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THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

killin' whores and lace slip covers for toasters

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Some girl wrote to me and said reading my blog was like smelling someone elses farts.


No, I made that up... but it's true, in, like, other dimensions...


If everyone who came here gave me a fucking dime? I would have, like, enough money to buy a flat screen and a whore, or two (well, at least the whores could happen, should M. reverse her no prostitutes policy, which I think she will, because I will not let this go and sooner or later she will give in to me, or I will have to pretend like she did and then she forgot that she did and just go ahead and grab me some diseased quimly... wait, I hate fucking whores--they are criminal addicts, desperate people who wish they were somewhere else while you fuck -- how pathetic . . . and sadly enough, attractive after a dozen beers... luckily, when they offered me sex for a ride in my taxi, which probably happened maybe fifty times over the years, I always turned them down. . . . except once, because the woman was so insistent that she grabbed my cock and put it in her mouth before I could do anything to stop her, practically... she then proceeded to give me the worst head of my life... it was so bad . . . I will spare you the gross details... I pulled her off (a almost unheard of act by the male species, so you can imagine how bad her dry, dry mouth felt on Chuckles tender head). This embarrasses me to write, but if I don't have honesty, I am nothing but a facade on these pages... and I really hope to transcend that empty, flesh puppet using the carefully worded script described in your job description kind of being... you know? Hope you know. There is nothing worse than becoming just what society wants people to be, because the fucks in charge of a lot of the human genres of fashionable and edible and religous correct folk are often Psycho Killers -- driven sociopathic by the horrors they have to confront that become monsters eating thier brains until they can only feel self esteem and contempt.


I actually had a buddy who was addicted to whores; used to spend all his money on them. I got him to move away from his whore infested neighborhood and move in with me, when I lived in Roscoe Village, which was a mellow, graceful, and wonderfully livable neighborhood until quite recently when the young condo owners came in with their three cars and empty streets became full and starbucks appeared like magic and soon enough, the area that used to house Riverside Amusement park and was the home of tough carnies, was swallowed back into the generic sameness of the fashion magazine infected).



I have met a lot of prostutues. Cab driving just led me into the most interesting fucking situations; prostitutes proved to be the worst people I met; criminal to the point that they are always looking for a way to rip you off. I was not kidding when I wrote about that one who tried to kill me with a butcher knife--which tends to affect ones perceptions... Of course, to be fair, let me just mention that another woman comes to mind, one of those women who looks like an angel and fucking her is like having the finest champagne on the planet... not that one needs that... but she sure made hundreds of thousands of dollars as a high class hooker. She used to date an artist buddy. The whore saved up her money and went off to college... She was nice, though her ability to emphathize with other people is probably stunted all to hell...

Wait a minute, how the hell did I end up talking about whores again? This always happens... shit... I... I didn't write anything about killing whores did I ?? Did I mention naming the maggots swirling through the flesh holes in their faces and squeezing out around their eyes, pouring out her nose like living snot??? shit, did I put something in here about covering their dead faces with lace slip covers for toasters and drawing a little smily face on them so the fun can continue as long as I can stand the smell of rotting corpse (Note to self: you've downed some bongsiddy-bang today, so you have to be careful here... don't forget to take this evidence out before you publish... another Note To Self: wash the blood off your hands, it is getting the keys all sticky. . . and the cat... FOR DOGS SAKE, REMEMBER TO COME BACK AND ERASE ALL THIS STUFF!!!!... change that title about killing whores too)!!!!




THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

The Death Of Bob The Wino Knight

In one dimension, a hoboish drunk, late fifties and over-weight, sits stinky and silent on a bench in Loyola Park. No one knows that he is secretly watching everyone there, on the look out for any sort of trouble. That was his job now. He had lost everything except his need to drink... and of late, the cheap wine had started to make his brain resemble smooth vanilla pudding with chocolate chips and coconuts -- a disease that was going to help kill him in twelve days, when the first icey Northeasterner roars acrss the lake and freezes to death any wino who has the bad luck of passing out on a street corner all exposed to the evilish elements of the cold, cold wind chilled air that freezes their flesh and slows their heart down more and more, until they end up in a paupers grave . .. but that night, he was just drunk enough to feel like he could take on the world!!

He turned real quick, alerted by a movement in the corner of his eye, and saw a young women with a Depaul University shirt walking a yapping small white dog... The dog started sniffing a tree and preparing to let loose some used up foods and liquids... He watched the woman closely. He had a feeling she was just going to leave the shit and he was pissed. Really pissed. Too pissed to calm down even after the women suddenly pulled a box of blue, scented bags out of her pocket and knelt down and picked up the steaming pile of poo. He glared at her as she passed and was pleased when she quickened her step. 'Have to keep an eye out for that one,' he thought, though he knew he would forget because he forgot everything at somepoint in the day, when the wine made his speach a moan that drove away anyone he tried to bum a smoke from or tell about some squirrel that he saw that day.

There had been no crime that day... Once a cop had told him this was the safest park in the city.

Only he, Bob The Drunk, knew that he was a knight, and entirely responsible for keeping people in line. The Kids he watched especially. And of course those damn dog walkers. If they tried to get away without cleaning up, he yelled at them, made a scene... usally they ran from him and he would just have to accept that he couldn't pass out in that spot until the stuff was dry enough.. He knew that they would think twice about leaving shit in his park after his rebuke, at least. He was also worried about trolls, though he had yet to see anything more than a few of their ghosts.

And indeed, there was no crime that night; or the next, or the next... until finally, Bob laid down the doorway of a closed dry cleaner and felt the wine pull him down into blessed black. Six hours and fourteen minutes and ten seconds later, he froze to death.

Bob was quite surprised to find himself reincarnated and already an eight year old girl . . . which is why she started drinking so young and became a lesbian and changed her name back to Bob. True story.







THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

dead people in my head

DEAD PEOPLE linger forever
lives are too short to forget
nothing has closure until your eyes
are sewn shut by a mortician

I want to be able to feel them
without this wall of pain between us

the horror of knowing they are just plain gone
shocking moments of realization come over and over
out of nowhere and everywhere

I need some ritualistic way to go beyond this emotional murk
a long, long arm to reach through the pain
burst out on the other side
where my memories of them are just fond
not surrounded by the taunting faces of their powdered and painted corpse

they are lost to me
hidden by this wall of pain
my living memories have been thrown into a dark room
the door has been bricked up
leaving their pale ghosts alone
gasping
whithering into the forgotten

i want my daddy
i want my brother
i want my friends
the list grows with the passing years
until a crowd of them are back there
behind that brick wall
clamoring about like rats

I hear them scratching on the walls
screams of pain as their nails tear off
as they try to dig through the brick with their bloody hands

I want them sit on the couch and talk or not
to just fill the space that they created in me
so empty now





THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

THANK YOU... SORT OF.

I hit fifty thousand and three visitors on my blog counter at my other site, http://theelvesattic.ebloggy.com

that's from since I started keeping count, last summer. I am pleased that hundreds to thousands of you come in here every day. Thank you for sharing your psychosis with mine.

By the way, I'm on the verge of starving and you should send me money soon . . . or, perhaps, hamsters. . . actually, preferrably hamsters. I would have money if I didn't have to spend so much on Hamsters... if only M. would quit letting me get angry and sick the Ruby doo and Buk on the troops.... DAMN HER AND HER LAPSED BABY SITTING SKILLS!!! Not that I need a sitter... no, not all the time. Others won't agree with me, I know.


Wait, you could send me... well, someone mentioned Ninja Chimps? I'd take a couple those. Probably pawn them for a few bucks. Or maybe just chain them up in a storage unit somewhere, and then pimp them out over the internet. At least until they starved. I have a strict policy against feeding chimps.

Anyways, thank you for coming in here and reading me for free. I know that is the only way I could ever get a readership, I suppose, but still... it irks me, dammit!!! But, I came in here to thank you readers and show my unfailing humility, as always... still, you know, why did I go to school all those years if I was just going to then write in a damn blog and ignore all the more traditional forms of text AND THEN WIND UP POORER THAN some used up and battered ex-con sparrow... a lice itchy feathered friend on no one that has just been hit by a frisbee that smashed its wing bones into tiny painful shards leaving it helpless on the sidewalk as it looks up at a family of ravenous, frothy mouthed black rats with small, though very loud, chainsaws, whose eyes have a look of bizarre, painful sexual wantings that its buttocks quiver in fear....


FIGHT THE MOWER!!!


THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.