EVERYONE HAS AN ADVOCACY GROUP... EXCEPT SERIAL KILLERS.

Why? The same old prejudices in a new guise. Jews, blacks, that guy who played in those Earnest movies -- they were all demonized at one time. And of course with some they still are. Let us always throw our sacred rocks at their heads... but regardless, I am going to have to sooner or later take on a charity cause that isn't entirely fradulent to boost my reputation in literary circle jerks, so I have decided to start advocating for an unseen minority. Serial Killers.

We will be operating from the premises that these things are set in stone pretty young, so there will be a youth group, kind of like cub scouts on pcp with machine guns, who will further help swell our ranks, and help serial killers finally come out of closet and live among us. Sure, the various neighborhoods they live in will be forced to draw lots to see who is sacrificed that day, or week, or whatever kill pattern the serial 'client' is accustomed to. ... BUT They pay taxes and vote, remember? This means they govern this planet already, if you think about it.

There will eventually be a credit union, small business loans, emergency funds and perhaps on holidays we'll pass out rape kits to the needy or whatever...

Not that I am a serial killer, nor do I advocate killing -- it's just business, okay? You understand that, right? Fucking americans.

You can join our group either as Serial Killer, or a Friend of Serial Killers. I'm pretty sure that Brett Easton Ellis has already promised to put up a hundred thousand dollars for a fund to support serial killers family during that crucial period between the arrest and the book deals. Won't you help, too?

I mean, you love watching Law and Order and Cops and American Justice and Sesame Street and all these other shows that you simply would not have without Serial Killers, but do you ever think about the people whose sacrifice made your life so entertaining? No... no.... probably not. Takes a special soul like mine to work through my prejudices about serial killers and decide to let them send me money to join the union.

Twenty bucks will get you in the union -- oh, when you get in on this, you'll feel so good, like having a fresh, tasty corpse in the trunk. No shit, straight up... no hamsters from you serial killers though, becauser they always have a few bites out of them.



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 PLANET OF DRUNKEN STONERS

the PLANET  OF DRUNKEN STONERS

"DR. BOB HAS BEEN BROUGHT BACK TO LIFE TO DEAL WITH MANS LATEST DISCOVER -- THE PLANET OF DRUNKEN STONERS.   Hello, Rocky Stone Macho Man Mervin Shebenstein reporting folks... today is the day we have all been waiting for, when the clone of dr. bob, founder of a.a., will be arriving at THE PLANET OF DRUNKEN STONERS for the biggest intervention since the advent of the universes zero tolerance policy. We are riding on the good ship UrgeKill, which is due to dock in just twelve short hours.

Earlier today, we spoke to Reverend Notapervert III, one of the first to lobby the intergalactic counsels of rules, regulations, and anal lubricants, to revive Dr. Bob and send him, along with various other founders of aa and ten thousand, nine hundred therapists trained to see through the lies of  addicts.

When asked how the negotiations were going with the planet of drunken stoners over length of treatment (they of course want outpatient), the Rev. Notapervert III responded, "Oh, they try to weedle out of all responsibilty for anything, so getting them to own up to needing thirty days in treatment is tough. They have fought me all the way, as drunken stoners will. When we first started asking them about why everyone from their planet had red eyes, they were all like, "Oh, yea... we have, uhmm, like allergies? They claim this same 'allergy' causes them to have to lay down for hours at a time doing something they call, 'Chillin."

"What is chillin, sir?"
"Something productive, sober citizens need never worry about."
"Cool."

After talking to the Rev. I decided to find out if the planet of drunken stoners were really as screwed up and in need of help as he said, so I called them to ask a few questions and the phone rang and rang and then when someone did answer, it was just to say, "The planet isn't home, man. I don't know when it's getting back."
"Wait, you are the planet... " I told the sleepy sounding voice, "I dialed the planet, so anyone who answers is the planet."
"I am?"
"Yes."
"Wow."
"Is it true you guys call all your three daily meals, 'Munchfests?'"
"No."
"Would you be willing to start?"
"Cool, man. Hey, the planet is home. Talk to him. Hi, this the planet of drunken stoners?"
"Aren't you the same guy that I was just talking to?"
"Duhhh.... yea. I mean, probably. I think so. Maybe I took notes... sometimes I take notes, usually forget about them and then... wow, there are some cookie crumbs in my pocket. If I lick my hand, then shove it back in... whoa, cookie hand, man? Want a lick? After me...
Wait, am I making an obscene call, because if I am, this isn't me, man."

After this the planet launched into  a  lengthy diatribe on the merits of various Ted Nugent guitar solos and why the planet would really, really like to have one of those pot belly pigs, and some taffy.   I finally hung up. The phone like immediately rang back.   I answered and heard the planet  screaming into the phone, "Dude, dude are you alright? Dude? Duder? Did you pass out, or OD or something?   Dude, duder man?"


OF course, afterwards, I woke up back here, in this six by twelve foot cell.  Sentenced to die for a crime that I didn't commit -- and it all came down just two days before I was retiring from the police force to move to Florida on the beach.  Not-to-mention,  it was a mere week after my family was killed by a shadowy government conspiracy of one armed men with tiny, ferret noses.

 All I ever wanted to do was grow beets somewhere, on a little bit of land all my own. Shoot a few rabbits, maybe... invescerate them and mix their innards with my road kill collection of stuffed, lacquered and glistening  guts... just take it easy and try be.... freeeee.... but, no. ... the man just wouldn't let me. You kill one little busload of school children and they all turn on you just like that.  Fucking fair weather friends.