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
I beleive everyone thinks about suicide at one time or another, and that for most, this is the only time in their pathetic lives that they will flirt with having a sane, rational thought. So, once more, it is off to do some charity work for the good of all mankind, or at least to lower my own personal annoyance level... I am going out into the streets armed to the teeth to take down people who are suicidal -- most of whom do not yet realize that they are suicidal (I suspect there will also be dozens of causalties amongst those who really should be suicidal and are not only because of their own lack of taste). Charity work, thou name is Pain. First it was going down to the library and punching out Grishom readers and then it was the scientology brain wash center for general garroting and fingernail and butt related torture, and now killing off all these suicidal cowards. I am so much greater of a humanitarian than like ghandi, martin, sister teresa and snoop dog all rolled into one... not to mention jesus's big brother Nebils (he would have been the christ, but he preferred to be a 'mary'; all the Catholics secretly know this, and preists all call themselves Mary' when no one else is around (with the exceptions only of warthogs, who we we all know could hardly claim the moral high ground, since they do indeed eat their young, and not in the way the preiets do).
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Friday, March 31, 2006
PEE WEE HERMAN WS FRAMED...
The cops got to his penis. Turned it on him. You slap someone around like Pee Wee did his penis, you got to expect the damn thing to turn on you. Yea, that penis was telling the cops where Pee Wee was, and what and who he was doing, in what orifice and with what thrust frequency 24 hours a day. This is not just an idle conspiracy theory dreamt up by some stoned writer in Chicago... . It's more than that. I mean, who wanted to bring PEE WEE down?
He was a gay hollywood player and you know that scared some people. This was right at the height of Act Up's breif rise to political power. Yea, the government, they knew his penis was his weakness. He just couldn't leave it alone. So, they bugged his balls, got the penis to point him right into an adult movie theater, and practically jump out of his pants.... oh, yea... Yea, the Pee was wee that day, so to speak.
I have now set the record straight. Please, spread the word, the government will do anything to keep down Pee Wee and his irrepressible Wee Pee (as PW calls his little one).
No free man of good conscious should rest easy until this penis related tragedy is dealt with.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
He was a gay hollywood player and you know that scared some people. This was right at the height of Act Up's breif rise to political power. Yea, the government, they knew his penis was his weakness. He just couldn't leave it alone. So, they bugged his balls, got the penis to point him right into an adult movie theater, and practically jump out of his pants.... oh, yea... Yea, the Pee was wee that day, so to speak.
I have now set the record straight. Please, spread the word, the government will do anything to keep down Pee Wee and his irrepressible Wee Pee (as PW calls his little one).
No free man of good conscious should rest easy until this penis related tragedy is dealt with.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
love they neighbor as thyself????
Does this mean that I am biblically commanded to rub the quims of hotties who live next door to me? I mean, does this mean that god himself has decreed that I am to LOVE MY NEIGHBORS AS I LOVE MYSELF??? And if so, is it just like a couple blocks, or is it the whole city?
I mean, I think I may be required to give hand jobs to thousands of chicks... and by god if that is what it takes to save my soul then.... LOVE THEY NEIGHBOR AS YOU LOVE THYSELF... since I am something of a chronic masterbater, this is going to involve a hell of a lot of dildo's and lubricants and German Sheperds trained in oral pleasuring by the ancient, chinese method that this guy Floyd who lives in a trailer at the dog track came up with. Floyd always has wine and will share it with anybody who can take his constant talk about all 'the bitches' he was 'boning' (he makes it out like he means women, but we all know he is talking about the dogs, who he buys little dresses and wigs and even make up).
Okay, I think I just had a vision from God... Yes, I did... I am commanded to love my neighbors as I do myself, and this indeed does mean that I am going to be neck deep in sweet, young things who taste like Cherry Sweet Tarts. If I am going to do this, then I have to pleasure them as many times as I have myself, so I really have a hell of a lot of catching up to do.... This could take a lot of vacuum cleaners too, not too powerful though... I won't lose any clit.'s on my watch... oh, hell no... not on my watch.
I always wondered what christians did without smokes and drinks and weed and killing whores and setting fires and fun shit? Now I know -- they are loving each other.... This explains those silly empty smiles too. And of course, now I see why now why they defend their religion despite all evidence to the contrary -- they will do anything to keep the babes believing in this whole 'love they neighbor as theyself thing...' I sure as hell wish someone had told me this years ago.
This is exactly what I needed to know to renew my faith in jesus and the super freinds. Hail Mary's Hymen and heil Jesus and fly, Super man, fly like the Easter Weasel...
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
I mean, I think I may be required to give hand jobs to thousands of chicks... and by god if that is what it takes to save my soul then.... LOVE THEY NEIGHBOR AS YOU LOVE THYSELF... since I am something of a chronic masterbater, this is going to involve a hell of a lot of dildo's and lubricants and German Sheperds trained in oral pleasuring by the ancient, chinese method that this guy Floyd who lives in a trailer at the dog track came up with. Floyd always has wine and will share it with anybody who can take his constant talk about all 'the bitches' he was 'boning' (he makes it out like he means women, but we all know he is talking about the dogs, who he buys little dresses and wigs and even make up).
Okay, I think I just had a vision from God... Yes, I did... I am commanded to love my neighbors as I do myself, and this indeed does mean that I am going to be neck deep in sweet, young things who taste like Cherry Sweet Tarts. If I am going to do this, then I have to pleasure them as many times as I have myself, so I really have a hell of a lot of catching up to do.... This could take a lot of vacuum cleaners too, not too powerful though... I won't lose any clit.'s on my watch... oh, hell no... not on my watch.
I always wondered what christians did without smokes and drinks and weed and killing whores and setting fires and fun shit? Now I know -- they are loving each other.... This explains those silly empty smiles too. And of course, now I see why now why they defend their religion despite all evidence to the contrary -- they will do anything to keep the babes believing in this whole 'love they neighbor as theyself thing...' I sure as hell wish someone had told me this years ago.
This is exactly what I needed to know to renew my faith in jesus and the super freinds. Hail Mary's Hymen and heil Jesus and fly, Super man, fly like the Easter Weasel...
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
I ACCIDENTLY SORT OF SLAUGHTERED M.'S FAMILY AND YOU KNOW SHE IS GOING TO GET ALL BITCHY ...SHE IS SO OFF THE WALL.
The other day, she got all mad at me over nothing, and with my paranoid, weedy ways, I became convinced that she was breaking up with me and I, well... I sort of accidently slaughtered her family. Then I guess I might have hung their heads on 16 foot long wooden posts that I tied to the stately metal of the Michigan Avenue drawbridge, in the heart of downtown and right during rush hour....
This is as bad as that time I drank all those cappucinos (like fifteen -- they were free... the vendor had been snitty with me so he was too dead to care). That time I became convinced that the FBI should check out M'.s Bin Laden connections. She did not like being snatched off the street, whisked away to some third world country that she never saw because of the hood over her body -- her only clothing in the chilly climate-- where she was drugged and beaten and interrogated for 72 hours straight. Afterwhich, she was told that if she ever talked about this, they would snatch her again and not let her walk. They were actually quite specific about what they would do, and had her sign three different pages, all too classified for her to read... the upshot of their threat was that they would keep M. alive, in a dank prison in Bogota, slowly shitting herself to death with dissentary.
Anyways... now, I knew that on a public stunt like this, the press would probably get wind of it so I needed a great disguise. I guess I actually might have called all the press, back when I thought that we were broke up. I didn't want her to miss the event, you know.
I do not think I have any fault unless it is this -- I acted too soon. My reaction itself was normal, and actually shows the dept of my love for her. That's what I'll tell her.
I had to disguise myself while I was down on the bridge putting her grandparents and parents and sisters all on the posts -- I pulled them all out of a big bag, where they had grown all juicy from the blood, shoved them on the poles, then taped them way up on high on the bridge. I had to scale a like one and half foot beam to get up there, to the hightest point of the looping metal arms of the four lane draw bridge.
I painted myself dark blue. With crayons. It hurt like hell, but it came off easy. Mostly.
My night shaded skin melded just fine with the river when I dove in to make my escape. I retrieved my self-warming scuba pelt and air canisters,and swam back up to north the 78 blocks to the beach across from my house... in like twenty minutes or less... don't like to brag, but it's probably the fastest ever.....
Oddly enough, their description of me is so far off.
I mean, this lady told the cameraman, "We all agree. It was blue guy with a tiny dick."
'Ha,' I thought when I heard this nugget, 'I will never be caught with them looking for a tiny dick.' I of course am big and I have no idea why they slander me? Probably just keeping my size back, so the general public doesn't know, only the blue nude man with the almost montrous genitilia, and this is how they will know him.
They showed cops downtown making all the bums pull their pants down to see if they had a tiny blue dicks, and a couple did,but it turned out to be just from the cold, so they were issued socks to keep their weiners in.
Now, you are probably going to hear about this on the news, unless this too is one of those things the CIA is just going to hide from you, exactly like who killed JFK.
M. will probably find out right away. I will hold my lying position as long as possible, of course-- I will tell her that I am not now, nor ever was, painted in blue crayons, and furthermore, that I do not know what happened to all of my blue crayons. I'll stand this ground until it is absurd due to her preponderance of evidence to go on with said lie (and often well past this point, into the truly pathetic). Four cops tried to notify or interrogate her or something. I had to catch them in the buildings small lobby and quietly get behind them and get a fucking garrot over their necks and decapitate them all without disturbing M., who had us watching some chick flick...
Oh, well . . .
Got blood on my hands, weed in my head, and heads on poles.. yea, life is good.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
This is as bad as that time I drank all those cappucinos (like fifteen -- they were free... the vendor had been snitty with me so he was too dead to care). That time I became convinced that the FBI should check out M'.s Bin Laden connections. She did not like being snatched off the street, whisked away to some third world country that she never saw because of the hood over her body -- her only clothing in the chilly climate-- where she was drugged and beaten and interrogated for 72 hours straight. Afterwhich, she was told that if she ever talked about this, they would snatch her again and not let her walk. They were actually quite specific about what they would do, and had her sign three different pages, all too classified for her to read... the upshot of their threat was that they would keep M. alive, in a dank prison in Bogota, slowly shitting herself to death with dissentary.
Anyways... now, I knew that on a public stunt like this, the press would probably get wind of it so I needed a great disguise. I guess I actually might have called all the press, back when I thought that we were broke up. I didn't want her to miss the event, you know.
I do not think I have any fault unless it is this -- I acted too soon. My reaction itself was normal, and actually shows the dept of my love for her. That's what I'll tell her.
I had to disguise myself while I was down on the bridge putting her grandparents and parents and sisters all on the posts -- I pulled them all out of a big bag, where they had grown all juicy from the blood, shoved them on the poles, then taped them way up on high on the bridge. I had to scale a like one and half foot beam to get up there, to the hightest point of the looping metal arms of the four lane draw bridge.
I painted myself dark blue. With crayons. It hurt like hell, but it came off easy. Mostly.
My night shaded skin melded just fine with the river when I dove in to make my escape. I retrieved my self-warming scuba pelt and air canisters,and swam back up to north the 78 blocks to the beach across from my house... in like twenty minutes or less... don't like to brag, but it's probably the fastest ever.....
Oddly enough, their description of me is so far off.
I mean, this lady told the cameraman, "We all agree. It was blue guy with a tiny dick."
'Ha,' I thought when I heard this nugget, 'I will never be caught with them looking for a tiny dick.' I of course am big and I have no idea why they slander me? Probably just keeping my size back, so the general public doesn't know, only the blue nude man with the almost montrous genitilia, and this is how they will know him.
They showed cops downtown making all the bums pull their pants down to see if they had a tiny blue dicks, and a couple did,but it turned out to be just from the cold, so they were issued socks to keep their weiners in.
Now, you are probably going to hear about this on the news, unless this too is one of those things the CIA is just going to hide from you, exactly like who killed JFK.
M. will probably find out right away. I will hold my lying position as long as possible, of course-- I will tell her that I am not now, nor ever was, painted in blue crayons, and furthermore, that I do not know what happened to all of my blue crayons. I'll stand this ground until it is absurd due to her preponderance of evidence to go on with said lie (and often well past this point, into the truly pathetic). Four cops tried to notify or interrogate her or something. I had to catch them in the buildings small lobby and quietly get behind them and get a fucking garrot over their necks and decapitate them all without disturbing M., who had us watching some chick flick...
Oh, well . . .
Got blood on my hands, weed in my head, and heads on poles.. yea, life is good.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
I SEEM TO BE DOING NOTHING BUT CHARITY WORK...
I beleive everyone thinks about suicide at one time or another, and that for most, this is the only time in their pathetic lives that they will flirt with having a sane, rational thought. So, once more, it is off to do some charity work for the good of all mankind, or at least to lower my own personal annoyance level... I am going out into the streets armed to the teeth to take down people who are suicidal -- most of whom do not yet realize that they are suicidal (I suspect there will also be dozens of causalties amongst those who really should be suicidal and are not only because of their own lack of taste). Charity work, thou name is Pain. First it was going down to the library and punching out Grishom readers and then it was the scientology brain wash center for general garroting and fingernail and butt related torture, and now killing off all these suicidal cowards. I am so much greater of a humanitarian than like ghandi, martin, sister teresa and snoop dog all rolled into one... not to mention jesus's big brother Nebils (he would have been the christ, but he preferred to be a 'mary'; all the Catholics secretly know this, and preists all call themselves Mary' when no one else is around (with the exceptions only of warthogs, who we we all know could hardly claim the moral high ground, since they do indeed eat their young, and not in the way the preiets do).
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
LOVE THY NEIGHBOR AS THY SELF????
Does this mean that I am biblically commanded to rub the quims of hotties who live next door to me? I mean, does this mean that god himself has decreed that I am to LOVE MY NEIGHBORS AS I LOVE MYSELF??? And if so, is it just like a couple blocks, or is it the whole city?
I mean, I think I may be required to give hand jobs to thousands of chicks... and by god if that is what it takes to save my soul then.... LOVE THEY NEIGHBOR AS YOU LOVE THYSELF... since I am something of a chronic masterbater, this is going to involve a hell of a lot dildo's and lubricants and German Sheperds trained in oral pleasuring by the ancient, chinese method that this guy Floyd who lives in a trailer at the dog track came up with. Floyd always has wine and will share it with anybody who can take his constant talk about all 'the bitches' he was 'boning' (he makes it out like he means women, but we all know he is talking about the dogs, who he buys little dresses and wigs and even make up).
Okay, I think I just had a vision from God... Yes, I did... I am commanded to love my neighbors as I do myself, and this indeed does mean that I am going to be neck deep in sweet, young things who taste like Cherry Sweet Tarts. If I am going to do this, then I have to pleasure them as many times as I have myself, so I really have a hell of a lot of catching up to do.... This could take a lot of vacuum cleaners too, not too powerful though... I won't lose any clit.'s on my watch... oh, hell no... not on my watch.
I always wondered what christians did without smokes and drinks and weed and killing whores and setting fires and fun shit? Now I know -- they are loving each other.... This explains those silly empty smiles too. And of course, now I see why now why they defend their religion despite all evidence to the contrary -- they will do anything to keep the babes believing in this whole 'love they neighbor as theyself thing...' I sure as hell wish someone had told me this years ago.
This is exactly what I needed to know to renew my faith in jesus and the super freinds. Hail Mary and heil Jesus and fly, Super man, fly like the Easter Weasel...
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
I mean, I think I may be required to give hand jobs to thousands of chicks... and by god if that is what it takes to save my soul then.... LOVE THEY NEIGHBOR AS YOU LOVE THYSELF... since I am something of a chronic masterbater, this is going to involve a hell of a lot dildo's and lubricants and German Sheperds trained in oral pleasuring by the ancient, chinese method that this guy Floyd who lives in a trailer at the dog track came up with. Floyd always has wine and will share it with anybody who can take his constant talk about all 'the bitches' he was 'boning' (he makes it out like he means women, but we all know he is talking about the dogs, who he buys little dresses and wigs and even make up).
Okay, I think I just had a vision from God... Yes, I did... I am commanded to love my neighbors as I do myself, and this indeed does mean that I am going to be neck deep in sweet, young things who taste like Cherry Sweet Tarts. If I am going to do this, then I have to pleasure them as many times as I have myself, so I really have a hell of a lot of catching up to do.... This could take a lot of vacuum cleaners too, not too powerful though... I won't lose any clit.'s on my watch... oh, hell no... not on my watch.
I always wondered what christians did without smokes and drinks and weed and killing whores and setting fires and fun shit? Now I know -- they are loving each other.... This explains those silly empty smiles too. And of course, now I see why now why they defend their religion despite all evidence to the contrary -- they will do anything to keep the babes believing in this whole 'love they neighbor as theyself thing...' I sure as hell wish someone had told me this years ago.
This is exactly what I needed to know to renew my faith in jesus and the super freinds. Hail Mary and heil Jesus and fly, Super man, fly like the Easter Weasel...
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
I don't know who over acted the most... probably her, yea... had to be.
Okay, putz.... dis story, it starts days ago... I didn't know if my red haired vixen was bleeding or needing or just whining... she was threatening to throw my lazy, work--avoiding ass out. And my cat. And the dog. She is really tripping when she threatens to throw the dog out... the cat and me, we have somewhat learned to live with this threat... but the doggie danger is a new one.
This was a fight that came out of a bad, bad mood that started without me, and her mood was fueled by co workers screwing with her and she was getting no release from weed at night because everyone we know was out for a couple days... okay, the fight, which was really more of a her bitching at me and complaining that I always lie to her about everything (
Well, I do not 'always lie to her about everything. "What would be the fucking point of that I asked her? Who would lie about everything. You want to know what's on tv, I do not lie to you, do I?"
She had some crazy reason to dismiss this too... something about this having no relevance.
So, anyways, she is a person who can be way over dramatic. She hurts herself with this, and I would take it from her, as I would all her pain if I could... when we together, at least. But when we are apart...
So, she basically said she was my ex girlfriend, and I took her at her word... so, like, when were broke up.. well, , during the twelve hours that M was off on her temper tantrum...I sort of slaughtered her family and hung their heads on 16 foot long wooden posts that I tied to the stately metal of the Michigan Avenue drawbridge, in the heart of downtown and right during rush hour....
I had my naked body painted a dark blue, which melded just fine with the river when i dove in, retrieved my self warming scuba pelt and air canisters, and swam back up to our beach. The only description they have of me so far is so far off that I will never be caught. I mean, if you can believe this one, the witnesses all described me as 'some blue guy with a tiny dick. Uh, lke I said, bad descriotion and that is all it is all... dammit... I am not protesting too much about this, as that one voice in my head keeps insisiting....
Now, you are probably going to hear about this on the news, unless this too is one of those things the CIA is just going to hide from you, exactly like who killed JFK.
M. will probably find out right away. Still, I will hold my lying position, for at least until it is absurd due to her preponderance of evidence to go on with said lie (and often well past this point, into the truly pathetic). I have already had to kill off four cops who tried to notify her of her family's death -- now, this is not my kill pattern at all, but I had to do what I had to stop them from notifying M. that I had slaughtered her family. This is exactly the kind of thing that she really gets on her high horse over, acts all like she has never made mistake....
Anyways, anybody tells M. about anything I been writing about the last few days oughta know I will start with the corpses closest to you, and torture-kill my way through your loved ones until you kneel crying before my knife and ask me for the merciful act of slashing your fucking throat. This is not some idle threat, like the other couple thousand I made. Those were all practice for this one.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
This was a fight that came out of a bad, bad mood that started without me, and her mood was fueled by co workers screwing with her and she was getting no release from weed at night because everyone we know was out for a couple days... okay, the fight, which was really more of a her bitching at me and complaining that I always lie to her about everything (
Well, I do not 'always lie to her about everything. "What would be the fucking point of that I asked her? Who would lie about everything. You want to know what's on tv, I do not lie to you, do I?"
She had some crazy reason to dismiss this too... something about this having no relevance.
So, anyways, she is a person who can be way over dramatic. She hurts herself with this, and I would take it from her, as I would all her pain if I could... when we together, at least. But when we are apart...
So, she basically said she was my ex girlfriend, and I took her at her word... so, like, when were broke up.. well, , during the twelve hours that M was off on her temper tantrum...I sort of slaughtered her family and hung their heads on 16 foot long wooden posts that I tied to the stately metal of the Michigan Avenue drawbridge, in the heart of downtown and right during rush hour....
I had my naked body painted a dark blue, which melded just fine with the river when i dove in, retrieved my self warming scuba pelt and air canisters, and swam back up to our beach. The only description they have of me so far is so far off that I will never be caught. I mean, if you can believe this one, the witnesses all described me as 'some blue guy with a tiny dick. Uh, lke I said, bad descriotion and that is all it is all... dammit... I am not protesting too much about this, as that one voice in my head keeps insisiting....
Now, you are probably going to hear about this on the news, unless this too is one of those things the CIA is just going to hide from you, exactly like who killed JFK.
M. will probably find out right away. Still, I will hold my lying position, for at least until it is absurd due to her preponderance of evidence to go on with said lie (and often well past this point, into the truly pathetic). I have already had to kill off four cops who tried to notify her of her family's death -- now, this is not my kill pattern at all, but I had to do what I had to stop them from notifying M. that I had slaughtered her family. This is exactly the kind of thing that she really gets on her high horse over, acts all like she has never made mistake....
Anyways, anybody tells M. about anything I been writing about the last few days oughta know I will start with the corpses closest to you, and torture-kill my way through your loved ones until you kneel crying before my knife and ask me for the merciful act of slashing your fucking throat. This is not some idle threat, like the other couple thousand I made. Those were all practice for this one.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
KILL ME AGAIN
you slaughtered
the me with you
the only me I knew
there was always another you
for someone else
that you hid away
a flicker of emotions
from the genes
takes me where angels
fear to tread
my survival instinct
became embodied in that smile
we find the silver lining -- it looks dead grey, at first
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 me with you
the only me I knew
there was always another you
for someone else
that you hid away
a flicker of emotions
from the genes
takes me where angels
fear to tread
my survival instinct
became embodied in that smile
we find the silver lining -- it looks dead grey, at first
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
PERSONA NON GRATA
"HARFILDOOP, eh? Changing jobs is it, then?" The older man squinted a bit as he looked him over, then smiled kindly and motioned toward the wooden chair in front of his desk. He was wearing the typical office outfit of a tie, shirt, dress pants and shoes.
"No, sir. I had a fall, head injury. Since then... well, it was recommended to me that I overlay my last programming again." Harfildoop lied.
He was in a great hall in the Receiving Area,tucked into a small cubicle with just enough room for a wooden desk and a chair for visitors. Visitors had to be led in and out of the maze of cubicles and desks. The building was over a four blocks long and absolutly stuffed with brown room dividers. All of the administrators looked the same in this deparment -- programmed as they were, to be kindly administrators filled genuine concern for the people they deal with.
He is surrounded by hundreds of other workers who are being reassigned the personality best suited for their new jobs. To be fair, everyone had to change jobs every three years -- otherwise no one would do the menial labor. One could buy ones way out of this, like one could almost anything in Trumpville.
Everyone was programmed to love their job, no matter how menial. He has gone along with the system since his birth, for over three hundred years, and had no idea there was a choice -- until the rebels programmed him to join their cause...
The administrator laughed and told him, "Oh,
"Well, that sounds very easy, doesn't it? Okay, yes, i would recommend a full memory dip, destroy any last vertiges of your subjective experiences. Any phobias developed since your last personality adjustment?"
"No, sir... well, wait no... have I always had the rat thing?"
"Well, I'll check on that. Can't be having you fear rats out in space, eh? No getting rid of them buggers. No matter where humans go, we bring them fucking rats."
"Really?"
"Well, I like to think so. Love rats, myself. Real troopers, they are. Okay, I have everything we need to input your data. Have a seat over there, and as soon as we have the new you programmed, we'll bring you in."
"
Of course."
Harfildoop looked nervously about the room; the tranquil blue color was designed to make him sleepy, and usually did, when he was changing jobs and needed his personalty adjusted. Personality reconstruction was required, though it hardly had to be -- who would want a personality ill suited for their job?
People once had done something like that, had to work at jobs they hated -- he remembered as much from ancient history. Humans were miserable until psychiatry matured enough to provide relief of the mental anguishes, both large and small, that had been man's lot since they were ooze.
The personality overlays had never been a problem for him before. They usually inserted enthusiam for the next job into the personality, so he was always happy, in fact. He had always accepted that his tastes changed, and his ideas were those that best suited being in harmony with geographical area, as determined by the computers and then injected into him through drug induced hynosis, and mild, very selective, electric shock. He had never cared that he was changed into something else... or he thought that he didn't. Now that he knew they were making people to run machines, that they were all part of a mind numbing religious beuracracy that was entrenched world wide, he was ready to do what he could for mankind, as the machine trained them. All personalities were willing to sacrifice to save the Trump Empire.
Now he wanted to stay who he was. There was a woman who he did not want to forget. She was programmed for him, and he for her.
He slides his hand into his suit coat pocket, feels around for the detonator... puts his index finger on the button. . . he breaths in deep, as his lungs expand he feels the bomb belt pushing hard against his ribs. A terrorist? At first, before the overlay was complete, he had been so damned surprised. The resistance was hacking into the personality reconstruction site, and they gave him a personality meant to thrill at the thought of fighting and love explosions -- convincing him to blow up the Personality Processors....
He didn't like the idea of killing his agent, the more he thought about, the more he realized that he did not want anyone dead.
He had never felt like he had a choice until right then. . . he had never tried to deny a personality trait, in fact he had always encouraged them, of course -- they were expensive, after all. But now... he did not want to die.
Two months ago, he reported for new work assignment, and was excited to see that he was going to get to go off planet to help mine an asteroid belt out near Venus. He did his paperwork, then went down to get his personality traits. He was going to be amiable for awhile, which he liked. Management types had to be hard asses sometimes, and he was no better than anyone else, so he had to play the asshole sometimes...Everything that day was normal until he went under... he layed down on a slab of steel covered in a white sheet, and then the slab pulled back into the machine, into a steel tunnel leading into the mettalic bowels; a very small space that seems to wrap around him like a fist.
The usual images that flooded the mind were benign, comfortable. This time the images were horrifying, showing the outers, the ones living in the radioactive dust beyond the Trump Ecosphere. Horrifying babies born with grotesque arms and heads growing out of their stomachs, four eyes, six arms... all dead...dead... probably killed. He had known next to nothing about the outers; knew just what his various personalities needed to use his best work years for the good of all. He had always believed that they wanted to live outer, but now he knew better. Now he has met with them, in the months since his personality changed into code name Praxis.
They are new at making terrorists. Made mistakes with him. For the first time in his existence, he felt free will. He had no idea such a thing existed until his last overlay. Now it seemed precious somehow. He didn't want another personality to posses him that has no free will -- in fact he would not even know the term, since the computer would consider such knowledge 'Socially Disruptive.'
He thought, 'at least I'll never have to be a plumber again, or anyone else who loves the smell of shit. . . god, I seemed to hate that even though I loved it. Weird.'
He knew that there were nine terrorists, one at every center in the city. The timing was exact, and the routine at such places never erred. They would all be sitting, waiting for the computer to put together a program for their next life. Everyone in their place, tucked into the small island of humanity that is left here in what was the United States. Almost ten million people.
He looks out into the hall, at the garbage can with the nuclear bomb. He had not known they still existed until the machine inserted the how to into his brain.
Now he hated everything the unholy temple stood for - making men into machines serving a mindless system that goes on of its own accord . . . a mental disease, and he was the cure.
Around his was a world that he was about to help destroy. . . . 'whoever programmed me as a terrorist had to be among the ruling thirty,' he thinks.
They were the consensus voters on all new personality adjustments. Their job was to keep mankind moral through deep psychological training. One of them had decided that the only moral thing to do was destroy the tools of the system. Someone would build more personality adjusters, of course. The resistance planned to strike fast, before the machines could start producing the mercilous soldiers that they create as needed.
The agent will be gone for up to a half an hour; the apparatus of the programmer was so cost prohibitive that their clinic was forced to share nine of them.
Plenty of time for him to find his way out of the building, to somewhere safe. He was detonating the bomb through a cell phone, and could set it off from the other side of the world if he wanted.
He thinks, 'No one is to blame.' He could see the system now with new eyes, comprehend how it just went on and on unchallanged; it could not be defeated without the bombs... he was sure of it...
A fog was lifting from his mind. The rebels told him that they had enhanced his intelligence, sight, smell and sense of touch. They were trying to make what they called 'great men and women.'
There were no great men anymore. Great men cause trouble. The histories dismissed them as narcisstic users.
Now the rebels were making them again. His conditioning had him convinced that their cause would win and that he would be a martyr welcomed in heaven with laurels and song. . .
He looks out of the cubicle, and seeing no one, he begins to make his way toward the door, following red arrows on the floor. He thinks maybe he will leave the building, and then detonate the bomb. He has to ask three people for directions on his way out.
He finally makes it to the revolving glass doors, pushes his way in, begins to come out the other side. A black shape appears in his periphery vision, then there is pain in his chest, like someone has punched him hard as hell. Another knife stabbed deep into his back, through his ribs into his heart... they were stabbing him again, and again.... Someone reaches into his pocket and finds the detonator. He recognizes his killer. A woman from the resistance. They had sent her as back up... in case he did what he did.
He wishes like hell the machine had never made him a terrorist... longs for a quiet, peaceful life. As his slows, he closes his eyes and thinks, 'death feels just like falling into a nice deep sleep. That's a fucking relief. I thought this was going to be so. . . . .'
The blast throws him through the air, across the plaze in front of the building, into the glass window of a bank kitty corner from the administrations building. The thick glass holds firm, breaking most in his body -- though he could care less, since he was already dead.
===========================================
THE ABOVE IS A TRUE STORY. I knew old 'Hard on Hardy,' in college. Weird that he went to live in the future and all, but hey -- who am I to criticize the guy? I suck.
"No, sir. I had a fall, head injury. Since then... well, it was recommended to me that I overlay my last programming again." Harfildoop lied.
He was in a great hall in the Receiving Area,tucked into a small cubicle with just enough room for a wooden desk and a chair for visitors. Visitors had to be led in and out of the maze of cubicles and desks. The building was over a four blocks long and absolutly stuffed with brown room dividers. All of the administrators looked the same in this deparment -- programmed as they were, to be kindly administrators filled genuine concern for the people they deal with.
He is surrounded by hundreds of other workers who are being reassigned the personality best suited for their new jobs. To be fair, everyone had to change jobs every three years -- otherwise no one would do the menial labor. One could buy ones way out of this, like one could almost anything in Trumpville.
Everyone was programmed to love their job, no matter how menial. He has gone along with the system since his birth, for over three hundred years, and had no idea there was a choice -- until the rebels programmed him to join their cause...
The administrator laughed and told him, "Oh,
"Well, that sounds very easy, doesn't it? Okay, yes, i would recommend a full memory dip, destroy any last vertiges of your subjective experiences. Any phobias developed since your last personality adjustment?"
"No, sir... well, wait no... have I always had the rat thing?"
"Well, I'll check on that. Can't be having you fear rats out in space, eh? No getting rid of them buggers. No matter where humans go, we bring them fucking rats."
"Really?"
"Well, I like to think so. Love rats, myself. Real troopers, they are. Okay, I have everything we need to input your data. Have a seat over there, and as soon as we have the new you programmed, we'll bring you in."
"
Of course."
Harfildoop looked nervously about the room; the tranquil blue color was designed to make him sleepy, and usually did, when he was changing jobs and needed his personalty adjusted. Personality reconstruction was required, though it hardly had to be -- who would want a personality ill suited for their job?
People once had done something like that, had to work at jobs they hated -- he remembered as much from ancient history. Humans were miserable until psychiatry matured enough to provide relief of the mental anguishes, both large and small, that had been man's lot since they were ooze.
The personality overlays had never been a problem for him before. They usually inserted enthusiam for the next job into the personality, so he was always happy, in fact. He had always accepted that his tastes changed, and his ideas were those that best suited being in harmony with geographical area, as determined by the computers and then injected into him through drug induced hynosis, and mild, very selective, electric shock. He had never cared that he was changed into something else... or he thought that he didn't. Now that he knew they were making people to run machines, that they were all part of a mind numbing religious beuracracy that was entrenched world wide, he was ready to do what he could for mankind, as the machine trained them. All personalities were willing to sacrifice to save the Trump Empire.
Now he wanted to stay who he was. There was a woman who he did not want to forget. She was programmed for him, and he for her.
He slides his hand into his suit coat pocket, feels around for the detonator... puts his index finger on the button. . . he breaths in deep, as his lungs expand he feels the bomb belt pushing hard against his ribs. A terrorist? At first, before the overlay was complete, he had been so damned surprised. The resistance was hacking into the personality reconstruction site, and they gave him a personality meant to thrill at the thought of fighting and love explosions -- convincing him to blow up the Personality Processors....
He didn't like the idea of killing his agent, the more he thought about, the more he realized that he did not want anyone dead.
He had never felt like he had a choice until right then. . . he had never tried to deny a personality trait, in fact he had always encouraged them, of course -- they were expensive, after all. But now... he did not want to die.
Two months ago, he reported for new work assignment, and was excited to see that he was going to get to go off planet to help mine an asteroid belt out near Venus. He did his paperwork, then went down to get his personality traits. He was going to be amiable for awhile, which he liked. Management types had to be hard asses sometimes, and he was no better than anyone else, so he had to play the asshole sometimes...Everything that day was normal until he went under... he layed down on a slab of steel covered in a white sheet, and then the slab pulled back into the machine, into a steel tunnel leading into the mettalic bowels; a very small space that seems to wrap around him like a fist.
The usual images that flooded the mind were benign, comfortable. This time the images were horrifying, showing the outers, the ones living in the radioactive dust beyond the Trump Ecosphere. Horrifying babies born with grotesque arms and heads growing out of their stomachs, four eyes, six arms... all dead...dead... probably killed. He had known next to nothing about the outers; knew just what his various personalities needed to use his best work years for the good of all. He had always believed that they wanted to live outer, but now he knew better. Now he has met with them, in the months since his personality changed into code name Praxis.
They are new at making terrorists. Made mistakes with him. For the first time in his existence, he felt free will. He had no idea such a thing existed until his last overlay. Now it seemed precious somehow. He didn't want another personality to posses him that has no free will -- in fact he would not even know the term, since the computer would consider such knowledge 'Socially Disruptive.'
He thought, 'at least I'll never have to be a plumber again, or anyone else who loves the smell of shit. . . god, I seemed to hate that even though I loved it. Weird.'
He knew that there were nine terrorists, one at every center in the city. The timing was exact, and the routine at such places never erred. They would all be sitting, waiting for the computer to put together a program for their next life. Everyone in their place, tucked into the small island of humanity that is left here in what was the United States. Almost ten million people.
He looks out into the hall, at the garbage can with the nuclear bomb. He had not known they still existed until the machine inserted the how to into his brain.
Now he hated everything the unholy temple stood for - making men into machines serving a mindless system that goes on of its own accord . . . a mental disease, and he was the cure.
Around his was a world that he was about to help destroy. . . . 'whoever programmed me as a terrorist had to be among the ruling thirty,' he thinks.
They were the consensus voters on all new personality adjustments. Their job was to keep mankind moral through deep psychological training. One of them had decided that the only moral thing to do was destroy the tools of the system. Someone would build more personality adjusters, of course. The resistance planned to strike fast, before the machines could start producing the mercilous soldiers that they create as needed.
The agent will be gone for up to a half an hour; the apparatus of the programmer was so cost prohibitive that their clinic was forced to share nine of them.
Plenty of time for him to find his way out of the building, to somewhere safe. He was detonating the bomb through a cell phone, and could set it off from the other side of the world if he wanted.
He thinks, 'No one is to blame.' He could see the system now with new eyes, comprehend how it just went on and on unchallanged; it could not be defeated without the bombs... he was sure of it...
A fog was lifting from his mind. The rebels told him that they had enhanced his intelligence, sight, smell and sense of touch. They were trying to make what they called 'great men and women.'
There were no great men anymore. Great men cause trouble. The histories dismissed them as narcisstic users.
Now the rebels were making them again. His conditioning had him convinced that their cause would win and that he would be a martyr welcomed in heaven with laurels and song. . .
He looks out of the cubicle, and seeing no one, he begins to make his way toward the door, following red arrows on the floor. He thinks maybe he will leave the building, and then detonate the bomb. He has to ask three people for directions on his way out.
He finally makes it to the revolving glass doors, pushes his way in, begins to come out the other side. A black shape appears in his periphery vision, then there is pain in his chest, like someone has punched him hard as hell. Another knife stabbed deep into his back, through his ribs into his heart... they were stabbing him again, and again.... Someone reaches into his pocket and finds the detonator. He recognizes his killer. A woman from the resistance. They had sent her as back up... in case he did what he did.
He wishes like hell the machine had never made him a terrorist... longs for a quiet, peaceful life. As his slows, he closes his eyes and thinks, 'death feels just like falling into a nice deep sleep. That's a fucking relief. I thought this was going to be so. . . . .'
The blast throws him through the air, across the plaze in front of the building, into the glass window of a bank kitty corner from the administrations building. The thick glass holds firm, breaking most in his body -- though he could care less, since he was already dead.
===========================================
THE ABOVE IS A TRUE STORY. I knew old 'Hard on Hardy,' in college. Weird that he went to live in the future and all, but hey -- who am I to criticize the guy? I suck.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
what u doin? me? killin', you know, just killin'. . .
I woke up this morning thinking, "Damn, I'm in the mood to fucking kill those assholes protesting abortions."
We stretched a bit, soon enough sat up, drowsily creeping toward our first cups of coffee. I told M, " The fucking government should give us psycho killer's a license, okay? To fucking kill those assholes protesting abortions."
By this time -- that being mere seconds since the little death with dreams dropped away, as I opened passed into another pointless day, M., the weekend pot head, was handing me a bowl and simply ignoring what I had said, like she tends to do when the conversation gets too weird for her. Once, when my mom was talking about all the people she tortured, M. broke into an anecdote and tried to get everyone to start talking about my paintings. My family just quieted for a moment as they all kind of looked at M. with what used to be called the evil eye... I had to cock my shotgun at that point, let that 'cha-ching' tell my family that I was keeping thier asses covered when they are near me and mine. I also hide a few claymores under thier chairs, all wired to an apparatus I have hidden under my shirt sleeve, on my forearm. These are the same babies I use in the front yard, where some say that they have led to the mysterious disappearences of hundreds of door to door salespeople? Now, me, I don't know if this is true, or not... in fact, the whole not incriminating myself thing is something I really need to keep in mind while I am typoing away in here.
I was wearing full body armor during this family gathering, and still wishing like hell, every time by bum leg hurts -- which is every time I take a step, that I had been all armored out during the New Years Mayhem, as the papers called Dad's party. I guess we just drove around in a limo shooting people who were wearing furs... I mean, we may kill, my family, but we have fucking high standards of what is civilized, okay? I mean, we do not kill the working man, or steal from him to support our killing ways, if possible, but there is always going to be some collaterol damage, like civilians getting deep, deadly if not cleaned, ankle scratches from vicious, highly trained hamster troops --- who probably go just plain out blood crazy and don't care whose ankle they assault in battle.
Over all, you could say we are on the side of the underdog, alright? My mom was in the union, where our genetic predisposition toward just cutting down our enemies came in handy, as you can imagine. We actually used to occasionally have to keep a dead body in our freezer, just for a day or so, until a Fixer came in with acid and turned her into what he said was an enviornmentally safe liquid that he pouered into a sewer hole... making me think, I will drink this man into my body sometime....
There are too many people on the planet. Over population could be the death of us all. Something will have to be done. In the case of deer, which are not nearly as ecologically upheaving as humans, there is a license, a season, and lots of laws against breaking these taboos. Why not give psycho killer's a licenses? We could kill all rapists and murderers hands down no exceptions and no apologies accepted -- because if these bastards want to be cold, let's let society be cold right back. Don't let them live. You rape a woman and you are a major freak who needs to die. You molest a kid and you die slow. They could just let loose all the damn prisoners in for these offenses, out into some damn woods, and get this over crowding issue finally dealt with.
Human meat would come into vogue; the skins could be fashionable boots and other fashion excessories. I mean, human testicles could be ground up and sold to chinese peasents as cures for just whatever the hell we decide. Ignorant peasents are easy to dupe. The skin will be make shirts, ottomans's and.... oh, I don't know some kind skimpy skirts... I don't have this quite all worked out yet, but I do have about a dozen notepads filled with tiny letters that constitute my notes on the subject of what will be done with the skin. I for one think burning or burying corpses is a waste of meat, not to mention the skin, which could be used to make inexpensive clothing items and fashion accessories.
T be continued after I hunt down some bums and blast them right off the welfare line and sate my need.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
We stretched a bit, soon enough sat up, drowsily creeping toward our first cups of coffee. I told M, " The fucking government should give us psycho killer's a license, okay? To fucking kill those assholes protesting abortions."
By this time -- that being mere seconds since the little death with dreams dropped away, as I opened passed into another pointless day, M., the weekend pot head, was handing me a bowl and simply ignoring what I had said, like she tends to do when the conversation gets too weird for her. Once, when my mom was talking about all the people she tortured, M. broke into an anecdote and tried to get everyone to start talking about my paintings. My family just quieted for a moment as they all kind of looked at M. with what used to be called the evil eye... I had to cock my shotgun at that point, let that 'cha-ching' tell my family that I was keeping thier asses covered when they are near me and mine. I also hide a few claymores under thier chairs, all wired to an apparatus I have hidden under my shirt sleeve, on my forearm. These are the same babies I use in the front yard, where some say that they have led to the mysterious disappearences of hundreds of door to door salespeople? Now, me, I don't know if this is true, or not... in fact, the whole not incriminating myself thing is something I really need to keep in mind while I am typoing away in here.
I was wearing full body armor during this family gathering, and still wishing like hell, every time by bum leg hurts -- which is every time I take a step, that I had been all armored out during the New Years Mayhem, as the papers called Dad's party. I guess we just drove around in a limo shooting people who were wearing furs... I mean, we may kill, my family, but we have fucking high standards of what is civilized, okay? I mean, we do not kill the working man, or steal from him to support our killing ways, if possible, but there is always going to be some collaterol damage, like civilians getting deep, deadly if not cleaned, ankle scratches from vicious, highly trained hamster troops --- who probably go just plain out blood crazy and don't care whose ankle they assault in battle.
Over all, you could say we are on the side of the underdog, alright? My mom was in the union, where our genetic predisposition toward just cutting down our enemies came in handy, as you can imagine. We actually used to occasionally have to keep a dead body in our freezer, just for a day or so, until a Fixer came in with acid and turned her into what he said was an enviornmentally safe liquid that he pouered into a sewer hole... making me think, I will drink this man into my body sometime....
There are too many people on the planet. Over population could be the death of us all. Something will have to be done. In the case of deer, which are not nearly as ecologically upheaving as humans, there is a license, a season, and lots of laws against breaking these taboos. Why not give psycho killer's a licenses? We could kill all rapists and murderers hands down no exceptions and no apologies accepted -- because if these bastards want to be cold, let's let society be cold right back. Don't let them live. You rape a woman and you are a major freak who needs to die. You molest a kid and you die slow. They could just let loose all the damn prisoners in for these offenses, out into some damn woods, and get this over crowding issue finally dealt with.
Human meat would come into vogue; the skins could be fashionable boots and other fashion excessories. I mean, human testicles could be ground up and sold to chinese peasents as cures for just whatever the hell we decide. Ignorant peasents are easy to dupe. The skin will be make shirts, ottomans's and.... oh, I don't know some kind skimpy skirts... I don't have this quite all worked out yet, but I do have about a dozen notepads filled with tiny letters that constitute my notes on the subject of what will be done with the skin. I for one think burning or burying corpses is a waste of meat, not to mention the skin, which could be used to make inexpensive clothing items and fashion accessories.
T be continued after I hunt down some bums and blast them right off the welfare line and sate my need.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
SONGS FOR THE DEAD
Fuck you
one and all
I will die
before I let you
chain me to your ignorance
never meant to make you do
any more than think
to unbridle
your ideas from emotions
debating
out a consensus
is not for you
i know
not for you
been to swamps
and mountaintops
ran with the madmen
and theives
seen the saints and sinners
the women who please
never found nothing
not one damn thing
in all that mystic wandering
pledged alliegance to women
states of mind
told myself I was different
then that I was just acting in kind
screams of the anguished
fill my mind
confusion my patron saint
no absolutes reign in this state
I tend to stay
in the statistical middle
of opinions and powers
I go along and at worst look dour
no one cares to hear my whines
no one will do what I say
They won't stay if you cry
They will banish you
from their life
and thoughts
replace your memory
with a monster's mask
someone easy not to miss
sorry to run so far ahead
never meant to lose touch
I'll live as I please
dance sometimes
sometimes seeth
slouching through the room
insolent and cold
inhuman
I'll take your tears
and fears
and all that is dear
toss that shit
into a deep mud puddle
and just walk away
fuck you and your values
you're too dense
to see under the surface
a tiny bit
of an inch
I'm not going to be held prisoner
chained
to your dead head
will not be held back
by you
no more
I will smile cold and dispassionate
slice open your jugular
and feel your bloods' warmth
splash on my face
drive nails into your
hands and feet
cut your brow
with a crown of thorns
whatever . . . it . . . takes . . .
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
one and all
I will die
before I let you
chain me to your ignorance
never meant to make you do
any more than think
to unbridle
your ideas from emotions
debating
out a consensus
is not for you
i know
not for you
been to swamps
and mountaintops
ran with the madmen
and theives
seen the saints and sinners
the women who please
never found nothing
not one damn thing
in all that mystic wandering
pledged alliegance to women
states of mind
told myself I was different
then that I was just acting in kind
screams of the anguished
fill my mind
confusion my patron saint
no absolutes reign in this state
I tend to stay
in the statistical middle
of opinions and powers
I go along and at worst look dour
no one cares to hear my whines
no one will do what I say
They won't stay if you cry
They will banish you
from their life
and thoughts
replace your memory
with a monster's mask
someone easy not to miss
sorry to run so far ahead
never meant to lose touch
I'll live as I please
dance sometimes
sometimes seeth
slouching through the room
insolent and cold
inhuman
I'll take your tears
and fears
and all that is dear
toss that shit
into a deep mud puddle
and just walk away
fuck you and your values
you're too dense
to see under the surface
a tiny bit
of an inch
I'm not going to be held prisoner
chained
to your dead head
will not be held back
by you
no more
I will smile cold and dispassionate
slice open your jugular
and feel your bloods' warmth
splash on my face
drive nails into your
hands and feet
cut your brow
with a crown of thorns
whatever . . . it . . . takes . . .
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
franklins long long life
Franklin looked over the knick knacks of his life and noticed himself staring out. He sat back in the chair, pushed away from his desk, looked at the pictures neatly laid out before him, the grey stapler, the computer monitor, the chipped cup filled with pens and pencils; and realized, in a manner deep and profound to him, that these disposable trinkets were really the sum of him; the numbers in the equation of his life.
He looked up on the beige walls of his cubicle, at the plaques that he had received over the years commending him for making the various sales quota's, and such; the largest of them was for never using a sick day, for which he also received a nice bonus. Back then he thought that he could drag himself to work with the plague if he had to. Just then, however, nothing in his life motivated him to go on.
His attendence record was destroyed after he ignored searing pains in his side and his apendix burst. His lawyer had wanted him to sue, and somehow the company caught wind of that and cancelled all bonuses based on attendence as a pre-emptive measure, making him quite unpopular with some of the long term enployees who used to go on their vacations each year on the bonus. Most of them had to quit vacationing, he included. Not that he would have done anymore than get drunk on cheap beer and watch movies.
After his apendix exploded in his gut, he caught numerous infections, and ended up having to lay in the hospital for almost two months. Laying in the metallic grey and white room in his paper pj.'s with nothing around him to remind him of who he was, he had felt the same sense of loss that was sweeping through him that morning and convincing him that his life was falling apart. Before the hospital, eight o clock meant this job, nine that one... there was a purpose to his existence, even if it was just making him money he did not even neccessarily need anymore. With no office to go to, he became that sterile, lysol scented room... a creature that he did not recognize. A thing that ate and spewed, ate and spewed.
Whittlecuts comes by his cubicle, nods politely. Frank nod's back. In the office, everyone knew their place, he liked to say. Middle mangement made him basically the boss of most people in the company. He would never be made the head of the company, or ever really listened to in the important meetings. He knew this, and was just grateful he had been able to go as far as he did. He had no faith in himself at all. Indeed, he had no self to have faith in. He was merely a sum of what the corporation wanted him to be; from them he got his hair cut, car, manner of speaking, choices of restaurants, where he vacationed --he had become just like the herd of adults that he had despised when he was a kid.
Now looking back, he can see that no one, not one kid he knew., grew up to be the usual answers from kids about what they want to be when they grow up. No firemen, astronauts, presidents or even nurses.
The town he lived in was where he was born and he knew everyone there. Just four hundred people in a small space out in the flat fields of Ohio with huge homes built by McKill's Company, and they all looked the same. Brick red. Period. Every house in the town. The front windows and porches were alleged to be where the houses would all be different. At least that was what the brochure said. They were being careful to sell lots where the buyers could not see anything similar to their house; and no one noticed at first, not with all the tree's that had been planted, as well as the privacy walls up around people's lawns. The price was so good that they sold out in a few days, mostly to realitors. Some had already turned over their properties and gotten rich.
He seems to hear David Byrne singing in his ear, "This is not my beautiful house." It had seemed that way since his wife, Phyllis, passed away. He had come into work just a week after the funeral. That was all his vacation days. They would have gave him a leave of absence, but he had no idea what to do with himself other than cry. With her gone, who he was seems more in question than ever. He liked the person he was with her. She had been enough for him. He was on the sunset side of middle aged, balding and grey and bespeckled... without youthful beauty, he felt barely visible to others. They treated him like an old man. He was more than that. He was once young like the kids in the cubicles on the floor below his, and now was older --having that kind of life knowledge should have made the twenties something kids curious. No. He didn't eat alone because there was always someone else there like him, alone and just eating.
He reaches down and opens the left hand drawer of his desk. His skin looks thin on his aged hands; it is almost transparent, shows his blue veins pulsing underneath. He takes out a hand held recorder and a black .38. He writes on sticky note -- MY LAST WORDS, puts it on the recorder and starts talking. "Hi. Sorry to leave this mess in the office. I had no alternative. I did not want to make my house unlivible for my daughter. My will, made out a few years ago, gives her the house. I am sorry for what I am doing. I left this body long before this, in some ways. Became inhuman in small ways. Stopped seeing the person pouring me coffee in restaurants. Learned to ignore any and all distractions from my purposes in life -- including my children. I gambled that religion and money would see me through anything, but now I know there are no saviors and you can't buy love. That my pain seems endless. I no longer will roll the stone up the mountain, or let any birds eat my organs. That's all folks."
He puts the gun on his temple. Feels the cold circle of the barrel on his warm skin, closes his eyes and squeezes the trigger. Behind his closed eyelids, he sees the bullet hitting the side of his head, smashing through his skull... His head hurts like hell and he is still alive...
He passes out.
Franklin woke up in a hospital where he stayed until he was stable enough to ship to the psychiatric ward. His doctor prescribed Xanax and Prozac. He stayed in the hospital six months, became physically disabled and qualified for two pensions.
The rest of his life he spent seeking out books he loved, vistas in nature, great art... He was his surroundings, that they had said was true in the hospital. For the next thirty years, Frank became something of an eccentric, bought an RV and traveled all year long. He met another woman eventually, and felt grateful to be alive... and almost grateful that he shot himself. He never forgot the day in his cubicle noticing what he had become, and the thought kept him moving from the Niagra falls to the Everglades to the Smoky Mountains and the Pacific ocean. . . and yes, for once in my tales, he lived happily ever after.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
He looked up on the beige walls of his cubicle, at the plaques that he had received over the years commending him for making the various sales quota's, and such; the largest of them was for never using a sick day, for which he also received a nice bonus. Back then he thought that he could drag himself to work with the plague if he had to. Just then, however, nothing in his life motivated him to go on.
His attendence record was destroyed after he ignored searing pains in his side and his apendix burst. His lawyer had wanted him to sue, and somehow the company caught wind of that and cancelled all bonuses based on attendence as a pre-emptive measure, making him quite unpopular with some of the long term enployees who used to go on their vacations each year on the bonus. Most of them had to quit vacationing, he included. Not that he would have done anymore than get drunk on cheap beer and watch movies.
After his apendix exploded in his gut, he caught numerous infections, and ended up having to lay in the hospital for almost two months. Laying in the metallic grey and white room in his paper pj.'s with nothing around him to remind him of who he was, he had felt the same sense of loss that was sweeping through him that morning and convincing him that his life was falling apart. Before the hospital, eight o clock meant this job, nine that one... there was a purpose to his existence, even if it was just making him money he did not even neccessarily need anymore. With no office to go to, he became that sterile, lysol scented room... a creature that he did not recognize. A thing that ate and spewed, ate and spewed.
Whittlecuts comes by his cubicle, nods politely. Frank nod's back. In the office, everyone knew their place, he liked to say. Middle mangement made him basically the boss of most people in the company. He would never be made the head of the company, or ever really listened to in the important meetings. He knew this, and was just grateful he had been able to go as far as he did. He had no faith in himself at all. Indeed, he had no self to have faith in. He was merely a sum of what the corporation wanted him to be; from them he got his hair cut, car, manner of speaking, choices of restaurants, where he vacationed --he had become just like the herd of adults that he had despised when he was a kid.
Now looking back, he can see that no one, not one kid he knew., grew up to be the usual answers from kids about what they want to be when they grow up. No firemen, astronauts, presidents or even nurses.
The town he lived in was where he was born and he knew everyone there. Just four hundred people in a small space out in the flat fields of Ohio with huge homes built by McKill's Company, and they all looked the same. Brick red. Period. Every house in the town. The front windows and porches were alleged to be where the houses would all be different. At least that was what the brochure said. They were being careful to sell lots where the buyers could not see anything similar to their house; and no one noticed at first, not with all the tree's that had been planted, as well as the privacy walls up around people's lawns. The price was so good that they sold out in a few days, mostly to realitors. Some had already turned over their properties and gotten rich.
He seems to hear David Byrne singing in his ear, "This is not my beautiful house." It had seemed that way since his wife, Phyllis, passed away. He had come into work just a week after the funeral. That was all his vacation days. They would have gave him a leave of absence, but he had no idea what to do with himself other than cry. With her gone, who he was seems more in question than ever. He liked the person he was with her. She had been enough for him. He was on the sunset side of middle aged, balding and grey and bespeckled... without youthful beauty, he felt barely visible to others. They treated him like an old man. He was more than that. He was once young like the kids in the cubicles on the floor below his, and now was older --having that kind of life knowledge should have made the twenties something kids curious. No. He didn't eat alone because there was always someone else there like him, alone and just eating.
He reaches down and opens the left hand drawer of his desk. His skin looks thin on his aged hands; it is almost transparent, shows his blue veins pulsing underneath. He takes out a hand held recorder and a black .38. He writes on sticky note -- MY LAST WORDS, puts it on the recorder and starts talking. "Hi. Sorry to leave this mess in the office. I had no alternative. I did not want to make my house unlivible for my daughter. My will, made out a few years ago, gives her the house. I am sorry for what I am doing. I left this body long before this, in some ways. Became inhuman in small ways. Stopped seeing the person pouring me coffee in restaurants. Learned to ignore any and all distractions from my purposes in life -- including my children. I gambled that religion and money would see me through anything, but now I know there are no saviors and you can't buy love. That my pain seems endless. I no longer will roll the stone up the mountain, or let any birds eat my organs. That's all folks."
He puts the gun on his temple. Feels the cold circle of the barrel on his warm skin, closes his eyes and squeezes the trigger. Behind his closed eyelids, he sees the bullet hitting the side of his head, smashing through his skull... His head hurts like hell and he is still alive...
He passes out.
Franklin woke up in a hospital where he stayed until he was stable enough to ship to the psychiatric ward. His doctor prescribed Xanax and Prozac. He stayed in the hospital six months, became physically disabled and qualified for two pensions.
The rest of his life he spent seeking out books he loved, vistas in nature, great art... He was his surroundings, that they had said was true in the hospital. For the next thirty years, Frank became something of an eccentric, bought an RV and traveled all year long. He met another woman eventually, and felt grateful to be alive... and almost grateful that he shot himself. He never forgot the day in his cubicle noticing what he had become, and the thought kept him moving from the Niagra falls to the Everglades to the Smoky Mountains and the Pacific ocean. . . and yes, for once in my tales, he lived happily ever after.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
FALLING STARS
SYLVIA PLATH
EARNEST HEMINGWAY
HUNTER S THOMPSON
suicide renders years of therapy impotent
they go somewhere far from being a star
become desperate enough to think
the murky unknown has to be better
stand in wonder when the rich and famous
let their hands grow traitorous
a life you can only dream of
finds a desperate murk to lose themselves in
worth by proximity to god
just ain't working for them
they must feel there's no worth
in the persistent pains of an average day ?
they shine like beacons spewing blackness into the daylight
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
EARNEST HEMINGWAY
HUNTER S THOMPSON
suicide renders years of therapy impotent
they go somewhere far from being a star
become desperate enough to think
the murky unknown has to be better
stand in wonder when the rich and famous
let their hands grow traitorous
a life you can only dream of
finds a desperate murk to lose themselves in
worth by proximity to god
just ain't working for them
they must feel there's no worth
in the persistent pains of an average day ?
they shine like beacons spewing blackness into the daylight
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
TYEST
TESTETRE
HOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
HOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Fuck you
one and all
I will die
before I let you
chain me to your ignorance
never meant to make you do
any more than think
to unbridle
your ideas from emotions
debating
out a consensus
is not for you
i know
not for you
been to swamps
and mountaintops
ran with the madmen
and thieves
seen the saints and sinners
the women who please
never found nothing
not one damn thing
in all that mystic wandering
pledged alliegance to women
states of mind
told myself I was different
then that I was just acting in kind
the screams of the anguish
fills my mind
confusion my patron saint
no absolutes reign in this state
I tend to stay
in the statistical middle
of opinions and powers
I go along and at worst look dour
no one cares to hear my whines
no one will do what I say
no one should
They won't stay if you cry
They will banish you
from their life
and thoughts
replace you
with a monster's mask
someone it is easy not to miss
sorry to run so far ahead
never meant to lose touch
I'll live as I please
dance sometimes
sometimes seeth
slouching through the room insolent and cold
inhuman
I'll take your tears and fears
and all that is dear
toss it into a deep mud puddle
and walk
fuck you and your values
you're too dense to see under the surface
a tiny bit of an inch
I'm not going to be held prisoner
chained to your dead head
will not be held back by you
no more
I will slice open your jugular
and feel your bloods' warmth
splash on my face
smile cold and dispassionate
drive nails into your
hands and feet
cut your brow
with a crown of thorns
whatever . . . it . . . takes .. .
fuck you THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
one and all
I will die
before I let you
chain me to your ignorance
never meant to make you do
any more than think
to unbridle
your ideas from emotions
debating
out a consensus
is not for you
i know
not for you
been to swamps
and mountaintops
ran with the madmen
and thieves
seen the saints and sinners
the women who please
never found nothing
not one damn thing
in all that mystic wandering
pledged alliegance to women
states of mind
told myself I was different
then that I was just acting in kind
the screams of the anguish
fills my mind
confusion my patron saint
no absolutes reign in this state
I tend to stay
in the statistical middle
of opinions and powers
I go along and at worst look dour
no one cares to hear my whines
no one will do what I say
no one should
They won't stay if you cry
They will banish you
from their life
and thoughts
replace you
with a monster's mask
someone it is easy not to miss
sorry to run so far ahead
never meant to lose touch
I'll live as I please
dance sometimes
sometimes seeth
slouching through the room insolent and cold
inhuman
I'll take your tears and fears
and all that is dear
toss it into a deep mud puddle
and walk
fuck you and your values
you're too dense to see under the surface
a tiny bit of an inch
I'm not going to be held prisoner
chained to your dead head
will not be held back by you
no more
I will slice open your jugular
and feel your bloods' warmth
splash on my face
smile cold and dispassionate
drive nails into your
hands and feet
cut your brow
with a crown of thorns
whatever . . . it . . . takes .. .
fuck you THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
songs for the dead
Fuck you
one and all
I will die
before I let you
chain me to your ignorance
never meant to make you do
any more than think
to unbridle
your ideas from emotions
debating
out a consensus
is not for you
i know
not for you
been to swamps
and mountaintops
ran with the madmen
and thieves
seen the saints and sinners
the women who please
never found nothing
not one damn thing
in all that mystic wandering
pledged alliegance to women
states of mind
told myself I was different
then that I was just acting in kind
the screams of the anguish
fills my mind
confusion my patron saint
no absolutes reign in this state
I tend to stay
in the statistical middle
of opinions and powers
I go along and at worst look dour
no one cares to hear my whines
no one will do what I say
no one should
They won't stay if you cry
They will banish you
from their life
and thoughts
replace you
with a monster's mask
someone it is easy not to miss
sorry to run so far ahead
never meant to lose touch
I'll live as I please
dance sometimes
sometimes seeth
slouching through the room insolent and cold
inhuman
I'll take your tears and fears
and all that is dear
toss it into a deep mud puddle
and walk
fuck you and your values
you're too dense to see under the surface
a tiny bit of an inch
I'm not going to be held prisoner
chained to your dead head
will not be held back by you
no more
I will slice open your jugular
and feel your bloods' warmth
splash on my face
smile cold and dispassionate
drive nails into your
hands and feet
cut your brow
with a crown of thorns
whatever . . . it . . . takes .. .
fuck you THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
one and all
I will die
before I let you
chain me to your ignorance
never meant to make you do
any more than think
to unbridle
your ideas from emotions
debating
out a consensus
is not for you
i know
not for you
been to swamps
and mountaintops
ran with the madmen
and thieves
seen the saints and sinners
the women who please
never found nothing
not one damn thing
in all that mystic wandering
pledged alliegance to women
states of mind
told myself I was different
then that I was just acting in kind
the screams of the anguish
fills my mind
confusion my patron saint
no absolutes reign in this state
I tend to stay
in the statistical middle
of opinions and powers
I go along and at worst look dour
no one cares to hear my whines
no one will do what I say
no one should
They won't stay if you cry
They will banish you
from their life
and thoughts
replace you
with a monster's mask
someone it is easy not to miss
sorry to run so far ahead
never meant to lose touch
I'll live as I please
dance sometimes
sometimes seeth
slouching through the room insolent and cold
inhuman
I'll take your tears and fears
and all that is dear
toss it into a deep mud puddle
and walk
fuck you and your values
you're too dense to see under the surface
a tiny bit of an inch
I'm not going to be held prisoner
chained to your dead head
will not be held back by you
no more
I will slice open your jugular
and feel your bloods' warmth
splash on my face
smile cold and dispassionate
drive nails into your
hands and feet
cut your brow
with a crown of thorns
whatever . . . it . . . takes .. .
fuck you THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
PRESIDENT SAYS, 'IN ORDER TO SAVE THE IRAQI'S, WE MAY HAVE TO KILL EVERY DAMN ONE OF THEM."
PRESIDENT SAYS, 'IN ORDER TO SAVE THE IRAQI'S, WE MAY HAVE TO KILL EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM BASTARDS."
As W. The Rockstar President went out to get his mail today, he made the somewhat cryptic statement, "Yea, I got me some bad boys in here, some of them nuclear ones...been using it to keep my collection of cowboy hats on, and to make nifty endtables. But, I am thinking now, that the only way to save the Iraqui's is to fall back on what was, I hope the world will remember, my original plan, which is to kill all of the Iraqui's, so we know that they are safe from factions in their own society that would terrorize the march of freedom. Like with animals -- and you would not believe the reports I get on how many people these despicable NARCO TERRORISTS kill and mayhem. If it isn't alligators taken some kid in the nile, it is a . . . well, some god forasken pig eating somebody at a goddamned petting zoo. I will not stand by and say 'hey, they are animals, so they can kill on my watch.' I think them other presidents were scared of bears or something . . . being from texas, and having shot many a bear out in the wild, where dad would put the pens that held these feirce beasts as we crept to within a hundred yards, risking life and limb, to kill these creatures. Oh, it was a battle between man and animal of the likes unseen since dad went into that Chicken Coup to hunt the often peckish hen. He barely came out of that one alive. There were ankle scratches that to this day he cannot bear to remember. In fact he faints, like we all do. Chicken scratches can be as painful as... well, hell, bullets, I imagine. Well, more bullets than one. People can still walk with a bullet, but when dad took that chicken scratch, they had to airlift him to Mountain Sinia -- there was not way in hell he was walking with that gash, which almost broke the skin."
The president then scratched his groin, belched, went back inside with his mail and slammed the door shut behind. THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
As W. The Rockstar President went out to get his mail today, he made the somewhat cryptic statement, "Yea, I got me some bad boys in here, some of them nuclear ones...been using it to keep my collection of cowboy hats on, and to make nifty endtables. But, I am thinking now, that the only way to save the Iraqui's is to fall back on what was, I hope the world will remember, my original plan, which is to kill all of the Iraqui's, so we know that they are safe from factions in their own society that would terrorize the march of freedom. Like with animals -- and you would not believe the reports I get on how many people these despicable NARCO TERRORISTS kill and mayhem. If it isn't alligators taken some kid in the nile, it is a . . . well, some god forasken pig eating somebody at a goddamned petting zoo. I will not stand by and say 'hey, they are animals, so they can kill on my watch.' I think them other presidents were scared of bears or something . . . being from texas, and having shot many a bear out in the wild, where dad would put the pens that held these feirce beasts as we crept to within a hundred yards, risking life and limb, to kill these creatures. Oh, it was a battle between man and animal of the likes unseen since dad went into that Chicken Coup to hunt the often peckish hen. He barely came out of that one alive. There were ankle scratches that to this day he cannot bear to remember. In fact he faints, like we all do. Chicken scratches can be as painful as... well, hell, bullets, I imagine. Well, more bullets than one. People can still walk with a bullet, but when dad took that chicken scratch, they had to airlift him to Mountain Sinia -- there was not way in hell he was walking with that gash, which almost broke the skin."
The president then scratched his groin, belched, went back inside with his mail and slammed the door shut behind. THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
PRESIDENT TELLS SHOCKED WORLD,"IN ORDER TO SAVE THE IRAQI'S, WE MAY HAVE TO KILL EVERY DAMN ONE OF THOSE BASTARDS..."
PRESIDENT TELLS SHOCKED WORLD,"IN ORDER TO SAVE THE IRAQI'S, WE MAY HAVE TO KILL EVERY DAMN ONE OF THOSE BASTARDS..."As W. The Rockstar President went out to get his mail today, he made the somewhat cryptic statement, "Yea, I got me some bad boys in here, some of them nuclear ones...been using it to keep my collection of cowboy hats on, and to make nifty endtables. But, I am thinking now, that the only way to save the Iraqui's is to fall back on what was, I hope the world will remember, my original plan, which is to kill all of the Iraqui's, so we know that they are safe from factions in their own society that would terrorize the march of freedom. Like with animals -- and you would not believe the reports I get on how many people these despicable NARCO TERRORISTS kill and mayhem. If it isn't alligators taken some kid in the nile, it is a . . . well, some god forasken pig eating somebody at a goddamned petting zoo. I will not stand by and say 'hey, they are animals, so they can kill on my watch.' I think them other presidents were scared of bears or something . . . being from texas, and having shot many a bear out in the wild, where dad would put the pens that held these feirce beasts as we crept to within a hundred yards, risking life and limb, to kill these creatures. Oh, it was a battle between man and animal of the likes unseen since dad went into that Chicken Coup to hunt the often peckish hen. He barely came out of that one alive. There were ankle scratches that to this day he cannot bear to remember. In fact he faints, like we all do. Chicken scratches can be as painful as... well, hell, bullets, I imagine. Well, more bullets than one. People can still walk with a bullet, but when dad took that chicken scratch, they had to airlift him to Mountain Sinia -- there was not way in hell he was walking with that gash, which almost broke the skin."
The president then scratched his groin, belched, went back inside with his mail and slammed the door shut behind.
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 president then scratched his groin, belched, went back inside with his mail and slammed the door shut behind.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
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