was also an extremly good listener, who genuinely loved to hear other people talk. Indeed, Chadwinkle often thought he was an introvert who tried to pass himself off as an extrovert, though he was just as often usure that the two terms had any real meaning.

Frinks blew his hit toward a gray cat perched on the top of a beige carpeted cat tree. "Cats love to get stoned. Not that you should get them stoned. I mean, why get them used to it? I had a cat that ate a bud once. This gray tiger boy with a white tum, he sat there for two days with his eyes crossed, just purring loud as hell. Yea, Chadwinkle, sure... the hero does seem to be dead. Look at American Dad? That guy is a psycho killer, who alleges to have a heart of gold." He packs the bong and then carefully hands it to the woman sitting beside him on the black leather couch.

Birtles had been to Chadwinkles more than any of them. She like all the windows looking out on Lakeshore and the animals, though mostly the conversation brought her back. Trim and short with blonde hair streaked with blue highlights, she liked to wear dresses and fem out to the max, making her a very pleasent sight. "I know what you mean. Heros are about having someone to love, someone who really rises to the occasion of life and lives in a way you want to emulate... then the churches burn in the fires of pedophilia, not to mention the sparks that have been smoldering since Nietsch declared us in the post god period of our cultural evolution. Love has kind of become the last realm of the mythic hero. People still mythologize each other in the name of love. We almost have to to get along, to help someone through something gross, like cleaning up their vomit when they have the flu, or whatever. People seem to love these heros, though he or she is only in the mind -- in thoughts fictionalized by all the myths of love that erupt in our subconscious when we think of this shit."

The orange tiger cat slowly saunters across the back of the couch behind Frinks head, where he had been laying since before the party had come in, leaps to the floor and slowly walks down the hall to the bedroom. He stops in the doorway and surveys the room; finding the accomidations both quiet and warm, he happily leaps up onto the bed and lays down on the plush gray comforter for a nap.

ON THE DYING

The shoots now they were bright, succulent green
growing everywhere and everywhichway

too soon, always too soon
they flower themselves to death
grow brown leaved
scrawny
pathetic
get tossed into the garbage one day
their pot kept
or not

the season passes
as all the seasons have before
and will again

they surround me in pictures
taunt me from memories
the ever gathering dead ghosts
all shoots and flowers once
tossed now
soon to be erased even from the memories of the livingTHOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

W. KEEPS FUCKING CALLING ME FOR WEED!!!

As I watched the presidents speech tonight, I was surprised to receive a call by the W. "Hey, asshole... got any weed?"
"I thought you were on tv?"
"Oh, that's a fucking robot, man. My dad had that made while he was a working with Reagen, so he could run the damn thing for president, should I decide to do something else, you know?"
"Like travel around the world killing hookers?"
"How the hell did you know that?"
"You've told me this like ten times."
"Well, fuck ya then. And all you damn liberal weasels. You probably think the flood did all that damage down in New Orleans, don't you?"
"Well, yes..."
"That was all the looting, man. The water didn't hurt shit."
"What?"
"Look, man, I gotta go check out some of those new whack off devices that I have RAND corporation coming up with. I got them and like twenty think tanks working on this shit... maximizing my pornographic experiences, you know? Shit, man, I am styling. What the hell did you call me for?"
"To tell you that I um...well, I don't have any weed at all. Not even a bud... for me, that I can't spare...."
"Don't call me unless you got weed. Rock on, weasel balls."

Then he hung up. I sure as hell wish that guy would quit calling me, but I'm afraid to say anything because he has a tendency to have so many people killed.... I never should have told him I can get weed.


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the cult of admo

Aldmo leaned back in his chair, propped his feet up on his desk, closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. 'Shit, I have got to get rid of this cult!!'

Admo had picked up the cult while in eastern Germany, sort of inheriting it. He had been touring, in a broken down van, with a Rick James cover band. They were playing at a small pub when the cults fundamentally whacko leader fell over dead.

Something about Admo singing on the stage under the lights caught them somehow, and they prayed on the matter and decided to elect him the new head of their cult.

He stayed up all night after the gig listening to them tell him about basically being controlled by a fundamentalist guy who had whacky beliefs about the colors of toothbrushes changing ones psychic aura and all sorts of crap that made Admo laugh his ass off, at first... until after three days of their incessently following him everywhere, he started to realize that since they had all been raised in the cult, they basically had no idea how to navigate the world on their own.

Over the week they stayed at the village he was just drunk and coked up enough to think he could help them out by trying to talk them out of being religous. A period their literature referred to as The Great Testing, after a lie he had made up when he realized that someone was going to have to lead the cult, and he figured that it was probably better to have a scientific atheist run a religion than about anyone else. Not to mention, they turned out to have a decked out touring bus and a hell of a lot of cash. And they were pretty good roadies and the chicks were hot and.... one thing turned into another and three years later he was the leader of the largest cult in Fort Wayne, Indiana.

"I am fucking not evil enough to run a goddamn religon." He told himself.

For the last year he had been trying to find some religious type to take over the cult, but they were all either weirdos or full of shit or something else that he couldn't stand. "They're like my pets, now." He said this without any denigration intended at all, because he was a devote pet owner, and indeed was partial of saying he liked animals better than people and was secretly afraid it was true.

"Aldmo, old boy, what if you should have a cult, just to make them safer than they would be without? They're seldom depressed, they love all that tougue talking and crap... No, I gotta get rid of this cult."
And he did. Simply walked away... and spent a year washing dishes and reading a lot at libraries.

A few years later, Admo was sitting alone having breakfest in an empty house reading the paper and came across three names he recognized from the cult -- all dead from a serial killer, who just happened to be able to sing an almost uncanny Elvis.

"Shit, there just is no fucking Moral to anything, is there?" He told a peice of toast.

A cat walked up to his chair, rubbed against the leg. Admo reached down and petted the gray tiger, then scooped it up and set the purring cat on his lap. "Maybe I should have kept them as pets?"



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