gagngsta

the kindred of the lost
you discuss yourselves
slowly into madness


out goes all the reasoned notions
in come
the drinks
and potions


predators creep about in the bushes
outside the school yard
why are you surprised to find yourself in the line up?

watch you from far on the other side of sanity
see the storms
that blew apart your dark life
shredded you down
stripped your humanity
to the bare animal core

left a cruel smile on your face
an ugliness nothing can hide

a settled look of disgust
becomes the mask of your last decades

your insides dry and brittle
emptied somewhere
accidently
along the way
pissed into a stained toilet
in a stream of cheap wine
coughed out in bloody plegm
and spit on the sidewalk








copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

This entry is an excerpt from what just may well be the longest literary effort of my life: STUPID SHIT I DID, Volume 234, Sect. 2964, line 89







Long ago, when I was a kid going to school and all full of myself, I told Spike that I liked criticism.

He had never heard of anyone who liked criticism.

This was before I knew much about Spike, back when we were both driving cab, me going to school and him just trying to get up enough money to get his wife to quit bitching so he could go home and drink (not that he didn't drink on the job -- he just kept his head about him as best he could and got lucky).

I was talking about writing to a few cab drivers gathered around a barrel fire and mentioned that I liked being criticised.

Spike hadn't spoke to me too much at that point. We were sitting outside a ratty old, abondened concrete gas station that our boss, Mike Paite, an ex-carny, was using to run his six almost undrivable cabs.

He looked up at me and kind of scrutinized me a bit."You got any beers in your cab?"
"No," I told him, kind of shocked... "Do you?"
"Not at the moment. You like criticism, huh? What are you one of those AA guys?"

Spike asked this, I later deciphered, because during his various court ordered stints in AA over the years, the only part of the program that he had anything to do with was criticizing other people -- confronting them, he called it, claiming he was breaking down their denail. Of course, Spike took it too far... as his wife tells it, one night Spike started criticising a still shaky new guy about how he was dressed. Being Spike, he of course did this in the crudest manner possible, "You dress like a fag. You a fag? Huh, like getting the old brown eye popped?"


When I responded to Spike's question about my liking criticism, I took it as an interest in my writing, which back then was my favorite topic of conversation, and I am sure that I was puffing up my proverbial chest, as I used to do way back when I was going to school and dreaming Hemingway dreams; all impressed with myself I was, after scoring with my english professor, who knew that if she stroked my ego, I would stroke hers, and stroke we did... puffing me up like a balloon that was sure to burst.

"Yes, Spike, as a writer, I have to be able to take criticism. Not to mention, I am sleeping with my editor, so I damn well better take her every word seriously. And I've found that applies in life, too -- getting the opinion of people with more experience, you know, helps me not to go down blind paths."

I had no idea at the time, of course, that I had just declared open season on myself.

Spike had been missing criticizing people in AA, his wife later told me.

Now, all these years later, he still brings up that day, . .

Then he goes on to tell me things like he did today, "Your hair looks like the mother of this kid I went to school with. You have woman hair."

The worst part is, he is the most honest man I know and usually is right, though of course he is often gloriously wrong... like in his assesment of me as a bum and that M. will sooner or later wise up and throw me and the cat's ass out. . .

Another thing he said today, kind of out the blue, after I was talking and he wasn't really even pretending to be interested, "That M. is still putting up with the stink coming off your ass is a fucking miracle."

Whenever I ask him what he means by this, he tells me, "Oh, you know what I am talking about."
"NO, I don't."
"Oh, this art scam of yours."
"Art scam?"
"Who makes the most money?"
"M."
"Sooner or later, she finds a guy with a job, and she is going to throw your ass out. You know this... if you don't, your head is further up your ass than I thought."
"Not everyone is as shallow as you, Spike. Plus, I do make some money, and I write all the time, paint... something might happen."
"Ever try to pay the cable bill with a fucking pipe dream?"

Spike has only a few concepts that he lives by, and they are subject to change, like when he became addicted to Dr. Phil, (until he was tricked into going on the show to be confronted about his drunken gambling and slapped Dr. Phil so hard that he bawled like a hungry bull calf calling for teat). Lately, he has been saying everyone is filled with pipe dreams. He got this after he read a fucking blurb on an advertisement for Eugene O' Neil's play, The Ice Man Cometh, that talked about the men having pipe dreams. The ad was sitting there on his desk as he said this....
"Every one of you fucking pot heads are full of pipe dreams. And bong dreams. Fucking bong dreams."

I am pretty sure that when Spike said 'everyone,' he means me. I am the only person he knows who is not ensconced in a crippled little lower middle class life shakily propped up by myths and drink and long, soothing lies propelled by prayer.
The only artist. The only one who is not afraid to stand alone, in a way.
He always asks me that hated question whenever I tell him that i am involvd in my blog..."Do you make any money?"
Then he proceeds to add, whenever I mention my blog to someone, "He works on that damn thing all the time, but he can't make a fucking dime on it. That sure as hell ain't working."

Certainly being an atheist makes me stand alone. Spike hates this, too; gives me that stupid arguement that if there is a god, then you will be happy you were religous, and if not you have wasted nothing...

Usually I try to just stay out of the arguements, but he is pretty damn good at baiting me. I responded to his gambler's odds view of god by telling him, "Oh, yea, you lose nothing except your freedom of thought . . . a clear view of the truths of the world
. . . the real tools that manipulate the world, rather than the mystic lies our monkey brain wants so so hard to believe. Who needs that shit, huh?"

"Yea, you'll be talking about fucking monkey lies on judgement day... to fucking Satan."
"Spike, you've done a lot of shit in your day. Buying stolen goods, for one.. lying all the time, drinking, beating up a cop, about ten customers... why would a god want you?"
"Oh, I prayed on all that and I'm forgiven. Did worst shit, too... that slate's all clean now, buddy. Unlike yours."
"I don't do anything immoral."
"Yeah, fucking, right. Say that with an illegal bag of weed in your fucking hand."
"This isn't immoral, though. I have a moral obligation to fight laws that I disagree with. As long as they are victimless crimes. Like pot would be if it were legalized and grown above ground."
"I started watching Dr. Phil again. He has a scar above his eye from where I hit him. I get the biggest kick out of that... You know, it's like I'm on tv. Unlike you, who has this pipe dream about doing tv again. What's it been, twenty years?"
"Spike, let's not argue... I'm not tryig to get into tv, either. I just send stuff off to a couple shows, kind of like playing the fucking lottery."

I really, really should know better than to ever enter an arguement with this man, because no matter what I say, he just looks at me for a few seconds, maybe grimaces, then goes on with his arguement entirely unaffected by what I have said... I hate that. Listening skills are totally under rated. Seriously. Start making a show of listening more than you talk, and really, really listen, and you will learn wondrous things all the fucking time... well, at least once in awhile, okay?

Not at Spike's of course. Or in crack houses, or whatever... listening skills have little good effect in such damaged places. One is better off being deaf. Is all of this ass achingly obvious. . If so, I am sorry.

Anyways, the most important thing about our visit went just fine...

I GOT WEED!!!!!!

&
THE RED BONG
IS HAPPILY
BUBBLING
LIKE A SMOKY LITTLE BROOK
WISH YOU WAS HERE
LOOKING ALL SQUINTY EYED
AND SLAP HAPPY
WE'D SHARE A FEW LAUGHS
BETWEEN BONGS
REMEBER HOW FINE IT IS TO BE ALIVE






copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

NAZI'S AND CRAZIES ON THE RED LINE

Coming back from Spike's, all smoked loose and limber, I sit back in my hard,plastic seat on the el train, look down to make sure that I am not putting my feet into anything sticky or gross, pull out the notebook with the writing I am working on, and prepare for a trip up north to the morse stop. A chinese woman sits down beside me, in a red dress with huge yellow flowers, rather barrel shaped, fifty some. We ride quietly for a few minutes, then a commotion in my periphery vision makes me look up from my notes and I see the woman jump up all excited and scared and run to the other end of the train.

A huge black guy had decided to sit down in the middle of the aisle, right beside her -- even though there were plenty of empty seats all around.

I kind of keep my eye on him, but I ain't moving just because some nut is sitting in the aisle. I once walked by four people fighting with knives to get through an el station -- just said 'excuse me' a lot and the combantants parted. Others who were waiting to get into the train station slowly followed down a path that the fighters made through their little battle. I was just that blaise when I drove cab... immortal.


The crazy acting guy gets up at the next stop and lumbers off.

Sitting in front of me is a very white woman in a blue dress with blue eyes and blonde hair and a slim, gym--tortured body, she turns to me and says all quiet and conspiratorially, "This is why I always take the metra."

I am sure that she looked around to make sure there were no minorities in ear shot -- and of course when I checked, there were none.

The guy behind me speaks up, "Yea, I won't take this thing at night. You run into them like that."

I interrupt and tell them, "When I used to drive cab, I fearlessly took the train at all hours of day and night, and I saw a lot of shit, but I never once had a problem."

They are silent a second, then the woman speaks to the guy behind me with the short hair and white white manner, "Yea, well, you won't see me on the train again."

Me the long haired guy with the scraggly beard scribbling notes who has called himself 'fearless,' is then ignored as they chat on throughout the rest of the train ride. I pretend that my notes have taken all of my attention, but inside I am kind of seething over their stupid ass rascist attitudes... If they would just read a fucking little bit, they would discover there is almost no crime on the train anymore -- it is safer than hell, but no, they live on little myths -- black guys are dangerous is one of them, and this one masks the truth that the trains are safe.... As I listened to them infer how much better they were for not taking a train, with their light talk of how they never would be there if their cars hadn't broke down... my rising blood pressure began to make my head pound with their every word. All the while I am thinking... I WISH I WAS BLACK SO I COULD KICK THESE HONKEY'S ASSES!!!



copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

COWS ARE NOT INTRINSICALLY EVIL???

All my life, I have believed that cows were intrinsically evil. I figured, why else would humans treat them so horribly? I picked this up most likely from my pops, who, quite frankly, talked down to beef related food products . . . Well, actually he taunted them. We'd be at McDonalds and pops would be screaming at his
big mac, "Die you hooved beast!! Die now on the shanks of my teeth!"

He went to the hospital more than once for getting drunk and attacking canned meat products -- who he held some sort of grave grudge against dating back to his days in the army (another spam related tragedy will hardly come as a surprise to the most astute among you, I dare say).

What was I to think, growing up with Dad constantly taking frozen pounds of hamburger out back for 'interrogation sesssions?' Why do you think he offered his services throughout the greater Fort Wayne, Indiana, area as an amatuer meat tenderizer? It was not, as he claimed on his business cards, 'for the children,' that he was willing to drive all over the county pounding meat all day (he would often call in sick from work to do this... on slow days, he would hang out across the street from the butcher, watching through his binoculars for women who bought cheap cuts of beef that he could then talk into some 'tenderizing'). No one ever invited him back, of course, and sooner or later everyone heard about how he would be hollaring and carrying on as he pounded the meat and his business just kind of dried up. He thought the hamburger meat in the freezer was behind the lack of business, which is what led to the interrogations I mentioned a few minutes ago.

And yet... he couldn't get enough pork, and was known to just hold large racks of raw pig ribs on his lap and pet them lovingly for days.

The cows, though... I don't like this at all... I am just confused, you know? I mean, I was raised to serial kill, like so many of my readers, and the rules are pretty hard and fast on who dies. You do not kill an entire tribe -- hell, in this case a species -- just because they feed us the milk from their tits. I mean, do we kill our mothers? Okay, I did... maybe, you know, depending on the evidence and what plea makes the most sense -- which in turn is dependent on how far the jail-house jesus thing is going to take me with the parole board (not to mention that I occasionally accidently become converted, like all those years I was in a cult worshiping a particularly intelligent white rat over in cellblock D ... we were trying to earn our way into this heaven where we were going to be given 72 experienced and eager divorcee's in their 40's. We tried to take the virgins, but the Muslim's started killing us for copying them. I liked this arrangement better, too... though like everything that had to do with that cult, it all really just came down toa bunch of talk surrounding a scam to get cigarettes for the leaders. Those bastards took a pure and innocent rat worshiping cult and turned it just republican, man... fucking republican...).

Call me a lot of things, but never say that I killed out of apathy, okay? When I find injustice, I kill. Why? They would do the same to me. I beat them to the draw. How hard is it to follow such logic? I mean, it is one thing to mow down a bunch of christians protesting outside an abortion clinic, but a bunch of cows?

This was easy when I believed they were evil, of course. Dad used to say that the republicans would be getting nowhere without help from the cows (he said the same thing about lamps, and I am just praying to dog he wasn't lying about that too). And when I believed him, I was fine with eating beef and supporting the whole institutionalised species murder thing, but now???

No...

I am going down to a meat packaging plant this afternoon, where I be will chopping up all of the employees, neatly packaging them, in weighed and priced containers of cellophane and plastic, and then donating their chunky red remains to a local soup kitchen. . . these bums will then carry my handiwork all throughout the city; sewers then will carry the bums handiwork to the oceans... where they will be swept up into the clouds and then, in the final phase of my elaboratly planned vengence, rained down on the backs of over-heated cows.





* while this little snippet of absurdity comes out on the side of vegetarinism, I suck too much to actually be a vegetarian, or even to be sure I can spell the damn word, to be honest. I do however hope future generations come to their senses before the cows finally learn to arm themselves.




copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

POETRY FROM THE FUTURE

Arctic melted
New York went Atlantis
six headed fish rule
where once the three peice suited man
walked proud and confident

Polar Bears and penguins
huskies and innuit indians
iceland, norway, and on and on
all gone, baby, gone


in our sleep
without noticing
we nailed the animals to crosses
and burned them on our lawns

we flew like poisen spewing hawks
killing across the earth
spreading silent death with our vacations
our need to explore the wildnerness killing it
we laughed bitter over the cruel fucking ironies


the cults take us over in the end
hypno-words of an apocolypse
with the forgiveness of a god
brings us to ecstasy
we drink the laced kool aide
pull plastic bags over our heads
go out on dreams of a glorious mind
with a golden plan
too immense to fit
into our flesh





copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

SLOUCHING HEROS

you can spend a life shabbily bulding
a tower of mock ivory
let the most important issues of your time
become too cliched
for the literati crowd in your mind

the fuzz in my navel
needs no more new names
youngsters have too many
co-dependent porno shots
getting muddled in their minds with
for real for real girlies
the video games say more about violence
than a few words ever will

maybe I want to pretend
the bigger issues
within my words
make the words
themselves
somehow bigger
like a goddamned rock star
periennally proving all the puff and bluster
in the world
can't produce a hit song


do I take a cause
to show my moral side
keep the focus away
from my hunchback
on my truths
rather than my lies


words words words
flying crazy through the winds of context
controlled by the comings and goings
of the emotional storms


and what matter the gun that starts the race?

maybe some saints get there
making up for sins
go from gangsters
to quiet men in the prison library
talking about how crazy far down
those kid hormones
can take ya







copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

MAD MAXY SAYS: QUIT CRUCIFYING ME YOU JEWS!!!

When folks are drunk and being arrested and are very, very desperate to get out of the consequences their actions are about to bring down, they can be mean to cops.... this is a manifestation of his alcholism. I for one hope this day goes from tragedy to something he celebrates as the end of his bottled madness.


I grew up on Mad Max Beyond The Thunderdome... always got a kick of Mel Gibson. Then came the whole Passion of Christ Thing, and reading about how his dad was a nazi. This isn't enough to condemn someone over, but my weirdo-thinking alarm definantly goes off when someone who's parent was a fanatic about a cause, becomes a fanatic about a cause. Unfortunatly, since my way of thinking is in the minority, my weirdo-thinking alarm is always going off.

ANYTIME A HUMAN decides there is a universal truth, their thinking becomes eskew. My weirdo-thinking alarm is then set off -- whether I am readinng their words, watching their play, whatever... I become suspect of the person's ability to think and learn.



However....

My dad was a fairly intelligent, balanced thinking person. He was certainly not a fanatic about anything, unless you can count his stubborn refusal to be depressed all the time regardless of the Bukowskian nightmares he conjoured. How would I have fared if he were a Nazi?

This is a post modern time, when our parent's beliefs do not necessarily end up being our own. . . right? I like to think so, but then again -- there were no jew-nigger-spic-fag-hating people in my family. They existed in my town, in my neighborhood, in conversations and the jokes I read in National Lampoon, but in my family that was just not the way we were. Now my freinds are people who don't use these words. Our brains are effected by such things

Literally, how we think is based on a couple things. One of them is how well we can make a dialectic in our mind.
How well we can think of an apple, then an orange, then a combination of the two fruits.

This dialectic helps me to look at things grey. My brain does not stop with the initial evidence and make a decision. No. Tell me that god is the creator of a seven day wonder, and this other thought slams into that one saying there is no proof of a god and the concept is being abused and used and whored out all around me... this A + B equals my present mindset, which is that god is relevant as a manifestation of a cloaking mechanism that people use to hide the real world from their eyes.

This equation of course then happens over and over all day in your brain, once it is activated... dialectics rise, merge, then have dialectics with other dialectics. You get the picture... this is how your personal cosmology comes into being. Takes place mostly beyond you, in grunted conversations between cave men dwelling deep in the dark tunnels of your psych...

On the other hand, if the easy answers were good enough for my parents, if they had decided to give into chimp-lies like nationalism, extreme religiousity, nazism, etc... would I have ever even developed the ability to create a dialectic? College should do this, but I have seen stubborn people push their way through an education without learning anything important, so it happens.

I don't know if Mel Gibson went to college or not, or much about him at all, to be honest.... I do know he has lived a worldy life, too worldy to not have had any initial prejudicial infection from his parents challanged again and again by dialectics that pretty much say jews are just people who follow a few religious rituals sometimes, like most the rest of us. . . (though not me, because I am thinking on a plane altogether superior to the god-weasled, of course).





Mel would have said anything to hurt this person. That he fell back on the stupid lies of his nazi father is almost to be expected.

I am more impressed that he is taking full blame for his actions. I mean, what the hell? Drinking too much is a fucked up, diseased way to live. If this gets him to stop, he'll be damn happy this shit happened.... if not, he'll just add it to his pile of regrets.





So, since I am still spending all of my time thinking about this new book instead of writing, here I am jumping on the bloggers opinion of the day!!!!

Man, I'm really blogging now!!!


QUIT CRUCIFYING ME, YOU JEWS!!! The handsome australian rougue told the earnest young officer.







copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

GOD WEASLED, BY GILFORD TUTTLE, WHITE, MALE, CHRTISTIAN, WARRIOR.

Once more I have been called by the lord to preach among the heathens on this web site, because evidently there are a lot of readers who missed the earlier letters that I had in here -- otherwise you would stop coming in here and reading this vile, drug addled attempt at prose. I take comfort in the thought that I am so personally blessed by godly insight that you will be a completly different person after reading this prose. You will be.... GOD WEASLED!!!


Yeah, I say, today I am speaking about the blonde, buff, deity with balls as big as mountains, the manly fanny patter himself, Jock Jesus.

His almighty manhoodedness tells me to talk about god weasling.

God Weasling is one of the primary tenents of the religion that has formed here, in the bosom of the Tuttle Family, after we were blessedly thrown out of our old church when our two year old started talking in tounges and we insisted everyone shut up and listen during services. Fools are all going to hell for that one, unless they send me a tithing or two. The Tuttle Family Electric Bill Fund is in need of donators at this point. If not for the money I make forcing the kids to work paper routes all night, I do not know how Jock Jesus would support my ministry, but I am sure he would find a way. For I bring the wisdom of the God Weasled.

God Weasling is as old as religion itself. Basically it means you can trick people into becoming religious by any means possible, like abducting them and brainwashing for them for a few months (as long as you can get them to sign a release, which is easy once they are brain washed -- ask the scientologists, those litigenous bastards). To this end, I have started doing some experiments with brain washing on the kids. And praise the Blonde Buff One, I was able to make them into little machines that go to school all day, then deliver papers all night -- all the while being filled with religious esctasy by the combination of drugs and chanting that I keep them on.

Now that I know this works, I am going to start snatching kids, juvenile deliquent types, and brainwashing them for about eight weeks, after which they will find 'ecstasy' through sleep deprivation, chanting, and giving me all the money from their paper routes.

Thank god for Reverend Sung Young Moon, that conservative shark killing chink, he was a messenger of how to create a great religion, even though Satan obviously did take him over in the end, or he would have long ago turned his money and resources over to Jock Jesus, as all the rightous on earth have.

So, you whores, sodomites, celebrity poker watching hell bound boofs and others not associated with the Tuttle Church OF Jock Jesus, or one of my kids subsideries (I have created what I call mini-churches, refrigerator boxes painted with crosses and our symbol, a bicep flexing mightely, where I post them throughout the month to read our daily family newsletter, play tapes of our blessed two year old speaking in tounges, and other things that they damn well better get donations for or they have to stay out there until they do-- poor kids, they must be really sinning on the side for the blonde buff one to curse them like this, but what can I do in the face of god, eh?)..... you have two choices -- get rid of your hippy christ now and turn him in for Jock Jesus in a sleeveless shirt with balls as big as mountains (need I even add they are perfectyly shaped ovals?), or die and go to hell, where Satan will shove hot pokers up your ass for all eternity.... and you only like it when your mom is watching.


The Buff One Does work in mysterious ways. I can make this all clear to you in six to eight weeks. You can pay me back for my services afterwards with almost all the money you make for the rest of your lives.


copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

THE HELL KILLER....

I used to always wonder how the quiet, furtive guys on the nightly news became the killers described in court. Then I heard this story, from a down on his luck weasel who was living off the dead fish that sweep up on the Lunt Avenue beach...


He was twelve when sex and sin became all mixed up in his mind. Joseph's adolescent hormones were driving him to obsessed Spring Fever at the same time his family converted, whole heartedly and five nights a week, to a fundementalist congregation, The First Church Of Christ Bleeding, which was intent on convincing all the young people that they were warriors fighting an epic battle of good versus evil. Sex was only discussed in terms of AIDS and Satanic Impulses and other dark, horror stories that the adults in the church used to try to keep heathen impulses out of their children.

Joseph was a quiet child, prone to going off by himself for long hours out in the woods behind his Hammond, Indiana house. No one knew much about him. His family and his church were both convinced that his intense, eye popping hatred of all sin
was the sign of rightous man, and he went to school and got a job and wasn't no trouble, like some of their other kids.

At eighteen, he decided, after a particularly grueling shift at a Dunkin Donuts working under a short, distempered boss, to join the Army. He loved the discipline, the training, the guns. At first he was pretty sure he could be a soldier. Then he stabbed some guy. A fag. In the bathrooms at a state park, where he was having a picinic. They let him off with a dishonorable discharge. His family understood. He just told them that he had killed a sodomite.

He finally left the church at twenty-four, after meeting a woman who introduced him to sex and drinking. Took him six months to realize that she was a Jezebel out to get his soul. She took out restraining orders against him, wouldn't let him ever see the kid. Next year he got a notice in the mail saying his wages were going to be garnished for child support. He hunted her down and put an end to that shit. She was the first woman he killed. Most everyone seemed to know he did it. His best defense was his quiet demeanor and his furtive mannerism of never looking anyone in the eye. There was not even enough evidence to take him to trial. He wasn't about to tell the cops no lies, so he just said nothing to them. He had seen about that on TV and it worked. They just quit bugging him after a few weeks, and the kid was put up for adoption.


They called him the Hell Killer, because he used the various circles of Dante's Hell to kill people. In his mind he was merely making a display of their sin, trying to warn children to keep satan out of their heads. As long as he killed in the service of the lord, he felt important... unlike his work day or when he was talking to other people. He was an instrument of god and nothing else on the earth could compare to that feeling for him. This was the spirit world where he had a place of high, high standing; where he was an avenging angel. He spent a lot of time thinking about his place in the heavens and praising god for making him so important in the grand scheme.


He killed nine people, freezing some, burning others, and then kind of eluding to the other circles... but no one in law enforcement or the press ever seemed to realize what he was doing. Unbeknownst to him, though, they indeed were following his case and calling him the Hell Killer, but the detective who was in charge of the case was keeping everything out of the papers, in the hopes of using the information to find the murderer.

Other than his first wife, no one ever did associate Joseph with the murders in his home town of Hammond, Indiana' in this respect he was like most serial killers who toil along in obscurity rather than let man's laws interfer with their heavenly mandates.

Joseph's illegitimate son, Cedric, started seeing ghosts as an infant, when his greiving mother's soul refused to leave his side. Her connection to the child was still strong enough to keep her ectoplasm in this realm for almost six months. During this formative period in the development of his brain, he started tapping into a generally unused portion of the human brain that can talk to ghosts. He generally ignored the phenomena, thinking he was just making things up... until he was sixteen,
and a strange man appeared at his door. Dressed all in black, pale and tall and thin with a hooked nose and sharp, popping out red and blue eyes. "I'm your father."

Behind the strange man, the ghosts of the people Joseph had killed were quite clear to his son. The ghosts were doing their damndest to slash and bite the man's black suited body, but he didn't notice them at all. Soon after this encounter, Cedric started seeing other people walking by with the souls of those they'd murdered clinging to them, waiting for their mortal coil to snap so they could avenge themselves... he started attending a church about then, sitting in the back and hearing a fundamentalist preach fire and brimstone; the black and white world they described was a lot different than the secular humanism his adopted parents had raised him to believe...but something else about it seemed so natural, so right, that he was able to convince himself that there was a god, and he had a plan... .

After much prayer and a conversation with a television program that may or may not have been a Twilight Zone, he decided that he was fated to hunt down these killers and set their souls free... so the murdered could get their revenge. A ghostly grudge match.

And he did just that. . . even though all the ghosts were manifestations of a defective conduit for a certain hormone in his grey, squirmy brain.

While he was awaiting trial, the connection to his father was discovered by a happy accident of dna testing -- both of their profiles came up on a skin sample under the nails of one of Cedric's victims. The detective who was heading the case took the story to the tabloid press and made a killing for revealing that Cedric's first victim was the Hell Killer, who was indeed his father....

In the last months leading up to his execution in Joiliet Prisoner, Cedric began painting his father over and over again, as well as his different victims surrounded by the ghosts they had themselves killed.

At 12:01 am last night he was put to death. As he crawled out of his body and looked around the afterlife, he saw a huge crowd of ghosts -- who turned out to be all the people who he had helped avenge. They surrounded him and protected him as the evil ghosts he had killed tried to get at him, and then whisked him away to a rather pleasent spot in the universe, where he reincarnated as a sun baked toad on a peaceful, bountiful, breeze laden planet.



copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

YOU WILL BURN IN EVERLASTING HELL WITHOUT THIS BLESSED, LIFESTYLE ENHANCING PRODUCT!!

Gilford Tuttle, White, Male, Christian Warrior Here:

I have news of great importance to all who would follow the blonde buff one with mountainous balls, Jock Jesus.

The TUTTLE FAMILY CHURCH OF THE ONLY TICKET TO SALVATION has decided to increase the Tuttle Church Electric Bill fund by selling certain items. A few of these items appear just like the normal ones you would buy at the drug store, but believe me, besides the elevated price, there are many other varied and significant differences.

Before I go into the actual list of items for sale this month, let me make sure that all of you Hell-Bounds -- which is what those blessed enough to be in our church call the rest of you --- are made once more aware of our Company Slogan:

You will burn in hell without this Blessed, lifestyle enhancing product.


Particularly our biggest seller... THE HOLY HIGH COLONIC. This bowel splash of soothing warmth is Tuttle Saint Blessed, by our two year old Moses Abraham Bush Tuttle, who is just the latest Tuttle to speak in tounges during his infancy -- Lord be praised we are special and blessed!!! Any preacher worth his salt will tell you that god is not pleased with our present state of anal hygeine -- and ye, I will now add, per the latest revelations, that NO STINK ASSES WILL BE ALLOWED NEAR THE HOLY THRONE OF JOCK JESUS THE BLONDE BUFF ONE. So what better way to show your devotion than an attractive, soft red rubber HOLY HIGH CALONIC!! 100% GUARANTEED TO WASH THE SEEDS OF SATAN OUT OF YOUR VILE BOWELS -- along with any skeletons you might have lodged in there from one of your drug based, rectal hamster insertion parties (had a vision about this one, strangely enough, while enjoying marital bliss with my wife? The Great Tuttle, as we like to call the blonde buff one around this holy house, sure works in mysterious ways).

You Could Be Just One Enema Away From Salvation!!!! Do Not let this chance to enter heaven (should you not be already too far gone). Go to my blog, The Only Salvation, to find out how to buy this and other products that will lead you out of your blind lives and into the Light that is me, Gilford Tuttle, White Male Christian Warrior.

I implore you heathen's to mark my words: Cleanse Your Bowels Now Before It Is Too Late!!!!

copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

GILFORD TUTTLE, WHITE MALE CHRISTIAN WARRIOR BRINGS YOU THE DIVINE DOUCHE OF JESUS JUICE

GILFORD TUTTLE, WHITE MALE CHRISTIAN WARRIOR BRINGS YOU THE DIVINE DOUCHE OF JESUS JUICE


Gilford Tuttle, White Male Christian Warrior Prophet And Keeper Of All Keys To The Holy Kingdom Of The Blonde Buff One, Jock Jesus, continuing my mission to save souls in cyber space and provide quality, blessed products 100% Guaranteed To Bring redemption, or a slight repreive from damnation (depending on how far gone you are already, or if you were cursed to be satan's children on earth, like the blacks and the chinese and jews and other known never-gonna-be-white-enough-to-work-out-in-the-same-gym as the Short haired blonde buff Jock Jesus). We are talking the Divine Douch Of Jesus Juice, which when sluiced through your diseased genitlia by the gallons, can make your woman smell tolerable even to the Blonde Buff One.



Today's product is needed by most harlots in America, this Satan ladden land. And by harlot, I mean all women folk over the age of seven who have not been blessed by being born into the specific type of family that our lord demands to bestow his blessings -- the Tuttle Family to be precise.

This product came to my wife, Geraldine, who is a Sunday School teacher from way back, and has read the bible 49 times and counting, so you know she knows her stuff. I mean, like I tell the kids, if all you know is the bible, then everything you know is true, so how can you go wrong? My wife was told this by her father, the often misunderstood prophet Vernon Vernon Vernon Eugene, who used to hang out, often in a pink tuti, downtown by the bus station and preach about the dangers of harlots... well, actually he just pointed at all the women going by and screamed at the top of his lungs -- HARLOT... Though few knew this at the time, God had a plan for that man -- to deliver unto me a wife worthy of I, Gilford Tuttle, who was recognized as a toungue speaker at the tender age of three months by the greatest prophet West Virginia ever saw -- Crabby Smelting Eugene Milton, who preached at the The Second Church Of His Bleeding Toes.

Geraldine Douches every two hours, or more.... She always has our two year old bless it so the water is Holier than anything that Pope ever waved his wicked wizard wand over. That woman is like the Virgin Mary, I tell you . We prayed together our first night. Sat up thinking about holding hands until almost 10 pm. Wow. Others may one day be blessed with a love like ours, but there is nothing I have seen in this world to compare to it, that is for sure. This is our burden, I told Geraldine the other night, we have to be the first to go back into Eden. This set her off crying, as it always does when that Damn Eve's first sin is brought up. Geraldine just feels so bad about that, and well she should I suppose.

I imagine there will be many, many books written in heaven about us (there will be no time here, because the signs of the apocolypse are many and it is near, so near). Geraldine was raised in the best manner a person has ever been, as our children are now -- home schooled. She can proudly state that she indeed has never read any other book than the bible, which is working just fine for our kids, by the way, too -- in fact, they are turning out perfect... except for that one genital touching incident with the prophet Ezekial, when he was three months (we tied his hands up good after that, and I am proud to say, after all these years of the family praying for him to forgiven for that dark afternoon, he will now not even touch his penis, like all good men).

If someone gave me a choice between buying A few gallons of Divine Juice Of Jesus Douch and going to Hell, I know what I would do.... and I am perfect. You are not. Who do you think you should listen to? If you are thinking not I Gilford Tuttle, then Satan has control of your mind. Send me just 59.99, or best offer.

Now is the time to wake up you sinners and Douche Satan Out Before It Is Too Late!!!!



Gilford Tuttle, White Male Christian Warror, Holy Prophet Of The Blonde Buff One And True God, and salesmen of many quality, eternal life enhanching products.




copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway