THE RELIGIOUS PSYCHO KILLER'S SHIT LIST

John Scott Ridgway

2011-01-19T06:16:00.000-06:00

John Scott Ridgway

this work is protected by a commercial common use license. Feel free to spread my words...john scott ridgway

gangsta

2011-01-19T05:46:00.003-06:00

the kindred of the lost

invoked with coffee and loneliness

you discuss yourselves slowly into madness

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

they wake that morning and turn on the major stations

watch excitable people talking

about a predator

who creeps in the bushes

snatches kids

outside school yards

watch you from far on the other side of sanity

see the storms
that blew apart your dark life
shredded you down
stripped your humanity
to the bare animal core
your ways have

left a cruel sneer on your face
an ugliness in your hard eyes no makeup will hide

a settled look of disgust
smears the mask you wore this last decade
your insides dry and brittle
ethics emptied out somewhere
accidently
along the way
pissed and puked into a stained toilet

there was no need for morality during the

Why are you surprised to find yourself in the line up?

the PLANET OF DRUNKEN STONERS

2010-05-15T16:46:00.002-05:00

he PLANET OF DRUNKEN STONERS

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

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

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

"What is chillin, sir?"

"Something productive, sober citizens need never worry about."

"Cool."

After talking to the Rev. I decided to find out if the planet of drunken stoners were really as screwed up and in need of help as he said, so I called them to ask a few questions and the phone rang and rang and then when someone did answer, it was just to say, "The planet isn't home, man. I don't know when it's getting back."

"Wait, you are the planet... " I told the sleepy sounding voice, "I dialed the planet, so anyone who answers is the planet."

"I am?"

"Yes."

"Wow."

"Is it true you guys call all your three daily meals, 'Munchfests?'"

"No."

"Would you be willing to start?"

"Cool, man. Hey, the planet is home. Talk to him. Hi, this the planet of drunken stoners?"

"Aren't you the same guy that I was just talking to?"

"Duhhh.... yea. I mean, probably. I think so. Maybe I took notes... sometimes I take notes, usually forget about them and then... wow, there are some cookie crumbs in my pocket. If I lick my hand, then shove it back in... whoa, cookie hand, man? Want a lick? After me...

Wait, am I making an obscene call, because if I am, this isn't me, man."

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

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

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

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LET'S CONVINCE JOHNATHON JACKSON TO RUN FOR THE MAYOR OF CHICAGO

2010-05-15T09:12:00.000-05:00

LET'S CONVINCE JOHNATHON JACKSON TO RUN FOR THE MAYOR OF CHICAGO

Targeting: Johnathon Jackson (Rainbow Push)

Started by: John Scott Ridgway

Johnathon Jackson has been working to save this city, literally, since birth. He is a Finance Major who knows more about the crises we are in than any expert you talk to. In 2012, the same balloon payments that bankrupted the middle class and stole their houses, is going to come due for Commercial Loans. They cannot meet the balloon payments anymore than the housing community could. Thousands of businesses are supposed to tank. Johnathon is the man we are going to need to survive this -- Daley and his cronies will just figure out a way to make a few bucks off of this, or sell off the sidewalks to a private concern, or.... well, we all know how they operate. I urge you to watch Operation Rainbow Push on Saturday mornings at 10am on their site, live, or on television. Johnathon's astute lectures will convince you I am right.

For too long, the racists have hated the Jacksons', and many in the black community do not think they are radical enough... well, Johnathon is radical enough to make some serious changes. The hundreds of children killed in our city every year -- more this year than the soldiers who died in Afganistan and Iraq combined, would have the Marines going door to door if this happened in a white hood. I know only an afra-american mayor will take this as seriously as it should be. The national guards should have been brought in, if for no other reason than to show the kids that their society cares.

So, please, sign the petition and help Chicago move away from the Machine. AND add a message for Johnathon. To learn about his astute mind and sweeping heart and fire, watch him at 10am central time on Rainbow Push. They are on their website, local tv channels, etc... You will hear a professorial explanation of current history spoken in the words of a dynamic poet, and probably the best band in Chicago. Going down to the actual event on 51st is like seeing Martin Luther King with a great soundtrack.

this work is protected by a commercial common use license. Feel free to spread my words...john scott ridgway

Rare phenomenon: Once every 3000 years this flower appears!

2010-03-09T08:17:00.000-06:00

Rare phenomenon: Once every 3000 years this flower appears!: "From the Digital Tibetan Buddhist Altar website:
“The Udumbara flower (ficus racemosa) is a small flower of the Cluster Fig. In Buddhism, it is a metaphor for that which is supernaturally rare. In the summer of 2007, it began blossoming at various places in the world, most notably Taiwan and California.”"

From the Digital Tibetan Buddhist Altar website:

“The Udumbara flower (ficus racemosa) is a small flower of the Cluster Fig. In Buddhism, it is a metaphor for that which is supernaturally rare. In the summer of 2007, it began blossoming at various places in the world, most notably Taiwan and California.”

move this to waking up jesus

Operation Clambake presents: Baloney Detection Kit

2010-03-08T17:38:00.000-06:00

Operation Clambake presents: Baloney Detection Kit

There is an excellent section of this that deconstructs the stupid shit I see in all the comment sections.

Ad hominem - attacking the arguer and not the argument.
Argument from "authority".
Argument from adverse consequences (putting pressure on the decision maker by pointing out dire consequences of an "unfavourable" decision).
Appeal to ignorance (absence of evidence is not evidence of absence).
Special pleading (typically referring to god's will).
Begging the question (assuming an answer in the way the question is phrased).
Observational selection (counting the hits and forgetting the misses).
Statistics of small numbers (such as drawing conclusions from inadequate sample sizes).
Misunderstanding the nature of statistics (President Eisenhower expressing astonishment and alarm on discovering that fully half of all Americans have below average intelligence!)
Inconsistency (e.g. military expenditures based on worst case scenarios but scientific projections on environmental dangers thriftily ignored because they are not "proved").
Non sequitur - "it does not follow" - the logic falls down.
Post hoc, ergo propter hoc - "it happened after so it was caused by" - confusion of cause and effect.
Meaningless question ("what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object?).
Excluded middle - considering only the two extremes in a range of possibilities (making the "other side" look worse than it really is).
Short-term v. long-term - a subset of excluded middle ("why pursue fundamental science when we have so huge a budget deficit?").
Slippery slope - a subset of excluded middle - unwarranted extrapolation of the effects (give an inch and they will take a mile).
Confusion of correlation and causation.
Straw man - caricaturing (or stereotyping) a position to make it easier to attack..
Suppressed evidence or half-truths.
Weasel words - for example, use of euphemisms for war such as "police action" to get around limitations on Presidential powers. "An important art of politicians is to find new names for institutions which under old names have become odious to the public"

here is an odd thought...

2010-03-06T15:29:00.001-06:00

as so many of mine are.... There was no defitcit under Clinton... then Bush ran up a deficit by giving the richest of the rich tax cuts, in a dream of trickle down economics that proved to be Voodoo Economics (what Reagan himself called Trickle Down before adopting the policy when his handlers decided to use their puppet that way).. Now, they are using said deficit to cut social programs. Is there a connection?

It does not matter if this was the plan or not, it is the reality. How can the average person change this? Oddly, the voices on the net are finally getting a bit of heft. Politicians are being effected by the huge number of signatures on petitions -- and they know, these are voters who will punish or praise them. Durbin, from Illinois, a champion of the people, brought the Public Option back around after being Petitioned about it, then went on to start his own Facebook petition for a good cause. This is Democracy in action.

The unfortunate other side of today's news... another Nut has wasted his life shooting at armed security guards working at what they see as THE BEAST. This time it was the Justice Dept. His family has already come out with a plea that he was metally ill, and asking the press not to demonize him. I agree with them. The pundits make too much of the supposed reasons crazed people do what they do? IF they are right wing and the killer is left, they blame this... if the person used drugs... they blame this... if they are black... unemployed... a member of some right wing or left wing organizations... They use that corpse for a talking puppet, and their pseudo-experts make up all the words, imrpov up a reality they pretend has something to do with the world outside of their studio.

The Conspiracy theorists who kill people... they are the tip of an iceberg of frustration. I have been thinking since I was a teenager and came across a Penthouse with an interview with Othello, and FBI informer who went on the run and was exposing CO_INTEL-PRO . This is old news to some, but at the time, discovering the sleazy tricks our government was using on law abiding citizens -- Dr. Stern, who taught me Military Intelligence, talked about how the cops sent people to his communist/peace activist meetings to try to get them to kill people, blow up shit... anything that could be used to get them all put in Jail. I mean, the sold the Black Panthers guns, then put together a swat team to bust them for said guns, and went in with guns blazing... hoping to kill as many of these young activists as possible.

I should be more of a conspiracy theorist, since I have actually had a lot of dealings with the Intelligence community and they end up making less and less sense everytime something happens that reminds me they have an active interest in me (my home address disappeared from my facebook as recently as last week, after I challanged some boof to come to my house so I could kick his ass. I left the address off the entry. I cannot tell exactly why someone chose to do this, but I do know there are people who watch out for me -- they are the same ones who informed me of various death threats and more directed my way after I had Bin Laden put out a Fatwa to cover goats assses, because they turned him on as much as the 12 year old boys they also keep covered. Won me no friends in the middle east. I want peace there, and in Iran, which has won me fans among the Iranians, who I know to be a very interesting and wondrous people, who value freedom with the hunger of someone who has been slightly starving for years; look at the difference between what happened in the states when Bush stole the elections.... basically, nothing, and that which happened was BRUTALLY SUPPRESSED. In Iran, the populace really took to the streets, in numbers the state sponsored media could not ignore, and the world press played up. They are raised over there being told they are revolutionaries, and when that turned around and bit their present government on the ass, they reminded those citizens just what they are -- the bitches of the red guard and the mullahs.

I have been having conversations, through facebook, with various political views. A lot of people who like my form of humor, my cynicism, are right wing. I have confused people for years about what I believe in. I have been raised a Spartan in America, a war-culture. Briefly during my childhood, the anti-war movement and the hippie movement and free love and pot all seemed like they were going to change everything .... the came the Right Wing Back Lash, sending out a union busting, actor to start a cult of personality they could manipulate into cutting their taxes, and getting ups some good wars going to keep their munitions stocks rising.

I think conspiracies are often about like asking if there is a God? We are never going to get the perfect answer, which would be God just not playing coy, coming down for personal appearances, to clean up the planet, stop war, end death, etc... We just have to start with what we have now, and say we are stop certain things from happening in the future. I would rather that the CIA straighten out their use of private prisons, out-sourced torture, assassination (character and otherwise), without some kind of witchhunt that destroys their capacity to act. On this one I agree with Obama, look forward not back. Still, I think this requires that they open up, release a plethora of documents that are top secret only to cover a few peoples asses, and this alone would destroy a lot of conspiracy theories. Truth. This would leave the crazies no room to make stuff up.

This is the problem with secrecy -- humans are pattern makers, and they will decide on some reason for just about everything, even if they have to resort to astrology.

I learned a harsh lesson is the Government when I inadvertently published top secret intelligence in my first novel, a tale told by an ex-Navy Seal who used to come in as co-professor for some of Dr. Stern's classes. I based Matt Slane on him (though the name, which has been criticized for being too metaphorical, is just the name of my best friend, who happens to be very tough). They want the story told their wa

Ill. judge won't toss torture suit naming Rumsfeld

2010-03-06T11:06:00.000-06:00

Ill. judge won't toss torture suit naming Rumsfeld

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NY Daily News - Discussions - Sean Penn tells CBS' 'Sunday ...

2010-03-05T09:13:00.000-06:00

NY Daily News - Discussions - Sean Penn tells CBS' 'Sunday ...

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OBAMA TALKING TO RAHM EMMANUEL

2010-03-04T11:48:00.000-06:00

.

RAHM: This was Chicago, I would have the bastard killed. Can't someone just kick his ass?"
OBAM: Rahm... come on. We can get health care passed without killing anyone. Look, you almost got me to off that bastard from Kentucky, then he backed off.
RAHM: Bush got away with fucking 9-11, and you worry about some retarded hillbilly?
Fucking retards, all of them... I should be in Charge of these fucking retard... got to get my hands on that button, then they'll listen to Rahm."
OBAMA: Uh, excuse me Rahm?"
Rahm: "Uh, nothing Mr. President. I guess we'll just send them horses heads then."
Obama: "NO, start with their pets. Then the... maid. Then... break their kids legs... all of them, at the same time, no matter where the hell they are in the world.... They'll vote for health care... because they are going to fucking need it."
Rahm: "You sure you turned that... the mic is on."
OBAMA: "Well, we are just kidding anyways, and Senate pets die everyday. Why should today be any different? Coincidences happen. And that my friend, is the power of plausible denial.
Rahm: "You bastard, you do hate whitey, don't you? As a Jew, I think all these gentiles -- genitals as we call them are..."
OBAMA: "Rahm, I do not hate anyone, really. Hate is... I just know this is important to millions, and I want it passed... so, we are going to all Chicago on the bastards. Filibuster this, you Romulans!
Rahm: I would take him by the goddamn throat and....
OBAMA "Why did I hire you again?"
RAHM: "The pictures of dress up night, with the wife, when you were doing Diana Ross."
OBAMA: 'Yea, i keep thinking it was that other thing..."
RAHM: "I am saving that back for an Ambassadorship in the Caribbean, I'm thinking... I'll let you know.
OBAMA: "Yes, I am sure you will. You're still leaving at the end of the year?"
RAHM: "Not being able to have people killed... or destroyed by the machine... no, I miss Chi-town. There I could just catch these assholes at a grocery store and....
OBAMA: Yes, yes, Rahm, we all know how tough you are. Could I, uhm, get back to signing these papers and doing... other stuff... by myself?
RAHM: "Can we just discuss one more time why Cheney got his own hit squad and yet I can't have one?I could be taking down these fucking retards, start with Palin.."
OBAM: "NO."
Rahm: "You still have the hots for her."
OBAMA: McCain didn't hire her for her brain, Rahm. She has something . . . "
RAHM: "You gotta let this go."
OBAMA: "That note she sent me... the things she wants to do..."
RAHM: "Yes, and we have phone transcripts about how she would then claim a black man was trying to rape her... she wanted to meet you in Texas, for God's Sake!!!"
OBAMA: "I still think she wanted me... too. I'm sure of it."
RAHM: "When I leave here, you're pulling up those nude survaillance photos of her again, aren't ya?"
"NO."
"You got a jiz rag?"
"Yea, right here... you bastard."
Rahm: "Caught you again. That's how many times?"
OBAMA: It relaxes me... this is a tense...
RAHM: "36 times I have caught you whacking to her."
OBAMA: "I don't think we need to keep track of... You know, Rahm, everyone knocks, except you Rahm, why is that?"
RAHM:"I secretly take pictures of everything... you know, in case I need another favor."
OBAMA: Oh, God... I was just trying to be bi-partisian!"
RAHM: "I know,sir, I know... I have her on my screen saver. Got the wife wearing one of those masks of hers. Something about fucking that retard in the ass."
OBAMA: Rahm, must you use the word, 'retard,' every time you put together a sentence?"
RAHM: "Those bastards think they can stop me from calling a retard a retard are retards."

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We Need To Stop This... by ANY MEANS NECESSARY,

2010-02-07T12:53:00.000-06:00

this

Santa Fe Institute economist: one in four Americans is employed to guard the wealth of the rich

By Cory Doctorow at 10:45 PM February 5, 2010

Here's a fascinating profile on radical Santa Fe Institute economist Samuel Bowles, an empiricist who says his research doesn't support the Chicago School efficient marketplace hypothesis. Instead, Bowles argues that the wealth inequality created by strict market economics creates inefficiencies because society has to devote so much effort to stopping the poor from expropriating the rich. He calls this "guard labor" and says that one in four Americans is employed to in the sector -- labor that could otherwise be used to increase the nation's wealth and progress.

The greater the inequalities in a society, the more guard labor it requires, Bowles finds. This holds true among US states, with relatively unequal states like New Mexico employing a greater share of guard labor than relatively egalitarian states like Wisconsin.
The problem, Bowles argues, is that too much guard labor sustains "illegitimate inequalities," creating a drag on the economy. All of the people in guard labor jobs could be doing something more productive with their time--perhaps starting their own businesses or helping to reduce the US trade deficit with China.
Guard labor supports what one might call the beat-down economy. Community Action's Porter sees it all the time.
"We have based almost everything we have done on the idea that we always need a part of our workforce that is marginalized--that we can call this group into action at any time, pay them nothing and they will do anything that needs to be done," she says.
More discouraging, perhaps, is the statistical fact that a person born into this workforce has little chance of rising beyond it.

Born Poor? (via MeFi) is protected by a commercial common use license. Feel free to spread my words...john scott ridgway

Getting People Out To Vote... at Gunpoint.

2010-02-06T22:00:00.000-06:00

I think all the gangs should get some good press, and a good lesson in real power, by being paid to go door to door getting people to vote. Of course, they should be heavily armed. Like I do around here. Believe me, you shoot up a couple houses on your block, and when you go by with a megaphone later telling them to line up to vote... They come right out. I mean, they know I have explosives hidden somewhere on their property that will go off if they piss me off and all. Of course, at this point, I usually groin kick the republicans, break their legs, whatever... believe me, that ambulance ain't heading toward the voting booth... It is surprising how many republicans have become democrats on my block because of this policy. I then march them -- and yes, on this block, they damn well better be able to march, or at least get a wheelie out of their little traveling chairs... then I take them one by one into the voting booth and 'show them' how to vote the right way. There is nothing like being a serial killer for the CIA for getting to live like a rugged individualists. Like Cheney said during one his late night chat's with Satan, "Plausible denial. Works like a goddamn spell on these sheep."

this work is protected by a commercial common use license. Feel free to spread my words...john scott ridgway

BREAKFAST WITH THE OBAMA'S

2010-02-06T21:47:00.000-06:00

After reading an article about town hall protesters, the president holds up the paper to Michelle, asking, "Honey, how does it feel to be a woman from the south side of Chicago who is married to Hitler? A commie, muslim, Indonesian, anti-christ, Hitler, none-the-less."

"Not in front of the girls, Barrack."

"Daddy, are you Hitler?"

"No, dear, Daddy does not like Hitler. He was a very, very bad man. Daddy is your daddy. These people like to pretend that is what I am like."

"Why?"

"Remember when we talked about bullies?"

"Yes."

"Well, they are bullies."

"Tell the teacher, daddy."

"You know what, I think I will."

Check out all of my blogs by googling my name, John Scott Ridgway

this work is protected by a commercial common use license. Feel free to spread my words...john scott ridgway

From The Daily Beast.,..

2009-06-30T12:21:00.001-05:00

thi

Accomplished?

by Zachary Iscol

Maya Alleruzzo / AP PhotoToday’s pullout from Iraqi cities vindicates Bush’s "surge" strategy, says former Marine Zachary Iscol. The change in tactics—which reversed our fortunes in Iraq—could even help Obama in Iran.

As a Marine, I learned that peace is predicated on compromise, not superior firepower or belligerence.

Today, witnessing U.S. troops withdraw from Iraqi cities, I find the right’s accusations of appeasement levied on President Obama about most issues in the Middle East incredibly ironic. Today’s withdrawal, perhaps the greatest success of the Bush administration, would not have occurred if we hadn’t learned to appease.

Today’s withdrawal, perhaps the greatest success of the Bush administration, would not have occurred if we hadn’t learned to appease.

When President Bush announced the "surge," on January 11, 2007, he was announcing much more than the deployment of 35,000 additional troops to Iraq. He also was adopting a set of successful tactics that had already been implemented successfully by a few industrious officers. It amounted to a radically different approach to how troops would be employed on the ground.

In 2004, I took little risk with the lives of my Marines. It was simply too dangerous. If a vehicle failed to stop as it crashed through our checkpoint, we used deadly force. If a military-aged male was in the vicinity after a roadside bomb detonated, he would be detained. I often wonder if some of our tactics created more insurgents than we were able to kill or capture.

In the violent summer months of 2004, we put the risk on the civilian population, but in 2007, as the surge began and General David Petraeus took over, the force began to accept more risk in order to protect the population. Troops moved out of large, fortified bases and lived in smaller outposts among the population. They patrolled more often on foot instead of in armored vehicles. At first, casualties went up, but then something remarkable happened: Coalition casualties plummeted.

FM 3-24, the U.S. Army and Marine Corps Counterinsurgency Manual, published on December 16, 2006, encapsulates a number of the paradoxes of counterinsurgency. It turns out, “The more you protect the force, the less secure you may be.” And “Sometimes the more force is used, the less effective it is.”

Perhaps former Bushies are so quick to criticize Obama because they never really bought into the change in tactics and strategy that reversed our fortunes in Iraq. Over time, it was our military, mainly junior officers and NCOs, who realized that the vast majority of people in Iraq were not our enemy—but that our tactics and emphasis on force were turning many of them into enemies. This, more than anything else, is the Achilles’ heel of the counterinsurgent.

Antagonizing and creating new enemies is much more dangerous than failing to kill one, which is why Obama’s limited response to the political unrest and demonstrations in Iran is commendable. Action or support from the United States would largely alienate the demonstrators from greater support from the population of Iran. As the counterinsurgency manual states, “Sometimes, doing nothing is the best reaction” especially when action would be counterproductive or foster greater resentment. Those critical of Obama’s initially tepid response would do better to explain what they hope to accomplish and how through more active support for the demonstrators in Iran.

In 2004, as a young Marine lieutenant, I gave a poster of George Washington crossing the Delaware River to a local tribal leader named Sheik Jabbar. I was 25 years old and he was a foot taller than me, regal, wise, and twice my age. As I handed him the poster, I explained that he had the opportunity to be his nation’s Thomas Jefferson. He graciously accepted the poster and then asked me if I meant he would write his country’s declaration of independence, be its ambassador to France, or serve as its president. He then listed the names of his family’s patriarchs going back 1,200 years. He wanted to be like his forefathers, not mine.

Last Friday, Obama clearly articulated that what is going on in Iran is not about us. It is about the Iranian people seeking justice for themselves. Obama understands, much better than I did, the folly in thinking otherwise. He also understands the incredible danger of taking action and siding with the protesters. Creating the illusion that the protesters are American pawns would alienate them and fracture their ranks. Sometimes doing nothing is the best reaction.

Over kabobs, chai tea, and the hookah, I learned a tremendous amount about Iraq’s history and local issues from Sheik Jabbar, and he would often complain to me about the local city council. Unelected bodies, the city councils had been appointed by the U.S.-led Coalition Provisional Authority with the intent that they would become legislative bodies after elections were held. For Sheik Jabbar and most of the local people, they were an illegitimate and corrupt governing body that would siphon funds for local municipal projects for personal gain. I soon learned that the tribal councils were much more democratic and just than our appointed councils, but we treated them as an archaic remnant of Iraq’s past and alienated them. So they came to see us as occupiers, supported al Qaeda as liberators, and fought against us.

But in 2005, two years before the surge, along the Euphrates River Valley, Marine company commanders began working closely with tribal leaders, shifting their emphasis from promoting democracy to promoting the peace. Former enemies became close allies. Soon battalion commanders and regimental commanders were following the path laid out to them by junior officers. The generals followed. Soon even Bush was gripping and grinning with the tribal leaders of Iraq as Democrats in Congress cried appeasement and debated the merits of a bill deriding the Maliki government for offering asylum to former nationalist insurgents with American blood on their hands. Almost overnight, the most violent province in Iraq became one of the most peaceful. This willingness to appease fostered the peace that now enables us to withdraw our troops from Iraq’s cities.

I recently returned to Fallujah, this time as a journalist, and I was astonished at how different the city had become. Four years earlier, the city lay in ruin. It reeked of death and was littered with trash and human remains. As I accompanied one of the last Marine patrols through the city, I wondered where we would be and how long we would still be there if we had never learned to appease.s work is protected by a commercial common use license. Feel free to spread my words...john scott ridgway

Soldiers Pulling out of Iraq's Cities...

2009-06-29T20:18:00.008-05:00

I saw a picture today on the BBC site, with a line of soldiers outlined on an horizon, marching as if toward home.

We are at a very tricky point in Iraq. If the extremists decide to come back in and fight the Police and Iraqi military after our troops pull out. the USA will be forced to possibly make an unpopular decision.

I want the war to end. I sympathisize with the security concerns that make the ending of this conflict so complicated that years are involved. We have to leave behind in the country a seed of Democracy. Saddam Gone. Democracy declared. The battle line drawn between the extremist jihadists and the forces of the free. I do salute the soldiers for fighting this hard, horrible battle. They are the front line. Between us and the masses of folk who would reduce our lives to their particular religous vision.

I am sympathetic to anyone who is oppressed, at war, etc... However, the Taliban and their influence is the fucking enemy to people like me, and the people I love. Oppressing women. Period. Nothing else I have to say about that religous delusion. Add to that stoning adultererr's, killing Christians, etc... Taking the women out of school is a sin against humanity itself. This is pure and simple prejudice, and however institutionalized and sanitized it is in some countries (like saudi arabia, where women cannot have drivers licenses, passports, fly on their own... the system is built to enslave, and indeed, a many servants have found themselves enslaved in such system -- remember, there is more slavery now than ever before in the history of the planet... if you do not see it all over the place, that is simply because you are not looking. People run around making opinions about Paris Hilton, instead of going after slave masters.

I mean, have you ever heard of a charity that free's slaves? You would think the black community in Chicago would be involved in such an endeavor, but they tend to think they have enough on their hands representing their communities, and with everything so ultimatly out of control in certain ways, they have to choose their battles carefully because war can break out anywhere.

The allied forces in the Middle East are the predecessors of the wars to come. Iran and Syria and other countries who are not under Russia, america or China's nuclear net, are going to be scrambling for the bomb. Lot of countries already have it, and they will not stop until they have one. One of the countries they consider their worst enemy, Israel, has nukes... so there is no way that they can go against the most demonized government in the area, unless they can fight nuke-fire with fire...

I like to think the USA could lead the world in reducing nuclear bombs, and offering help to countries who wish to use nuclear power, as long as they then sign a treaty allowing inspections, etc. Why not? They are going to get bombs if they want them bad enough, and pretending otherwise is foolish. I hope I am wrong, but I doubt that very much.... We need to go in now and do everything we can to settle this peacefully. If we continue to fly in,like Israel did with Syria, and blow up their nuclear facilities, we are inevitably going to miss one. All it takes is One Bomb, mind you, to bring nightmares to life.

How does one start a movement that transcends religous and political differences, and peacefully applies a few universal principle? I think of the soldiers like this to some degree. The principles may be written in blood at first, but freedom is something that we breath here in the usa like air, and we notice it almost as much... take it away, like happened to me when I went to jail, and you realize just what is meaningful in this world. Being Free is more important than being alive to.

Soldiers have fought for this creed on american soil for as long as humans have existed. Native Americans fought one another, enslaved one another. Europeans kept serfs and treated them like slaves. African tribes sold each other. The middle east is filled with endentured servents, the eastern block overflowing with enslaved prostitutes, children being exploited almost anywhere the law has short arms or is just plain old corrupt. These are wars that we expect the police force to deal with, and they don't.

Why cannot a people's movement be started that supports worldwide activists who call out theses industries, expose them, and try to get the attention of law enforcement officials? People would donate money to buy children and others out of slavery. I dream of being a millionaire and hiring a small army of mercenaries, killing our way through the organized crime behind the slavery, and setting the women and children free to heal in some mountain retreat.

Soldiers and activists, activists and soldiers. What we really are is the infantry -- as in how the Romans used the term, which meant sending out the youngest soldiers first into battle so they would get killed and not them. We still send our young out first to die.

I am proud of soldiers. Have quite a few in my famalies history, stretching back over a thousand years of blood. I respect the sacrifice, know what they are going through is much worse than I could ever imagine. I see their names on the tv on Sunday Mornings, the weeks' dead, as George Stephanapolous looks all serious. Some are too young to have lived much of a life at all. Others old enough to leave a life half lived behind.

I wonder at such times, if George Bush, in lying about nuclear bombs and al queda connections in Iraq, didn't cause all these deaths for no good reason at all? I remember than how much I despised Saddam Hussein and the Taliban, even before america declared them the enemy. And I wanted to see their movements stopped. I could see how dangerous religous extremists would be with nuclear bombs. God could tell them to do something that no sane man would. They want to be martyred, you see, so it is win/win to them if they kill us and die. Like playing a video game where whoever you kill goes to hell, while your fallen rise to heaven into a horizon filled with 72 virgins spread eagle, their labias looking all pink and juicy... dripping into small pools at their feet as they await their Martyr.

In times of war, no matter what our Mullah's or ministers mumble, God takes the side of widows and orphans, and soldiers on all sides, forced to go into a war where the enemy could be anywhere, anytime. How appalling. Can you imagine living in a place where at any moment, an enemy could be lurking, driving by, watching you from a window as they plan their next attack on you and yours? The very ground at your feet could betray you and just fuckig explode.

I was raised on a library in Garrett, Indiana, and heavily influenced by a series of elementary level biographies about Great Men; Lincoln, Washington, etc.. a lot of them were soldiers. I played soldier like anyone. Loved the John Wayne movies...

Then I saw the Vietnam war as a huge mistake. We were the colonialists. Most would argue that the history comes down to this -- we not only fought on the wrong side, we created it ourselves. I lost a lot of faith in the judgement of the armed forces, as well as the politicians, during those years. This one war stopped the USA from wanting to send troops anywhere -- Bosnia's Ethnic Cleansing -- the mass murder and land grab that stains their culture -- finally got Clinton to act. We saved lives. The situation was horrifying.

This was a noble cause. Not some Big Brother machine that was out to take my mind and body for the usages of theMilitary Industrial Complex; just an army sent out across the planet to stop mass murder. Had we not opened our two front war, I would have liked to see our soldiers in Darfur. Years ago. Why not?

Iraq, however we got there, is where we are... the pile of shit George Bush left behind has to be cleaned up. Obama has to make sure that the citizens of Iraq are not left livingin war zones when we leave. If the peace is that tentative, then our pledges to remove troops from Iraq should be changed. Period. It is that simple. Just say, to the american people, this is the only way we can guarantee the safety of the civilians.

Probably will not come to that. Our soldiers will pull out, mostly, and spend their time training new troops to maintain the lines of order that they have left behind in the hands of the fledging Iraqi Police Force, Army, etc...

Others will go where we should have went, after al queda, in Afganistan.

I want to see our soldiers stop the spread of this mental virus. Someone has to do confront the kind of warped minds that blow up a statue of Buddha on a mountain because it offends their religous sensibilities... bans music, keeps women our of schools, etc...

I am proud of the soldiers who removed Saddam Hussein. The people of that country have been given a gift that they will understand as the years pass and the wounds heal. There will be a day when their history books will tell about the Americans who saved their country from a dictator. Afganistan will one day tell their children about how the americans fought of the Taliban, so their country could remain a democracy. This is their revolution. Their chance change for the better. Seize that fucking day.

Why not? Today they were all out celebrating that the American soldiers leaving their city.

I follow the war. Try to imagine what the soldiers are going through, research what the stat's say about how their minds have been effected -- especially after the Stop Gapping started to unravel otherwise sane soldiers.

What are our soldiers symbolically representing as they slouch into Bethelhem? In a way, they are the secular soldiers stopping religous fanaticism. The Taliban originally got a toe hold in Afganistan and other countries, because they offered Law where there was none. They were willing to give up freedoms to get security. First things first, I understand. No one should have to make such choices, and no one can be blamed for doing whatever they could to stop the lawlesnes that was erroding their countries.

Our soldiers give them an option, now. They may hate us a bit, because we brought Hell's Own Fire when we attacked them; later they will benefit from our efforts, whether they acknowledge our footnote in their story.

TO BE CONTINUED....

.. yet writing about the world of war is difficult for me. What else can I add to the endless chatter about these wars?

Some 131,000 US troops remain in Iraq, including 12 combat brigades, and the total is not expected to drop below 128,000 until after the Iraqi national election next January.

'Now is the time'

Iraqi soldiers paraded through Baghdad's streets on Monday in vehicles decorated with flowers and Iraqi flags, while patriotic songs were played through loudspeakers at checkpoints.

this work is protected by a commercial common use license. Feel free to spread my words...john scott ridgway

Once more.... I was not involved in the Green River killings ... that much.

2009-06-29T18:06:00.003-05:00

Johnny Pain here... I know that I haven't been in here writing about my murderous ways very much. Had to go a little underground there for awhile, to keep the Obama campaigns murders quiet. Did a little contract work, for the hell of it, like the Rev. Fallwell job... a heart attack they called it in the paper. I got that license to kill so they can't say or do shit because it is a national security issue. I can talk about this because of certain arrangements I made with the government. I did some work for them, they let me kill... they know I stick to scumbags, or people who annoy me... or people who say hi to me when I am in certain moods.

I was raised in a family of serial killers. We go way back. There is a religious streak to our missions that dates make hundreds of years, but mostly all I know is that my family is deadly as hell, and we never make it through the holidays without someone killing this cousin, or that uncle or sister... Hell, I shot my sister dead last year for something... I can't remember. A couple cousins. I did not start it. Ma shot my brother Sol when he said that he was going to call the police about something or another. He had married into the family, but that was not enough to protect him from saying something about calling the cops in front of my mom. She shot him dead right there at the table.

But me... and the green river killings... well... that was just sick. Horrible stuff. Pay whores, do not kill them. Period. People who break this rule should be shot down like someone I catch leaning on my car or something.

Honestly, folks...

There is not one shred of evidence tying me to the serial murders known as The Green River Slayings. Yes, Gary told me it was cheaper to kill prostitutes than pay them, but I thought he was kidding. This led to a serious surprise the first time we partied hard with coke and whores, obviously. I met him through Charlie Sheen, who just didn't seem... Read More to give a dam when Gary killed the prostitutes... he just kept going at them... like they were still alive. OH, good times, good times... I mean, for shame... for shame.

this work is protected by a commercial common use license. Feel free to spread my words...john scott ridgway

Fuentes Last Hit.... short story

2009-06-23T11:27:00.007-05:00

Afterwards you sit around wondering how you ended up here, and everyone else you grew up with ended out there?

He tells himself to quit dwelling on his years in prison. There was little chance he was going back for this. Hell, the cops called him a hero. Old Man kills two gang bangers who were trying to abduct a young woman. The cops were nice enough not to bring up his record at the press conferance.

In prison, you killed somebody in a gang and you expected to have to fight for that right at any moment. He was sixty when he got out. An old timer to the young gang bangers, who had given him the respect their codes demanded. No one wanted to violate in prison, where they were sure as hell going to get a beatdown.

He gets up from the bed with a low moan that is half/back, half/mood. Ten years of living in the cheap motel, tied down by the poverty of social security, he had barely changed the life style he lived in prison. His body was too old to go out and try to start over. He was living his last years; years that had followed decades of him having to constantly try to make the best of a very bad situation.

He retired from the gangs when he started to sense the young guns were sick of listening to him. Death was not someting he looked forward to, like some of the more depressed, fatalist guys he had met over the years. The guy who took over after him was grateful for the easy transition. They feared him, of course. Killing was something he learned to do young and well.

Out ten years living on Milwaukee, he told nobody who he was. Occasionally he was recognized, said hello. He made no plans with such people. He didn't need the shit easy money would buy. The only connection he kept on the street were for weed. An old friend from way back who considered it part of his retirement plan to keep the old gang banger stoned. Really helped his back. He wasn't quite hypocritical enough to say he smoked for his physcal health, and people didn't want to hear that he smoked for his emotional health.

Old as he was, people didn't suspect he smoked, so he didn't worry about the cops. He knew cops well enough to make them like him. A survival skill in a prisoner who was negoitiating for his soldiers with the warden and the guards with every interaction.

The woman was being dragged into a car by three guys, right in broad daylight. One of them had a knife. The stores along the block were all open, people here and there... her screams stopped them all. He was close. Had a cane in his hand with heavy, steel handle. One of them had a knife but they weren't looking for him to give them any trouble.

He had been in that situation a lot of times. One of his own being jumped. Usually he was gettting jumped too. Without thinking, be swung the head of the can up and caught one in the temple. The next one he came down on the top of his head. Before they even noticed him, they were out cold -- one already dead. The third one looked into his eyes and saw something he recognized from battle and let the girl go, jumped up into the drivers seat and took off.

Then everyone wanted to help. Kept asking if he was alright. They expected a heart-attack. He was calm over a slight nervousness that he wasn't about to show. The cops talked to everyone, the cheif came down with a tv camera, and thanked him, on Channel Two, for saving this young girl. He just kept looking at the blood on his cane. Trying to keep his distance from what had happened, say as little as possible. No one seemd to think he had just put himself in danger by attacking another gang. He told himself this was probably true, out here. Prison was prison, freedom, freedom.

The hotel clerk called up to his room around ten, said some kid was there to see him. "What's he look like?"

"Hispanic kid, red bandana. Want me to send him up."

"Hell, no. I'll come down."

The bandana meant he was in his old gang. Why a young kid? Why just hours after the fight? The answer came to him, but he hoped he was going to hear different.

He walks off the elevator scanning the lobby. Just a kid, smiling, friendly, wearing sunglasses at night... high, drunk?

"Hey, man... we need to talk?"

"Yea, who are you?

"Sorry, capo.. Juan. You okay?"

"What's going on. Somebody tell you to come talk to me?"

"Frankie. He said you don't know what you done."

Shit. That is all he has to hear. Rival gang, figures out who he is from the news, decides a soldiers business is to counter-attack.

"Who were those pricks?"

"Bloods."

"The girl?"

"She was one of ours. We've got some homeys across the street. You gotta stay someplace else, man. We'll get ya there, c'mon."

"No."

"I don't have anywhere to go. I just got out of prison, man. Forty years. Everybody I know is dead of drifted off, except Frankie. Frankie, who takes care of the few of us who are still alive. You know why he does that? Everybody is dead."

"Yea, well, we'll get ya a hotel for a couple nights. They're out hunting tonight, so we're gonna do us some hunting, too. That was my buddies girlfreind they were trying to beat down, man. He's pissed, too."

The kid starts laughing and he almost smiles himself, before the crushing knowledge of his situation obliterates all of hope of him feeling good for... he could dwell on shit like this a long time, had to. Staying alive was the only rule for most of his years.

The get into a black Hummer and make it about three blocks before the cops pull them over. They use the speaker to tell them to stay in the car, and show their hands. "These cops know us, man. Don't worry, we're cool."

The cops shine their flashlights in, get a look at everyone's face. His presence surprises them. "Hey, Ed, this is the old man who clocked those kidnappers on Clybourn. What you doing in there?"

He rolls down his window, looks up into the cops smiling face, tells him, "These boys seem to think I am in danger."

"Mother fucker." The thought pisses the cop off. He goes around behind the car and talks to the other cop. Comes back and waves his flashlight up the road. "You know these kids?"

About then his partner comes walking up holding something in his hand. He guesses they pulled his record.

"Hey, old man, come on out. The rest of you just sit there . This will only take a minute, then you can go."

"You got quite a record."

"I was a kid. Now, nothing like that. One of the guys who I knew, way back, saw the news. I didn't know these guys were in gangs... and of course, it's a fucking gang that is still at war with... well, the people I ran with in prison, and shit. I got no reason to lie."

"Yea, well, it obviously wasn't a gang hit when you did those guys. The other one died, too. Guess you learned to take care of yourself in jail."

"Just lucky."

"Here...." The cop hands him a fifty. "We got this poverty fund, sign this.

"I can use it."

"Yea, living in the Mark Twain, you obviously ain't making no money off these shits anymore."

He lets them drop him off in front of the hotel, goes into the lobby and gets a pop, waits until they leave... He has four hundred bucks on him. He was going tohave to move. Go to the po, the social security, food stamps... everyone of them and change his address. He hated shit like that. Seemed worse than being in danger.

He starts walking back toward his hotel, finally see's a cab and hops in. He can't run. No fucking way. Life was fine. He could put in his time like the best con. No one is front of the hotel, so he pays the cabbie and goes up to his room. He puts in his key, turns the latch and hears something inside... or did he? There was always some damn noise in the hall of the SRO. He pushes the door open and stays in the hallway, looking around the small room. "This is what I have to lose?"

He rolls a joint, pours a shot of tequila and gets the lime juice out of his cooler. "I ain't worth getting some kid killed over. Let em' come. I'll give my fucking ten years for their fifty. What the fuck... I took away enough years from enough people. Be good to give a few back."

The shots brought back his bravado a bit, then made him sleepy. He thought about what an irony it would be if he was to die in his sleep that very night...

this work is protected by a commercial common use license. Feel free to spread my words...john scott ridgway

forgive forgive forgive

2009-06-16T21:47:00.002-05:00

I come on strong about shit that annoys me. In this world, one can forgive a human being, and still hate their behavior.

In the end, I really just feel like, hey... there is more we agree on than disagree on, more than likely. Even the politicians here in town who do things I don't like, occasionally do something I really do. Todd Stroger, who runs Cook County, put through a tax hike that was needed -- the poor were going to lose their health care if he did not put through an unpopular tax. He stood up and did what was right. He deserves respect for that. I wish him well.

Mayor Daly -- I always liked him, and probably always will, but I do not agree with the idea of a machine controlling Chicago, making inside deals with pensions funds, etc... I think he has a great legacy and all that. I am never going to try to be politically expediant (which is different than the often misused term politcally correct) about how shit like selling public property makes me feel and write. I do not think he should be selling off bits of government to the most savvy bidder. That he doesn't know better, tells me that his time truly is over. He should take a few years to just live his life and not be the mayor. I do not know how anyone can do the kind of high pressure job a mayor does. I like to think I can rise to whatever occasion, but that does not mean I will do so without said occasion...

Politics is all about taking sides. People choose their sides in good ways, stupid ways, indifferent ways, and dangerous ways. I take the stand that money should not be the center of ones life. We have worshiped at that sacred cow too long. I think living for luxury is empty and frustrating. The Tao says that the happiest man is the one who can hear his neighbors cock crow, yet has no urge to even venture off his property to investigate.

Of course, give me a few million bucks and I would probably sing a slightly different tune. Of course, it would be much harder for me to fly through the eye of that needle.

There was a time when I viewed wealth as property stolen from the people. The anarchistic idea that no one owns anything appeals to me in spirit, though the practicality of that is to trust a great big old beuracracy, like in the soviet union, to give everyone apartments and jobs, etc... I thinik the spirit of independence inside of most people would rebel from giving anyone that kind of power over the united states. Private property. I think there are other areas that real change can be made in, and getting rid of property in the states would mean war.

A horrifying war. The French Revolution, but fought not between some great US and little them, but between the army of the US and Cops and Intelligent operatives and the civilians who did not want to give up their mansions. Do people deserve mansions?

I do not think anyone gets what they deserve, and a lot of us are thankful for that. We do not want what we deserve, we want mercy. Everyone who has lived a human life has a few regrets... if they have any wits about them at all. So, if someone has a lot of money, what the hell? I hope they use their bucks wisely. I wish I had more. But... I see the other side, the socialistic viewpoint of Castro. If that were even possible in this country, I would think about throwing myself behind major structural changes for the US. BUT... only if there was wide support, and that is just not going to happen.

All evidence to the contrary, americans are convinced that they have a chance of being rich, so they do not want to do away with riches. Certainly, the media mostly covers people who have a lot of money. We worship Hilton because she has money. Otherwise, she would have ended up in jail, treatment, etc... far from the big screen. In the eighties, this impulse was sickening, under the dreaded Reagan, when everyone wanted to make as much money as possible, and Trump was worshipped. The media acknowledges that most people are not living quite the same story book life in People magazine, and dismisses them as just not quite as interesting as a celebrity baby story.

So, how is that for obtuse meanderings. I have given my okay for the continued use of public property, going against the anarchists -- though loving thier spirit and wishing them well, I still think that they over-estimate the sanity of the masses. I am one of those big government democrats in that respect. I think that a combination of capatalism and nationalism is basically a reality in this world. Almost every country operates on these two principles.

People have in their heads that the government is terrible at everything. This isn't true. It is if they are underfunded and over worked, or corrupt... okay, but normally the government does a decent job on a lot of things. Removing the middle men and providing services directly to the people seems like it would save everyone a lot of money, except the rich industrialists who presently own stocks or whatever in the industries.

If I could just set up a country from scratch, I would nationalize electricity, wi fi service, health care... the electricity because we have to ignore what the market says on this, and make our move away from fossil fuels. I like nuke energy, personally. WHY NOT? The big fears that they will blow up? Unlikely. Wind, water, whatever... the government needs to use their powers to force the shift away from gasoline. Again, this is never going to happen in the states.

I would fund the government, partially, with income from providing basic services which are right now, basically, monopolies. Like electric companies. One has no choice. I thought this was outlawed in this country, the whole monopoly thing? The Governement provides such services in a lot of countries. In my country, we would too. This would make us unpopular with the US, maybe get a coup attempt started on me by the CIA. So, health care and maybe major utilities could easily be nationalized.

Of course, this is a slippery slope to go down. When does the individual matter to such an entity as a government that can come in and take thier businesses? This again leads to giving governments too much power. The balancing act between wanting Big Brother around when you need him, and not when he is just a third wheel... is the american experience.

Ahh, and what the hell does this have to do with forgiveness? I feel forgiving right now, and the idea of violence, disruptions, chaos.... well, I feel them enough, too.

I think often of the soldiers fighting around the globe. I really grieve for them one and all, and wish them all the best, in my way. I wish that I could get behind the entire idea of ending war once and for all. Unfortunatly, that requires the agreement of people who simply will not stop fighting. The Taliban gets more powerful because they become the force of Islam fighting the great satan of the Christians. A Holy battle that promises virgins. God's own war, you are told.

I can sympathize with the killed and the killers. I have definate ideas on how hard I personally would fight against any government that tried to Taliban the states with a government based on religous extremism. I simply would not go down without a fight, a big fucking fight. But, do I have a right to tell others how to run their countries? Sure. And they have a right to ignore me and do what they think is best, as well they should...

In a pefect world, though... open education systems would offer people the ideas of liberty, and a caring government would nurture this as a sacred right for all people. There would be no need for the Taliban. They simply would have to follow more secular laws. This does not mean they have to go against their God. There are a lot of Muslims in the states who get along just fine living here. Ask them if they want to go back and live under the Taliban, and they will point out that their americanized children would probably get stoned to death for the shit they pulled in junior high. I like societies that allow for personal freedom.

The utmost freedom. Freedom. More precious than anything man can put in the bank. As a writer who explores everything and anything, and sometimes uses inflammatory language when I do, I can understand that I am a threat to the status quo, however small. But, what status quo are we talking about? I certainly do not want to throw bombs at anyone, or force an ideology down their throats, or convince them of some religious commandment...

Writers want to inspire. Writers like me also enjoy pure, old fashioned rabble rousing. Sometimes a poet should try to stir the savage blood, sometimes they should chastise it.

Oh well...

this work is protected by a commercial common use license. Feel free to spread my words...john scott ridgway

OTHERS.... a short story

2009-06-16T16:08:00.002-05:00

Their keepers have not returned. They are alone. They have been alone for over a week. There was no precedent. They were hungry, confused. Slowly, it was dawning on them, that their life on the mountain was about to take a drastic change. They had only lived there for the short years spent on the planet. Their keepers were still training them. There were years left before they were to be allowed to venture down among the others.

He has no name. More a color of thought that was all his own. They knew how to use words to communicate with humans; they were too slow and limited for conversations between the two.
They were thinking together, coming to the same conclusion. The keepers had run into some kind of problem. They would not leave them hungry.

"We were warned." She told him, again and again, as if the mantra could shore up their resolve to act. "We are going to have to... get some food. If they are gone... years will pass before anyone would come to contact us."

"They must have been captured or killed."
"They said ...."
"Yes, if they did not come back, it would be one or the other."
at
They withstand the hunger for another day before making their decision. The risk of going among humans without an intact personality was a sure path to madness. They had known as much since migrating to the planet. Reaching into their minds, and becoming whatever would best suit the situation was an easy trick for an adult. They could become the picture of a tourist if there a hiker happened upon them in the mountains.

As egg as they were, there was a danger that they would start changing without any control, becoming one figure after another as they passed the humans. Some of their kind, in the early years, the first explorers to off ship on the planet, had become so disoriented by their unconscious chameleon changes that they were unable to recover their original selves. A few had responded to treatment, other rs were too far adrift, going from personality to personality like a serial amnesiac. . . until the strain destroyed their minds.

By their egging, their kind were well aware of the problems with the indigenous population of earth. They had been raised carefully isolated, taught to resist the impulse to please... which had been glorified on their last planet, where their kind had been pleasing to one another as a norm. A piece of rock adrift in space, half as large as their planet, was coming in on a collision course and they left. There were centuries of sleep on the ships, as their automatic pilot searched the cosmos for a planet with an atmosphere that they could adapt to live within.

One has taken the female form, the other male. They were going to live together as a couple among the humans, when they were ready. To humans they appeared in their teens, though they had egged three years before.

Some humans knew of their existence. They were considered hostile by the Others, as they called themselves; two of their ships had been discovered, and many glimpsed over the years. Eight of them had been caught, and were said to still be alive. They were constantly drilled on security, self-defense, and how to expire -- one of the Others had been rescued, after various experiments by the humans... who were intent on inter-breeding human and other.

As they went over the situation together, they came to the understanding that if their keepers had been captured, leaving their mountain was the only course of action. They stood up from their seats on the floor of the cave, and walked out into the sunlight and toward the pine forest that lead to the path... they had studied human hikers on the path, all the way down to where they parked their cars. That was as far as they had been,

in progress...

synopsis of what is to come... they begin to use hypnotic like illusions to make people think they are seeing a particular type of person, hiding the alien appearance of the Others. They have two at rest forms. They can either appear as they are, or appear as someone else. They make their decisions based on what they see in other peoples minds.

Immediately, this begins to cause them trouble. The girl begins to attract lust,when she discovers how to become whatever is wanted. The boy learns to appear as whatever a person fears the most, or what a woman wants.

They eventually begin to mentally unravel. They hear thoughts in humans about their purpose in life, after-life, etc.. things they have never considered. The religions and such seem like myths to them. They have been taught only one thing -- how to survive. With most of their education about themselves devoted merely in how to stay alive and mentally stable among humans.

One of them discovers how easy it is to kill a human, when she is attacked -- she becomes their most loathsome, horrible image... driving some mad, others to heart attacks.

In the end, they meet more of their own kind, and are finally told a bit more about themselves. There is a colony of them in South America, where they live in a gated community in the jungle, as many miles away from humanity as they can.

A war is being waged by humans around their encampment, and eventually the two are sent out to confuse soldiers, etc... in an attempt to stop the guerrilla war between a ruthless dictator and a guerrilla brigade. They take the side of the guerrillas, and end up almost getting bombed out of existence.... except, they mess with the minds of the pilots and make them bomb their own troops, etc...

Oh, well,... this is just something I am beginning to sketch out.

this work is protected by a commercial common use license. Feel free to spread my words...john scott ridgway

sick of politics again...

2009-06-09T16:13:00.000-05:00

this work is protected by a commercial common use license. Feel free to spread my words...john scott ridgway

CHICAGO LOSES 5 million a year to corruption....

2009-06-02T12:34:00.000-05:00

This from a study of local corruption by UIC's political science department. The belt strapping that I told you was going to finally force people to clean out politics is here, and paying a 500 million dollar a year price to keep Daly and his corrupt Machine in power is a luxury that we can no longer afford.

500 million. I guess he could give the cops their raise if he was not corrupt. Interesting Irony there.

Today, we are hearing that his nephew joins his son in being exposed as sleazily making his way through life with his criminal connections to the Machine. This time, the Daly faction took money out of retirement accounts and spent it wildly, losing millions... makes me think that 500 million figure is low balling -- especially when you consider the sale of the cities parking meters for a price that was much lower than it would have been if Daly insiders had not set themselves with a sweethear deal.

DALY IS SELLING PUBLIC PROPERTY BEHIND OUR BACKS, BECAUSE HE CONSIDERS THE CITY HIS PROPERTY. HE THINKS HE OWNS THIS TOWN. TIME TO SHOW DALY THAT WE OWN HIM. AS WE DO ALL POLITICIANS...

PEOPLE ARE BUYING THE PUBLIC'S PROPERTY, BUT DALY THINKS THAT IT IS HIS... The city has already been shown to be losing money on the deal with the parking meters -- they could have been sold for a lot more, but Daly wanted to keep the issue from being discussed by anyone before he shoved it down our throats. If he was serving the Public, he would have wanted a discussion of what he was doing, so he could get the best intelligence possible together to make a decision.

That kind of logical, round table logic bounces off dictators. Daly is as close to a king as this country has seen. Runs Chicago like a fiefdom. Since this is a Democratic terroritory in the states, his power base has proven vital in national politics. His power is our power, we think... if he is a little corrupt, oh well... he inherited that mess and had to deal with it best he could.

We forget that we pay for his standing army. Pay in getting officials in city positions that they are not qualified for. Pay in losing the representation that would be ours if the Alderman were not afraid to piss off Daly. We need a Mayor who you can hate or love without fear that you will not get what you want from the city unless you go along with da king.

As we continue our study of public corruption, we have discovered that our

original findings underestimated the level of corruption in recent years. We now know

that more than 1500 individuals have been convicted of myriad forms of public

corruption since 1970. Based upon the testimony before the Illinois Reform Commission

and our own research, we now believe that the cost of corruption, or “corruption tax,” for

the Chicago and Illinois taxpayer is at least $500 million a year. This is based upon

testimony before the commission that about 5% of state government contracts are given

out to political cronies and campaign contributors and on our own tallies of the costs of

the major scandals over the last four decades.

In our last report we provided a detailed analysis of the 30 aldermen and former

aldermen convicted of public corruption since 1970. In this report we describe some of

the major scandals of the last four decades, a timeline of more than 375 convicted

individuals at all levels of government, and a further analysis of some of the costs of

corruption which have caused us to revise our estimate of the corruption tax. The details

of these scandals and their costs are included in the appendices of this report.

Our research on all aspects of corruption is continuing. But we provide this

update to support the report of the Illinois Reform Commission and to contribute to the

ongoing debate in the state legislature. Only comprehensive reforms can lessen the level

of corruption in Chicago and Illinois, currently the capitals of corruption in the United

States.

Given the high cost of corruption, we cannot hope to adopt a prudent city, county,

or state budget without reform. Otherwise we will continue to pay too much for

government services; we will keep honest businesses from locating here; and we will

slow economic recovery from the current recession. Citizens will continue to distrust

government at all levels and consider tax increases unfair.

Here are a few examples of some of the costs of co

this work is protected by a commercial common use license. Feel free to spread my words...john scott ridgway

DALY TOOK A CRITICAL ENTRY OFF MY WAKING UP JESUS SITE.. BRING IT ON, ASSHOLE

2009-06-01T21:32:00.002-05:00

THIS ENTRY WAS ORIGINALLY written for my Waking Up Jesus site, and is written in the character of the Christ.... http"//wakingupjesus.blogspot.com

I just discovered that someone took a post down from this blog. One that was critical of Mayor Daly. The first of two I wrote just before my computer mysteriously could no longer access my internet account. When I called to tell Comcast the problem, they snottily told me that the problem was with my computer, and not theirs. Nothing showed that to be true on my end. I was suspicious at the timing, since I have been knocked off line before by the government and the other forces that oppose me. After writing this critical article, I saw people protesting downtown that Daly needed to be removed, and the two newspapers in town started a clean government campaign.

I forget sometimes that my words are so potent. They make an enemy of me at their own peril. The Daly administration is now on my list of entractable powers that need to be kicked the hell out of politics.

I do not care how strong they think they are... a simple, unending litany of the sins of this administration should be enough to drive the king con out of power.

The audacity of these people is matched only by their short sightedness; this is a system of law we live in that despite its faults, is ever-evolving. And we are evolving toward fairness -- the more people who demand it, the sooner it happens. The inter-net generation is not going to fall for the usual scams, simply because they will access to a diverse set of opinions to take their own from.

And people will look for other people to treat them fairly, and will act adversly to those who do not. Daly has set about launching a hell of a lot of unfair agreements with developers and god knows who else -- the most recent being the selling off of the parking meters in Chicago to an inside group for a huge discount that would not have survived being played out in the free market. He hid what he was doing until the lastt minute, then shoved it through.

He needs secrecy to survive. He can blow off all the reporters he wants at press conferences, but he cannot so easily blow off the voters.

The Democrats have to be ready to replace him with someone who is nationally known, and respected. Jessie or Johnathon Jackson should take a stab at the fat round baffoon. Sooner or later, someone is going to knock him out of power.., and since he has decided to fight me, you should expect this to be sooner rather than later.

Cleaning up the world has been my concern. Now I AM ready to put a razor focus on this Criminal. He rose from a family that bestows rights without qualifications. Think about that. Chicago politics, for most of their existence, have been run by people who looked at their core constituents as people who they had bought with jobs. You do not necessarily get the best people when any chump off the street who likes to take the easy way out is hired. This is part of why they are always ending up in jail.

Daly wants to come on my site and take down my criticism of him, ... that is a drum roll from their side that we at war. WITH A HEAVY HEART, I HAVE GATHERED MY WEAPONS FOR WAR AND RODE OUT TO MEET THE ONE WHO OPPRESSORS MYPEOPLE.

I am always sad to see someone is my enemy, though I knew as much when he double dealed with the cops on their raise. Chicago cops have a hellish job at times. They have made a lot of mistakes, as humans do, but like soldiers, they deserve every forgiveness for cracking under the pressure of protecting the public -- that is a natural reaction to having to do shit people would otherwise prefer to avoid all to hell. I do not want to romanticize cops. TV does that enough. Still, they deserve some respect for putting their lives on the line to protect society from predators. I am not saying they should be let off for crimes -- indeed, they should prosecuted to the full extent off the law, because part of your oath as a cop is to the law. When they break the law, they are no longer a cop. They may have the badge, etc... but then they are just another enemy of the people. Like Burge.

Torture is in right now in the highest rooms of this country, and in a lot of countries getting beat up by the cops and tortured into a confession is routine. I can understand the impulse. I also know that I would never give in to it. I have left JOBS where they asked me tell lies -- because I will lie for my own purposes, like everyone does, but when I am asked to lie for someone else, I am entering a conspiracy to protect another from what is obviously going to be criminal behavior, and that is uncompatible with most of my ethics (God knows I break unfair laws, but stealing from people, etc... is beyond my moral understanding -- I could not live with myself when I am acting immoral. My depressive side takes over. This is why I gave up the drinking.).

I need people like cops more than I need a Daly. I have a vast capacity to rally people, unprecedented in human history... which is exactly what has been prepared for the RETURN OF CHRIST. Like the people who immediatly left office when I wrote a poem about how the mighty will fall before this Christ.... Daly would be better off planning on getting out at his next attempt at re-election, though I suspect he is like Cheney, and will defy the people's rights to a choice in what their politicians do until the very end... when he learns that the people usually get what they want in the end, simply because there are more of them and time and society tend to work like that, or there never would have been such a thing as Democracy, and the entire world would by now be run by one king, who if he were a Hitler, would gas his enemies. Or a Cheney, who would send out his hit squad.

Daly is the face on a vast conspiracy of crime that has invaded politics and found a welcome home in a club that only the vastly wealthy or influential can even enter. Politics in this city has become a means of passing along a corrupt dynasty. We should be better people than this... we can be. The choice truly is ours, not Daly's..

Bring it on Dick, I will defeat you and take your soul to Hell. Ready to take the great gamble?

this work is protected by a commercial common use license. Feel free to spread my words...john scott ridgway

The state of the blog...

2009-05-28T15:22:00.002-05:00

This blog has somewhat become a dumping ground, that I have kept because it has the same title as my book of short stories. The problem is, right now, since I have not been writing comedy, is that this blog now looks like the others. I want all of these things to works onto themselves in the end. One blog for Johnny Pain, another just me, another Christ... these three characters get expanded by whatever short story I am into at the moment...

After a few months off line, deciding more or less to just keep doing what I do, seems the only solution to my problems. I do not know how much any one reader knows when they come to my work, but I did have some problems, to put it mildly, with the usa over the kind of stuff I write. They do not like revolutionary poetics that tear at their power one bit.

Why do you think dissidents are jailed all over the world? Now think how many of them, probably including you, who feel like there is nothing they can due to effect the powers that be. . .

Sometimes I think I would letting people down if I was to return to mostly comedy, but that is insane. I will say the same things philosophically, and I too prefer to laugh sometimes. Constant, oppressive mourning for the world is one of my poetic driving forces.

I am just piddling around here.

this work is protected by a commercial common use license. Feel free to spread my words...john scott ridgway

ADRESS TO OLD PEACE AND PIPEDREAM SHOWS

2008-10-14T11:50:00.001-05:00

http://boomp3.com/visitor/ee528dc5964851a99f3e85408e6fc470fc08fddfe4/files

copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

TOMMY SMOTHERS is dangerously IGNORANT

2008-10-13T10:03:00.002-05:00

i AM STILL PISSED about that crackle headed idiot calling people who think they can war their way to peace ignorant. Of course he was talking to me. He needs to read a little history. i LOVE BEING CALLED AN IDIOT BY PEOPLE WHO I COULD ARGUE OUT OF EXISTENCE IN A HALF AN HOUR. I Went to college for at least ten years longer than he did(AT LEAST), and studied under people in the real world, didn't sit around listening to a bunch of stoned synchophents lapping sweat off my balls and calling me a legend because the gov knocked off my show.

His comment calls all military personal ignorant, basically. The people who have given their blood so he could live his privileged little white life are ignorant.

He was funny once. Then a genocide came along and mocked his hippie rhetoric. Boo him at all costs, and squirt him with red kool aide so he can feel a little of the metaphorical blood those peaceniks are spilling in Darfur, afganistan and pakistan as we speak. You kill the terrorists, save the peaceful. He needs to read his history, because Peace is only bought with war. If he can show me one place where the opposite happened, I will let him lick my feet (after I walk in some dog shit... he likes that taste of shit in his mouth so well, obviously).

I'm back and all the news is good....

2008-10-11T06:14:00.000-05:00

First off, let me thank the almost half a million people who have come in and read my various blogs during this period off. Mostly this happened because the computer I bought was a dud. Now, we have two computers, the internet bill is paid, and so fucking much has happpened.

Okay, first off, LULU has offered to give me the premium package the usually charge 500 for in exchange for being my publishers. This is a life long deal. So now, for the first time, I will be in bookstores and on Amazon dot com and etc....

So far, I have been putting the books up on the blogs, and there has been a certain transition needed to make a book. The only demands LULU hmade on me was that I put ina bio page, and use the universal isbm number needed for sales.

I cannot wait to see the new editions, which will be out in november. I am proud of these books, and have certainly been working my ass.

During my period away from the computer, I have been oil painting, and setting up a studio with my new partner. He is a master carpenter, professional photographer, and he is not only buildihg us octagonal sets, but he has he tons of toys we can use for the characters. See, we are going to shoot like a hundred of my movies. I will do a lot of these with puppets that I am making out of art dolls. I basically come up with weird faces.... we are working on getting a computer animator to work with us eventually, but for now since we have all these toys we have to palay with them. I am talking submarines we can use in the lake, little helicopters, hundreds of robots... so many robots...

I also have mp3's of most of the peace and pipe dream shows, the internet radio program we did last year, before we all got sick of the lies of the owner. He promised to shoot all my films, let us broadcast from in front of a green screen, etc... and then he had just about enough money to put us on the air twice a week. The emphasis on weed heads brought us a lot of holywood interest.... I was honored to get criticism from Robin Williams, find out Tommy Chong was laughing along. When we had live audiences the were guffawing. Jimmy and Susanne, the highly talented folk I did the show with, want to keep the Haze family alive in films, so I will write a few of them... they have a lot of fans,.

I have also finally been decoratingour apartment. We took such a move down this tim e tha I had not even bothered to put up

I found a tiny gray kitten a few weeks ago. Little thing cried out to me, and then immediatly ran in front of a passing car. the dude slammed on his breaks. Feeling like the world was a bit too cruel for my tastes, I knelt down... and of course out runs this great looking grey kitten. I held him to my chest and he began putting like a drum... the driver was all like, I'll drive it down to the pound... where they would have cut his balls off at four weeks ( usually it is six months) and he stood a chance of getting killed. Which he would have, I later figured out,, because between being this sweet kitty who loves to be kissed, to a basically demonic force attacking everything from the leather couch to a ball of Ruby dog hair on the floor.

The most amazing part of this has Been Ruby's reaction. She immediatly began mothering the kitten. She cleaned it and and started freaking out if other dogs got close to Dash ( she just ran between the kitty and dog when dash, who is certain moods, like I said, is just attaclomg everything possible, as he deals with being filled with that pure kitten joy. Watching this husky, who basically looks like a wolf and is all teeth and cool blue eyes ( she scares the hell out of people, basically, which is part of why no one messes with M. when she is walking Runy), gently playing with the kitty, mouthing (taking paws, heads, torsos, etc... in her moth and biting just enough to hold Dash down with out hurting hims.

We recently bough a lot of cameras, since we are doing the animation in a, and I hate to make this comparison because our content will be very different... nut like Robot Chicken.

I am excited about writing the thank yous and acknowledge e ts in my books. I am trhying to make it funny,because I generally skip this shit until the end of the book, than if I really like the author, of course I am hungry for anything about them.

The Jesus aspect of my life has been on the down low, thogh on Saturdays that will chang ea bit when I join operation push. Rev. Jackson's son, the spokesperson for operation push, studied finance and i have found his explanations ot the crises with the the mortgages the most easily understood, and outraging. They speak for the the little guy there, and want a package that will save the homeowners, as wel as the damned backs. My brother lost his house because of this shit. another friend of mine worked for one of the these sleazy companies and kept teling me I could get a house, even I live a small disability and M. does social work and both of us fucked up our credit. Me with all the medical bills of course, and her with a flush of credit cards she used after losing a high paying job and refusing, at first, to face her new poverty.

I am going to operation push's first saturday service tom. after listening to his speaches over and over. You know, i studied Military Intelligence at NEIU under an ex black panther (he was actually a prominate Jewish anti war agent, who refust vioolence and what not... he was a young professor at the time. I learned about all the tricks the fbi uses.

Sure came in handy when Homeland Security basically attacked me. They took down my blog and changed some of the stories, taking out violence. They also blocked it from certain parts of the country, let alone the world.

I guess they have a right to fear me... here I am, a legitimate king of england, if not fo the german hapzburgs taking over... I will be republishing an out of print book that takes us back to like 300 hundred. I never thought this would have been important to me, but I only discovered all this shit and 32 and it has kind of given me someonething to liv up to. You will not believe how wealthy we were. We funded webminster abbey by giving the church hundreds of villanges and towns.

I drove cab for fifteen years, and just kind of studied whatever seemed like I would nee to be a good novelist --- a writer whgse fucking first book wouldn't be about some damn coming of age novel. I tried to do a video thing of Columbia's professors and if they weren't writing semi rascist coming of age novels, it was book length poem on unicorms.

Oh, well. We also have in the works a thing where we will show you all of the differenbt neighborhoods in chicago, the artists who live and work there, and well as//// well, We are are going to start going to old folks holms and recording five minute interviews too, in a differrent vein. When I interview people, I ask them to write the questions I should ask. I figure everyone has pretended to get interviewed a time or two....

I have a warm cat on my lap, but I must go down to the sas station and buy coffee, since we are out and I am staying up all night. I just kind of sleep whenever, four hour battle naps. I finished like five paintings, and deesigned qute a few more. The break form the cdomputer was kind of nice, though I apologize to those who are involved in the total waf for total peace who may feel aboned. I have been working on new strategies.

By the way, did you hear that fuck head Tommy Smothers on the emmy's saying that peoplw who thin we can war to peace are just ignorant. That crispy old fuck. When they chased his tv show off the air, he just ran off with his tail between his legs. They came after me with death threats and druggings and other shit... and I soldiered on, survived taking on the neo cons and homeland security, etc... becase my connections made with spies when i WAS going to school proved to them theat i DO NOT BELIEVE IN VIOLENCE.

protestors end up fighting cops, who are just union workers, and that is stupid. Like I say, during a just revolotuion, the police will be the first to march with you.

Did you hear about the sherrif here in cook country who is now refusing to do evictions? That man is a hero. Those fucking banks are using the sherif's like they are employees and and you can imagine how must evictions have jumped recently. One officer said that working evictions was the saddest thing he had ever to done as a cop. I am going to do all I can to help this sherrif to stay in office.

Well, I am so tired that I need coffee. In four and a half hours, I get to put on my new black suit, and this kind of weird shirt, the kind you see mexican's and charlie sheen wearing. This one is black in the back, has a black collar.... then down the two sides are strips of whit with red and black designs, going up and down in a colum in the middle of the white... the red and blke designs elude to languages and fire;. When I was at the church store when i ALWAUS SHOP when I can (The two sisters behind the counter always give me the best advice, and know my size and taste and are as sweet as honey). It is a nice hipter outfit,

Since I am going to be doing all these films, I have losing writing and working out. for me this mjeans I

This is a work in progress, at 3 am, and I will keep writing on it for awhile...

You are welcome to spread my poems by ANY MEANS NECESSARY.
http://theelvesattic.blogspot.com

http://thereligiouspsychokillershitlist.blogspot.com

HTTP://generalfactorx.blogspot.com

http://secretposse.com

There is some overlap... but they are all different.

copywrite 2008 john scott ridgway

how to find out if the cia is spying on you... get your records from them.

2008-08-08T21:12:00.001-05:00

How to file a Privacy Act Request
The Essential Elements of a Request Letter
Specify in writing that you wish a copy of records indexed to your name.
Write the Information and Privacy Coordinator, Central Intelligence Agency, Washington, D.C. 20505.
Transmission via facsimile is also acceptable. The facsimile number is (703)613-3007
Provide your full name and address.
Provide your date and place of birth.
Provide your citizenship status.
Notarize your letter or sign it under penalty of perjury pursuant to 28 U.S.C. 1746 to ensure that records concerning you are only released to you, or, if requesting through an attorney, an original notarized statement or statement signed under penalty of perjury (pursuant to 28 U.S.C. 1746) authorizing us to release information to your attorney.
Sample Privacy Act Request Letter
Date
Information and Privacy Coordinator
Central Intelligence Agency
Washington, D.C. 20505

Dear Coordinator:

Under the Freedom of Information Act, 5 U.S.C. subsection 552 and the Privacy Act, 5 U.S.C. section 552a, please furnish me with copies of all records (the Agency does not require you to specify the record system) about me indexed to my name.

To help identify information about me in your record systems, I am providing the following required information:

Full name, current address, date and place of birth, citizenship status.

Optional: Please explain contact, if any, with the Agency or any other information that would help us distinguish between you and other individuals with the same or similar names.

If you deny all or any part of this request, please cite each specific exemption that forms the basis of your refusal to release the information and notify me of appeal procedures available under the law.

Optional: If you have any questions about handling this request, you may telephone me at (home phone) or at my (office phone).

Sincerely,

Name

Statement swearing under threat of perjury that above information is true or have the letter notarized.

copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

hey all.... how is it hanging?

2008-06-24T02:14:00.002-05:00

i HAVE been slowly changing this blog, putting the new stuff in the religious psycho killers hit list, since that is the name that i decided on for the book. John Scott Ridgway. I was saddened to see they took my lulu listing off of google. I was first. A lot of stuff still comes up on me, but nothing as significant as teh books. I had to go to all my sites and add ways for people to hit the title and get taken to lulu.

I also found out I am not getting a check from the gov. of course. They also screwed meout of my december check, leaving me broke and behind on the rent at christmas. If you know anything about me, you know I fucked with the government but good and they try little humiliations to try to get me to kill myself or whatever. When we were studying a class on the fbi, I found nothing was behond them. They thought they were fighting on the right side. That is problem with history, if we ignore its lessons, sooner or later they will catch up with you.

I have been having fun puttiung music on my sights, watching a lot of documentary on independent docuemtaries.... which will give you an education in the world going on just behind the cloak of lies. This is not a left or right wing thing.... it covers movies of all sorts of genres. From feminism, to how our culture has been effected by consumerism, to michael moores sicko, and a lot of shit on 911 that scares the hell out of me. I know these people who are in power, and they would not hesitate to kill a few americans to get a war going in the middle east to protect the oil. After all,the explosion happened in New yORK, NOT exactly a republican strong hold.. like the reciepients of Aids.... and the blacks the republicans never go talk to during the election cycles.

I have three notebooks of poetry to put in here. I was writing like a mo fo on the jesus poems, and even did a bloody johnny pain for the htt://theelvesattic.blogspot.com

Well, I just wanted to type up a few words that tell what itislike tobe meona day to to day. Right now, I am stoned on weed, valium, tranadol, and other shit that Ineed for my back. When I was a kid, I used to think that if I could always have downs and weed that,my life would be perfect. After fifteen years of sobriety I broke my back, and got my wish. God is giving me time to write is allo...

I am going to be writing a lot of war stuff in my new blog general gangsta x.

obama and mccain -- as i predicted over a year ago

2008-06-12T18:12:00.002-05:00

I saw the election coming. Obama wins or people around the world will be disappointed... the promise that america has to become truly multi cultural, to show that we can accept other cultures... and to show the rascists around the world that they are wrong...

There is nothing that stops human conversation from progressing to a solution of a problem like one person thinking they are better than the other. A rascist man can dismiss the problems of another race. Pretend that some genetic problem with a skin pigment is the reason their are ghettos and gangs and prisons bursting with out black brothers.

Another method for a human mind to rationalize away caring about his neighbors. Xenophobia, a left over trait of the ape in us, overcomes their better reason., Like their lusts, they should learn to control their illusion of b eing the enemy of people of other races. Starts with parents wanting their daughters to marry in their religion and shit,

making a distinction between people that places them, of course, at the top of the totem pole. Sickens me to think people of all colors cannot mingle in the realm of love.... that people of poverty and wealth cannot find one another soul mates who treat one another with gentle respect, rather than the bullying of the cruel and deluded males who view their houses as a place where they are the only law -- from the beaters to the rapists to the man who verbally puts down his wife often enough to damage her...

Coming together in a new tribe, whatever it be named, and entering with a solemn promise to never allow skin tone, language, origin or sex to effect your opinion on another person. Such illusions are shed as we all become this new thing... Call It
just Tribe. Not The... Just Tribe.

copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

the lost and found

2008-05-19T14:48:00.002-05:00

Weary warriors wane into a twilight of slogans
they are the believers
convinced combatants
drafted into a dream young
raised in the propoganda of violent cartoons

drawn along through video games
that reward virtue and deciet
as equally as our urges

the games make sense of a world

where if u do good you are rewarded
there...
in the game...
in a stoner's dream of an afternoon
spent lazily hitting buttons on a controller

GOD himself has shone a spotligt
on his son
set him up at the middle of the world stage

now the only light I feel
are the search lights
spies and scientists
seeking thru the forest of my mind
for any of the dieties thoughts
that have eluded them

I have only to wave my wand
to make the world's leaders disappear
into the secret pits of bodies
that hide the shames of history

such power humbles
me into knowing everyone deserves a second chance
redemption...

my privations are part of my sentence
in a country of plenty I have
enough to walk in my parade of one

I go over all the faces of thepeople who KNOW ABOUT ME
marvel at the cone of silence
they envelop
me within

tell myself many have sacrificed more than I
in my name
paid the ultimate cost to march in this parade

read in the New Yorker about the american jihadist

spewing the spittle of his rage rants
cursing the unfairness of his world
this time around the object of his hate is 'infidils.'

a war between warriors
who believe they are sending
their enemies to hell
& destined to watch tehir own dead
be welcomed by the glorious arms of God

such a convienant message
for the generals to send down through the uneducated soldiers

another easily digested myth
that makes sense
within these stories of lies
we are all weaned on
whether it be christ or allah or buddha or the sanity of our shrink

you can break out of the mold

YOU MUST IF WE ARE TO FORGE NEW MOLDS

NEW WAYS FOR THE CHILDREN TO BE

free of the hateful propoganda of the enemies
free of the old ways of seeing the world as black and white/up and down
good and bannned/blessed and cursed....

I AM A PRAXIS
for plan within plan

a Russion doll that slowly changes
from one visage to the next

the point of change
the hole in the universe
the man inblack who hides in teh shadows of culture
whispering sermons on the downlow
words you are not even sure you heard
which your Holy Ghost takes to heart as gospel

THESE ARE THE WORDS THAT CHANGE YOU

FLIP SWITCHES IN YOUR MIND
SEND ELECTRIC IMPULSES INTO PARTS OF YOUR MINDLONG FORGOTTEN

A SPLIT SECOND CONVERSION....

oh how that dream used to play in my mind

I prayed to be struck down
by the holy ghost
to find myself foaming at the mouth
shaking and screaming that the Lord Is Within me

I was not raised to accept such possession...

science has taken the rituals of conversion
and reduces tehm to bait
to sell the next product

words convert over the years
200 years ago our Enlgish would be barely understood
would blow their mind/keep them hidden away from the obvious signs
that all they knew is dead

I am from this past/// though more immense than you can imagine
I see cemetaries on planets humans could not pronounce

I was swept up into my curiousity
stumbling thru life tripping on famalier objects
running from curio to curion
anything to get me outside of the flesh and its awesome secret

the story traps my flesh
in the public eye forever

there isno backing away from God
not by me... never again

HE WHO CREATED ALL

laughs at rebellion
likes the revolutionary spirit
that gives thehumans
ways of re-invenint themselves over and over
into dreamed up of beins

HE ON HIGH CREATED DIVERSITY

HE ON HIGHT
WILL NEVER ALLOW MAN TO KIL HIS BELOVED CREATION

you will change

startsin america
the imae of Barak Obama
will be beloved
where Bush was hated

a cosmetic change or....

DEPENDS ON HOW HARD WE PUSH

the PEOPLE will be heard under Obama

not the rich few
not the hidden cabals pulling societal changes
that act as pied pipers
to the mindless masses
not those few who control the morst media

NO THE CHANGE WILL COME

I AM THE PRAXIS
THAT FULLFILLS THE PROPHEcies
watch as the being grows ALMIGHTY!!!!!

feel the floods, tornados, hurricanes... the malaise that comes with ignoring me

there is a door that I could walk thru...
a tear in the movie screen
that will allow me to see byond the 4th wall
to where I will stand with those who worshipped me from afar

I can barely consder the day
that I will walk into a room
wehere no one denies me
& we talk deity to human

the demonic lie of secrecy
not longer is needed as a security measure

the games they play on my head
are meant to keep me in check
perhaps they are trying to quiet me
saying anyting aloud in tis wolrd of means the scribes take down my ever utterance

my god
the manpower to pull of this
eclipse of a modern city
by the shadow of a rising diety
thrown down into a worthless silence

the secret on the shores of lake michigan....

ALL IS FORGIVEN....

at fearless radio they would only play two of my poems
one screaming about enraged warriros
who hav returned from world wide wars
to find theclergy they entrusted them children ....

"WE WILL NOT FORVIGE THE PIRENS FOR MOLESTING OUR CHILDREN
WHILE WE FOUGHTYOUR WORLD WIDE WARS"

FORVIVEN EVERYONE...

THIS i meant in the eyes of God
not man...

Man does not forgive likea God
man feels the stings of pain
that are nothiong to a God
yet accumulate in man like radioactivepellets
slowly conjouring cancer

seek the wise and powerful voices of your scripture
for the words of the masked god
playing another part suiting for steering primitive cultures
the infinite complexities of a god...

a a god too far awy from being a man or woman
for his son to even care about his venacular

I remember a church from teh future
see myself standingbehind a pew
spreading white light into my congreataion
that sines so bright the entires worlds sees
that a torch has beenlit in the spirital night

a hand has becconed you intot he dark netherworld
beyond teh easy lies of the day to day
whisperingof what goes on behind the act we play
in teh places where we are truly alone

seperated from our houses, cars, job
all accolades and hatreds turn to dust

i am her to tell you the time has come
TO AWAKEN
FROM YOU SCIENCE FICTION DREAMS
OF gods and monsters and angels

change your minds just enough to look for saints,ministers and angels

see them rising and falling, risen and fallen
they rise and fall all teh time depending on where they are needed

for all enternity
souls slowly being forged
humbled
shaped into creatures pleaceing to Go

creatures that can peacefully enter the heavens
without ufo' approaching to knock down or towers of bible

They aliens could reduce humans back intot he dark ages
taek away all signs that you even existed
patiently as the slowly grinding of the tuetonic plates
to turn you and yours to dust

they could
take away our ability to transfer knowledge from one generation
to another
leave your young in the pits of violence and superstition
three hundreds years tops
and no one would know what to do with the sanitation department

the diseases would run rampant
life spans shrink back to thirty
stopping the fermentation of contemplation that comes with age

can't worry about what I seein the skies
have ti kep my mindon my life nough
to prove worthy of this gift
I am frodo after the ring has been tossedinto the fire
as I journeyed further and further along the seemingly endles
trak to the forces that could meltthe ring

ther temptations of greateness
tried to to try to impose my vision on all
... whoever died be damned

HOW FAR I HAVE STRAYED

from the Indiana boy
who started on this trek without a knowledge of the violence within

Behind the curtain of this fleshthe production practices
various endings....

from apocolypse to peacetrying to fit their
moods and presumpstions
into the words they'll recite
when the audience is finally let in on the secretcopywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

ANYWHERE BUDDHIST MONKS ARE THE BAD GUYSYOU HAVE TO QUESTION AUTHORITY

2008-05-17T13:07:00.001-05:00

SEE CHINA's hand in myanmar
both beat their buddhist monks
beat down a cultures cry
that they were being dissolved
disposed of

I wake up into the dream of being
ways of ancient seeing
repressed
imagined your neighborhood filling up with purple people
who despise you as a lesser minority and say your best are exceptions

feel the stirrings of the fire in the solarplexis
as they beat downthe last, desperate attempt
to allow Tibet to be Tibet

like American's native americans
but now
after thelesons should have been learned
the bloody lessons we see pouring life into the streets of Tibet

China shuts out my blogspot
they try to keep my words out/folly

they wish to keep the offical story
try to keep out the inconvienant truths
they want theirminds to play out the official story

I AM
ALL COUNTRIES
ALL RELIGIONS
ALL CONVICTIONS

all ways of being

SYNTHESIZED

JUST ENOUGH THAT WE SHARE A COMMON LANGUAGE

which speaks of the love and ethics
that all good humyns crave

which all humans deserve...

right from the womb

WE have divided ourselves
off from the everyone else
since our first awareness
of bringing a cosciousness
other than their mothers

we compete on Teams but ultimatly everyone plays alone
alone, adrift in our american ideal of the individual

i was alone and feeling broken and los

God BROKE INTO MY MIND
SHREDDED MY LIFE
left me without a personality
so I could come back
and be the man from NAZARETH

hE CALLED MY NAME
AND SAID JOHN COME DO MY WILL
MY HEART STOOD STILL

JOHNNY CASH... from tell em god's gonna cut em down

I started Total War From Total Peace and they came after me
were Inotthe Son Of the Father You would have never heard my words

Complete amnesia the hospital gave me
when I refused their catholic bible they were ready to toss me out into the snow

only the freinds who convinced them I was other than I was
got me sent to the hospital where they tested me to see if I was the one

every test seemed to tell them

THIS IS THE ONE...as I woke the television began talking to me
we played an improv game
where I was the guest
being told what they could get across

I am a hostage
the leader they do not want to get to his army

As the campaign started and they were drugging me out
it seemed every book and cd was plantedin my house
they were also coming in and changing my red cup in the toilet to block

they were trying to say the blacks were communists
like I cared where they start out from
in this journey all can join
and like the french foreign legion be reborn better men

that first day I saw a dust mote in a sunray
and knew it was the world
a tiny, remote world in need of the sun to shine

words came from on High
unbecconed by reading
the news
my life
all the usual sources of inspiration
were eclipsed BY God Himself

I have to tell to ushur in the Time Of Peace

My teales willbring you closer thanyou can comprehend

I havelived life after life
my wores are countless
my failures flash up in my mind
as my accomplishments
are nothing compared
to the success of failure
of the afternoon's poetry

they brought the fbi agent in to clean up the chi town cops
after they jailed me
and I learned to hate with a criminals mind
leaerned of the men locked away from this life
living as best they can
junkies who couldn't get enough stuff
the economically disadvantaged seduced by the constant commercials

THEY TRY TO JAIL PEOPLE LIKE ME

they sent an undercover agent
left needles in my hospital room
gave metried to get me involved in a insurance scame they soon busted

one day a cop came up to me at the beach with a bag of stun guns
and other instruments to control a crowd
he thought he was scaring me and was surprised when I tried to make him a freind

after I left jail my anger was everywhere
a seething killer waiting from an oportunity
one night I was walking down a famaliar street
wondering if they were still
listening to me preach aloud
figured they were
told the hidden mikes
'TIME TO KILL SOME COPS.

within a few months 21 of the top 25 cops in chicago are fired
they bring in an fbi agent who is not going to tolerate
the mob connections anymore

I had only to write in my note pad for awhile
as they bugged and filmed my apartment
and I would see the events play out on my tv screen

the country followed me
such power does not go away easily

the truth pours down like honey

2008-05-17T12:03:00.003-05:00

HELLO to another session of our mental journey...

I am listening to Leanoard Cohen sing the only song I ever learned... I was to sing it to my lover, and then she ran from me... by the time she came back
I had forgotten the song

Jesus was a sailor
and he spent along time watching from a lonley wooden tower
and when he knew only drowning men could see him

he said all men will be sailors then...

and you want to travel with him
and you want to travel blind
for you know you will
trust him
because he has touched your perfect body with his mind

and jesus was a sailor when he walked on the water
wooden tower

wehn he knowew for certain onoly drowning can see
him all men will be sailors then

but he himself was broken
long before the sky had opened

he sank before your wisdom like a stone

leonard cohen

lost and found

2008-05-15T16:17:00.002-05:00

Weary warriors wane into a twilight of slogans
they are the believers
convinced combatants
drafted into a dream young
raised in the propaganda of violent cartoons

drawn along through video games
that reward virtue and deceit
as equally as our urges

the games make sense of a world

where if u do good you are rewarded
there...
in the game...
in a stoner's dream of an Afternoon
spent lazily hitting buttons on a controller

GOD himself has shone a spotlight
on hi s son
sets him up at the middle of the world stage

now the only light I feel are the search lights
of solders and spies and scientists
seeking thru the forest of my mind
for any of the deities thoughts
that have eluded them

I have only to wave my wand
to make the world's leaders disappear
into the secret pits of bodies
that hide the shames of history

my privations are part of my sentence
in a country of plenty I have enough
I have plenty
enough to walk in my parade of one

I go over all the faces of the people who KNOW ABOUT ME
marvel at the cone of silence
they envelop
me within

tell myself many have sacrificed more than I
in my name
paid the ultimate cost to march in this parade

read in the New Yorker about the american jihadist

spewing the spittle of his rage rants
cursing the unfairness of his world
this time around the object of his hate is 'infidels.'

a war between warriors
who believe they are sending
their enemies to hell
& destined to watch tehir own dead
be welcomed by the glorious arms of God

such a convenient message
for the generals to send down through the uneducated soldiers

another easily digested myth
that makes sense
within these stories of lies
we are all weaned on
whether it be christ or allah or buddha or the sanity of our shrink

you can break out of the mold

YOU MUST IF WE ARE TO FORGE NEW MOLDS

NEW WAYS FOR THE CHILDREN TO BE

free of the hateful propoganda of the enemies
free of the old ways of seeing the world as black and white/up and down
good and bannned/blessed and cursed....

I AM A PRAXIS
for plan within plan

a Russian doll that slowly changes
from one visage to the next

the point of change
the hole in the universe
the man in black who hides in the shadows of culture
whispering sermons on the down low
words you are not even sure you heard
which your Holy Ghost takes to heart as gospel

THESE ARE THE WORDS THAT CHANGE YOU

FLIP SWITCHES IN YOUR MIND
SEND ELECTRIC IMPULSES INTO PARTS OF YOUR MINDLONG FORGOTTEN

A SPLIT SECOND CONVERSION....

oh how that dream used to play in my mind

I prayed to be struck down
by the holy ghost
to find myself foaming at the mouth
shaking and screaming that the Lord Is Within me

I was not raised to accept such possession...

science has taken the rituals of conversion
and reduces them to bait
to sell the next product

words converse over the years
200 years ago our English would be barely understood
would blow their mind/keep them hidden away from the obvious signs
that all they knew is dead

I am from this past/// though more immense than you can imagine
I see cemeteries on planets humans could not pronounce

I was swept up into my curiosity
stumbling thru life tripping on familiar objects
running from curio to curio
anything to get me outside of the flesh and its awesome secret

the story traps my flesh
in the public eye forever

there is no backing away from God
not by me... never again

HE WHO CREATED ALL

laughs at rebellion
likes the revolutionary spirit
that gives the humans
ways of re-invenint themselves over and over
into dreamed up of beings

HE ON HIGH CREATED DIVERSITY

HE ON HIGH
WILL NEVER ALLOW MAN TO KILL HIS BELOVED CREATION

you will change

starts in america
the imaGe of Barak Obama
will be beloved
where Bush was hated

a cosmetic change or....

DEPENDS ON HOW HARD WE PUSH

the PEOPLE will be heard under Obama

not the rich few
not the hidden cabals pulling societal changes
that act as pied pipers
to the mindless masses
not those few who control the morst media

NO THE CHANGE WILL COME

I AM THE PRAXIS
THAT FULLFILLS THE Prophecies
watch as the being grows ALMIGHTY!!!!!

feel the floods, tornado's, hurricanes... the malaise that comes with ignoring me

there is a door that I could walk thru...
a tear in the movie screen
that will allow me to see beyond the 4th wall
to where I will stand with those who worshiped me from afar

I can barely consider the day
that I will walk into a room
where no one denies me
& we talk deity to human

the demonic lie of secrecy
not longer is needed as a security measure

the games they play on my head
are meant to keep me in check
perhaps they are trying to quiet me
saying anything aloud in tHis world means the scribes take down my ever utterance

my god
the manpower to pull of this
eclipse of a modern city
by the shadow of a rising deity
thrown down into a worthless silence

the secret on the shores of lake michigan....

ALL IS FORGIVEN....

at fearless radio they would only play two of my poems
one screaming about enraged warriors
who have returned from world wide wars
to find the clergy they entrusted them children ....

"WE WILL NOT FORGIVE THE PRIESTS FOR MOLESTING OUR CHILDREN
WHILE WE FOUGHT YOUR WORLD WIDE WARS"

FORVIVE EVERYONE...

THIS i meant in the eyes of God
not man...

Man does not forgive likea God
man feels the stings of pain
that are nothing to a God
yet accumulate in man like radioactive pellets
slowly conjuring cancer

seek the wise and powerful voices of your scripture
for the words of the masked god
playing another part suiting for steering primitive cultures
the infinite complexities of a god...

aa god too far away from being a man or woman
for his son to even care about his vernacular

I remember a church from teh future
see myself standing behind a pew
spreading white light into my congregation
that siHnes so bright the entire worlds sees
that a torch has been lit in the spiritual night

a hand has beckoned you into the dark netherworld
beyond teh easy lies of the day to day
whisperingof what goes on behind the act we play
in teh places where we are truly alone

separated from our houses, cars, job
all accolades and hatreds turn to dust

i am her to tell you the time has come
TO AWAKEN
FROM YOU SCIENCE FICTION DREAMS
OF gods and monsters and angels

change your minds just enough to look for saints,ministers and angels

see them rising and falling, risen and fallen
they rise and fall all teh time depending on where they are needed

for all eternity
souls slowly being forged
humbled
shaped into creatures pleasing to Go

creatures that can peacefully enter the heavens
without ufo' approaching to knock down or towers of bible

They aliens could reduce humans back into The dark ages
take away all signs that you even existed
patiently as the slowly grinding of the Teutonic plates
to turn you and yours to dust

they could
take away our ability to transfer knowledge from one generation
to another
leave your young in the pits of violence and superstition
three hundreds years tops
and no one would know what to do with the sanitation department

the diseases would run rampant
life spans shrink back to thirty
stopping the fermentation of contemplation that comes with age

can't worry about what I see in the skies
have to keep my mind on my life enough
to prove worthy of this gift
I am frodo after the ring has been tossedinto the fire
as I journeyed further and further along the seemingly endles
trek to the forces that could melt the ring

their temptations of greatness
tried to to try to impose my vision on all
... whoever died be damned

HOW FAR I HAVE STRAYED

from the Indiana boy
who started on this trek without a knowledge of the violence within

when I start my radio show talking about how drug use would not keep you from my side
amy winehouse wrote a song about my refusal to go into treatment
NO NO NO
she cried.... poor child knows ecstasy few will experience
all praise to her for saying If My Daddy Say It's All Right...

like all my words,
they will be used by different people in ways meant and imagined

nOW LET THIS poem run back to the outposts
on the edge of the battle
back to the soldiers
dying and being beaten out of existence by the constant
threat of a nameless reaper
stealing their friends leaving their famalies greiving... their comrades
more lost than ever

DEDICATED TO ALL SOLDIER FIGHTING UNDER ALL FLAGS

MAY THEIR LEADERS BURN IN HELL FOR FORCING YOU TO LEAVE YOUR FIELDS

and force the the rightous to join in your folly

we fight fire with fire
go where ever blood is being spilt unchallanged....

the complete our god ralph

2008-05-05T10:06:00.000-05:00

ENTRY 99

OUR GOD RALPH

Chapter One: The Rise of Ralph

The Rise Of Ralph essentially began one Million, two hundred thousand, four hundred and twenty seven years ago, a group of hunter gatherers were on the run from a larger, and thus more aggressive tribe; chased from their traditional stomping grounds, they
faced many perils out in the unknown wilderness; lost good friends and
family to beasts human and otherwise; in the end though, as was want to happen back then, when there were still great tracks of land unspoiled by man, that after nearly a year of barely scavenging up an existence and seeing the very young and old die off, the weary survivors of the tribe came to a fertile plane of rich, black dirt nestled between three mountains and accessible by only two small paths; their elders searched the nearby creeks and woods and finding dung from deer and bear and beavers a' plenty (and, more importantly, no signs that other men were living in the valley), they decided to settle there and start planting corn and beans and raising dogs and cattle.

Near where they settled was a grove of majestic, ancient Cedar trees on a small
Hill almost dead center in the otherwise flat plane of a valley, and there lived the god, Ralph. Or at least he was there that day. Back then Ralph had a lot more plant than animal friends.
The villagers discovered their God one sunny afternoon when they decided to harvest the cedars and suddenly found themselves being hit by lightening. The villager’s asked the spirit for forgiveness, and of course never messed with the Cedars again.. After the
initial shock of losing a few men to Ralph's wrath over what he saw as his friends about to be killed by some new infestation, the tribe got together and decided their best course of action was to win the god over.

. As was the way of people back then, they were used to the gods who inhabited various streams, rivers, mountains, animals, and etc...
Like people still, they had always wanted a God of their own, and here, purely by chance, they had stumbled on a God without the usual religion filled with humans who drove them off as being ‘unchosen.’

Ralph himself was somewhat uncomfortable with the situation until the villager's turned him onto a type of moonshine that they made out of whatever local fruit they
could scavenge. Ralph, like all gods, loves getting a good buzz on and
the idea of humans bringing him booze on a daily basis was too much for
him to pass up. They asked him for small favors that were nothing to him .. a lot of it was just normal, like the change of the seasons. What he could do for them, mostly, was make rain if they needed. For a myriad of reasons the least of miracles for Ralph was changing the weather…. Or at least this was a miracle that Ralph could be counted on to do. He refused to let himself become some kind of tool for the humans to use. He knew some gods who did this, and it had always lead to them having their followers attacking someone to take over more land, win more followers… because God’s could actually gain strength on the weird plane the humans existed on by having followers… inevitably they ended up all too tangled up in human affairs for the interest of Ralph.

of mankind’s progress moved on and on….

The God’s took a celebrities interest in how their humans looked at them… or at least, most did. Ralph was as unique as all Gods are and he had different notions on things. Live and let live, he had always told himself. Fight if you have to, but…. He was not about to spend all his time being a war god…. No, he liked to party, tell jokes, zip around the world seeing the sites.

Most gods, being basically like needy performers with, for lack of a better term, 'god complexes,' were always trying to one up one another by smiting this and that follower of another god, or making someone else a saint . . . Ralph was almost unique in being the
one god who really didn't have much ambition, and so he stayed out of all of this
religious tomfoolery until he discovered the wine… and Parties… a genuine fondness for the humans. They completed him in a way, though mostly their perception of reality was one Ralph liked to slide along using to remain in the humanly realm, instead of having to go to the bother of making up his own universe, which was a lot more bother than this
God was about to go through. He is a beast of great passions and loves and endlessly curiosity, which gives him enough charm to almost make up for his lack of real power in the pantheon of gods.

As will happen when power is splashing around the ethereal plane, a few
Gods rose to the top of the heap, like Allah and Yahweh and Morton Smeed
(the latter who is now forgotten, though he was once worshiped all across
the planet in complex call and response ceremonies that were made up
entirely of 'burps,' which are known to historians to have been not only
quite transcendent, but also cured warts on or about the left toes).

Ralph thought the gods who were scrambling around gathering worshipers'
were wasting time better spent playing with puppies or kittens or little kids, at times… in others banging on a set of drums he had… particularly after drinking a lot.

Elders of the Church, admitted, in fact, that Ralph. was kind of a slacker when it
came to Godding. He really didn't care if he had a lot of followers or
not.

God's need only a few followers to exist, and Ralph had enough for his purposes, and would have lived and let live if the other, nastier gods, would only let him. . .
He simply wasn't into all the blood and gore that the other god's seemed
to get off on -- bringing them back to life intact was a simple matter for the God, though quite unsettling for the humans involved.

In fact, he was the original pacifist God, at one time… or at least he had gotten drunk and talked to Jesus about how non-violence was the best path for humans, period... Jesus took a lot of Ralph's drunken sermons and pieced together the Sermon on The Mount
-- which is why they are so oddly peaceful when compared with the curses
Jesus was known for throwing on people for the slightest of slights -- you
did not want to serve him cold soup, oh no... that was leprosy, at least).

No, Ralph did not care for domination at all, though his ideas on
pacifism did change after the human population explosion. In fact, as
more and more species became extinct around the globe, the god Ralph grew
more and more misanthropic and partial towards killing for whims, like
most gods.

Ralph wasn’t big on telling people what to do…. either. The other god's couldn't
get enough of making up laws about this and that, and sometimes they even
thought they were doing the right thing; but way more than half the time
when a priest asked Ralph a question about the after life or whatever, he
would just kind of shrug, and then make it out like 'man wasn't read to
know,' though anyone who knew him well knew they were just being blown off
because Ralph was bored with the conversation. People expected all the mysteries of the God’s to be revealed to them and that simply couldn’t happen, human brains were simply too small to even begin to explain the mysteries of the universes, so Ralph barely bothered, though he certainly was a strict advocate of animal rights, and did enforce a number of laws about how they were treated.

Ralph could see a bit of the future, of course, like all God's, and through the hundreds of peaceful years his tribe co-existed with him, as he protected them from the elements, did a few water to wine tricks… etc… and basically grew close to the humans, he knew that one day the peaceful tribe would be taken over by one of the blood thirsty armies of human's that the other,
power-tripping Gods and Men were always putting together in their never ending
need to enlarge their audiences, and thus feel more loved and worthwhile
and powerful in the earthly realm.

The material earth existed on the only plane not actually created by a god. A chance event that none of them had foreseen, because before earth they had forever lived in planes of their own creation. Come together here, on what started out as essentially neutral ground, the gods were only as powerful as how many human entities they could draw energy from during prayers and other, sometimes surprising, human activity
-- such as bowel movements.

Ralph liked earth because he didn't have to make everything up himself.
In the forever time, he had grown a little bored with concentrating on
keeping a universe together, and when the earthly plane appeared to them,
during the event humans call the Big Bang, he had welcomed a chance to
watch something besides what was essentially his navel. He also liked
having someone to talk to. Gods had never thought to talk to each other.
They started doing so only on earth. Ralph was in fact the first god to
inhabit the earthly plane, and was the first to learn that making friends
with creatures like trees would let him remain on the planet. It was a
small step from there for a god to look into a human and see the
implications of the dawning consciousness for an answer to the question
that had begun to haunt them in apehood --- why do we die?

Early on, some years he would get behind on the harvest and the
villager's would literally spend days in prayer getting him to come down
and make their fields grow, yet on the hand he never asked for sacrifices
or really much of anything beyond the occasional dinner invitations and to
be present at all parties. Hardly any of the villagers seriously even
considered converting.

The day came when the inevitable army of men covered in steel rode
stallions down into the village and began cutting down the men, raping the
women, and stealing the children and wealth, as the Christian and Muslim
god's had them doing a lot back then -- as well many, many gods long
forgotten by man.

Ralph did what he could, but he wasn't very powerful
when compared to the other prayer inflated gods. He gathered up one
family and took them into an astral plane, keeping them there until the
marauder’s had all passed and the vengeance of the attacking God died down
and then landed them in a safe village
afterwards, where he was able to conjure up a job for the father.

Ralph followed that family then, all down the eons, to present day...
part of their secrecy was to keep all knowledge of Ralph from the
children, who were only told on their eighteenth birthday about their god,
Ralph. Ralph tried to make a good impression at such times, usually
would shave and tuck in his shirt and make himself smell like something
pleasant, like sandalwood. He had a hard time keeping a straight face
through all the mumbo jumbo that the various priests had built into the
ceremony over the years, and this seemed to endear the new recruits to
him. He would give them a few miracles to seal their faith. Something of a guardian angel, and something of a smelly houseguest, the God Ralph has all the normal tenants and rules of any religion, but Ralph could seldom be bothered to remember them in the best of times, and for the last few hundred years he had been smoking weed around the clock. Huge fat Rasta joints that never burned down.

Ralph requires one person in the family to write down his exploits, as must be done for god's, so that when he gets bored he can read back on his accomplishments (god's do this a lot more than they ever admit). He chose Mugully Foolip for no other reason than alliteration.

Everyone told Mugully that there was an honor that went with being the scribe of a god... But Migully was not so sure... there was the practicality's of bunking with Ralph, -- who could be meddlesome. He also refused to pick up after himself or clean the bathroom -- and for a god like him to do a task like cleaning required about as much effort as half a human thought. He could just think, 'make it clean.'

Mugully bitched at him at first... but bitching at a god is a tricky thing. Ralph was known to lash out and give people an extra arm, or make one of their eyes explode. Migully learned his lesson the day he tried to get Ralph to clean up after his nine cats and was turned into a large turd for the day. It was not a mistake he made again. Like most human's, he just ignored his god when he could, and dealt with him when he had to... which was more than he liked, because of the scribe thing.

"Someone is at the door, Migully." Ralph didn't like the sound of the doorbell, and it was an annoyance that he blamed entirely on his scribe.
"Who is it?"
"Okay, I'll check... fucking Mormon."
"That's like the third this summer. Don't you think it's about time that you smite one of them? You zapped those scientologists on their first trip here."
"Man, can't this wait until there's a commercial?"
"He's going to ring that doorbell again in a second."
"Okay, okay... there, I just made him spontaneously combust. His fellow missionary is on the lawn right now hysterically wetting himself. Shit, I deserve Nachos or something like that when I answer prayers."
"Really?"
"Yes, that is a tenant."
"It is not."
"Sure... something like, Verily bring unto my altars nachos slathered in near-cheese."
"I've been your scribe like less than a week, and already... well, you’re tempting my faith, Ralph. God's aren't supposed to lie."
"We don't lie, we change the truth. It's really all the difference in the world. Remember that day that I made you into a cat terd?"
"I still gag when I think about the inside of my mouth being cat terd."
"Unless I get some nachos, you are going to be terded out for like the next week. You can write that up in your scriptures and preach it, man."
"Really?"
"What did they tell you?"
"Anything you want me to write down, I write down."
"It's scripture now, baby."
"Are all the god's as... cavalier as you?"
"Would you rather I rule on abortions, or nachos? Keep the peace, man.. A lot of those gods who you think have all these cool rules, have no better idea than anyone else how you humans should live. You came into existence. You need to just exist, without us telling you what to do. That’s slavery, dude…. I’m mellow like this … the exception, because of the kind of grove that I originally inhabited."
"Cedar, right?"
"No, we just put that in after that movie Reefer Madness came out. It was a grove of pot. Nice red, hairy buds."
"Really?"
"No. But that sure would help the taste of those nachos. Put that in there, too -- verily, nachos must... something like, come with holy weed and some sort of smoking device that is not a pop can and a bit of aluminum foil poked with holes."
"Look, I'm sorry about that, okay?"
"Tell you what, get the nachos and put a bong on my altar, and I'll forgive you."
"Okay."

Later in the day, after weed and nachos, Thus Spoke the God Ralph: "I am sure that you have heard of De-programming, Muggily, where a cult member is taken to a hotel and fed big Mac’s and forced to watch soap operas and Jim Varney films until they are as normal as the rest of you humans? Well, why doesn't anyone do this with, say, the Mormon's? Or Seventh Day Adventist? I mean, you could even show these Catholic priests a little hetero porno and maybe save some little arse's from being sluiced with Jesus juice. Why not just deprogram whoever you want and then program with a better religion… one that gets pot legalized and shit. Humans have to vote such things, and you know I don’t have the power… I'll need your help snatching enough people to make this effort worth my while."
“Snatching people? What does that mean? NO, the Cult Awareness Network got sued over deprogramming scientologists or something… why go to the bother. “
This was the kind of moment Mugily dreaded... everyone had warned him to be careful when trying to dissuade the god from one of his nefarious whims, and he had already spent a day as a terd after complaining about the cat smell. "Uh, Ralph, and wait a minute, isn't the Mormon god a little stronger than you?"
"Man, you don't know shit, do you? They all become like mini gods…. That's why I can smite them."
"Like the Jehovah Witnesses?"
"No, they have a god, he's just too into coke and Viagra to give much of a shit at this point. Like Buddha."
"I was an atheist until I turned 18 and we had the Shumbagogo. I never would have believed in any god, let alone you. The more I get to know you the better off I think I was."
"Careful, Mugily, as a god, I think of killing you as only slightly more serious than swatting a mosquito... slightly, ever so slightly. So, scribe, just listen to me... a couple I have now gone back in time and a couple months ago I decided that it was high time to start deprogramming some Christians. I thought and thought and thought about things that can radically change someone’s life; something they could convert to instead of their silly myths; something that would hook them, like religion did... finally it came to me -- I'd make them crack addicts. I figured, once I got them addicted to crack they would have to steal and prostitute themselves to support their habits, which would cause their moral compasses to shift all over the place, eventually shattering their lying paradigms and breaking them out of their little 'Denny's Prayer Brunches Mania.'"
"Man, you really hate Brunches."
"Let no man say other.... they really are soul killers, those brunches. You throw in backgammon and you are on your way to the hell realms, boy. Here's my plan for deprogramming thee twerps, okay? I started with two Mormon kids, a scientologist, and a kabbalah -nut... the Mormons were the first, because they were riding along the street, so I took this van and ran them over, breaking enough bones to make them easy to push around and get in the van and all. I then drove them to a crack house, and had them shot up with heroin, making their pains all go away. Now, I have them on a constant diet of porno and south park, and they seem to be responding well, going from having gag reflexes and shaking their heads to laughing maniacally and masturbating with impunity. The others are coming along nicely, too."

"What do you mean, you . . . started?"
"Yea, I went back in time, just now.... and started this last Tuesday. You have to remember these conversations for later, scribe. Okay, where…after their bones have healed in horribly mangled ways, they will be in pain for the rest of their lives and thus horribly messed up on pain drugs and as ready to hate god as some... I don't know, wombats, I guess... they are the real hardcore atheists of the animal kingdom, of course."
"Really?"
"Mugily, you will believe anything, man.?"
"Where are these Mormon's and what did you say... scientologists and kabbalah-nuts... that you're experimenting on, exactly."
"Oh, I took them to this place I know across state, so you wouldn't get up your brethren and start meddling, like you did when I was growing that Mau Wai."
"You almost got us all arrested."
"Like I would let that happen."
"We never know with you, Ralph. Sometimes you are right there with what color to paint the car, and the next day you can't be bothered to save the dog's life."
"I have never let one of your dog's die un-naturally."
"Just the humans?"
"There are too many of you, Muguily, by the reports of your own damn scientists. Next I am going after a catholic priest. I will attempt to change his sexuality, and if that works, break their Bingo addictions."
"I think you should just go to a movie or something."
"Too late. Just write shit down and enjoy the ride that is Ralph, okay? Got the nachos and weed?"
"Is that all you ever consume?"
"Yes."

Mugily sat down in the cat scratched black leather coach that had been so pristine when he bought it a year before and had been totally trashed after just six days with Ralph’s unruly, spoiled felines. The room was beginning to smell from the litter again. He was having to change it almost everyday to keep up the illusion that the place did not smell of cat, like he secretly suspected and was indeed correct about, though he would never know because his friends and relatives were just too damn polite to tell him -- not to mention, they all kind of felt for the scribe in Ralph's life.

Scribe's often came to bad ends, a miracle gone awry -- once only half of a scribe showed up in Puerto Rico for their annual Smiggly Soo Pen reunion... the other half of the poor man never was found. While Ralph could easily have fixed such errors, he sometimes simply was not 'in the mood,' and there was no reasoning with him at such times. He was a creature used to playing with his moods, trying to keep what he often referred to as, "The Big Chronic."

"Hey, I don't see you going out to the kitchen to make me an offering of Nachos?"
"Can't you just conjure these things up?"
"You know, I'll bet no one makes Jesus get his own nachos."
"Can you introduce me to some of these other gods?"
"What, you shopping around now?"
"No..."
"I was kidding, but you are only particularly so... Sometimes reading your mind makes me fucking sick. Oh, don't go there even in your.... now your just thinking nachos, in cheese sauce, trying to throw me... oh, chili and cheese. I think you need to go down to the Tex Mex Chix and get some of those Beaver Meat Cheese Nacho Supremes and I'll ... bless you, or some damn thing. Verily, verily, I say -- goeth in search of Nachos... but first, get something to poke the resin out of my bong and change the beer in there. Verily, verily, I have spoken... whoo, whoo, whoo."
"That used to make your priest’s shiver?"
"No, shit. It was funny, man, so... you are not scared enough of me, you know? That will probably lead to my accidentally killing you. Well, half accidentally killing you. Oh, I'll see it coming a few days before hand, and I'll think about changing time, tell myself I should... then, it'll be too late and I'll content myself with a new cleric."
"Uh, okay... really?"
"Sure."
"Did you really get the munchies and turn a scribe into Taffy and eat him?"
"Now... I can change anything into Taffy, at any time... why the hell would I waste a scribe?"
"I just wondered."
"Is that in the scripture somewhere?"
"I don't think..."
"A lot of that shit, I was way too drunk to remember much... you know, how you get all serious and melancholy sometimes... well, when you're a god, you get like this, then you get to exaggerating, as gods do... next thing you know, you've got the book of revelations. Yea, that was me. The Christians pretty much took whatever they found, drew a smiley Jesus face on it and called it their own, you know?"

Mugily's neighbors are just the normal, salt of the earth kind of folk that you find out here in the heartland of america... There is Ritlip, molester of plants and hater of noises from small children. He is haunted by his super power -- the ability to hear his neighbors tiniest doings.

In the apartment above him was Hiplo, who is obsessed with pouring tins of left over tuna water on panty displays at upscale boutiques (most of them have his picture up in the break room with a 'mace on sight' order, and he indeed gets maced all the time). In his spare time, he lives out a disability he got after taking some psych tests once when he was thinking about joining the army... or the navy... he couldn't remember after awhile and was known to occasionally get stoned on cough syrup and have one or the other branches of the armed services tattooed on his body. In his spare time, he likes to sexual stuffed animals.

First floor front apartment was Jakolp, a hot shot, celebrity janitor with a local cable show where he displays pictures of what clogged up various celebrity drains and toilets. Shocking and grotesque, his show is the highest rated in the public access market, with two or three letters a month pouring in from fans. He is a Yugoslavian immigrant who was a reknown heart surgeon in his own country, and resents like hell that he is treated by the stars as their 'toilet toy' (though he was not above copywriting the name, putting it on business cards, and all the other sound business practices that it took for him to take the celebrity janitorial world by storm).

In the basement apartment, which is even with the streets, lives a foot fetished out freak, Kiplo, who has paintings and busts of feet filling every space of wall in his place. Suspicious stains on the carpet in front of some of the paintings are explained away as 'glue spills,' though no evidence of actual use of glue has ever been discerned. He is the seeker among the dullards, a guy who thinks anyone who gets a job and has kids and lives a normal life of decorating the garage with power tools was part of a vast conspiracy that was vaguely related to a plot by Beavers to cut human water supplies and return their god to the throne of earth, which he was knocked off when man developed opposing thumbs. He is sure that one day he will find enlightenment, that it will come as a surprise in a box of cereal. This he eats all day and night, and weighs around four hundred pounds...
Kiplo covers his walls in tin foil so it looks cool with colored bulbs, and though no one can stand the cold, cerebrial yet ever so slightly trashy look of his apartment, his neighbors are too afraid of pissing of 'a crazy' to say anything more than the usual polite nicities.

Their lives were basically your normal one. They had allegeince with a local gang for protection, paid the cops off, kept up on our health insurance, cashed theirr govchecks and used their stamps. They hadn't even had a water abuse ticket for like three years, before Ralph.

Their tranquilty was shredded the day his eleven cats came ripping into the apartment... he even brought a dirty, disgustingly full litter box with him.

In less than a week, Ralph had started a religious experiment with brain washing, purely to try to get them to stop ringing his doorbell, though after all the trouble he caused for the humans around him Ralph would have hardly admitted such a thing.he had managed to bring the full wrath of the Mormon church down on their heads. The High, High Mormon, Morman council was convinced that all of the residents of the building were part of some 'Ralph Cult,' as the newspapers were calling them. There sort of was a cult, too, so this made defending themselves against this charge all the harder, of course (though the cult was actually a mind control experiment of Ralph's, where he was deproggramming mormons). Soon the Scamatologists and every religion that Ralph had experimented on, were searching to snuff out the poor residents of Mugully’s building. Tying their fates, inexctractibly, from Ralph == they kept getting killed and having a God around to resurrect is a big boon.

A lot changed when the Bush Monarchy took over the world and the rich moved to the moon (finally answering the question of why they didn't mind polluting it all those years -- they'd been planning on moving to the moon for hundreds of years, and considered the environmental destruction of earth 'a jolly good joke on the disgusting, smelly masses’). No more wars, no exploitation, no working sewer systems, and few jobs... luckily, with the rich gone, the mechanical types easily created machines to do all the work so mankind could spend more time exploring such subjects as daytime television soap operas, Some god's were so appalled by Bush letting their beloved earth fall into disrepair that they tried to stop the family from taking over the world and putting a monarchy back in place. . .

Ralph was among them. They lost. Too many atheists and people who refused to stick one deity and a lot of the other developments of the twentieth and as losers were kind of just left on earth forgotten. A lot of god's perished outright that day, as people faced down the environmental catastrophe and cursed them. Ralph was lucky in that he was the primary weed connection for one of the young members of his church, or he might have been cursed away as well. Cursed away entails of course being sent to the nethers, where nothing is substantial unless the god's make it -- which is a lot more work than Ralph wants to do on any given day. They could come back as different gods, and often did, though the more powerful gods by then were careful not to let any upstarts gain followers.

As per Ralph's rather slipshod godding, they had barely escaped from the Mormon's, who had found out about his cult breaking business and attacked the apartment house with surface to air missiles. At the moment they are in a bus at a very high rate of speed, blowing through red lights and in fact ignoring what is generally thought of as the rules of driving... at first, whenever a cop got on their tale, Ralph was killing them in spectacular flame filled accidents, until Mugily protested that they were just doing their job. After some grumbling about how the human population was causing suffering to the penguin, who Ralph made clear were to be revered as 'nature's goddamn clown, man!'. “But you are right, Muggily… I’ll resurrect the dead cops and send the others across state. No, to Tahiti. There. That’s fucking good karma, which is bullshit.”

Ralph was no great driver in the best of times, and as he flew down the highway at 120 he was also drinking a beer and rolling a joint. Muggily was by then quite sick of being killed in accidents and resurrected.

"Ralph, there is no need to go this fast. The Mormon's are never going to catch us."
"Oh, I'm not worried about them. I already know when and where they are going to catch up us, remember, I’m a fucking God. I'm just kind of getting off on driving fast."
"You know, that is fine for someone who is impervious to pain, Ralph, but when us humans die, that shit hurts. I mean, you reattached my head three times today.... and I'm going to puke if I see my intestines splattered on another road. Seriously."

"Man, I should fucking smite you for pissing on my buzz. In fact get out ..."
"No, not the scripture..."
"Hey, you are the fucking scribe of a god, have some respect."
"Okay, don't give me a second asshole or something... "
"A second asshole, eh?"
A shout of surprise from Kibo in the back made clear to Mugily that the temptation of surprising someone with a second asshole had been too much for the god. "Oh, let their asses be, dear lord, Ralph."
"Don't get sarcastic with me. Uh, oh... looks like a gas truck up ahead. Get ready to fry boy... "
"Noooo.... ahhhh... ugh, ugh... huh..."

Once Ralph resurrected and healed everyone, including the truck (which took him mere seconds), Mugily was once more sitting in the front seat, staring down at the road pouring into the windshield, dreading his next death... when Ralph suddenly spied a sign for strawberry pie and changed the truck into a helicopter which kind of zig zagged over farm houses and fields before smashing into the parking lot of a small country restaurant. After resurrecting and healing everyone, they all sat down to some scrumptious pie, and none could help but thank Ralph for the particularly tasty strawberry's, and while he was quick to accept their praise, he had nothing to do with it...

On the run from the vast Mormon Mormon High High Counsel, and a crack team of ninja scientologist lawyers, some crazy Kabbalah killers lead by Mad Donna, Assface Kurcher and Demigod Moore, the God Ralph and his often unfaithful followers are trekking across the welfare and robot-worker propped up 'Land of the Once not so free but now really a bit Too Free,' post-Bush world (meeting culture after culture that had sprung up among those . . . 'left behind' . . . when the Bush Monarchy moved the rich to the moon and created The Very Very White World). After three days of driving at speeds upward of 150 miles an hour and causing dozens of accidents that forced Ralph's followers to go through numerous painful resurrections and healings, came to a part of the country that is filled with trailer parks.

Trailer parks stretched throughout the mid-Americas for thousands of miles on all sides, and little was known about the inhabitants. Leading into the labyrinths of mediocrity was a road filled with bags of garbage, old car parts, and a number of surprisingly well kept up garden gnomes in various holiday themed outfits. Ralph of course sped up when he saw the barrier and was disappointed when the bus smashed right through.

Immediately the world almost seemed to turn on it's side... all the people they were seeing were grossly malformed.... eight arms, three heads, four huge ass cheeks... and not some few of them seemed to have goat horns, and a few had their legs, ears… All of them were extremely fat.
"Yuck," Mugily said. "What the hell is wrong with these people?"
"Descendents of hillbilly's and white trash and the meth armies and…. Basically, the normal were eaten by the deformed and stupid enough not give a fuck… plus, there is no government in place here to stop inbreeding… and the walk to the neighbor's was too far for them. gGoats were closer than the neighbors too. Usually that doesn't result in offspring, but all the inn-breeding and this strange beer they drink has actually managed to make their genes stupider than normal. They all weigh over three hundred pounds. You notice that?"
"Of course, I noticed. They look like huge warts on the landscape."
"They would probably look better as warts. Yes... they... would."
"Ralph!!! Do not make them . . . into warts… you just act without thinking, and though I know you know the future… I actually go through deaths… and…"
As he spoke, two mountainous women in tube tops and short shorts standing outside of a trailer became huge, bloated red warts. Mugily expected this to enrage the others, but instead they non-chalantly began breaking pieces of the warts off, rubbing them on their genitals and then eating them."
"Oh, god… Ralph, tell me they don't consider that seasoning?"
"They're just seeing where the wart fits best. You fucking humans and your gland rubbing and juices spurting... " The one thing that Ralph found disgusting was human sex. The gods looked at it like humans were basically puking vile juices on one another while flopping about all slapstick -- Mugily suspected this masked Ralph's jealousy over not being able to connect on a deep emotional level, but he was wrong.
" They'll eat the evidence in ... wow, they devoured those warts."
"Can you bring them back?"
"Why?"
"Yes. Good point. What's with all these obese Elvis statues?"
"They worship the older, dissipated Elvis. They try to look like him. Mostly they just watch soap operas, drink beer and have family oriented orgies. Very Zen people."
"Don't stop anywhere."
"We have to. I've already told Elvis's ghost that I will talk to these people on his behalf. He doesn't like being the patron saint of Gravy and Biscuits. He wants Cadillac’s. I'm going to see what I can do. I loved Hound Dog. Once played it for fifteen years straight. I'm going to give them some more warts to eat, to ... uh, make friends."
"Ralph, don't piss them off. Can't you see they all have shotguns in their pick ups and those little confederate flags that on their bumpers, the ones that declare -- 'Too Stupid For History Class."
"Mugily, my scribes usually do what I tell them."
"And look where that has gotten you Ralph? We've got Ninja scientologists, mad cap Mormons... that whore Mad Donna... all trying to kill us. They've already succeeded like twenty times and I am so sick of feeling my own death.... and they'll kill us again if you keep warting these people."
"I'm just trying to make following me fun. Forgive me for enriching your pathetic little human life. Well, I guess we should stop and talk to them."
"No, let's just keep..."
"Hey, look, a statue of Elvis with a chicken wing hanging out of his mouth.... Oh, reading their minds is pretty gross... all they think about is beer... and their sisters, mothers, uncles... wow, I thought you were sick, but these humans. . All they eat is gravy and biscuits... barbecue their dead at big, ritual parties where the women flash their breasts and the men flash their... these guys have big asses."

As the unwieldy crowds gathered around the Bus, Ralph took the PA and began speaking to them: "Listen, we don't have a lot of time... first off, I am Ralph, a god, and I am here with news from Elvis. He wants you to give up goat fucking, first off."

Hearing their beloved goat fucking maligned by an outsider pissed off the Elvi Peep's (as they called themselves). Enraged cries of, "What? Take away goat fucking? That's blasphemy!"
"Only one touching my goats is me, and peoples who can trade a sheep or a large cat." "Get him!!! Make him fuck a goat!!"

Ralph waved his hand in the air and bongs suddenly appeared in the hands of one and all... "Here, this is my special blend. I want you to put down your beers, inhale the weed, and lose your four or five extra asses, okay?"

Beer cans and rocks and small children began to pelt the bus as the angry crowd threw whatever was close at the interlopers who were threatening one of the profound tenants of the Elvi -- 'No Goat Shall Go Unsodomized."

"Look, you walking warts... Elvis has spoken to me, okay? Why the hell else would I come here?"
"To fuck goats?" One of the crowd asked?
"No, you see... I'm here... "

A commotion on the edge of the crowd caught their attention. Then a group of black clad ninja's and hippy looking people with red garrotes could be seen trying to fight their way to the bus. The commotion died down almost as soon as it began.

"Ralph, what is it?" Mugily asked the now seemingly bored god.
"Oh, the wart people are eating the scientologists, cabalists, and Mad Donna and her hanger ons. They're already sending out replacements after us."

"People of the trailer world,” Ralph told the crowd, "We brought this offering of folks to ritually sodomize and barbecue as a way of showing our friendship. Now ... there... you are cured of your impulses toward goats and relatives."

Cries of approval immediately began to come from the crowd.

"Hey, Elvis never shared his drugs..."
"Will you bless my gravy and biscuits?"
"Thanks for making me despise my uncles asshole, Ralph."

And lots of other affirmative remarks which helped to quell the trembling in Mugily's bowels that he had been feeling ever since learning he was distantly related to the white trash that he was sure would eventually ritually sodomize them, which they called ‘stuffing,’ and then cook him up in a barbecue.

Later that week, as they drove out of the other side of the trailer park, the ghost of Elvis tearfully saw them off, then went off to be reincarnated as a common, garden variety toad, which had been the earliest and most pure dream of his childhood.

After curing the inbreeding and goat fucking tendencies of the Elvi-Peeps, Ralph and his not really all that faithful followers drove the RV through miles and miles of beet fields. The beets were getting on everyone's nerves, as beets tend to do. . . especially evil beets, as these surely were. Ralph finally changed them all to bushes growing little lamb heads but no sooner did they kind of laugh at his miracle then there was a loud crack of lightening, the sky turned black, and the beets were back -- and this time they seemed even more menacing.

"Shit." Ralph looked about nervously, which made Mugily the Cleric very, very, very nervous, because he had never seen or heard of Ralph getting nervous.
"What is it Ralph?"
"Those damn Elvi-Peeps are praying to me... oh, no... they've made me THE PATRON SAINT OF NOT FUCKING YOUR Uncle’s ASS.... Jesus is jealous. You know all the 'no god before' me crap he is always preaching. Their prayers have unwittingly made me powerful. Getting the attention of the man is the last thing I need, Mugily."

A thousand foot high visage of a storming and raging Jesus Christ appears in the road in front of them, surrounded by millions of angels armed with swords spewing orange and yellow fire.. Under his breath, Ralph whispered to Muggily, "Jesus is such a fucking drama queen... hey, ooh, I'm Jesus, watch me cure some leper's. . . there is nothing to curing lepers."

Without bothering to stop the bus from careening down the road at a hundred and fifty miles an hour, Ralph flew up and out in front of the huge Jesus face and told him, "They are not worshiping, me, man... they are just confused by the loss of Elvis, like all Hillbilly's they believed he was immortal."

The bus carrying Ralph's followers crashed into a viaduct and they were trapped in the gnarled wreckage slowly broilng to death.

Ralph tried to explain to Jesus that he was in no way trying to get followers or anything of the sort -- "You know me, man..." He told the enraged deity, " I can barely remember to keep my fifteen alive. Half the time I can't even remember to do that."

Jesus, seemingly having none of Ralph's explanation, raised his arm as if to smite.... The sky turned black and a howling wind blew up... then, the Robed one started laughing and all the angels' joined. Ralph, we had you shitting in your pants, didn't we, Ralph!!!?? Ha, good old Ralph, never too quick on the uptake are you?"

Ralph explained all this to his followers when he next resurrected them to continue eluding the Mad Donna, Assface Kurcher, Bouncing Tommy Cruise and the Demi-God -- who have already killed them all dozens and dozens of times, and more than likely will again and again...

The Blessed Rv was stopped at a boarder crossing run by seven foot tall, burly pigs. They spoke perfect English, in mannerisms that were recognizable as human. The guards were looking for Jewish or Muslim names, and then forcing them, in small tent chapels set up just for this purpose at every crossing, airport and train station in the country, to either convert and pledge allegiance to the god of the pigs, Porky, or simply disavow human religions all together. No one was actually thrown out for having one of the two prejudice filled religions, because everyone knew the policy; people who were unwilling to say a few otherwise meaningless words simply stayed out Pigland.

Mugily had no idea such a beast existed and at first thought Ralph had changed them into pigs, and he half expected them to look at their hooves and start screaming, then kill him again. Constantly being killed, often horrifically and slowly, had torn Mugily's mind a bit-- broasting in the burning RV once for forty excruciating minutes was a particular motif in his reoccurring nightmares. A twitch under his eye bothered him immensely, got him to habituate, when talking to other people, to holding his hand up over the offending tick -- an un-natural position which actually emphasized the tic to whomever he was talking to.

Others were showing much more outward signs of stress of being on the run.. Kiplo the food fetishist had taken to stringing shoes around his neck, waist, arms... he had red high heels and black, shiny combat boots and slippers and moccasins. The Toilet Boy To The Stars, the once cocky and proud celebrity janitor, was constantly cleaning the Rv, often for up to 36 hours at a stretch. When he was asked why, he would get all abusive and superior, once telling Mugily, "You can live like this if you want, but not me, man. I will not live in filth. You think you know shit. You don't know shit. I know shit. I seen some shits." He would then keep up his mutterings for hours. It didn't take long for everyone in the RV to learn to just step over and around him as if he were a sleeping dog.

Ralph too was a little disturbed at the moment, though not about the deaths of the humans, which he considered insignificant since he could resurrect them. To his god ears, the humans complaints about the agony of their deaths
was pointless whining about the human condition. When Ralph talked to Jesus,
he thought he was talking to an old friend, until it was revealed to him, in the cruelty of the practical joke Jesus had played on him, that they were less than friends. Indeed, Ralph had realized then and there that the other gods thought he was stupid. All because he had chosen to just be a part of the physical environment, to accept and kind of relish it, rather than attempting to make it like his own realm.

After the pigs passed them through, a shaken Mugily started to ask Ralph a question, and as always as his mouth started to open... the answer appeared in his mind.

The Rising was behind the first pig out of the blur of a low intelligence. They believed that just because humans were the first species to employ the benefit of high intelligence and speech capabilities, that gave us no right to effectively stop the evolution of other animals by keeping them tightly penned and stupid in a life track going quick from a womb to the slaughter house. They conducted their experiments completely off the map, on a small island in Indonesia patrolled by a vicious private army.

The first Pig, Heeply, after being educated and socialized, was quick to accept that they had been eaten -- after all, the pig had never been above eating a human. The hatred of the Jew and Muslim, though -- that still lived on, even a hundred years after the eating of meat was effectively banned by the Un. This riled the pig, like any prejudice will the demonized party, and after many years...they started petitioning the Un to stop the Jews and Muslims from spreading slander about how they were 'unclean,' and other vile words that were peppered about their holy books. The Jews and Muslims still refuse to touch the pig. Won't shake their hands, allow them into their holy places or delis or cafeterias.

There were problems with the first pigs, a lower intelligence than expected resulted. The Rising Group rushed through the experimental phase to trials on pigs, and then when there were problems with the intelligence of the first hundred, none of them would have even considered killing off the mistakes.
The pigs were raised as secular speciest... and would have perhaps easily integrated into the World Culture if not for their finding out, and then reading up on, the Jew and Muslim prejudice against them. The idea of a religion itself intrigued them, unfortunately; they had been deep spiritualists before the group gave them intelligence and an education. Some of them longed to be one of the Before pigs, the ones lacking the genetic askewing, but when they themselves were running their own labs, and discovered how easily they could just damage their brains, none of the pigs were willing to give up who they were.

Two hundred years into the Awake Time -- as the pigs called the period before their DNA was supercharged, the slow simmering anger against the religious prejudice against them finally exploded. Three pigs were protesting in front of a Mosque in Iran and a religious nutshot them dead with an ak-898 (a seventeen year old who later claimed in court that he had been sexually molested and then indoctrinated into an illegally controlling religion--laws had long since stripped the con-pastors of their ability to use brain washing techniques to convince people of their mania, and some of the perpetrators indeed were jailed) . After this, the pigs all moved, in mass, to one of the communities emptied when the Bush Dynasty moved the wealthy to the succulent playground of the moon, where the god Jesus was the sole deity worshiped.

There was a little known fact about the situation of the gods, one known only by a few, mostly Jesus and his pals and Ralph-- who it was assumed was too stoned to remember what other god's talked about, so they spoke in front of him about matters they otherwise would have kept secret. The secret was this: Jesus was not actually sustained as the most powerful god by the worship of the Moon dwellers, like was popularly thought. It was assumed, because of a mind habit picked up during the eons of human social evolution, that the power of the rich man's prayer was somehow worth more than the poor mans, yet in truth it took almost all of Jesus’ followers on earth, plus those favored by the Bush Dynasty, to keep his supreme throne.

And even through Jesus had made it out like it was a joke when he almost smited Ralph, he could sense that there was some kind of probably unconscious reason Jesus had chosen just that moment to play his damned joke -- Ralph had been inadvertently picking up followers. Probably not him, but Mohhama-mohn, or one of the other powerful gods, might make a play to get some followers on the moon if they knew they merely had to convert a few hundred poor ass humans -- who most gods knew could be bought by answering a few prayers.

The moon was a garden paradise entirely constructed from the memories of the wealthy into polo grounds, golf courses, airports and large gated communities dotted with specialty shops -- and was indeed coveted by the other gods, especially after the destruction of the earth's fauna and sea life made most of the earth thick, lifeless mud.

Ralph and the crew stopped for breakfast at a diner. The celebrity janitor took one look in the door of the dingy room filled with small troughs containing various types of gruel and said, "No! I will not eat in a fucking restaurant called The Pig Sty."
A pig just inside the door heard him and his hat actually rose up off as his head from the hairs on his neck bristling in rage. "What," he yelled at the startled celebrity janitor, who despite his physical job was actually weak and scrawny and prone toward lovers handles and a small, though quite noticeable, belly flap, "is wrong with eating in a Pig Sty?" Then he screamed in a squealing, high pitched voice that turned the heads of pigs walking all down the city block and further, "We got us a Muslijew!!!"

Ralph was stoned and the munchies were a raging and he was intent on getting pancakes smothered in rich, real butter and thick syrup into his stomach. He waved off the pissed off pigs in a way that sent their anger wafting away on an invisible breeze. "He is not a Muslim or a Jew. You know, you would think, victims of prejudice like you pigs would just get over prejudice altogether, rather than going down to their level and actually becoming part of the problem. Do what you want, though, I don't care as long as someone else makes me breakfast because, even though I am god and could just make the food appear, then there is no anticipation involved. . . lacking that, things simply aren't as relished, and if you don't relish, well . . you might as well have not been born at all, eh?"

The pigs around the table were impressed by what they thought were Ralph's words, though it was as much a reaction to his getting rid of the anger in their minds and tweaking the hormones that would make them receptive, so Ralph could get his breakfast quicker. Mugily and the other disciples had come to rightly fear the uses of Ralph's powers. Something usually happened to them, as if they were in a bad horror movie or a twilight zone with a Faustian air, where any use of magic brought a price in pounds and pounds of flesh. At the time, though, it seemed like their breakfast went on to take off without a hitch . . . What they didn’t know is that the pig that was pissed off was the son of the ruling porker of Pigland. Hoppy had actually already been pissed off when the God and his entourage walked in.

As his father explained to him two days before, and set off such a quivering in his son's soul that he had been riding aimlessly around Pigland on a motorbike ever since, "We have film of a rabbit that bested our god. A rabbit. Even a little wild pig could kill a rabbit, let alone with that gun... but no, our god is a baffoon."

The pigs had originally created their religion around what they believed to be the first talking pig. This sad fact was
based on very little evidence -- an amusement park ride and stills from various films showing a brave pig with a gun -- they knew not why he was walking with the gun, and assumed, in the revolutionary thinking that was popular just after the pigs settled Pigland, that he protected his oppressors against the Muslim and Jewish religions prejudice, as well as the Christians and others who wanted to eat them…
Now, Porky Pig had been revealed to be a buffoon in other cartoons, and Hoppy was right then questioning his god and who should walk in but… a god who could wave his arm and stop a murderous pack of pigs from verbally berating a group who looked enough like Muslijews to get beat up in some bars -- and the pigs lived for such moments, which actually never came though they were often portrayed on Pigland soap operas and light comedic movies.

As they drove off Ralph explained what had happened to Mugily and Kiplo and gang. "Yea, they started this religion after finding an old amusement park ride featuring porky. It didn't work, wasn't much left – but they figured it was Porky hunting humans. So that became their churches, you know, rides . . . like the old haunted houses in the traveling circuses with their creaky little cars and chains . . . except a lot better. I think if I ever was to start a religion, I would use this style of worship."
"You have a religion, Ralph."
"No, I have a few humans I half-ass watch out for, a family kind of. I make the religion up for your kids, you know? I helped usher in the whole idea of Childhood, man. Before me, you humans treated kids over three as little adults. And usually little adults that everyone around was abusing, which taught them to abuse the kids. A vicious cycle. So I got the whole waiting until after puberty thing started. I tried to get it raised up to 21 even once, but then I kind of sobered up and wondered where that impulse had come from, you know?"
"So we're not a religion?"
"Sometimes it would be fun to be worshiped, Mugily, but that’s all a big lie. You
humans never really worship anything--- you are really mostly looking for an angle, some
divine sugar daddy who can give you wealth. That's the kind of shit some gods do, man.
Me? I’d rather just state what's on my mind. Hell, I’m going to anyways."
“What is with all these weird houses…”
“Oh, these are people who just live playing the GAME. They get enough money together
to buy these pods, where they just play the game all day. Around here, they knocked out religion, self-help books, lapdog celebrity/wealth worship, sports, and anything else unrelated to what they call here, of course . . . The Game. They hooked up food and toilet tubes, and shit. They consider it going out into society to meet others on the net, as avatars, where they have developed such unrealistic ideas about beauty that they think humans in person are remarkably ugly. They stopped all actual leaving of their houses decades ago. They all live alone, of course; since their parents died and left them the houses. The pigs put them all on government assistance. They really are a lot better at running governments than humans. They aren’t afraid of their impulses. They want to eat, screw, drink all the time, and the only reason they don’t is that The Dream of Porky is drilled into them as the only thing more important, and as such they go to work and keep things going, all in all . . . and they don't actually like drinking until they vomit, which to the food loving pig is seen as a sign of the worst sort of excess."
"Are you kidding me, Ralph?"
"No... Come on, when have I ever kidded you?"
"You had me literally shitting in my pants, after convincing me that Armageddon was exactly eight minutes off. Worse few minutes of my life."
"Visions of a nuclear Armageddon always get you baby boomers

Ralph has the RV stopped in a rest area, overlooking a vista of field after field of the grey, muddy sludge that had replaced the grass and the forests. A warm wind was blowing the stench of a putrid landfill into their faces as they silently stretched their legs.

Ralph occasionally, like just then, had regrets about the way he had played the whole god game on earth. Every time a species died out he had killed a few humans before he could reign in his anger -- DOG FIGHTERS, guys who raised animals for any sport, for that matter…. He let his followers think it was all arbitrary, but he could see just enough of the future to know who he was going to get for what….. he had no idea the gods would destroy something like earth in their quest for power. Power?

Ralph thought of power as responsibility, and that was the last thing he wanted. ... though when the wild animals on the planet were all gone, he had begun to spend a lot of time in the past , going back and revisiting the long lost, dark green quiet of forests, the laughter of clean rippling streams. .. and then, he would have changed the course of earth had he been powerful enough…. The only past he could recreate was one in his own universe, of course… or he would have just taken his followers there. But Ralph, despite his anti-intellectual appearance, was deep enough to feel like there was no way he was going to pretend that he knew what was best for every human on the planet. The gods were forever doing that and always wrong.

Now, after the other gods had grown practically too strong to be challenged, he was finding himself suddenly gaining followers.

He had realized something else about Jesus during the practical joke -- the deity did not take him seriously. Ralph had been surprised at the time to find his old buddy had grown into such an asshole. Standing there looking at what the ruling four percent of humans had done to the earth, he realized that he was gaining followers without even trying, and for the first time ever, he wondered if he should have played the whole god game, been political around the other gods and solicitous to the humans? That wasn't him, but he doubted it was the other gods, either -- at least until they became involved in the power games and started judging themselves and others by how much earthly stock they held. Still.... he might have been able to stop the destruction that turned the look out point from a gorgeous vista of receding pine forests into a place to mourn.

Ralph told his followers only, "I just figured out that I could probably take over the moon, give you guys an Eden."

All but Mugily were awed at the thought of going a place none of them could even think of without choking on rage and hatred at the Bush Dynasty. . . Eden.

"They wouldn't let a black guy like me up there," kiplo said.
"Well, see... the Bushes would have to be... taken out of power, and then... Mugily and me would be setting up new rules... and you guys, too... except, nothing about foot fetishes or cleaning rituals. I have been working a long time to get rid of white and black as labels... You know, I used encourage, back when your family needed to be kings for awhile to protect this valley… inter-racial marriages all the time. I tell people it is purely for aesthetics, actually... you have to admit, you white humans look half finished or something."
"You’re white?"
"No, I am deeply tanned."
The Janitor to the stars spoke next, asking a question that they had all contemplating asking, "Ralph, why does a god like you have to chain-smoke joints all the time?"
"I don't."
"Every time any of has seen you, you have joint in the corner of your mouth."
"I started smoking the stuff after finding out the effect it has on the humans around me. They are a little more creative, a bit sillier, take life and all just a little easier. When I am not around humans, I don't smoke it all... "

Mugily was skeptical. "Should I write that up in the official scripture, or are you going to give me a different answer for this question next time it is asked?"

"This is another one of those things that is too complex for me to convey to a small, human brain."

Mugily knew the last statement was how Ralph blew off conversations because they bored him. Obviously Ralph was getting something out of the weed -- even if it was more pleasant human contact.

"I have another question. You're a god, so how about a little enlightenment for us? When does that happen."
"I'm not going to make you into something that you aren't. Humans are not enlightened, and to make you so would ruin what you are. Now let us silently pray."

Asking for prayer was the most polite way that Ralph demanded silence from his followers -- he had once sent the snoring Celebrity Janitor onto the roof of the bus, where he was blown off immediately. He remained dead for sixteen hours before someone asked Ralph about him.

Ralph indeed had wanted to finish his thought... though it was sure a buzz killer -- if he was willing to clean up his act and be all selfless, he could get enough followers on earth to knock Jesus down a few pegs…. In fact, he had always liked Jesus and felt like he could convince him, if he didn’t have to always watch his back, if all the religions could just get along… then Jesus could do his thing without the violence he knew the deity liked to avoid.

Ralph would then have to spend a lot of his mental energy keeping his flock and all, and nothing would ever be the same.

A black helicopter appears from behind a brown mud horizon, zooms straight in on them fast as hell and begins firing machine guns, huge metal contraptions strapped to the landing gear and spitting a steady stream of exploding bullets.

Soon enough, the invincible Ralph was standing in a pile of dead disciples. He checked to see who was in the helicopter and found the beagle with Mad Donna's head, a couple Assface Kurcher clones and a Bouncing Tommy Death Doll. He flicks a finger and ball of white lightening encompasses the helicopter, smiting them down into a dust of the same grey as the muddy hills.

Ralph resurrected his followers and began the journey down the mountain of mud, to the land of the Specialists, where he needed just a few thousand followers to take over the moon... or, so he thought.

His followers pulled out a bottle of vodka and were doing shots, trying to quiet their nerves . . . they were really starting to get irritated with Ralph's saving them only after they were dead. Ralph enjoyed the spectacular accidents too much to take their opinions seriously. What could they do?

He wouldn't be able to get away with shit like that if he had to win over a large flock of humans. His god mind could tell that he was spreading from pig to pig through their land, a god who they could worship instead of Porky... they even designed a game Ralph The God, getting the human gamers in their lands to inadvertently worship him too. That along with the Elvi-peeps was a good chunk of the center of the Americas. As long as the powerful gods were taking him for a stoner concerned only with the next joint, his conversions would look accidental to them -- since the first ones were. As long as he wasn't noticed by any of them preaching or answering prayers, he could probably keep up the farce for enough months to gain enough prayer strength to toss out the egotist Egoists Gods and find a way to work out something with Jesus, who he really did not want to go to war against. Something glimmered further off into the future than he had before then… a vision of gods and humans sitting down at a huge table… and there was something else, at the table there was another being… something… above even Gods… Ralph heard a voice then telling him, “Go with my son and make the humans live in peace.”

And, the rest is history…

copywrite 2008 john scott ridgway

iraq wedding photo

2008-04-23T13:53:00.002-05:00

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

interesting day when I wrote this

2008-04-23T13:53:00.000-05:00

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

address to my radio show

2008-04-11T01:28:00.001-05:00

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

John Mccain keeps spare food in his cheeks!!!

2008-04-10T07:52:00.001-05:00

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

give me greg the bunny or give me death

2008-04-10T07:49:00.002-05:00

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

the hunter's sacred pantheon explodes

2008-04-09T10:09:00.001-05:00

from a fist exploding in the mountains of Denver

from SEA TO SHINY SEA

copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

warren the ape

2008-04-06T14:04:00.003-05:00

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

2008-04-06T13:02:00.001-05:00

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

I get laid all the time...

2008-04-06T13:00:00.000-05:00

now that I have a roofie connection and a snow cone business.

detective story

2008-04-06T12:43:00.001-05:00

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

cowboy story

2008-04-06T12:40:00.001-05:00

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

rabbi's trailer park emporium great meth war

2008-04-05T10:16:00.003-05:00

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

today

2008-04-04T15:49:00.001-05:00

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

the new thrust of this blog

2008-04-03T12:00:00.002-05:00

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

the

2008-04-02T14:59:00.002-05:00

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

steel words blog

2008-03-13T20:22:00.002-05:00

Hey, kids.

I have been busy working on a show at fearlessradio.com and writing my new book, waking up jesus... which I will be putting up here on blogspot, in the next few weeks, as I put the finishing touches on the book before publishing it on lulu.... I have big love for you all,and really hope you will check out the work, in advance, in the roughest form you will ever see it, at steelwords.ebloggy.com .... though again, for the rss people, it will be here soon.

hEY JESON PETTUS needs to get laid, people.... go to his sites and read his blog, he is one of the best in the business. I had the pleasure of checkinghim out again after getting back on line after and a cia homeland security enforced absence. Yea, I am more radical than even I knew... some come read why the assasins have tried to kill me... my book, One War, is very relevent right now... go buy a copy or a thousand.... google John scott ridgway

in this sacred revolt

2008-01-31T23:09:00.002-06:00

in the fields we pray
the threat of blood
will keep the neo cons and religiously blinded
from trying to steal another election

the hidden cells of resistance
have no serpent's head to lop off and toss aside

You know no matter what you do
there will always b immense pain
they great they turn away
dissolve into ennui and excess
become satisfied
they are doing enough
tossing pennies to panhandlers

cocked & loaded & ain't afraid to die
the fun loving GNL in the forces of the free
sits surrounded by urban enemies
just beyond his barbed wire perimeter
He hits on a big red bong
& tells the spies in the van out front
"YOU NO LONGER RULE!"

The bibles Christ freaks out
from the crowds of lepers
the walls of arms reaching desperate
grabbing taking consuming
Knowing he will leave them
without a cure is his worst pain

God makes the son flesh
to be a man
so the eyes of god
may see as his subjects

stand point theory
God looking out through every photon
watching His infinite painting
come into creation
amazed as any artist
when the mechanical process
of a well plotted painting
becomes a creation unto itself

We WILL NO LONGER ALLOW
our futures to be raised in poverty
your excuses fall on deaf ears
We will forge your religions in the future
or watch them quietly die off
like countless other sects
that rose like a temporary madness

Protected by the cloak of intelligence
we have appeared in seemingly empty places
taken up silent sentinels in the minds
of all generations

the New Black Panthers & Operation PUSH
pirates & politicos & pot heads
the dreams of youths who deny
the false boundaries of boarders
a living Christ
Diving Forces Marching Secure in the mission
blessed to b alive now
in this storied time

We sooner or later
take up guns to save a species
join the National Park in Kenya
& kill a few poachers . . .
blow up a corporate corrupter
who's bought off the law...
see myself leading an underground army
relinquishing power back to my soldiers
telling them they know
the battles in their terrain
Trust My God
He will inspire me to lead them
to his promised peace

crucified on the absurdity

2008-01-31T23:08:00.000-06:00

Intelligence agencies and spin artists
scramble to figure out who I work for

the spy who came into your living room
and announced
You are sacrificing your children
to protect the oil interests of the elite
repressive kings
& myth addled misogynists

tiny holes in their cloak of lies
revels slivers of the sun

a Tutsi general refuses to give up his guns
until they know there won't be another
genocide
displays a cane with a silver eagle
like my belt buckle and our family crest
a button reading REBEL FOR CHRIST

Not on my watch
morphed into Not On Our Watch
Clooney raises millions for Dar fur
after I preached the issue
into your living rooms

once I spoke free and fierce
to the bugs in my apartment
now we spar from afar
my lips silenced by their constant intrusion
a self thinking activist in the free world
long ago awakened to the tactics
cops and spies use
to beat down the revolutionaries
before they can get to the revolt

I have shown you the
survailled world to come
why the laws must be just now
or we will jail ourselves
into a fascist state where straying
from your religion alone
will get you jailed

They put us in jail
tore out our hair
tortured their way threw a paranoid delusion
hurt the very people sent to save them
the unwitting ethicists
fighting the amoral masses
seeking Truth
in a universe of ever-shifting lies
meant to appease & manipulate
& play the masses like drunken puppets

an angry summer afternoon
feeling my family and freinds threatened
I stab a knife in my windowsill
the red handles a sign
my hand begins to bleed
a bridge at the mouth of the Mississippi collapses
exposes the dying infra-structure of america
the years of the wealthy
paying just enough
to the politicians
to keep from paying taxes

When I realized Bush was acting on my orders
tearing down the fence at the mexican boarder
then waited for my decision
I had to tell the world
"I would not presume to know."

I would not kill liberty!!
I would not destroy the democratic process

NO MAN OF GOD
denies the revelation
of personal choice
the sacred gift
of a loving father to a child

When I realized someone was acting in my name
usuing me as a diving right
to do their own will...

I had to trust man and god
the common sense
the ethics I heard everywhere
waiting for a movement
hungering for confirmation
of revelation
a self-perpetuating revival of the sp[irit

I play back in my mind the night
my non de plume
PAIN
was spoken all over the television
John Stewart yelling my name
Gwyneth Paltrow
...all the others...
I would sit at my computer feeling
the interest
a gray mist flowing in my forehead
coaxing a creature out of my unconscious

my body is now an ignored distraction
carting around my brain
I stand half in this material world
half in the exquisite mystery

I do not want to lead people into prison cells
graves
lives of desperate urban battles
that pit the converted against the converted
in pretend wars that keep the many
from joining forces against the few

I know in a part of me sickened by the thought
THIS MESSAGE CANNOT BE STOPPED
by blood or word or chain:
the will of the people is always won
never given

I see the peace that will come
our ethical circles will begin to enlarge

in this cynical world of hatred exploding
I fell in love with the human soul
I am an absurdity
as trapped in God's plan as everyone else
flesh embedded in a myth of omnipotence

MAN WOULD HAVE GOD B A REFLECTION
OF THEIR PARENTS...
what we know seems right
when we know no better
Jesus tried to warm you
everyone walks through the minute gate alone
leaving behind everything you have loved
trusting in a reward too great
for our simple dreams

I am now a hunted rebel held up
in the Emporer's Walled City
protected by soldiers
who view their lives
with less awe than their loyalty

a man faith lept into
a wrestler of angels
a defiant son fated to forge new paths
through the same old forests

Know I am hated where I would
there was love
loved where I expected hatred

my face on their posters are defaced
my claims buried and dissolved
in stolen tales
that try to make me a character
in their stories
without the slightest means
of ever walking in my shoes

I wish I could be like the dali lama
a smiling face in a dom room
representing the oppressed Tibetan's
& peace & harmony
No... I am a weapon

my allies and enemies
KNOW I WILL NOT play their spy games
my resistance is refusing
to insult the intelligence of the people
by pretending I should make decisions
for everyone
like what they should and should not know
about love and war

NOT EVEN GOD
tried to create and uncritical worshiping machine

only a man would sit in a room
filled with robots programmed to worship them

I have in mind a self=prepetuating plan
simple enough to enter any mind

"I let them use you
for their own ends."

The Killers

What am I to think of a world
that treats me like this?

The thoughtless torture of the us
came home to roost
as you treated the return of christ
like a circus of the profit
of the money lenders

You turned your head away from the blood
even as your own families bled

this naive Indiana boy got it in his head
he would be welcomed

until he realized he was something more
than a man writing up a game
a revolutionary without a revolution...
something mythic and storied
something he did not believe in...
and the entire world know...

i am a machine built and trained to write
driven by a being in my psych
that needs a coat of words
in a cold as hell world
where I crawl along naked and alone

the selfish will no longer
b tolerated as de-facto kings
living loathsome lives of largess
built on our bones

NOW IS THE TIME
for our black and white blinders
to fall useless at our feet
We must claim our battle
in the ancient war
against prejudice and ignorance

the thronging masses
will
TAKE WHAT WE NEED

better now than 20 years to come
when the population doubles
and the ranks
of the unwitting agents of chaos
become unstoppable, merciless mobs
raging across the land
slashing and burning

copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

boogers in the stew

2006-08-12T19:21:00.001-05:00

Spike the caustic, half-drunk, sixty some year old retired cab driver -- who is now fat, bald, and my pot dealer, told me today, "All of your stories have boogers in them. You know what I mean ( there was no question mark in his sentence)."

I always think that I am done being irritated by Spike's cantankerousness, and then he comes out with something like this.

"Uh, Spike, I most certainly have no idea where the boogers are in my work."

"It's like, I'm reading along and the words are okay, or whatever... and then suddenly I'm staring down some Wombat's ass, or someone's being killed all bloody and ugly. Why you gotta do that?"

I will add more to this later... but it is true, there are boogers in my stories, when you put it like this...

Spike told me this after I told him that a couple people walked out on my show looking all offended by Celebrity Animals That Slept Their Way To The Top... in fact, his first response to this tale was, "Yea, sure, of course people walked out. I would of walked out. If I didn't know you. I just don't like boogers, and all of your stories have boogers in them. You know what I mean."

I am such a loser.... according to old Spike, who also said my writing was filled with 'farts,' and then went on to make extensive fart noises and such.. though, like I say in the comments section, there are no farts in my work, hardly.... I thought there were none, then I remembered the thing about Spike being my 'fart buddy.' He brought that 'fart business' up though, when he was trying to tell me that he knew me well enough to fart in front of me -- to which I responded that I do not know anyone well enough to be their 'fart buddy,' and hope that I never know anyone well enough to be a so-called 'fart buddy's.'

That old bastard!!! Criticising me for farts on my site, when he let the only farts in here... he is just he kid of guy to throw some boogers into the stew, then complain about the little chewy chunks!!!

copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

gagngsta

2006-08-11T12:44:00.000-05:00

the kindred of the lost
you discuss yourselves
slowly into madness

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

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

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

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

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

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

copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

2006-08-11T12:42:00.000-05:00

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

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

He had never heard of anyone who liked criticism.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I GOT WEED!!!!!!

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

copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

NAZI'S AND CRAZIES ON THE RED LINE

2006-08-11T12:41:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

COWS ARE NOT INTRINSICALLY EVIL???

2006-08-11T12:39:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No...

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

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

copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

POETRY FROM THE FUTURE

2006-08-11T12:38:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

SLOUCHING HEROS

2006-08-11T12:35:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

and what matter the gun that starts the race?

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

copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

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

2006-08-11T12:34:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

However....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Man, I'm really blogging now!!!

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

copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

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

2006-08-11T12:33:00.000-05:00

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

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

His almighty manhoodedness tells me to talk about god weasling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

THE HELL KILLER....

2006-08-11T12:32:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

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

2006-08-11T12:30:00.001-05:00

Gilford Tuttle, White, Male, Christian Warrior Here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway