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
This picture from his site should create a million poems... we will put every damned one ON FEARLESS RADIO AND 10 MILLION PEOPLE A MONTH (FOR NOW) WILL SEE THEM... POETS, COME ON.... DIP YOUR PENS IN YOUR OWN BLOOD, FEEL THE PAIN OF THE WARRIORS.... WRITE FOR THEM NOW.
ou are welcome to spread my poems by whatever means... they are yours... unless you make some money off of me and then I would like some. Is that too much to ask? No. I have a family, too;.copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
interesting day when I wrote this
I do not know what the cia did to make george tenet appear on tv. I do know that I died my beard red that day and it looked like I woke up leaking blood. THe head of the cia said, Some people are saying I woke with blood on my face. Now, not knowing much about the cia, except that george bush was going after it, after clinton got rid of most of the right wingers. This scared me. They may have done some dastardly things when they thought I was running a communist revolt. I am sorry. I had no idea such fanatics existed. I refuse to believe there are clubs inthe cia for eating hearts, like they say they doin Skull And Bone. Maybe that is the world that I live in, and I am a blessed innocence. I know now thought that there are larger conspiracies than I would have ever considered, various factions fighting it out... trying to be bloodless, and not always acheiving that.
My pen has now drawn blood. You would know why if you followed my revolutionary poetry. I did not mean to do this.... yet, I did not know how to stop Bush from stealing an election but I figured organizing an effort to say enough is enough....
well, anyways.... I saved a lot of asses at the CIA. Let Tenet retire in the good graces. I would not have one man become the scapegoat for what the CIA has done wrong since I started total war for total peace. I think they help me,in some ways... they saved my life at least four times. I had no idea how much animosity I was going to draw.
Someone sent me like five viruses the other night. All at once. Right after I got bakc on line and started my new work. I won't back down, whether you are right wing bloggers, the chinese, or bush.... And you best not forget, I know jesus well enough to get him to call me down a wrath or two...
KILL ANYONE WHO GOES AFTER THE CIA
27/04/07
2:33 PM
PERIOD.
FIRST THEY FORGIVE
AND SINGSINGSINGSING
COME IN OUT OF THE COLD
YOU HAVE EARNED THE REST..
copywrite 2008 john scott ridgway
Friday, April 11, 2008
address to my radio show
http://www.podcastfearless.com/peaceandpipe/
Hope you go listen to the podcasts excellent music, and a bunch of improv comedy,...
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Hope you go listen to the podcasts excellent music, and a bunch of improv comedy,...
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Thursday, April 10, 2008
John Mccain keeps spare food in his cheeks!!!
John Mccain Keeps Food In His Cheeks!!!
Senator John, Chipmunk Cheeks, McCain has finally admitted that he keeps large quantities of food in his extended cheeks. Telling this reporter, "It all started when I was in Nam, laying there in a hundred and twenty degrees of hell, feeling rats eating my goddamn dick... and just being too tired to do anything about it... well, didn't mean to talk about that. You publish that shit and I will have you dead by morning. Now, anyways, for the record... I was laying there one day and had a vision, of a mighty chipmonk, telling me that if I ever was around a lot of food again, I would be like the mighty chipmonk and save some for later, in my cheeks. I had no idea I would end up with these jowls at this age. Not complaining, I can keep a full boned chicken in this side. And a couple side dishes over here. Not to mention, a gun and a playboy, which were the two things I vowed to have with me if I was ever captured again. Laying there in that lonely bamboo prison, my only friends were rats. For the most part they still are. I took one as my wife. Back in nam. When she died I ate her meat, but I kept her skin. I still keep it hidden in my recturm. Old habits die hard I guess. In fact, I still raise rats, for both food and companionship, of course."
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Senator John, Chipmunk Cheeks, McCain has finally admitted that he keeps large quantities of food in his extended cheeks. Telling this reporter, "It all started when I was in Nam, laying there in a hundred and twenty degrees of hell, feeling rats eating my goddamn dick... and just being too tired to do anything about it... well, didn't mean to talk about that. You publish that shit and I will have you dead by morning. Now, anyways, for the record... I was laying there one day and had a vision, of a mighty chipmonk, telling me that if I ever was around a lot of food again, I would be like the mighty chipmonk and save some for later, in my cheeks. I had no idea I would end up with these jowls at this age. Not complaining, I can keep a full boned chicken in this side. And a couple side dishes over here. Not to mention, a gun and a playboy, which were the two things I vowed to have with me if I was ever captured again. Laying there in that lonely bamboo prison, my only friends were rats. For the most part they still are. I took one as my wife. Back in nam. When she died I ate her meat, but I kept her skin. I still keep it hidden in my recturm. Old habits die hard I guess. In fact, I still raise rats, for both food and companionship, of course."
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
give me greg the bunny or give me death
bGive Me Greg the Bunny or Give Me Death! Blah! Petition
Give Me Greg the Bunny or Give Me Death! Blah! Petition, hosted at PetitionOnline.com...
www.petitiononline.com/Blah3/petition.html · Cached · Save http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=21591488&blogID=53840703
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mwLX2ywdZ1w
this last link will take you to warren the ape. Dan Milano, the genius behind the show, is now on robot chicken and other shows.. But he deserves his own. Anyone with money out there should contact this group and finance them. Warren will work for drugs and whores, and Greg can convinced to work for certain types of jello, though it changes daily because he gets in these moods. I always drop a few valium in his drink, and some speed in warren's... makes for some good conflict.
Seriously folks, watch the dvd of greg the bunny from IfC (THE FOX SHOW IS GREAT, TOO. Yet, the independent stuff they were doing with film parodies is in a way closer to my art than any one else. And dan and seth are genuinely cool.copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Give Me Greg the Bunny or Give Me Death! Blah! Petition, hosted at PetitionOnline.com...
www.petitiononline.com/Blah3/petition.html · Cached · Save http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=21591488&blogID=53840703
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mwLX2ywdZ1w
this last link will take you to warren the ape. Dan Milano, the genius behind the show, is now on robot chicken and other shows.. But he deserves his own. Anyone with money out there should contact this group and finance them. Warren will work for drugs and whores, and Greg can convinced to work for certain types of jello, though it changes daily because he gets in these moods. I always drop a few valium in his drink, and some speed in warren's... makes for some good conflict.
Seriously folks, watch the dvd of greg the bunny from IfC (THE FOX SHOW IS GREAT, TOO. Yet, the independent stuff they were doing with film parodies is in a way closer to my art than any one else. And dan and seth are genuinely cool.copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
the hunter's sacred pantheon explodes
from a fist exploding in the mountains of Denver
from SEA TO SHINY SEA
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Sunday, April 06, 2008
warren the ape
heads up
china
and wherever the hell you are
Warren the ape-ished one is laying in front of the sofa unconscious and dribbling the usual vomit and vomit like substances from the corners of his fuzzy mouth.... some whore he was beating on earlier probably broke out of her restraints (I ain't coping to letting her go, but the footage would be too tempting for me to pass up, probably)and is right now cutting his toes off with a switch blade. M is all freaking out, so I told her warren was all into the toes getting cut off and sewed back on thing, and since Warren is Warren, M. believed me enough to excuse herself to vomit...
Dan Milano, your allowing me the privilege and pleasure of playing with Warren a bit has been INSPIRING!!!!
opywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
the vampire story
Vampire Story
home
by jsr
19/01/07
4:53 AM
"Streaks of moonlight come down from holes in the ceiling of the barn; clouds of dust rise from his steps. He has been tracking the beast for weeks... In unfamiliar country, he had found himself trapped without shelter as the sunset, rode for miles before finding the dilapidated barn.
The forest outside is dense with black trees; winter bare of leaves, the branches are outlined by a dusting of brilliant white snow. He is keeping watch on the road . . . waiting for the . . . when he hears boards creaking behind him, up in the loft . . . and he realizes the creature has found the same sanctuary.
He walks into the middle of the barn and looks up into the darkness above him. The lofts are cloaked in opaque blackness. The warmth of the torch brings stinging sweat down his forehead, into his eyes. He starts to wipe it away and the beast streaks down from the rafters, a huge blur of black leather slapping down on top of him. He feels the bite in his neck and swoons as the blood flows away from his brain...
Two nights later, shivering deep inside from the cold, he awakens . . . draws in a deep gasp, becomes aware of his parched throat and dry, cracked lips... His tongue feels thick, like it's covered in fuzz.
He remembers the bite; his swoon... knows what he has become. He had always expected that vampires felt different, inhuman... a sort of animalistic, hedonistic something that would make murder come easy. There was no change, none that he could tell... other than the thirst.
He resolved to end it before it came to that.
Evil begets evil. The phrase begins playing over and over in his mind. Evil begets evil. Evil . . .
No . . . he tells himself . . . no. He takes the stake from his bag, tucks it in his belt and crawls up a wooden ladder to the loft, intent on throwing himself down and stabbing the wood through his heart. He gets to the top, swings around and sits down, lets his feet dangle over the side, takes in a deep breath and wonders if he will go to hell? He expected when he was a vampire that he would not give a damn about god and here he was, a vampire, and none of the questions were anymore answered than before. It really was beginning to strike him that he had more or less been infected with something that effected his body, and not his mind . . .
He didn't want to die; that came to him sitting there; even if he was a vampire -- that which he had hated and solemnly vowed to spend his short, brutal life hunting -- he still wanted to live. He isn't sure why?
He had lived to destroy evil . . . Now, he was evil . . . though he didn't feel evil at all, and had done nothing evil . . . he was still a vampire, and they were evil . . . he was sure of that when he was hunting them!!
Now?
Had he been hunting down and killing creatures like himself?
A sinking vertigo seems to spin his head around a bit as he realizes that he must have killed vampires who felt just like he did. They never stopped to talk to the creatures... the moment they met, the battle was on."
They were sitting around a fire by the lake on the shores of Chicago, an illegal thing they did once in awhile after digging out a hole in the dunes to hide the flames from the cops patrolling the park, listening to Hamms squeaky voice spinning what he called the vampire tale. A tale he had just finished, though Cracks was none-the-wiser, and was indeed waiting for something more to come... as they all were.
After a long minute, it dawned on him that the story was over, and Cracks was once again just confused. Like he always was when Hams got to telling stories. Hams loved to trick people into coming to the end of stories, and finding someone was in a coma, or an alternative reality, or was really a ghost, or whatever -- something out of nowhere.
'This story,' Cracks thought, 'is his worst ever. A vampire story? What was he trying to say? What does a vampire represent? Is this some stupid 'love king kong' kind of things?'
Cracks was tempted to kill Hamms, as he usually was after one of his stories.
He knew that Hamms would be so easily to kill. The
small, grey mouse would fit into the palm of his hand. And it wasn't like he was even a fierce rodent. No, Hamms had the hesitant air of someone who hung out with a lot of drunken stoners who will step on him if he is not careful.
His tail had been broken no less than six times in his short life.
Hamms isn't sure why he tells the tales he does? The ends just come to him, like the stories, and if he thinks about them too much, they became like all the other stories he has heard, and they had begun to bore him deep in his soul. He shouldn't have expected the humans to understand this.
Hamms was only a mouse in appearance, obviously, or he could not have told the tale. He was from a planet that was as dissimilar from earth as could be -- so dissimilar that eventual space traveling humans wouldn't even bother looking for life there.
He was on earth trying to learn about humans stories. He called them lies, in his mind. Tricks, more or less.
Most creatures who had developed in the cosmos were interested in the truths of the universe, and while some humans were this way, and all were capable, there were others . . . a mental subspecies that wanted to believe lies -- thinking the truth hurt too much. They were living virtual lives, basically, based on soap operas and drugs and bad novels and movies and a myriad of symptomologies rich and intriguing... at least to Hamms, and a handful of other scientists who specialized in primitive cultures.
The humans under Hamms mental microscope were literally going to the carnival while their planet died. He was going to start his paper for the inter-galactic news feed with a line about that.
rite 2006 john scott ridgway
home
by jsr
19/01/07
4:53 AM
"Streaks of moonlight come down from holes in the ceiling of the barn; clouds of dust rise from his steps. He has been tracking the beast for weeks... In unfamiliar country, he had found himself trapped without shelter as the sunset, rode for miles before finding the dilapidated barn.
The forest outside is dense with black trees; winter bare of leaves, the branches are outlined by a dusting of brilliant white snow. He is keeping watch on the road . . . waiting for the . . . when he hears boards creaking behind him, up in the loft . . . and he realizes the creature has found the same sanctuary.
He walks into the middle of the barn and looks up into the darkness above him. The lofts are cloaked in opaque blackness. The warmth of the torch brings stinging sweat down his forehead, into his eyes. He starts to wipe it away and the beast streaks down from the rafters, a huge blur of black leather slapping down on top of him. He feels the bite in his neck and swoons as the blood flows away from his brain...
Two nights later, shivering deep inside from the cold, he awakens . . . draws in a deep gasp, becomes aware of his parched throat and dry, cracked lips... His tongue feels thick, like it's covered in fuzz.
He remembers the bite; his swoon... knows what he has become. He had always expected that vampires felt different, inhuman... a sort of animalistic, hedonistic something that would make murder come easy. There was no change, none that he could tell... other than the thirst.
He resolved to end it before it came to that.
Evil begets evil. The phrase begins playing over and over in his mind. Evil begets evil. Evil . . .
No . . . he tells himself . . . no. He takes the stake from his bag, tucks it in his belt and crawls up a wooden ladder to the loft, intent on throwing himself down and stabbing the wood through his heart. He gets to the top, swings around and sits down, lets his feet dangle over the side, takes in a deep breath and wonders if he will go to hell? He expected when he was a vampire that he would not give a damn about god and here he was, a vampire, and none of the questions were anymore answered than before. It really was beginning to strike him that he had more or less been infected with something that effected his body, and not his mind . . .
He didn't want to die; that came to him sitting there; even if he was a vampire -- that which he had hated and solemnly vowed to spend his short, brutal life hunting -- he still wanted to live. He isn't sure why?
He had lived to destroy evil . . . Now, he was evil . . . though he didn't feel evil at all, and had done nothing evil . . . he was still a vampire, and they were evil . . . he was sure of that when he was hunting them!!
Now?
Had he been hunting down and killing creatures like himself?
A sinking vertigo seems to spin his head around a bit as he realizes that he must have killed vampires who felt just like he did. They never stopped to talk to the creatures... the moment they met, the battle was on."
They were sitting around a fire by the lake on the shores of Chicago, an illegal thing they did once in awhile after digging out a hole in the dunes to hide the flames from the cops patrolling the park, listening to Hamms squeaky voice spinning what he called the vampire tale. A tale he had just finished, though Cracks was none-the-wiser, and was indeed waiting for something more to come... as they all were.
After a long minute, it dawned on him that the story was over, and Cracks was once again just confused. Like he always was when Hams got to telling stories. Hams loved to trick people into coming to the end of stories, and finding someone was in a coma, or an alternative reality, or was really a ghost, or whatever -- something out of nowhere.
'This story,' Cracks thought, 'is his worst ever. A vampire story? What was he trying to say? What does a vampire represent? Is this some stupid 'love king kong' kind of things?'
Cracks was tempted to kill Hamms, as he usually was after one of his stories.
He knew that Hamms would be so easily to kill. The
small, grey mouse would fit into the palm of his hand. And it wasn't like he was even a fierce rodent. No, Hamms had the hesitant air of someone who hung out with a lot of drunken stoners who will step on him if he is not careful.
His tail had been broken no less than six times in his short life.
Hamms isn't sure why he tells the tales he does? The ends just come to him, like the stories, and if he thinks about them too much, they became like all the other stories he has heard, and they had begun to bore him deep in his soul. He shouldn't have expected the humans to understand this.
Hamms was only a mouse in appearance, obviously, or he could not have told the tale. He was from a planet that was as dissimilar from earth as could be -- so dissimilar that eventual space traveling humans wouldn't even bother looking for life there.
He was on earth trying to learn about humans stories. He called them lies, in his mind. Tricks, more or less.
Most creatures who had developed in the cosmos were interested in the truths of the universe, and while some humans were this way, and all were capable, there were others . . . a mental subspecies that wanted to believe lies -- thinking the truth hurt too much. They were living virtual lives, basically, based on soap operas and drugs and bad novels and movies and a myriad of symptomologies rich and intriguing... at least to Hamms, and a handful of other scientists who specialized in primitive cultures.
The humans under Hamms mental microscope were literally going to the carnival while their planet died. He was going to start his paper for the inter-galactic news feed with a line about that.
rite 2006 john scott ridgway
detective story
Detective Story
home
by jsr
21/01/07
3:17 AM
Hectorly worked as a private detective out of a small office on Wabash, in Chicago's loop, with a window right across from the rusted metal tracks of the elevated train. Double Pane windows and insulated brick walls keep the noise out as the trains scream past. The room was ill-lit, one small grey, industrial looking steel lamp on his desk. On the floor was a mint green indoor/outdoor carpeting with numerous black cigarette burns and various unidentifiable stains of most colors. The off-white paint job stained beige with nicotine smoke added even less luster to the already dingy flat.
Someone kept smoking cigars in the bathroom that he shared with a group of freelance writers next door who wrote porno about children for children, and the stench filled his office. He hated it, and was chain-smoking Marlboro's in the hope of defeating the odor. He had tried room deoderizing sprays, incense, candles... One day he had the thought that his deoderizer had been more than defeated -- it had actually been consumed by the cigar smoke and shit out into something nasty. That's when he decided to start fighting smoke with smoke, lighting one up whenever the smell got bad... he wasn't used to smoking more than three or four a day, and ratcheting his smoking up to twenty, sometimes thirty, during his work day was giving him a sticky, hacking cough, though he was glad to exchange that for the naseua from the cigars. He isn't sure why one smoke would cancel out another, just that it worked. Everyone told him it wouldn't work, and tended to claim it didn't even after he carefully explained that it did. This was pissing him off to no fucking end.
At 2:38 pm, a famous face walked into the office, stopped midway into the room, pulled a paper face mask out of his fany-pak, which was elaborated drapped with red strings and decorated with obscure, religous looking symbols, and explained, "Sorry, you see... it's cool tht you smoke, because you're a HP Weon. Normally, I don't allow people to face with me who ... smoke. But, you know, I am happy to talk to you... as soon as one of the ... assitants... bring my oxygen tank up from the limos. One of them will explain the rest. I'll wait outside in the Big Breathy. That's Scamatomolgy speak, in case you're wondering. My assistant will brief you."
The assistant came in, an earnest looking young man in an expensive blue suit with a pearl grey tie and a shiny black shirt. "Mr. Smooze's religion demands, when leaving the Big Breathy, that he wear a Scamoto Oxy Devicotron - an oxygen tank, to you... that's the way we talk. Intriged?"
"No... I'm thinking about kicking your ass. . . but I ain't got nobody at this point who will bail me out... so I think you better wait outside."
"You're a Higher Power Weon. I have to do what you ask."
"Call me that again, the ass kicking goes up a notch or two. I'll break bones, man."
"No, that's a good thing to be... that's why Mr. Toadmouth Smooze the First will be Facing with you in... let me check the now." He pauses and makes a handmotion in front of a camera on his belt, and someone evidently speaks to him...
"in... 25 seconds. You are High Power Weon, you're surely wondering why? Right?"
"You are asking for an ass kicking... every word you say, boy... translates into something else I want to kick your ass over... you really should shut up."
"A PWW is the high, high of the five... The five, man! Mr S. will explain what that is. Stay Enhanced... Five seconds to arrival. Thank you for your time."
The assistant rushed out of the room before Hectorly could make good on his threat, which he had fully intended to do. The veins inside his forehead are pounding. It feels to him like his anger is pulsing through them. Hectorly was raised a proto-marxist by his union president mother, and even though he had come to think he knew better, he still found his first impulse was to consider anyone with money part of the problem; this combined in his mind with the weird way the actor had just approached him and how much he despised cults in general and was pushing up his blood pressure something fierce, which his doctor had warned him against repeatedly after his last heart attack.
Hectorly had watched the man go from childstar, to teen in treatment, to a popular front-man for the latest Hollywood cult to target uneducated, narcissistic actors... and become a recent star of a string of a series of movies very loosely based on the television show I SPY... minus the cartoony aspects, and the black guy became an evil spy... which striped the story down to two men going mano mano with advanced spy technology. Hectorly had seen the preview and had hated, truly, truly hated, to see a great idea from sullied first by the movie, and then the association with a cult... a cult wanting the movie to make money was enough to keep him away from the flick. He had read how the religion was out buying up tickets to increase the ticket take of the movie and make it appear more successul than it was -- after all, they figured, what's good for Smooze, is good for Scamatomology.
The star came back into the room with a sleak, black enamelled oxygen tank attached to his belt and running a line up to a clear plastic mask that covered all of his mouth and one eye.
"Oh, Jesus, I'm afraid to ask... and yet, I know I have to.. why does your eye need oxygen?"
"It's religious device that can only be Comprendo'd by certain people who know... secrets."
"You start talking to me about... your fucking secrets, and I will cap your ass. I'm just crazy that way. Ask my momma... no, that's right, you can't... because I killed the bitch when she started trying to shove her religion down my throat."
"Uh, excuse me?"
"You have a problem with me killing my mother?"
"Not while I need your Servy Wersies. That's ..."
"Some language you made up to linguistically trap people in a language of your choosing, with your set of assumed truths?"
"Hey, let's talk english, here. Your a Brainy Brain, aren't you? We can work on that. When I say Servy Wersies, it means I have a Usey for you. That makes you, in this circumstance... My Higher Power Weon. Not socially or anything... though you can always have some assistants for whatever. You get famous, though, and boy... we got your parties, and the favors... we'll plant a field of your favorite wheat. That's popular with our Celebes."
You said there's some kind of test? No...
"Oh. Shit, I hate tests. I had to take one once. Boy, did I get my mom to fire that tutor's ass. We banned his ass from the set and he cried like one of my assistant's who I've stripped down in front of a bunch of my friends and made dance around if they want to keep their goddamn jobs."
"You did that?"
"Enough times it got boring. I made some of them put bottles up their asses. Tom Cruise gets bored and makes his assistants fight to the death. I think it's because he likes to fuck the corpses in the these holes he drills into their skulls, but he says it isn't just that... who knows? Those Alpha Seven Romeos, they do as they please. They get beards that are color coordinated insidey and outsidey, as we say. Intrigued?"
"You didn't come here to discuss that crusty but hair, did you?"
"I love talking crusty but hairs!!"
"That was a joke."
"I keep a lock of crusty but hair in a golden locket that I keep on a chain around my neck, next to my heart, at all times."
"I meant that Smooze is a crusty but hair."
"Oh, he wishes. Sure, sure... he does. Have you heard that rumour that Katie is a getting a sex change? It's just a rumour. He'll sue anyone who repeats it without hard core evidence. I mean, you could learn secrets about stuff like this... after a few courses."
"NO. Whose hairs are those in your locket?"
"Oh, just various ones that I took off my used enema collection. Intrigued?"
"Oh, hell no... Do you have a reason for being here, besides getting me so pissed off that I have no recourse except to kill you?"
Proceed to part two... if you wanta.
"Yes.... Oh, yes... that's why you're a Higher Power Weon, a HPW... You have something I Needy. Someone has stolen my red ruby and diamond encrusted, one of kind designer but plug. This was concieved by Andy Warhol, originally, then Pollack did the actual work of shaping the wood and putting in the bumpy, humpy jewels. Oh, god, I miss it."
"You read the sign on the door that says No But Plug Related Jobs. You think I put that up there for my health, asshole?" Hectorly lit a cigarette, took in a big drag and then blew smoke out across the room, filling the space with undulating white tendrils.
"I thought you would make an exception, for me..."
"Yes, right. People make exceptions for you all the time, don't they? I mean, you're rich and famous, so why wouldn't everyone treat you like your shit doesn't stink."
"Well, that's just the way it is. And I have been told from a good source, the chick who changes my diapers, that she likes the smell... so there, Smarty Pants Negative. I didn't make the rules. The religion says that about your behavior, not you... we know how to change your behavior."
"I'll bet you do. You start doing anything that even looks like you are trying to change my behavior, and I will kill you, your family, and everyone in your fucking blackberry."
"That would take awhile."
"I am sure it would be my pleasure to kill your nutty cult freinds... or at least it would be good for the world. They put most scam artists in jail... you guys found a hook... believe your own scam. The last sane one was probably the writer of Dianetics -- about ten years before he wrote the book and disappeared onto his yacht with those young boys."
"They were assistants. Everyone keeps enough to run a fucking yacht, come on. Well, business people... and some other people, who you could learn about..."
"You what? I've had enough... in fact, way more than enough... "
He opened the lower drawer of his desk and pulled out an electric meat carver, turned it on and jumped across the desk, grabbing the moviestar by the throat. "I am going to have to cut your neck veins. Don't worry, it won't hurt?"
"Really?"
"Oh, hell no."
opywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
home
by jsr
21/01/07
3:17 AM
Hectorly worked as a private detective out of a small office on Wabash, in Chicago's loop, with a window right across from the rusted metal tracks of the elevated train. Double Pane windows and insulated brick walls keep the noise out as the trains scream past. The room was ill-lit, one small grey, industrial looking steel lamp on his desk. On the floor was a mint green indoor/outdoor carpeting with numerous black cigarette burns and various unidentifiable stains of most colors. The off-white paint job stained beige with nicotine smoke added even less luster to the already dingy flat.
Someone kept smoking cigars in the bathroom that he shared with a group of freelance writers next door who wrote porno about children for children, and the stench filled his office. He hated it, and was chain-smoking Marlboro's in the hope of defeating the odor. He had tried room deoderizing sprays, incense, candles... One day he had the thought that his deoderizer had been more than defeated -- it had actually been consumed by the cigar smoke and shit out into something nasty. That's when he decided to start fighting smoke with smoke, lighting one up whenever the smell got bad... he wasn't used to smoking more than three or four a day, and ratcheting his smoking up to twenty, sometimes thirty, during his work day was giving him a sticky, hacking cough, though he was glad to exchange that for the naseua from the cigars. He isn't sure why one smoke would cancel out another, just that it worked. Everyone told him it wouldn't work, and tended to claim it didn't even after he carefully explained that it did. This was pissing him off to no fucking end.
At 2:38 pm, a famous face walked into the office, stopped midway into the room, pulled a paper face mask out of his fany-pak, which was elaborated drapped with red strings and decorated with obscure, religous looking symbols, and explained, "Sorry, you see... it's cool tht you smoke, because you're a HP Weon. Normally, I don't allow people to face with me who ... smoke. But, you know, I am happy to talk to you... as soon as one of the ... assitants... bring my oxygen tank up from the limos. One of them will explain the rest. I'll wait outside in the Big Breathy. That's Scamatomolgy speak, in case you're wondering. My assistant will brief you."
The assistant came in, an earnest looking young man in an expensive blue suit with a pearl grey tie and a shiny black shirt. "Mr. Smooze's religion demands, when leaving the Big Breathy, that he wear a Scamoto Oxy Devicotron - an oxygen tank, to you... that's the way we talk. Intriged?"
"No... I'm thinking about kicking your ass. . . but I ain't got nobody at this point who will bail me out... so I think you better wait outside."
"You're a Higher Power Weon. I have to do what you ask."
"Call me that again, the ass kicking goes up a notch or two. I'll break bones, man."
"No, that's a good thing to be... that's why Mr. Toadmouth Smooze the First will be Facing with you in... let me check the now." He pauses and makes a handmotion in front of a camera on his belt, and someone evidently speaks to him...
"in... 25 seconds. You are High Power Weon, you're surely wondering why? Right?"
"You are asking for an ass kicking... every word you say, boy... translates into something else I want to kick your ass over... you really should shut up."
"A PWW is the high, high of the five... The five, man! Mr S. will explain what that is. Stay Enhanced... Five seconds to arrival. Thank you for your time."
The assistant rushed out of the room before Hectorly could make good on his threat, which he had fully intended to do. The veins inside his forehead are pounding. It feels to him like his anger is pulsing through them. Hectorly was raised a proto-marxist by his union president mother, and even though he had come to think he knew better, he still found his first impulse was to consider anyone with money part of the problem; this combined in his mind with the weird way the actor had just approached him and how much he despised cults in general and was pushing up his blood pressure something fierce, which his doctor had warned him against repeatedly after his last heart attack.
Hectorly had watched the man go from childstar, to teen in treatment, to a popular front-man for the latest Hollywood cult to target uneducated, narcissistic actors... and become a recent star of a string of a series of movies very loosely based on the television show I SPY... minus the cartoony aspects, and the black guy became an evil spy... which striped the story down to two men going mano mano with advanced spy technology. Hectorly had seen the preview and had hated, truly, truly hated, to see a great idea from sullied first by the movie, and then the association with a cult... a cult wanting the movie to make money was enough to keep him away from the flick. He had read how the religion was out buying up tickets to increase the ticket take of the movie and make it appear more successul than it was -- after all, they figured, what's good for Smooze, is good for Scamatomology.
The star came back into the room with a sleak, black enamelled oxygen tank attached to his belt and running a line up to a clear plastic mask that covered all of his mouth and one eye.
"Oh, Jesus, I'm afraid to ask... and yet, I know I have to.. why does your eye need oxygen?"
"It's religious device that can only be Comprendo'd by certain people who know... secrets."
"You start talking to me about... your fucking secrets, and I will cap your ass. I'm just crazy that way. Ask my momma... no, that's right, you can't... because I killed the bitch when she started trying to shove her religion down my throat."
"Uh, excuse me?"
"You have a problem with me killing my mother?"
"Not while I need your Servy Wersies. That's ..."
"Some language you made up to linguistically trap people in a language of your choosing, with your set of assumed truths?"
"Hey, let's talk english, here. Your a Brainy Brain, aren't you? We can work on that. When I say Servy Wersies, it means I have a Usey for you. That makes you, in this circumstance... My Higher Power Weon. Not socially or anything... though you can always have some assistants for whatever. You get famous, though, and boy... we got your parties, and the favors... we'll plant a field of your favorite wheat. That's popular with our Celebes."
You said there's some kind of test? No...
"Oh. Shit, I hate tests. I had to take one once. Boy, did I get my mom to fire that tutor's ass. We banned his ass from the set and he cried like one of my assistant's who I've stripped down in front of a bunch of my friends and made dance around if they want to keep their goddamn jobs."
"You did that?"
"Enough times it got boring. I made some of them put bottles up their asses. Tom Cruise gets bored and makes his assistants fight to the death. I think it's because he likes to fuck the corpses in the these holes he drills into their skulls, but he says it isn't just that... who knows? Those Alpha Seven Romeos, they do as they please. They get beards that are color coordinated insidey and outsidey, as we say. Intrigued?"
"You didn't come here to discuss that crusty but hair, did you?"
"I love talking crusty but hairs!!"
"That was a joke."
"I keep a lock of crusty but hair in a golden locket that I keep on a chain around my neck, next to my heart, at all times."
"I meant that Smooze is a crusty but hair."
"Oh, he wishes. Sure, sure... he does. Have you heard that rumour that Katie is a getting a sex change? It's just a rumour. He'll sue anyone who repeats it without hard core evidence. I mean, you could learn secrets about stuff like this... after a few courses."
"NO. Whose hairs are those in your locket?"
"Oh, just various ones that I took off my used enema collection. Intrigued?"
"Oh, hell no... Do you have a reason for being here, besides getting me so pissed off that I have no recourse except to kill you?"
Proceed to part two... if you wanta.
"Yes.... Oh, yes... that's why you're a Higher Power Weon, a HPW... You have something I Needy. Someone has stolen my red ruby and diamond encrusted, one of kind designer but plug. This was concieved by Andy Warhol, originally, then Pollack did the actual work of shaping the wood and putting in the bumpy, humpy jewels. Oh, god, I miss it."
"You read the sign on the door that says No But Plug Related Jobs. You think I put that up there for my health, asshole?" Hectorly lit a cigarette, took in a big drag and then blew smoke out across the room, filling the space with undulating white tendrils.
"I thought you would make an exception, for me..."
"Yes, right. People make exceptions for you all the time, don't they? I mean, you're rich and famous, so why wouldn't everyone treat you like your shit doesn't stink."
"Well, that's just the way it is. And I have been told from a good source, the chick who changes my diapers, that she likes the smell... so there, Smarty Pants Negative. I didn't make the rules. The religion says that about your behavior, not you... we know how to change your behavior."
"I'll bet you do. You start doing anything that even looks like you are trying to change my behavior, and I will kill you, your family, and everyone in your fucking blackberry."
"That would take awhile."
"I am sure it would be my pleasure to kill your nutty cult freinds... or at least it would be good for the world. They put most scam artists in jail... you guys found a hook... believe your own scam. The last sane one was probably the writer of Dianetics -- about ten years before he wrote the book and disappeared onto his yacht with those young boys."
"They were assistants. Everyone keeps enough to run a fucking yacht, come on. Well, business people... and some other people, who you could learn about..."
"You what? I've had enough... in fact, way more than enough... "
He opened the lower drawer of his desk and pulled out an electric meat carver, turned it on and jumped across the desk, grabbing the moviestar by the throat. "I am going to have to cut your neck veins. Don't worry, it won't hurt?"
"Really?"
"Oh, hell no."
opywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
cowboy story
cowboy story
home
by jsr
15/01/07
3:49 PM
Scruffed up cowpokes take a night off from a trail ride out of Texas, pushing four hundred and thirty seven head of long horns up to a stock yard outside of Kansas City. They ride their sore asses into a small town a couple miles away from the herd, tie up their horses outside the only bar. They find a few empty seats inside and survey the scene in the mirror hanging behind the bar. Six round wooden tables stained and chipped and carved up as all hell, set on rough looking hardwood floors, filthy bronze spittoons set beside the chairs, surrounded by missed splotches of seeping brown tobbaco syrup.
A fat, sloppy looking whore with red lipstick smeared messily around her mouth sits in a chair by the bar, her chin sleepily falling down to her chest. Glistening saliva seeps from the corners of her mouth. She is snoring in great primal blasts from her quivering nose... "Snzzzzzzzahhhh!!!!" Followed by long, wheezy intakes of breath.
Slats looks at the whore and figures the woman is older than his mother. He's thirteen and went on the damn trail ride specifically for the whores.
He had been looking forward to seeing his first whore for years... And now, hell, the skinny little girls from his home town were better looking than this pale, unhealthy looking woman in a soiled red dress with her make-up all smeared from the other drunks she's been fucking. He takes another sip of the bitter whisky and wishes like hell he had never trusted Elber Neetles, who talked about his year on the trail like it was some grand ass adventure, not once mentioning how your whole body started aching after a week and didn't let up until you was home a month... like he heard his first day, from some old cowboy who wasn't having none of his shit.
A wild haired mule kicks open the swinging doors leading into the dim, cigar stanked bar. Walking on hind legs and holding two blazing black six guns at his waist, a smoking cigar in the corner of his lip... he takes aim on and shoots down every human there, then begins firing on the barkeeper's various cats. He kills everyone except a mouse, Lester, and Slats... who are both severly wounded.
Lester died a couple hours later, Slats woke up some weeks later, wounded and hurting. The first nurse he remembered was demur brown field mouse, Ester, who was the daughter of deceased Lester, and the adopted daughter of the mule who killed the cowboys.
They taught him the language of the mule and slowly, him and Ester became good friends. Within two years later Slats becomes embroiled in the culture and religion of the Mules, and further... he found himself slowly, inexplicably, irrationally, falling in love with Ester. He knew that a man cannot properly love a mouse, so he did his best to try and put his tender feelings out of his mind.
Still, the day came, when Ester come into his room and found Slats naked with sunflower seeds spread all over his body.
Ester was disgusted and afeared by the attentions of a penis that if it attempted intercouse would literally burst her body like a balloon. The wise mouse she was, Ester went out into the field and found a mule that she was pretty sure would marry the strange human in their midst. The Mules name was Ester, as well. The two Esters went into the house and were sure that they were going to come out with a satisfactory conclusion that involved sexual organs that would not tear anyone asunder.
And yes... Slats did marry Ester The Mule, but he never did forget Ester the mouse, and often, while making love to Ester the Mule, he fantasized it was Ester the mouse and his penis was literally tearing her asunder...
Slats eventually lost all rememberance of ever having been a human being. Indeed, he became solemly convinced that he was the nasty love child of a turnip and a clothes line, and he could barely stomach the shame.
A large barrel of 90 proof, pure white moonshine, on an abondoned barn in backwoods Kansas inhabited by a small herd of wild mules, ran clean out.
Slats spent what he thought were a few months on the moon, though actually it was just a couple days in a ditch where he was laying on his side and vomiting and staring at one of his twitching fingers. When he came to his beard was down to the ground... as he started to walk home, it became clear to him that he had spent the last few days or so living on an abondoned barn, screwing a mule and drinking from a large barrel of moonshine.
He isn't sure why there are mouse entrails everywhere, even dangling from his privates...and he will not remember, until many, many years later still, when he is an old man with hundreds of thousands of grand children -- after marrying a series of cockroaches in his autumn years while on a morphine based snake oil binge... and a single tear will roll down his dry,wrinkled cheek, as he reaches into his crusty diaper and touches his warm, urine dribbling penis and remembers his tender love for his long lost Ester the Mouse.
pywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
home
by jsr
15/01/07
3:49 PM
Scruffed up cowpokes take a night off from a trail ride out of Texas, pushing four hundred and thirty seven head of long horns up to a stock yard outside of Kansas City. They ride their sore asses into a small town a couple miles away from the herd, tie up their horses outside the only bar. They find a few empty seats inside and survey the scene in the mirror hanging behind the bar. Six round wooden tables stained and chipped and carved up as all hell, set on rough looking hardwood floors, filthy bronze spittoons set beside the chairs, surrounded by missed splotches of seeping brown tobbaco syrup.
A fat, sloppy looking whore with red lipstick smeared messily around her mouth sits in a chair by the bar, her chin sleepily falling down to her chest. Glistening saliva seeps from the corners of her mouth. She is snoring in great primal blasts from her quivering nose... "Snzzzzzzzahhhh!!!!" Followed by long, wheezy intakes of breath.
Slats looks at the whore and figures the woman is older than his mother. He's thirteen and went on the damn trail ride specifically for the whores.
He had been looking forward to seeing his first whore for years... And now, hell, the skinny little girls from his home town were better looking than this pale, unhealthy looking woman in a soiled red dress with her make-up all smeared from the other drunks she's been fucking. He takes another sip of the bitter whisky and wishes like hell he had never trusted Elber Neetles, who talked about his year on the trail like it was some grand ass adventure, not once mentioning how your whole body started aching after a week and didn't let up until you was home a month... like he heard his first day, from some old cowboy who wasn't having none of his shit.
A wild haired mule kicks open the swinging doors leading into the dim, cigar stanked bar. Walking on hind legs and holding two blazing black six guns at his waist, a smoking cigar in the corner of his lip... he takes aim on and shoots down every human there, then begins firing on the barkeeper's various cats. He kills everyone except a mouse, Lester, and Slats... who are both severly wounded.
Lester died a couple hours later, Slats woke up some weeks later, wounded and hurting. The first nurse he remembered was demur brown field mouse, Ester, who was the daughter of deceased Lester, and the adopted daughter of the mule who killed the cowboys.
They taught him the language of the mule and slowly, him and Ester became good friends. Within two years later Slats becomes embroiled in the culture and religion of the Mules, and further... he found himself slowly, inexplicably, irrationally, falling in love with Ester. He knew that a man cannot properly love a mouse, so he did his best to try and put his tender feelings out of his mind.
Still, the day came, when Ester come into his room and found Slats naked with sunflower seeds spread all over his body.
Ester was disgusted and afeared by the attentions of a penis that if it attempted intercouse would literally burst her body like a balloon. The wise mouse she was, Ester went out into the field and found a mule that she was pretty sure would marry the strange human in their midst. The Mules name was Ester, as well. The two Esters went into the house and were sure that they were going to come out with a satisfactory conclusion that involved sexual organs that would not tear anyone asunder.
And yes... Slats did marry Ester The Mule, but he never did forget Ester the mouse, and often, while making love to Ester the Mule, he fantasized it was Ester the mouse and his penis was literally tearing her asunder...
Slats eventually lost all rememberance of ever having been a human being. Indeed, he became solemly convinced that he was the nasty love child of a turnip and a clothes line, and he could barely stomach the shame.
A large barrel of 90 proof, pure white moonshine, on an abondoned barn in backwoods Kansas inhabited by a small herd of wild mules, ran clean out.
Slats spent what he thought were a few months on the moon, though actually it was just a couple days in a ditch where he was laying on his side and vomiting and staring at one of his twitching fingers. When he came to his beard was down to the ground... as he started to walk home, it became clear to him that he had spent the last few days or so living on an abondoned barn, screwing a mule and drinking from a large barrel of moonshine.
He isn't sure why there are mouse entrails everywhere, even dangling from his privates...and he will not remember, until many, many years later still, when he is an old man with hundreds of thousands of grand children -- after marrying a series of cockroaches in his autumn years while on a morphine based snake oil binge... and a single tear will roll down his dry,wrinkled cheek, as he reaches into his crusty diaper and touches his warm, urine dribbling penis and remembers his tender love for his long lost Ester the Mouse.
pywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Saturday, April 05, 2008
rabbi's trailer park emporium great meth war
Rabby's Trailer Park Emporium's Great Meth Wars
Me and Boner and Shappy been up three days smoking our new batch of meth--this White Trash turned out prettty damn good. Our eyes are bulging out of our head's so much that Shappy actually had one pop out. We had a hell of time getting it back in. He bled a lot, too. Passed out at some point. I guess that's a good sign. Like I told Boner, "You sleep off a hang-over, so why the hell not bleeding too much?"
Yea, this White Trash is great... well, except for smelling like Boner's shit. That's 'cause we thought we were going to sell some to this kid down at the 7-11 on fourth street, Gerald The Battery Boy, a a twelve year old who steals car batteries to support his habit -- that's one industrious kid, and I am keeping my eye on him because he could prove to be a potential rivalry who I will have to run out of the trailer park, like I did his older sister, when she tried to bring in her own crank from those high-falutin Woodcocks on the southside of the park -- all those southsiders think that they're better than us just because they're on that side of Merrywinkle Unicorn Lane. I say, hell no, we all got the meth-mouths and live in a trailer park.
At least in public... inside, I know them southsiders are just so smart and all Game Show sophisticated -- how the hell am I supposed to compete with that? Sometimes when I am around them, I wish my parents had all educated me by putting on Wheel Of Fortune and them 'hard' game shows that require guessing at the size of different words-- who the hell can tell one size of word from the other, I say... but then, I wasn't raised watching 100,000 question, was I mom? This is one of the reason the social worker used to say I was using meth as an eight year old. Hell, sometimes on meth I feel like I could get everything perfect on the Price Is Right (which requires years and years of price checking, and then getting called ... which is why all the older price checkers at Kmart go there on vacations, which they can afford every ten or so years, depending on saving habits!!
Sometimes I remember that social worker coming in and looking at the tv and asking my mom and dad why they never put on something educational, like Hollywood Squares? They were both a little embarrassed to be raising us on Jerry that day. This was the only time I ever saw my daddy squirm, and it made an impact on me... sure, it hurt. Dad just waited until the social worker was gone and then told us she was 'putting on airs,' that we could go to her house right at that very moment and find her watching Jerry because 'nobody, in their hearts, can resist that show.' At the time I believe him.
I seem to have gotten off the topic again. Meth could possibly be adding to this, like Boner thinks, but I doubt it. He is filled with strange notions ever since being forced to watch Ophra, back last year when he was in jail and ended up some intellectual black guys bitch. I wish the hell he would take that guys picture down from the living room wall... keeps giving me an uncomfortable feeling way up in my but.
NOw, I guess I was about to explain why our new batch of White Trash meth smells like Boner's shit -- which is generally known around these parts to be surprisingly different than the smell of his ass.
Well, getting from our territory to the 7-11 is mighty tricky, of course. Any time we go out of our territory, we put ourselves in extreme danger of getting attacked by rival meth gangs, not to mention the Waterloo, Indiana Police Department. They won't actually come in the trailer park anymore. They claim it's cause of the smell and that they just don't plain give a shit about the people who live here. ... but when we leave, they are all over us the second we venture out of Shappy's Trailer Park Emporium.. And when you got the meth mouth, there ain't no hiding it from the cops. No matter how many times you tell 'em you just got out of treatment and are working a program now, they will search ya. Hell, most of them know our names by now.
So I figured I'd just use some of the education I got in the big house. Got Boner to stick a bunch of little bags of meth up his but. Keistering is we call it when we're in jail. Hell, when I was in Marion, I kept a contraband turkey up in my hershey hole for three days while it thawed enough for me to cook it up on my hot plate.
We figured we could go down to the alley back of the 7-11, and just let them cops search us. That way, they'd think we were clean and leave us alone.
Of course, two pigs came up to us the second we left the trailer park and threw us against their cars and searched us. One of em says, "Even these three aren't stupid enough to leave with meth. They can learn. Hmp."
Bastard. I told him that I read tv guide just for the articles, but he didn't seem to believe me.
After they left, the customers began slinking up. Once we had their cash, Boner would grunt and strain until he farted out a bag or two.
The idea, as you can tell, was perfect.
CONTINUE READING IN THE NEXT ENTRY... if ya got this far.
the elves attic
Rabby's Trailer Park Emporium's Great Meth Wars
home
by jsr
02/01/07
3:57 PM
This is part twoo....
There was a problem though... the Woodcocks were across the street in
their usual spot, trying to horn in on our business. Them Woodcocks are
an inbred tribe from the hotey-totey, stuck up south-side of the trailer
park. They think they're all fancy 'cause they got cousins to marry and
such, which keeps all the cars in the same family. We sure as hell wish
we had cousins, but after that lab we were running during the Anual
SKeeter Reunion And Pig Fucking blew all up... shot the house like twenty
feet into the air and killed all our relatives, including our most
favorite slutty cousins and a pig I had had my eye on for years...
Them Woodcocks send their eight and nine year olds out to do the delivery.
Marge the Momma told me she does it that way for two reasons-- said
when the kids were in jail was about the only time they got to schooling,
and of course being minors they usually got off with nothing little
sentences that the Woodcocks prided themselves in being able to handle
standing on their heads.
Anways... so people had a choice between our bags, which Boner was wet
farting out and they were kind of dripping brown stuff during the hand
off, or the Woodcocks nice clean bags. Well, at first... I have to say,
there for awhile, I thought we were in some real trouble. But then this
trucker come up, and when he got a bag of our stuff, he got on the CB and
started bragging on how he was doing some meth that smelled like a White
Ass. Next thing we knew, perverts from adult bookstores for miles around
and truck stops all over this side of the county were pulling up behind
the 7-11 asking for some White Ass.
Them Hoity-toity Woodcocks were fuming like a vat of grain alcohol filled
with decongestants!!
We were so happy with the results that we had Boner keister the money on
the way home, only he didn't have no more bags and the money got all
shitty . I guess it kind of looked like a brown dye pack had went off on
the money, like from a robbery, and when we tried to spend it on a bunch
of cough syryup and decongestants and such the Guy at the Jewels called
the cops on us.
The cops could tell it wasn't a dye pack, but they didn't want to come
close to the money. Told us were going to go out back and burn every bit
of it, or we were going to jail for doing perverted shit with money. I
tried to tell him that we did not put the money up our anuses for
satisfaction. Duder was having none of it. Got all pissed off and was
waving his baton around as he screamed, "Hey, when I get to putting money
up my ass, I burn it afterwards, because I live in a goddamn society!!!"
Then he proceeded to beat Boner, which turned him on... the big old woody
shoving out of his pants seemed to make the cop hit him harder, and
harder... Then those two knuckleheads made a date at some porta-potty
behind the Kroger's Market.
The world is such a messed up place. Sometimes i think we are the only
sane people in an insane world, man. I mean, if people would just let us
be, the world would be perfect. Well, except for meth-mouth, lack of
cousins, and the Boner-butt smell of this meth.
Boners' White Ass Meth Enemas!!
home
by jsr
11/01/07
6:37 PM
Carl came up with a solution to the problem of the fifteen foot tall Jesus mud balls and Boner's gay trucker religion. I'll tell ya, when Boner took that kitten and dipped it in a chemical vat and held it over them flames and used that eye dropper and meth and Crisco and all the other shit to turn Carl into some Super Gay Cat, I thought he was crazy. But he told me he learned the recipe from the most twisted prisoner that he ever bitched, and sure enough...
Carl told me and Shappy, "We have to offer him some way of getting his but attention. Right now, he's in butthole heaven. He won't give that up easy."
Carl then kind of fluttered about the room in that swishy way of his as he added, "Well, he does love his enemas... we could put the white ass in enemas and put Boner in charge of production! To get the smell that we all love so much, Boner could dip each of the enema's in his White Ass smell. We'll poke each and every one up his but before we sell it. That way, he would be selling his but juices. You know he's always dreamed of finding a way to market his sweet, sweet but juices."
And that's true, Boner's dream has always been to market his but juices. Or his 'sweet, sweet but juices,' as he always called them. I just thought that was crazy. Same as I did when Boner said he was going to make himself a Super Gay Cat that can talk.
Carl went out back, weaving between the half-naked truckers, their sagging white beer bellies and matted chest hair and flabby titties showing sadly through their tightlty stretched white tube tops... They were all involved in some kind of Daisy Chain that I tried not to look at.
Carl had in his mouth a big old red enema filled with White Ass and Crisco and Water, snuck up beside where Boner's fat ass was hanging off one of them big mud balls, shoved that red nozzle up deep into boner and and jumped up and down on it, splashing the meth deep up into that old boys bowels.
Boner's face lit right up, and his ears started flapping like they do... he looked like he couldn't have been happier with that white ass blasting through his bowel. Carl jumped up beside him and real quick explained to him about how we wanted to put him charge of putting his but juices on the new line of White Trash Enemas.
Boner was so happy that he jumped down off the balls with no regard to his anus having just been filled by a large enema. His feet hit the ground and he let loose with a brown blast that splattered the truckers and fag hags and their groupies.... This seemed to launch them all into some kind of sexual frenzy, which set off a new round of vomiting among the neighbors that was a watching and taping everything on their cell phones. Shappy had to run back inside.
I guess actually Boner was relieved that Carl was taking this latest gay religion of his with a grain of salt, instead of the usual week long hissy fits he's known for. By the time they got back up inside the trailer, Carl got Boner to agree to disband the religion in exchange for renewed litter box privilges -- Boner has been messing in the plants up under the windows and behind the couch ever since these two started having problems over Boner's Bitching...
Boner told all the trucker's to go home, and they reluctantly did. You would think they would learn after awhile that Boner doesn't really mean it when he starts these religions, but they fall for it everytime. Carl says it's cause Boner is so hot, but I happen to know Carl was conditioned to think this by Boner when he was a small kitten.
I'm letting him keep the mud balls and the little shrine, mostly because it will be easy for his gay trucker buddies to find our trailer, which should help the traffic problem that all these truckers have been causing as they cruise around the trailer park looking for some White Ass.
Boner's as happy as can be with his new product line -- him and Carl have been trying out different types of enemas all afternoon. They've still got like six crates to go and they're both already leaking something awful.
I'm going to have to hose out the whole trailer when they'e done. . . like I always have to when those two get to playing with enemas. Sure am glad things are back to normal around here.
Boner Says He's Bitching For God Now
home
by jsr
11/01/07
3:33 PM
Three awful days have passed since Boner first put the fifteen foot mud balls in the back yard. Things have kind of spun out of control ever since then, with all these huge semi-truck's sporting rainbow flags blocking every entryway into Rabby's Trailer Park Emporium. I guess by now the Legend of White Ass has been told across CB radios all over The six county area, and carved into the stalls of every truck stop from here to Fort Wayne.
There are now a couple hundred of them out there, gay truckers and their groupies -- various fag hags have been showing up today, too. All of them wearing just them pink trucker caps saying Peterbilt, and them damn white tube tops and nothing else. The sight is making the neighbors vomit, and that is not adding anything pleasent to the usual dog shit and urine scent of this trailer park.
The cops have been keeping watch on this from outside the trailer park, which is making me nervous as hell. I sent shappy up to see what they was doing and he says they're just drinking beers and whacking off. Shappy thinks this is all anyone ever does, so when he is supposed to be checking on cops or Buffalo Survaillance, or whatever... he always just comes back and says, "They're drinking beers and whacking off." Boner buys this story everytime, too.
I am now convinced that Boner started his gay trucker's church all because I told him that he couldn't keep putting the meth up his but.
By now you all should know that he keistered the latest batch of White Trash meth, turning it into the gay trucker phenomena White Ass... and that I told him we weren't a going to let him put anymore meth up his but. This was after Boner was all happy with having farted out all these bags, tricking the cops and getting to make his asshole the center of attention.
Boner was pretty sure this was the best thing that ever happened to him. A crying Carl told me this afterwards. Carl at least is avoiding the mud ball religion thing. He's just in the back room snorting white ass and playing with those crumpled up paper balls of his.
Anyways, I'm a thinking now that Boner Statrted this whole religion just to keep putting the meth up his butt. If I had told him that he could keister some of it, maybe... but no, I was so sick of smoking meth that smelled like his ass that I pretty much told him there was no way the white trash was getting anywhere near his asshole.
I guess I shouldn't have been so hard on him. Boner has had a difficult life, what with being abducted by a family of pigs, and raised out back of the house. He was a teenager before my parents realized anything was the amiss. Like daddy used to say, "If you'd a been raised by pigs, a rutting on your brothers and sisters all your life, then you'd fuck sheep and chickens and stray cats, too."
I hate to say it, but I am almost ready to join the enemy camp, which has turned out to be none other than the secretly gay meth snorting minister Gilford Tuttle. He is on the CB every day now, from when he wakes up until he passes out late at night, going on and on about the heathen activity taking place in Boner's church. His descriptions are pretty damn graphic, and not for the light hearted. Shappy is of course wetting himself whenever he hears the guys voice, and then the diarraeh starts and no place in this trailer is splatter free after a few days of this, believe me.
Boner took all the latest batch of white trash, and has spent the morning 'converting' it into white ass, by having his minions poke bags up into his but, which he then wet farts back out.
They've got some kind of religous chant going while he does it. Whenever another bag of white trash is poked in -- on the end of this large black dildo, Boner's yelling, "I'M BITCHING FOR GOD!!"
His followers then chant back, "He's god's bitch."
They've been doing this all morning.
"I'm bitching for god."
"He's god's bitch."
It gets to you after a few hours, believe me.
Boner Snorting Meth and Screwing Gilford Tuttle
home
by jsr
09/01/07
2:50 PM
Like anyone who was listening to Tuttle's program this afternoon, I have just learned that Boner has continued the Bitch ways that he learned in prison, and is once more out peddling his ass. Boner decided to expose this preacher after listening to this Tuttle's CB radio 'salvation station,' which he uses to harrass trucker's passing by on highway 6. We was a listening to the show, because a lot of the Trucker's are our customers... Well, Gilford was going on about the Mountanous Balls of Jock Jesus, and some trucker who was just passing through came back at him, saying something about how having a Jesus with big balls seemed a little gay to him. Hell, anyone can see this jock jesus thing is a little gay -- Boner is known to often touch himself during the Savation Station CB broadcastes, which often include graphic descriptions of a well-muscled Jesus working out.
Tuttle didn't seem to know this though, and he got all full of himself and started ranting about how homosexual marriages were going to cause a break down in the local sewer systems. He is always saying this, and most people have just come to accept it as true.
When Boner heard this stuff about the gay marriage would destroy the local sewer systems, again... and then Carl broke down and started crying over it... Well, Boner just went crazy, picked up that CB and jumped on, right in the middle of the show, and starting saying how he was bitching for Gilford Tuttle, doing crazy gay stuff on meth in some abondoned porta potty. But Bouncing, hip hopping, ankle flipping...
I guess Boner met his 'gay trick,' this preacher, when he was out selling that white trash meth that smelled like his but. Of course it has become all the damn rage in the underground gay scene here in town, which up until this I had pretty much believed was just Boner and his cat Carl.
Gays have been drawn by this but-smelling meth from as far away as a truck stop out on interstate 75!! Somebody carved our name into the wall out there, and we've been getting calls asking for White Ass all the time. That's what the street name for this stuff has become -- White Ass, which does not please me one bit... makes light of our trademark name, White Trash. I have been damned careful with my Branding, like I learned from reading part of an article about Martha Stewart during the year I was in prison... the third time, I think. We have tried so hard to keep White Trash in good graces with our sensitive customers, like the grade schoolers and their parents. I'm doing my best damage control, trying to get the kids to call this batch White Poo, or something more kid friendly...
I would also like to assure our customer's that our next batch is going to be kept the hell out of Boner's but!!! I don't care if my decision has made him cry. Lord, he did love farting out them bags, after keistering them down to the 7-11. Made him and his asshole the goddamned center of attention, and you know he likes that. Personally, I'd almost rather quit the meth than have to smoke his ass smell again... almost.
And as far as this thing with this Gilford Tuttle, he is denying everything, I guess. ... but Boner has tapes and proof and such that we will be releasing throughout the day, as he finds the stuff.
I GUESS A DENIAL HAS APPEARED ON THE TRAILER PARK EMPORIUMS' SITE FROM THIS TUTTLE... HERE IT IS.
What, Me, But Bounce? Oh, no...
I have been accused . . . I, Gilford Tuttle, most blessed on high among men, has been actually accused of having meth fueled gay sex with some hot stud from the disreputable, untrustworthy 'southside' of the trailer park. I have not now, nor have I ever, slid my dick into this guys hot ass. Nor has his hard, long, tall one slid up deep, deep inside my quivering bowels. In fact, I am so heterosexual that if I am not at church, I am usually testicles deep in the little lady. Can't get enough of the vagina, I always say in private and silently, as the lord commands. Yes, I am 'regular' with my wife.
I have recently heard that there are even some kind of 'fake tapes,' which has a voice that does sound like me. Oh, that Satan.... he is so damn clever. Of course the dark prince will do about anything to bring down the most blessed man on the planet, I who drink of the sweet, sweet sweat dripping from the Mountanous balls of Jock Jesus... On these tapes, there is much begging for meth and hot gay, sweaty meth sex. They are just so fake.. obviously the spewings of Satan's mighty wand!!
Leaders such as me are often attacked by gay men who claim we have been having hot, drug fueled sex all damn day and half the night. The time has come for all good men to ignore this hot, heathen Boner's blasphemy!!
I have just had a vision that Jesus will be very, very pissed at anyone who believes this slander against the one he has blessed the most.
To make this go away, new revelations in The Tuttle Scriptures And Family Budget, say that all I have to do is to think of the Jock Jesus With Balls Bigger Than Man Can Even Comprehend, and say three times -- GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN!!! GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN!!! GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN!!!
There, now we can all forget about this blasphemy, and go home and drink a long, cool glass of Pigmilk!!!
What? You still haven't obeyed the Lord and started drinking pig milk?
Why, "Got Pigmilk?" is what all the hip kids say -- and a wrathful god Demands.
This Tuttle is obviously very, very slick. A worthy adversary for me, Skeeter Skeeter Skeeter the seventh. He just doesn't understand that Boner has no reason to lie about this at all.
In fact, the fallout over Boner's decision to go public with his latest 'bitching,' has effected him something awful. Him and Carl are having problems over it, and I guess Boner has been banned from their litter box, which is causing some problems behind the couch that smell way too much like our meth.
He's in the bedroom crying and Carl will not comfort him this time.
New Development.. Boner has just come bouncing out of the back bedroom saying he is probably going to take it all back... I guess him and Tuttle agreed to hold a prayer meeting at some book store, Shemsties Frog Slapping Hole. He says they'll be 'a kneeling and a squeeling.' I guess that means prayng.
Later In The Night....
Strange shit. Boner come home from this meeting with the Gilford Tuttle and just went straight to the back yard, where he got out the back hoe and started digging up a bunch of the yard. I tried to get him to tell me what was going on, but he was all spaced out on the White Ass or something... I mean, the White Poo... When I tried to grab the keys out of the back hoe, he pulled a knife on me and you can bet I come in real quick....
So now a few hours has passed and it turns out he's making these huge, brown balls. They got to be like fifteen feet high. Then to make matters worse, he starts loudly praying to these things and lighting those mexican candles with the sayings about lotto winning and stuff. As the night has gone by, gay meth heads have been showing up and Boner is doing something to them, making them all kneel down and... well, pray. That's about the last thing Boner ever knelt down to do.
A bunch of gay truckers and their groupies praying to huge, brown balls in the back yard is not going to be good for the straight business.
When he finally came in, we asked him what the hell was going on, and he explained to me and an obviously miffed Carl.
"I've got religion, again."
Boner was always taking on the religion of whover he was 'bitching' in prison, so this was nothing new, but huge balls in the back yard is not going to be good for business... Well, actually, with the White Ass customer's it could pack them in... No, then we would lose that all important family trade -- our bread and butter.
This is what I was thinking anyways, when I tells Boner he has to get rid of them mud balls. Her got all weird and grabbed his shotgun and said he'd kill every heathen on the planet before he would touch one hair on them balls. He looked like he did that time the county worker said he had to get Carl fixed, and we all know they ain't never seen her again. He's sitting out there right now, on top of one of them fifteen foot high mud balls with that shotgun and a big old bag of White Ass, surrounded by all them gay trucker's in their pink little trucker caps and tube tops. One of them must have been hauling a load of white tube tops and pink trucker caps that say Peterbilt, because they are all wearing them. And nothing else. A disgusting site. Slappy is just sitting in the corner shivering and shaking and wetting and pooing on himself. Carl is in the back room throwing stuff around and chasing balls of wadded up paper, just a little swishing mess of a gay cat over this shit. When Boner comes down and sees how upset Carl is, he is going to feel bad, like he always does when he accidently starts one of his gay religions.
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00:copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Me and Boner and Shappy been up three days smoking our new batch of meth--this White Trash turned out prettty damn good. Our eyes are bulging out of our head's so much that Shappy actually had one pop out. We had a hell of time getting it back in. He bled a lot, too. Passed out at some point. I guess that's a good sign. Like I told Boner, "You sleep off a hang-over, so why the hell not bleeding too much?"
Yea, this White Trash is great... well, except for smelling like Boner's shit. That's 'cause we thought we were going to sell some to this kid down at the 7-11 on fourth street, Gerald The Battery Boy, a a twelve year old who steals car batteries to support his habit -- that's one industrious kid, and I am keeping my eye on him because he could prove to be a potential rivalry who I will have to run out of the trailer park, like I did his older sister, when she tried to bring in her own crank from those high-falutin Woodcocks on the southside of the park -- all those southsiders think that they're better than us just because they're on that side of Merrywinkle Unicorn Lane. I say, hell no, we all got the meth-mouths and live in a trailer park.
At least in public... inside, I know them southsiders are just so smart and all Game Show sophisticated -- how the hell am I supposed to compete with that? Sometimes when I am around them, I wish my parents had all educated me by putting on Wheel Of Fortune and them 'hard' game shows that require guessing at the size of different words-- who the hell can tell one size of word from the other, I say... but then, I wasn't raised watching 100,000 question, was I mom? This is one of the reason the social worker used to say I was using meth as an eight year old. Hell, sometimes on meth I feel like I could get everything perfect on the Price Is Right (which requires years and years of price checking, and then getting called ... which is why all the older price checkers at Kmart go there on vacations, which they can afford every ten or so years, depending on saving habits!!
Sometimes I remember that social worker coming in and looking at the tv and asking my mom and dad why they never put on something educational, like Hollywood Squares? They were both a little embarrassed to be raising us on Jerry that day. This was the only time I ever saw my daddy squirm, and it made an impact on me... sure, it hurt. Dad just waited until the social worker was gone and then told us she was 'putting on airs,' that we could go to her house right at that very moment and find her watching Jerry because 'nobody, in their hearts, can resist that show.' At the time I believe him.
I seem to have gotten off the topic again. Meth could possibly be adding to this, like Boner thinks, but I doubt it. He is filled with strange notions ever since being forced to watch Ophra, back last year when he was in jail and ended up some intellectual black guys bitch. I wish the hell he would take that guys picture down from the living room wall... keeps giving me an uncomfortable feeling way up in my but.
NOw, I guess I was about to explain why our new batch of White Trash meth smells like Boner's shit -- which is generally known around these parts to be surprisingly different than the smell of his ass.
Well, getting from our territory to the 7-11 is mighty tricky, of course. Any time we go out of our territory, we put ourselves in extreme danger of getting attacked by rival meth gangs, not to mention the Waterloo, Indiana Police Department. They won't actually come in the trailer park anymore. They claim it's cause of the smell and that they just don't plain give a shit about the people who live here. ... but when we leave, they are all over us the second we venture out of Shappy's Trailer Park Emporium.. And when you got the meth mouth, there ain't no hiding it from the cops. No matter how many times you tell 'em you just got out of treatment and are working a program now, they will search ya. Hell, most of them know our names by now.
So I figured I'd just use some of the education I got in the big house. Got Boner to stick a bunch of little bags of meth up his but. Keistering is we call it when we're in jail. Hell, when I was in Marion, I kept a contraband turkey up in my hershey hole for three days while it thawed enough for me to cook it up on my hot plate.
We figured we could go down to the alley back of the 7-11, and just let them cops search us. That way, they'd think we were clean and leave us alone.
Of course, two pigs came up to us the second we left the trailer park and threw us against their cars and searched us. One of em says, "Even these three aren't stupid enough to leave with meth. They can learn. Hmp."
Bastard. I told him that I read tv guide just for the articles, but he didn't seem to believe me.
After they left, the customers began slinking up. Once we had their cash, Boner would grunt and strain until he farted out a bag or two.
The idea, as you can tell, was perfect.
CONTINUE READING IN THE NEXT ENTRY... if ya got this far.
the elves attic
Rabby's Trailer Park Emporium's Great Meth Wars
home
by jsr
02/01/07
3:57 PM
This is part twoo....
There was a problem though... the Woodcocks were across the street in
their usual spot, trying to horn in on our business. Them Woodcocks are
an inbred tribe from the hotey-totey, stuck up south-side of the trailer
park. They think they're all fancy 'cause they got cousins to marry and
such, which keeps all the cars in the same family. We sure as hell wish
we had cousins, but after that lab we were running during the Anual
SKeeter Reunion And Pig Fucking blew all up... shot the house like twenty
feet into the air and killed all our relatives, including our most
favorite slutty cousins and a pig I had had my eye on for years...
Them Woodcocks send their eight and nine year olds out to do the delivery.
Marge the Momma told me she does it that way for two reasons-- said
when the kids were in jail was about the only time they got to schooling,
and of course being minors they usually got off with nothing little
sentences that the Woodcocks prided themselves in being able to handle
standing on their heads.
Anways... so people had a choice between our bags, which Boner was wet
farting out and they were kind of dripping brown stuff during the hand
off, or the Woodcocks nice clean bags. Well, at first... I have to say,
there for awhile, I thought we were in some real trouble. But then this
trucker come up, and when he got a bag of our stuff, he got on the CB and
started bragging on how he was doing some meth that smelled like a White
Ass. Next thing we knew, perverts from adult bookstores for miles around
and truck stops all over this side of the county were pulling up behind
the 7-11 asking for some White Ass.
Them Hoity-toity Woodcocks were fuming like a vat of grain alcohol filled
with decongestants!!
We were so happy with the results that we had Boner keister the money on
the way home, only he didn't have no more bags and the money got all
shitty . I guess it kind of looked like a brown dye pack had went off on
the money, like from a robbery, and when we tried to spend it on a bunch
of cough syryup and decongestants and such the Guy at the Jewels called
the cops on us.
The cops could tell it wasn't a dye pack, but they didn't want to come
close to the money. Told us were going to go out back and burn every bit
of it, or we were going to jail for doing perverted shit with money. I
tried to tell him that we did not put the money up our anuses for
satisfaction. Duder was having none of it. Got all pissed off and was
waving his baton around as he screamed, "Hey, when I get to putting money
up my ass, I burn it afterwards, because I live in a goddamn society!!!"
Then he proceeded to beat Boner, which turned him on... the big old woody
shoving out of his pants seemed to make the cop hit him harder, and
harder... Then those two knuckleheads made a date at some porta-potty
behind the Kroger's Market.
The world is such a messed up place. Sometimes i think we are the only
sane people in an insane world, man. I mean, if people would just let us
be, the world would be perfect. Well, except for meth-mouth, lack of
cousins, and the Boner-butt smell of this meth.
Boners' White Ass Meth Enemas!!
home
by jsr
11/01/07
6:37 PM
Carl came up with a solution to the problem of the fifteen foot tall Jesus mud balls and Boner's gay trucker religion. I'll tell ya, when Boner took that kitten and dipped it in a chemical vat and held it over them flames and used that eye dropper and meth and Crisco and all the other shit to turn Carl into some Super Gay Cat, I thought he was crazy. But he told me he learned the recipe from the most twisted prisoner that he ever bitched, and sure enough...
Carl told me and Shappy, "We have to offer him some way of getting his but attention. Right now, he's in butthole heaven. He won't give that up easy."
Carl then kind of fluttered about the room in that swishy way of his as he added, "Well, he does love his enemas... we could put the white ass in enemas and put Boner in charge of production! To get the smell that we all love so much, Boner could dip each of the enema's in his White Ass smell. We'll poke each and every one up his but before we sell it. That way, he would be selling his but juices. You know he's always dreamed of finding a way to market his sweet, sweet but juices."
And that's true, Boner's dream has always been to market his but juices. Or his 'sweet, sweet but juices,' as he always called them. I just thought that was crazy. Same as I did when Boner said he was going to make himself a Super Gay Cat that can talk.
Carl went out back, weaving between the half-naked truckers, their sagging white beer bellies and matted chest hair and flabby titties showing sadly through their tightlty stretched white tube tops... They were all involved in some kind of Daisy Chain that I tried not to look at.
Carl had in his mouth a big old red enema filled with White Ass and Crisco and Water, snuck up beside where Boner's fat ass was hanging off one of them big mud balls, shoved that red nozzle up deep into boner and and jumped up and down on it, splashing the meth deep up into that old boys bowels.
Boner's face lit right up, and his ears started flapping like they do... he looked like he couldn't have been happier with that white ass blasting through his bowel. Carl jumped up beside him and real quick explained to him about how we wanted to put him charge of putting his but juices on the new line of White Trash Enemas.
Boner was so happy that he jumped down off the balls with no regard to his anus having just been filled by a large enema. His feet hit the ground and he let loose with a brown blast that splattered the truckers and fag hags and their groupies.... This seemed to launch them all into some kind of sexual frenzy, which set off a new round of vomiting among the neighbors that was a watching and taping everything on their cell phones. Shappy had to run back inside.
I guess actually Boner was relieved that Carl was taking this latest gay religion of his with a grain of salt, instead of the usual week long hissy fits he's known for. By the time they got back up inside the trailer, Carl got Boner to agree to disband the religion in exchange for renewed litter box privilges -- Boner has been messing in the plants up under the windows and behind the couch ever since these two started having problems over Boner's Bitching...
Boner told all the trucker's to go home, and they reluctantly did. You would think they would learn after awhile that Boner doesn't really mean it when he starts these religions, but they fall for it everytime. Carl says it's cause Boner is so hot, but I happen to know Carl was conditioned to think this by Boner when he was a small kitten.
I'm letting him keep the mud balls and the little shrine, mostly because it will be easy for his gay trucker buddies to find our trailer, which should help the traffic problem that all these truckers have been causing as they cruise around the trailer park looking for some White Ass.
Boner's as happy as can be with his new product line -- him and Carl have been trying out different types of enemas all afternoon. They've still got like six crates to go and they're both already leaking something awful.
I'm going to have to hose out the whole trailer when they'e done. . . like I always have to when those two get to playing with enemas. Sure am glad things are back to normal around here.
Boner Says He's Bitching For God Now
home
by jsr
11/01/07
3:33 PM
Three awful days have passed since Boner first put the fifteen foot mud balls in the back yard. Things have kind of spun out of control ever since then, with all these huge semi-truck's sporting rainbow flags blocking every entryway into Rabby's Trailer Park Emporium. I guess by now the Legend of White Ass has been told across CB radios all over The six county area, and carved into the stalls of every truck stop from here to Fort Wayne.
There are now a couple hundred of them out there, gay truckers and their groupies -- various fag hags have been showing up today, too. All of them wearing just them pink trucker caps saying Peterbilt, and them damn white tube tops and nothing else. The sight is making the neighbors vomit, and that is not adding anything pleasent to the usual dog shit and urine scent of this trailer park.
The cops have been keeping watch on this from outside the trailer park, which is making me nervous as hell. I sent shappy up to see what they was doing and he says they're just drinking beers and whacking off. Shappy thinks this is all anyone ever does, so when he is supposed to be checking on cops or Buffalo Survaillance, or whatever... he always just comes back and says, "They're drinking beers and whacking off." Boner buys this story everytime, too.
I am now convinced that Boner started his gay trucker's church all because I told him that he couldn't keep putting the meth up his but.
By now you all should know that he keistered the latest batch of White Trash meth, turning it into the gay trucker phenomena White Ass... and that I told him we weren't a going to let him put anymore meth up his but. This was after Boner was all happy with having farted out all these bags, tricking the cops and getting to make his asshole the center of attention.
Boner was pretty sure this was the best thing that ever happened to him. A crying Carl told me this afterwards. Carl at least is avoiding the mud ball religion thing. He's just in the back room snorting white ass and playing with those crumpled up paper balls of his.
Anyways, I'm a thinking now that Boner Statrted this whole religion just to keep putting the meth up his butt. If I had told him that he could keister some of it, maybe... but no, I was so sick of smoking meth that smelled like his ass that I pretty much told him there was no way the white trash was getting anywhere near his asshole.
I guess I shouldn't have been so hard on him. Boner has had a difficult life, what with being abducted by a family of pigs, and raised out back of the house. He was a teenager before my parents realized anything was the amiss. Like daddy used to say, "If you'd a been raised by pigs, a rutting on your brothers and sisters all your life, then you'd fuck sheep and chickens and stray cats, too."
I hate to say it, but I am almost ready to join the enemy camp, which has turned out to be none other than the secretly gay meth snorting minister Gilford Tuttle. He is on the CB every day now, from when he wakes up until he passes out late at night, going on and on about the heathen activity taking place in Boner's church. His descriptions are pretty damn graphic, and not for the light hearted. Shappy is of course wetting himself whenever he hears the guys voice, and then the diarraeh starts and no place in this trailer is splatter free after a few days of this, believe me.
Boner took all the latest batch of white trash, and has spent the morning 'converting' it into white ass, by having his minions poke bags up into his but, which he then wet farts back out.
They've got some kind of religous chant going while he does it. Whenever another bag of white trash is poked in -- on the end of this large black dildo, Boner's yelling, "I'M BITCHING FOR GOD!!"
His followers then chant back, "He's god's bitch."
They've been doing this all morning.
"I'm bitching for god."
"He's god's bitch."
It gets to you after a few hours, believe me.
Boner Snorting Meth and Screwing Gilford Tuttle
home
by jsr
09/01/07
2:50 PM
Like anyone who was listening to Tuttle's program this afternoon, I have just learned that Boner has continued the Bitch ways that he learned in prison, and is once more out peddling his ass. Boner decided to expose this preacher after listening to this Tuttle's CB radio 'salvation station,' which he uses to harrass trucker's passing by on highway 6. We was a listening to the show, because a lot of the Trucker's are our customers... Well, Gilford was going on about the Mountanous Balls of Jock Jesus, and some trucker who was just passing through came back at him, saying something about how having a Jesus with big balls seemed a little gay to him. Hell, anyone can see this jock jesus thing is a little gay -- Boner is known to often touch himself during the Savation Station CB broadcastes, which often include graphic descriptions of a well-muscled Jesus working out.
Tuttle didn't seem to know this though, and he got all full of himself and started ranting about how homosexual marriages were going to cause a break down in the local sewer systems. He is always saying this, and most people have just come to accept it as true.
When Boner heard this stuff about the gay marriage would destroy the local sewer systems, again... and then Carl broke down and started crying over it... Well, Boner just went crazy, picked up that CB and jumped on, right in the middle of the show, and starting saying how he was bitching for Gilford Tuttle, doing crazy gay stuff on meth in some abondoned porta potty. But Bouncing, hip hopping, ankle flipping...
I guess Boner met his 'gay trick,' this preacher, when he was out selling that white trash meth that smelled like his but. Of course it has become all the damn rage in the underground gay scene here in town, which up until this I had pretty much believed was just Boner and his cat Carl.
Gays have been drawn by this but-smelling meth from as far away as a truck stop out on interstate 75!! Somebody carved our name into the wall out there, and we've been getting calls asking for White Ass all the time. That's what the street name for this stuff has become -- White Ass, which does not please me one bit... makes light of our trademark name, White Trash. I have been damned careful with my Branding, like I learned from reading part of an article about Martha Stewart during the year I was in prison... the third time, I think. We have tried so hard to keep White Trash in good graces with our sensitive customers, like the grade schoolers and their parents. I'm doing my best damage control, trying to get the kids to call this batch White Poo, or something more kid friendly...
I would also like to assure our customer's that our next batch is going to be kept the hell out of Boner's but!!! I don't care if my decision has made him cry. Lord, he did love farting out them bags, after keistering them down to the 7-11. Made him and his asshole the goddamned center of attention, and you know he likes that. Personally, I'd almost rather quit the meth than have to smoke his ass smell again... almost.
And as far as this thing with this Gilford Tuttle, he is denying everything, I guess. ... but Boner has tapes and proof and such that we will be releasing throughout the day, as he finds the stuff.
I GUESS A DENIAL HAS APPEARED ON THE TRAILER PARK EMPORIUMS' SITE FROM THIS TUTTLE... HERE IT IS.
What, Me, But Bounce? Oh, no...
I have been accused . . . I, Gilford Tuttle, most blessed on high among men, has been actually accused of having meth fueled gay sex with some hot stud from the disreputable, untrustworthy 'southside' of the trailer park. I have not now, nor have I ever, slid my dick into this guys hot ass. Nor has his hard, long, tall one slid up deep, deep inside my quivering bowels. In fact, I am so heterosexual that if I am not at church, I am usually testicles deep in the little lady. Can't get enough of the vagina, I always say in private and silently, as the lord commands. Yes, I am 'regular' with my wife.
I have recently heard that there are even some kind of 'fake tapes,' which has a voice that does sound like me. Oh, that Satan.... he is so damn clever. Of course the dark prince will do about anything to bring down the most blessed man on the planet, I who drink of the sweet, sweet sweat dripping from the Mountanous balls of Jock Jesus... On these tapes, there is much begging for meth and hot gay, sweaty meth sex. They are just so fake.. obviously the spewings of Satan's mighty wand!!
Leaders such as me are often attacked by gay men who claim we have been having hot, drug fueled sex all damn day and half the night. The time has come for all good men to ignore this hot, heathen Boner's blasphemy!!
I have just had a vision that Jesus will be very, very pissed at anyone who believes this slander against the one he has blessed the most.
To make this go away, new revelations in The Tuttle Scriptures And Family Budget, say that all I have to do is to think of the Jock Jesus With Balls Bigger Than Man Can Even Comprehend, and say three times -- GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN!!! GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN!!! GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN!!!
There, now we can all forget about this blasphemy, and go home and drink a long, cool glass of Pigmilk!!!
What? You still haven't obeyed the Lord and started drinking pig milk?
Why, "Got Pigmilk?" is what all the hip kids say -- and a wrathful god Demands.
This Tuttle is obviously very, very slick. A worthy adversary for me, Skeeter Skeeter Skeeter the seventh. He just doesn't understand that Boner has no reason to lie about this at all.
In fact, the fallout over Boner's decision to go public with his latest 'bitching,' has effected him something awful. Him and Carl are having problems over it, and I guess Boner has been banned from their litter box, which is causing some problems behind the couch that smell way too much like our meth.
He's in the bedroom crying and Carl will not comfort him this time.
New Development.. Boner has just come bouncing out of the back bedroom saying he is probably going to take it all back... I guess him and Tuttle agreed to hold a prayer meeting at some book store, Shemsties Frog Slapping Hole. He says they'll be 'a kneeling and a squeeling.' I guess that means prayng.
Later In The Night....
Strange shit. Boner come home from this meeting with the Gilford Tuttle and just went straight to the back yard, where he got out the back hoe and started digging up a bunch of the yard. I tried to get him to tell me what was going on, but he was all spaced out on the White Ass or something... I mean, the White Poo... When I tried to grab the keys out of the back hoe, he pulled a knife on me and you can bet I come in real quick....
So now a few hours has passed and it turns out he's making these huge, brown balls. They got to be like fifteen feet high. Then to make matters worse, he starts loudly praying to these things and lighting those mexican candles with the sayings about lotto winning and stuff. As the night has gone by, gay meth heads have been showing up and Boner is doing something to them, making them all kneel down and... well, pray. That's about the last thing Boner ever knelt down to do.
A bunch of gay truckers and their groupies praying to huge, brown balls in the back yard is not going to be good for the straight business.
When he finally came in, we asked him what the hell was going on, and he explained to me and an obviously miffed Carl.
"I've got religion, again."
Boner was always taking on the religion of whover he was 'bitching' in prison, so this was nothing new, but huge balls in the back yard is not going to be good for business... Well, actually, with the White Ass customer's it could pack them in... No, then we would lose that all important family trade -- our bread and butter.
This is what I was thinking anyways, when I tells Boner he has to get rid of them mud balls. Her got all weird and grabbed his shotgun and said he'd kill every heathen on the planet before he would touch one hair on them balls. He looked like he did that time the county worker said he had to get Carl fixed, and we all know they ain't never seen her again. He's sitting out there right now, on top of one of them fifteen foot high mud balls with that shotgun and a big old bag of White Ass, surrounded by all them gay trucker's in their pink little trucker caps and tube tops. One of them must have been hauling a load of white tube tops and pink trucker caps that say Peterbilt, because they are all wearing them. And nothing else. A disgusting site. Slappy is just sitting in the corner shivering and shaking and wetting and pooing on himself. Carl is in the back room throwing stuff around and chasing balls of wadded up paper, just a little swishing mess of a gay cat over this shit. When Boner comes down and sees how upset Carl is, he is going to feel bad, like he always does when he accidently starts one of his gay religions.
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Friday, April 04, 2008
today
I am once more working on the blogs... just got up a fw minutes ago and the dog needs to go out.... an excuse to walk by the lake in fifty degree whether and still I resent... I am such a boof. THat is what I need this blog for.... to show myself that I am an idiot. The other ones are getting very, very serious. I guess my violent comedy can be taken that way as well, but I mean it all tom and jerry and video game.... life is sacred. Only God has a right to judge man, in my opinionl... thought men can judge each others behavior without damning their intrinsic good. This is what I do. Ellision was the doctor who taught me this... though I think he took the feel positive all the time to extremes. I need the darkness to remind myself that I am on this earth to battle pain.
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Thursday, April 03, 2008
the new thrust of this blog
Basioucally, this site is for my comedy. I will be putting all of the short stories from theelvesattic.com up here in the next few weeks, as I compile them for a new edition of my book. I am also doing a new blog waking up jesus, for the new book, and then a sight where I can just write my comedy stories and political thoughts. I am going for a certain seperation of church and state, as much as that is possible.
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
the
hey, finally fully back on line and I have a lot of plans. I have decided to organize my disparate types of writing into various blogs, and then write from various perspectives.
I want to keep Johnny Pain's violent serial killer humor, and twisted sci fi stories in one place....
the poetry in another
a journal of sorts in another
and lastly, and most important.... my new blog waking up jesus, which coming out astoundingingly well for me. So far I have been publishing the poetry fragmantarily. I had no computer and had to write by hand.... and you know, basically worrying a
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
I want to keep Johnny Pain's violent serial killer humor, and twisted sci fi stories in one place....
the poetry in another
a journal of sorts in another
and lastly, and most important.... my new blog waking up jesus, which coming out astoundingingly well for me. So far I have been publishing the poetry fragmantarily. I had no computer and had to write by hand.... and you know, basically worrying a
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
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