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 have been thinking about the site in terms of all the serial killer stuff that I am putting on there. I was starting to take it totally in the direction of a sick comment on being desensitized to violence by the media, video game culture, etc... the whole Kill Bill phenomena is gross to me, at heart. Tarantino thinks violence is a dance. He deserves to get his ass really, really fucking kicked once so he can find out just how ugly and brutal and smelly and naseauting it all really is. But... for some reason, I find this character really funny...
You hear artists say all the time, "I am not responsible for how people use my art." They say this after suicides and murders, folk like Marlyn Manson and the Rock Star Video game makers.... I say fuck that, to some degree -- if you don't feel responsible for your art, why would you do it? Art is about communicating with others on very deep levels that defy easy interpretation. So I try to do stuff with stories, usually, even if it is just softening my readers souls toward eccentrics and misfits or druggies or whatever...So along comes all this serial killer stuff that I have been writing about. No one has complained. I keep it so tounge in cheek that if anyone did, I would have the out that it is obviously meant to be funny. But what else is this prose doing?Is it also glorifying violence? I don't want to do that. I started thinking about this topic after coming across a critical article on people who collect Serial Killer momentos and art. I find that sick as hell, and would never in a million years want something like that around me. I would burn it. In fact, I should start buying them up and burning them. I will if I get rich. I find serial killers sick fucks, and interesting only because they are a curiousity in this weird, weird world... and I am curious about how anyone could be like that, and there are a lot of answers--too many for one or ten lifetimes. What am I doing with this serial killing that makes such prose acceptible to an educated, intellectual westerner like myself? I am subverting the very violence that I write about, making fun of the character who kills people, show him to be a reactive asshole who has no feelings for other people. This is how they really are, to a degree... common traits at least. To read prose about serial killers is kind of a hard thing for people to do. Making it funny helps. I am interested in that kind of stuff and read about it, because I don't have whatever twist in my mind that would make me kill. I don't kill insects if I can help it. I do feel like killing sometimes, but that is only because as a writer I feel like I have to be very emotionally honest, but that is a world away from even lightly smacking another human being.So, the people who read my work will apply the context that defines what the term 'serial killer' means as they read this; if they find them sexy, they may find that--certain sicko women do, or they might find that they only like the descriptions of the killing and kind of ignore the humor. Those things could happen, but obviously I have an intent that shows in my work, and they can easily see my intent as well.At the base of all my prose is a kind of working out of the universe, a way of defining the world that is compatible with science and ecology and peace and all the good stuff that people have to cling to to get through the chaos. To do this, I have to write about some dark stuff. That is some of the evidence I need. So how do I get people to come with me down dark paths? A lot of people do not even read the news because it is so depressing. That means that they don't know that there are more slaves right now -- 275million -- than ever before on the planet... or care to do the shit that would stop it... like they were trying to do a hundred years ago with the civil war. But if I write an article saying how cool it is that we have all these slaves, and how the return to slavery is just what we need to get rid of the pesky unions, PEOPLE will learn this and laugh. The laughter is like the yin to the yang. So, that is my justification for writing shit like, "I want to cut your mothers head off and fuck her throat hole... just like I did my dear old mum" as a potential pick up line in a bar... are you buying it?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, February 15, 2006
HAMSTER ARMY DOING TRAINING EXCERCISES ON IRAQ BORDER
Rumors continue to fly that Rockstar W has hired a private army to take over for american troops presently quagmired in Afganistan and Iraq. For weeks these unsubtainted rumors could not be substantiated . . . until now.He is hiring my hamster army.
THis is pretty cool, but he won't fork out the money to buy them personal body armor, or even metal sheeting to keep their little jeeps safe from sniper bullets. Just like he tried to do with the human soldiers, who W is known to refer to, confusedly, as 'the masses meat,' in an evident reference to their coming from the masses of the classes that historically supply the battle fodder in wartime, due to their relative powerlessness in society. When asked about the 'masses meat,' comment, the W had this to say, "Look, you weasely asshole. I got something called breeding okay? The masses ain't. And new meat, hell, that's just something that soldiers been called since... or was that a prison movie? That one I saw that. . . caused me to get a woody with the guy on guy action. You had those two homo's killed didn't you? I'll need the videos of that, by the way. Little research I am doing. Top secret."
Later, as the W came out of House Of Blues, where he had just seen his fantasy concert, which he arranged as a command performance, with the Rolling Stones opening for his all time favorite, the Chimpmunks, he was heard to ask, 'How the hell do they get those Chipmunks to sing anyways? I mean on the records, you know? I mean, I could tell this was just a cartoon. But on the records, that shit is straight up chipmunk.'
When asked about the possibility of the government hiring a hamster army, the W responded, "Now, that is one hell of an idea. I bet the president who does come up with that great idea will .... well, get patted on the but, so to speak, by the whole nation. Not a faggie but pat, I' talking a football player to football player... hell."When reminded of what he was talking about, the W continued, "Hamsters are just brilliant. I'd get them if I could. Surely the enemy is checking them out, breeding their baddest, toughest crop of hamsters ever, I hear. I can't say nothing but good about hamster armies, that is for damn sure."
"Does this mean, rockstar president w sir, that you have a hamster army? And my question has a second part, as well. Is this hamster army equipped in any way to defeat well armed humans?"
"What the hell? Two parts? Did I say I was giving you goddamn interview? Okay, we have hamsters. Lots of them. I been keeping them in the basement. They got a huge one here. Everybody else thinks I'm keeping the bodies of hookers back there, and stays out. "
Cheney was quickly flown to the scene in a helicopter. Taking the rockstar president w's place at the microphone (where w had been making fart noises and then laughing over and over for the last forty five minutes). "Hey, whatever he said, he was just kidding. Pulling your legs. Hamsters in the White House basement? Hell, dead hookers maybe, but not some rodent. I am anti-rodent, in most cases. Lab rats are required. I am not anti-lab rat. Hell, I hope they torture rats. Anyways, no hamsters here. Now, who wants to go on a press junket to Honolulu? Anybody? I can send anyone who doesn't want to go to Cuba, little slice of cuba where you can wear a hood for a couple years, find out what it's like to have your balls wired up to the electric sockets in your room, so whenever your interrogator comes in ands flips on the lights you can't wait to tell them what they want. Wait, I did not say that. No, I was just kidding. I mean, I said it, in the context of kidding. We're practicing for, uh, April Fools Day. THough of course, last year, when the W called Russia and said the Nukes were in the sky was excessive, though I think everyone can laugh about it now. Except that one town that was actually nuked. Thank god that wasn't in America. There was not one American death. No one thanks the president for that. The Cheney Out."
Flashing 'v' for victory signs, Cheney was observed getting into a limosine with twelve, horny, obviously erect afgan hounds. Cheney's personal ass greaser, Rush Limbaugh, was also seen in the limo, dipping his hands into large vats of Crisco and laughing maniacally.
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 pretty cool, but he won't fork out the money to buy them personal body armor, or even metal sheeting to keep their little jeeps safe from sniper bullets. Just like he tried to do with the human soldiers, who W is known to refer to, confusedly, as 'the masses meat,' in an evident reference to their coming from the masses of the classes that historically supply the battle fodder in wartime, due to their relative powerlessness in society. When asked about the 'masses meat,' comment, the W had this to say, "Look, you weasely asshole. I got something called breeding okay? The masses ain't. And new meat, hell, that's just something that soldiers been called since... or was that a prison movie? That one I saw that. . . caused me to get a woody with the guy on guy action. You had those two homo's killed didn't you? I'll need the videos of that, by the way. Little research I am doing. Top secret."
Later, as the W came out of House Of Blues, where he had just seen his fantasy concert, which he arranged as a command performance, with the Rolling Stones opening for his all time favorite, the Chimpmunks, he was heard to ask, 'How the hell do they get those Chipmunks to sing anyways? I mean on the records, you know? I mean, I could tell this was just a cartoon. But on the records, that shit is straight up chipmunk.'
When asked about the possibility of the government hiring a hamster army, the W responded, "Now, that is one hell of an idea. I bet the president who does come up with that great idea will .... well, get patted on the but, so to speak, by the whole nation. Not a faggie but pat, I' talking a football player to football player... hell."When reminded of what he was talking about, the W continued, "Hamsters are just brilliant. I'd get them if I could. Surely the enemy is checking them out, breeding their baddest, toughest crop of hamsters ever, I hear. I can't say nothing but good about hamster armies, that is for damn sure."
"Does this mean, rockstar president w sir, that you have a hamster army? And my question has a second part, as well. Is this hamster army equipped in any way to defeat well armed humans?"
"What the hell? Two parts? Did I say I was giving you goddamn interview? Okay, we have hamsters. Lots of them. I been keeping them in the basement. They got a huge one here. Everybody else thinks I'm keeping the bodies of hookers back there, and stays out. "
Cheney was quickly flown to the scene in a helicopter. Taking the rockstar president w's place at the microphone (where w had been making fart noises and then laughing over and over for the last forty five minutes). "Hey, whatever he said, he was just kidding. Pulling your legs. Hamsters in the White House basement? Hell, dead hookers maybe, but not some rodent. I am anti-rodent, in most cases. Lab rats are required. I am not anti-lab rat. Hell, I hope they torture rats. Anyways, no hamsters here. Now, who wants to go on a press junket to Honolulu? Anybody? I can send anyone who doesn't want to go to Cuba, little slice of cuba where you can wear a hood for a couple years, find out what it's like to have your balls wired up to the electric sockets in your room, so whenever your interrogator comes in ands flips on the lights you can't wait to tell them what they want. Wait, I did not say that. No, I was just kidding. I mean, I said it, in the context of kidding. We're practicing for, uh, April Fools Day. THough of course, last year, when the W called Russia and said the Nukes were in the sky was excessive, though I think everyone can laugh about it now. Except that one town that was actually nuked. Thank god that wasn't in America. There was not one American death. No one thanks the president for that. The Cheney Out."
Flashing 'v' for victory signs, Cheney was observed getting into a limosine with twelve, horny, obviously erect afgan hounds. Cheney's personal ass greaser, Rush Limbaugh, was also seen in the limo, dipping his hands into large vats of Crisco and laughing maniacally.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
TV SCREAMS
don't be PC
the tv screams
words are just words
until they become Columbine
or appear on a comic with allah and his knives
voice after voice after face screaming BUY NOW don't wait/ offer won't last/great discounts/
claims of the paid liars we invite into our living rooms
Woner what do they tell the children
the flim flam men and the shiny skinny ladies
do they taunt everyone into trying to be plasticine
always afraid of showing ourselves
hiding away the cripples inside
silent stoics spending whithered days mentally running away from the constant mourning
the flurry of extinctions in the animal kingdom
the plight of every dog on a leash
every cat declawed
horrors of the farm
- all the trade offs to survive this time
the mind games we use to avoidthe mental mine field
that explode our tentative constructs
set the sick sinners loose from the chains of culture
make us see cows faces in our burgers
child slaves in our shirts
Hitlers' mustach under every preachers nose
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 tv screams
words are just words
until they become Columbine
or appear on a comic with allah and his knives
voice after voice after face screaming BUY NOW don't wait/ offer won't last/great discounts/
claims of the paid liars we invite into our living rooms
Woner what do they tell the children
the flim flam men and the shiny skinny ladies
do they taunt everyone into trying to be plasticine
always afraid of showing ourselves
hiding away the cripples inside
silent stoics spending whithered days mentally running away from the constant mourning
the flurry of extinctions in the animal kingdom
the plight of every dog on a leash
every cat declawed
horrors of the farm
- all the trade offs to survive this time
the mind games we use to avoidthe mental mine field
that explode our tentative constructs
set the sick sinners loose from the chains of culture
make us see cows faces in our burgers
child slaves in our shirts
Hitlers' mustach under every preachers nose
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
VIOLENT MOVIES
violent movies
Why not let John Wayne go in and correct everything
have him do it in two hours
brave and steadfast in the face of danger
standing up when his cowboy buddies are laying down
he of course shoots them alllike twenty of themwith a six shoote
LET THE MOVIE END
with no crying widows
no burned out buildings
no lives forever disrupted
no one waving a white flag from a roof
no suicide bombers
no kings
no dictators
no slaves
no whores
no religions
no crack
no herion
no one crying over any damn thing at all...
LET THE MOVIE END
with a lone girl with dark brown hair
the face of liz taylor when she was a diamond
she is softly humming a song to herself
her eyes closed as she slowly/slowly dances to the tune
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Why not let John Wayne go in and correct everything
have him do it in two hours
brave and steadfast in the face of danger
standing up when his cowboy buddies are laying down
he of course shoots them alllike twenty of themwith a six shoote
LET THE MOVIE END
with no crying widows
no burned out buildings
no lives forever disrupted
no one waving a white flag from a roof
no suicide bombers
no kings
no dictators
no slaves
no whores
no religions
no crack
no herion
no one crying over any damn thing at all...
LET THE MOVIE END
with a lone girl with dark brown hair
the face of liz taylor when she was a diamond
she is softly humming a song to herself
her eyes closed as she slowly/slowly dances to the tune
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
dragging the sickness out into the light
Don't you hate it when you read about some celebrity going in and out of treatment over some horrifying addiction? It is like, you know, sooner or later this person is going to use something again. They make all sorts of declerations of this and that about being sober, or perhaps just drinking booze and smoking and downing coffee but staying away from the hard stuff... When My Man Mitchum came out of treatment, a reporter asked him how he had changed.... Mitchum, who was being interviewed in a bar as he put away ungodly amounts of scotch, said something like, "Since I went through treatment, I'm drinking everything on the rocks." (this quote is much funnier than what I have written here). I keep telling you kids to stick to the weed, but I didn't listen so why should I expect you to?Not that I want to make light of going through treatment. There are few hells I understand better than the one of addiction. Everything I believe on the topic was written in scars. I can be pretty bad about this kind of shit if I let myself, because I just can't seem to get myself to moderate when it comes to drinking. I gave it up years ago because of all the mayhem this kind of pattern can have on ones life. I couldn't function drinking. Some can, but me... no, some big fuck up always happened that made me too ashamed to drink. I really could not control who I slept with, or what kind of mischeif I might decide was cool while drunk. Including fighting, which is a very ugly trait. I got my ass kicked exactly once in my life, and that was when I was eighteen and whisky drunk. I was so foolish that the shame rides down my nerves to this day and slams into my stomach with a big splash of acid...Regrets? I want to be a man who has regrets, because everyone should have a few. Everyone. Except machines and psycho paths. Prisons are filled with people who have no regrets for the most heinous behavior, yet I get floored by the horrible emotions that fill me if I am late walking my dog. Damn is the world a subjective place...Anyways, the treatment thing... I just wanted to say that I did it myself, and it was such a big mind fuck ... but I don't know if I would be who I am today, for good or bad, if I had not gone through treatment. I learned a lot of reasons to quit drinking... problem was, they involved invisible freinds, and that illusion doesn't stick with me, no matter how much brain washing I and others subject it to.Now I smoke enough weed to qualify as some kind of rastafarian. I don't have the hair, and can't spell the religion, but there is some kind of loophole in the law that allows people to take drugs for relgious purposes. I couldn't deal with that hair... just having long hair is a nightmarish chore... so I really do need to start a religion.hey, I just had a vision from the all powerful alarm clock that I worship... I must start a new religion, so people can finally truly know that their bad habits will still be allowed in heaven. Attaining the bliss of this religion requires sending me money, which I will then send the 'spirit' of up to heaven... this evil money you send buys you different things in heaven. Like, you want a flat screen in heaven? We are talking all eternity here, so you probably want something with an exceptional picture, right? Send me just ten dollars, and our god will give you a tv set so big that it looks like a drive in, and you can watch anything you want while floating on a cloud. You're probably wondering what kind of snacks are in heaven... well, none, unless you buy them now. Sorry, I don't write the revelations, I just scribe them for the big guy-gal... So, join my religion to learn about Fritos as big a truck, oreos with so much filling coming out the sides that you can ski on them... I have been ordered to call this true, true heaven The Realm of Jolly Fat Fuckers. All we'll do is eat and fuck -- and don't worry, we'll have no boring virgins in this heaven -- no, these women know how to do it all!!! And the women in this heaven actually like to give guys head. M. doesn't believe this last part. Damn her.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Don't you hate it when you read about some celebrity going in and out of treatment over some horrifying addiction? It is like, you know, sooner or later this person is going to use something again. They make all sorts of declerations of this and that about being sober, or perhaps just drinking booze and smoking and downing coffee but staying away from the hard stuff... When My Man Mitchum came out of treatment, a reporter asked him how he had changed.... Mitchum, who was being interviewed in a bar as he put away ungodly amounts of scotch, said something like, "Since I went through treatment, I'm drinking everything on the rocks." (this quote is much funnier than what I have written here). I keep telling you kids to stick to the weed, but I didn't listen so why should I expect you to?Not that I want to make light of going through treatment. There are few hells I understand better than the one of addiction. Everything I believe on the topic was written in scars. I can be pretty bad about this kind of shit if I let myself, because I just can't seem to get myself to moderate when it comes to drinking. I gave it up years ago because of all the mayhem this kind of pattern can have on ones life. I couldn't function drinking. Some can, but me... no, some big fuck up always happened that made me too ashamed to drink. I really could not control who I slept with, or what kind of mischeif I might decide was cool while drunk. Including fighting, which is a very ugly trait. I got my ass kicked exactly once in my life, and that was when I was eighteen and whisky drunk. I was so foolish that the shame rides down my nerves to this day and slams into my stomach with a big splash of acid...Regrets? I want to be a man who has regrets, because everyone should have a few. Everyone. Except machines and psycho paths. Prisons are filled with people who have no regrets for the most heinous behavior, yet I get floored by the horrible emotions that fill me if I am late walking my dog. Damn is the world a subjective place...Anyways, the treatment thing... I just wanted to say that I did it myself, and it was such a big mind fuck ... but I don't know if I would be who I am today, for good or bad, if I had not gone through treatment. I learned a lot of reasons to quit drinking... problem was, they involved invisible freinds, and that illusion doesn't stick with me, no matter how much brain washing I and others subject it to.Now I smoke enough weed to qualify as some kind of rastafarian. I don't have the hair, and can't spell the religion, but there is some kind of loophole in the law that allows people to take drugs for relgious purposes. I couldn't deal with that hair... just having long hair is a nightmarish chore... so I really do need to start a religion.hey, I just had a vision from the all powerful alarm clock that I worship... I must start a new religion, so people can finally truly know that their bad habits will still be allowed in heaven. Attaining the bliss of this religion requires sending me money, which I will then send the 'spirit' of up to heaven... this evil money you send buys you different things in heaven. Like, you want a flat screen in heaven? We are talking all eternity here, so you probably want something with an exceptional picture, right? Send me just ten dollars, and our god will give you a tv set so big that it looks like a drive in, and you can watch anything you want while floating on a cloud. You're probably wondering what kind of snacks are in heaven... well, none, unless you buy them now. Sorry, I don't write the revelations, I just scribe them for the big guy-gal... So, join my religion to learn about Fritos as big a truck, oreos with so much filling coming out the sides that you can ski on them... I have been ordered to call this true, true heaven The Realm of Jolly Fat Fuckers. All we'll do is eat and fuck -- and don't worry, we'll have no boring virgins in this heaven -- no, these women know how to do it all!!! And the women in this heaven actually like to give guys head. M. doesn't believe this last part. Damn her.
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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