THE MIGHTY BEAT THEM TO TWITCHES AND PISS HAMSTER ARMY IS LEAN AND RESTLESS AND SIDLINED...

THE MIGHTY BEAT THEM TO TWITCHES AND PISS HAMSTER ARMY HAS BEEN SIDELINED AND THEY ARE PISSED. Their whiskers are twitching madly in dismay. This Army should be fighting those sunni's by now, leaping out of cameflouged holes in the ground and just going all shit to the fan, scratching and tearing at their ankles, and other hamster accessible target areas. To say more would be to break my security oath. The little furry whiskered ones would have been shipping out to Iraq today, like the W. said when we talked on the phone. I can't write much about this matter, and you will see why if you read on...

This morning I get this very strange call from some educated white sounding guy. He said he was with 'the administration.' though he would not tell me his name. He said that he was following up on all th I took this to mean the republican. He was calling up the people who the W. had told classified information. Or that's what they said at first, at least.

In a stern voice that was just enough like Troy Mclurg to make me laugh, "Do you know what would happen if people knew about the presidents consumption of drinkee poos, as he calls them. You gotta love that jokester. He is the product of the fraternity system, you know? The man who will sit naked on a block of ice for eight hours, he is a true frat who can do anything. Anyways, Mr. Pain, Johnny, middle initial S., born in Garrett, Indiana in 1962... you have a cat and a dog that you are somewhat overly attatched to, eh? Pet them a bit too much. Seeking your lost sense of security perhaps?"
"Oh, no, dude, I am not going to listen to you slander my cat and dog. You can dis me, but not the bubbas. I just treat them...."
"Save it for someone who cares, okay? I got to get through this with you and call some more people. Man, I wish he would quit calling Michael Jackson. That creep with his little boys all dressed up like the characters from Peter Pan... Makes me wish I could kill the rich and powerful, but... hey, they pay the bills. Now Pain, if you violate this directive to remain silent about anything The Rockstar W. said over the phone -- and we have a tape, so we know what he prattled on about... god, it was insufferable... anyways, we will haul your ass in and charge your scrawny white self with terrorism, and send you on a lovely little trip to a cage in the hot Cuban sun. With the Patriot Act, we can leave you strapped to a cot, laying in your own excrement, going crazier and crazier, for as long as we consider you a threat, and I will make sure that is forever. Upi will forget who you fucking are... Or should I say, used to be? You will be a worthless shit after this, scared of everything and everyone, wandering the goddamn streets looking for a buzz to take the edge off the horror the horror of trying to get by living on the streets. You'll be getting your ass kicked by drunken, communist leaning teenagers...
In fact, research into the twisted, warping of the minds of serial killers (who are usually the product of extreme emotional and sexual abuse, but not always--there are those born without an ability to emphasize with the pain in the world. The only way you will find satisfaction will be to inflict harm on others, to be honest. Irony, huh? It's everywhere these days. Well, you'll find out about all that on your own, when you are in the federal house of corrections, I suppose. Unless you do as I say... and let me say, you'll be something of hero. So, what is it prison, or helping out the The US government, which is counting on you, man. Do not fuck this up. The war effort itself could be in jeopardy. We thought about killing you, by the way. Almost did. Shit, you would be dead by now. I could going down to the pound to watch them euthanize animals. Oh, well..."

"Well, look, I watch Columbo, and Starsky And Hutch, and their informants always get a few bucks. I think fifty bucks would be apropriate. I mean, there is also all the time I spent on preperations for a massive troop movements -- we were ready to go all ape shit on them Sunni's, wipe out all the terrorist in three hours. Seriouslyu, this has taken hours and billable hours of of my valuable time, here bucko?"
"The CIA is happy to compensate civilians for working with us."
"Oh, cool. I just asked because what the hell, if I got a few bucks, which I seriously need, then all the better, right?"
"In six to eight weeks, you will receive in the mail something much nicer, what is considered quite a nice little toaster. They go for over 200 dollars retail, though I think we get some kind of knock off from China for 12 bucks. You can bet little kids were losing fingers in some hell hole factory to get these toasters this cheap. Hey, all this is confidential, okay? I had some scotch and coke and I'm feeling chattered... Chattered, get it? The Rolling Stones?"
"Yea, yea, I get it... a toaster? I have a goddamned toaster."
"Keep these events secret or risk getting strapped down on a metal bed where you will lay in your own waste and be fed just enough to make you feel like you are starving every damn day... beatings, poor German Sheperds forced to attack. The suffering. . . yes, daily, unrelenting suffering until we know everything we need. We will break your mind, and your every thoughts will be like jagged pieces of glass cutting into your deepest selves."
"Wow."
"That's from my book."
"Oh." I tremble in fear at the thought of this spy boring me unto death with a sloppy description of a book that only he loves. Luckily, he is militant and cuts to the chase. "Look, Pain, no one hears about the president's feloniously alleged, though perfectly legal, use of alcohol. The way this goes, when he gets drunk, like he has at least a few times since his supposed 'VOW OF ABSTINANCE.
(THIS HAPPENS TO BE TRUE: my source is The Bush Dyslexicon -- which radicalizes readers in a seemingly productive manner).



part two below


Well, this is a little ass backwards, but I suppose I should write about my converstaion with W. The call was generated by a letter I sent to him asking him to kindly acknowledge the green house effect, so money can be funnelled into trying to stop the eventual destruction of the ecoshpere. Evidently Bush read the letter and had no idea what it said. All he read, and what he mentioned, was my salutation, the one I presently always use, 'Respect and Love.' He started going on about new weapons systems, talking about them like they were chicks. And I swear, he started breathing heavy for about two minutes, then grunted and stopped. As I talked to him, I heard him mumble quietly to himself, "Where in the hell is that jiz rag?"
We didn't just talk about weapons and shit, though he did go on about that stuff like some guys discuss pussy, I must say...
The W. introduced himself as the rockstar president w, then started rambling fast and frantic, all neal cassidy... I don't know what he was on, but he was tapping his foot and twiddling his thumbs as he said, "Some goddamn shrink thinks I call up you average citizens who love me and will shower me with praise simply to boost my ego. But hell no, that ain't it. I make these peoples day, give the whole family a tale they can tell. Now, what the fuck... am I on the radio, tv, or something?"

"No, just the phone."
"What's your goddamn name?" He demanded in an irritated voice, then in an even more crusty and loud voice said, "Oh, never the hell mind, You know, when I make these here calls, I love to just touch myself. . . you know, rub the boys and big daddy, you know..."
"Uhm, okay, dog... are you doing this right now?"
"Maybe I am, maybe I ain't.":
"I choose to believe you are not doing it."
"Nah, I am just playing one of my famouos little tricks on people, like when I called up all those people and told them their kids were dead, when they weren't.. had to hush that up, but it seemed like a good idea... no, kid, I only touch myself when I am talking to girls... I call guys during my rest period, while I wait for the dragon to rise up again, you know. Ha, I got you man. This is like that show with the people on it who trick people. And animals, I think. I like tricking my dog into thinking it is going for a walk, and then beat the hell out of it until it pisses out of fear whenever it sees you... ah, now that is a rush. Oh, well. . . all that is not true, and none of this can be proven, you hear me? Don't make me disappear your sorry white ass. I will do it!"


"Hey Johnny these are fawning women, man, and they take orders sometimes from this old commander and chief... when I am alone I pull up some hot porno action on the computer. I wipe the spurts of jiz into what has become a fairly stiff hankerchef. I keep that bastard jiz rag hid behind my desk drawer, where the maid or the Russians or anycan't take it and try to sell it to someone to clone my highly electible ass. I keep my very most favorite stuff in that drawer. The button to set off the nuclear bombs is in there.. I havemy very most favorite marbles and a religious coloring book. I can honestly say, that while I can't quite stay in the lines when I do these damn things, this colorable book told the kind of story that I honestly could understand and I damn well did grow into some nicer persony thing. I don't want to get too tecnical and throw the bone heads in the audience, like me! Why the hell aren't you ungrateful elephant fuckers laughing at my joke? Oh, well, I couldn't hear them. What the hell am I talking about? why did I call you when I was in a meeting?"
"Liquor."
"Oh, yea... They all pretend I'm not whacking frog, just continue their meetings. Hell, I have to stay for a half hour, every day. That is about the shortest work week man, and really, isn't that what it is all about in the end?"
I told him, "Look, dude, I do not feel comfortable hearing about your jiz rag..."
"What did you say?" His voice changed, became cold and steely, reminded me of cops ordering criminals around. I was talking to the w, a man who has a personal secret police foirce ready to do whatever he orders. And an entire goddamn armies to fuck with people. Nuclear bombs... suddenly I was slightly afraid for the people around me, the animals that rely on me... I am strangely ambivilent about my own death.

Hoping to put out the flames on our burning bridge, I added, "Sorry if my stupid fear of jizz rags made me say that to you, our commander and cheif. Damn devil made me do it. Get behind me satan... I gotta say, too, that your honest view on the topic of coloring books is genius, sheer genius... in fact, in your sharp and wily mind, I believe there is a warrior, poet, genius."

"Well, hell yes, my momma done told me that I was a friggin genius so many times... I believed her until college, where this old gray thingy in skull proved no match for shit like math and english and crap.... didn't need it, and some how I knew that. This is what it is like to be great. You know goddamn well what? All those damn reporters that write about me like I am some dum, psychopedillwhip, or something... They are actually saying that my Mom, who has known about my genius since before I was born, is lying. Dammit, that riles up my blood!!
Shit, this means I am going to have to put a serious hurt on those bastards. No one goes after my mummy doo. Mum is so smart. She once said Steven Hawkins was a genius, after he was on tv talking some gibberish, and later on I read he was a genius. How did she know? Shit, the dog just pissed on the goddamn bed. Right on the comforter beside me... I ain't in our bedroom, I'm in this guest room where I keep my porno and shit. I made it illegal for anyone to entire this room. It's a death penalty offense. Oh, sweet lord, that damn beagle really let loose... I'm laying here in some room with a goddamn name that I can't ever pronounce. hat the hell are we talking about?"
"Oh, we were done sir, just ready to hang up."
He immediately called back. I didn't pick up the phone. He called again and again. Then I started imagining the w sending a swat team in to grab me. So I picked up the phone.

"Are you alright little buddy? Did you have a goddamn heart attack from the sheer joy of being almost in my personal very presence. I always thought this would happen. Yea, doggie... Anyhoo, I have an ambulance on the way... No, I told them they had to use a helicopter, because they are a trip to ride in, man. A fucking trip."

An ambulance showed up, a cop, paramedics... someone passed out coffee, just before the helicopter arrived; the whirling blades sucked the hot coffee out of the cups and splashed instant fire onto the faces of the hurting people who got hit.

I'm really not supposed to write about what we talked about next, but since nobody in thier right mind would read down this far in this entry, let me just add for you twisted folk that one united states president was very excited about my idea about training hamsters to replace our human troops. He especially liked how much money the government will save by making the small hamster armies.

He told me, "You could make like about thirty seven, maybe thirty six and a half, outfits for hamsters from just one goddamn human soldiers outfit. Hot damn!!" cloths."

This and other advantages of using hamsters were discussed. I can't write anymore about this matter, because the mighty beat them to twitches and piss hamster army must keep its strategies out of enemy hands. I got nervous and jumpy -- I did not want to be strapped to a couch encased in my own excrement. I kept picturing it and could actually feel the putrid straps across my chest.

Finally, he changed the subject back to himself, and started lecturing me, not letting me say anything, just drunkenley talking over my every word. He gave graphic descriptions of various 'enemy kills in in Iraq and Afganistan, which he considered his own psychopathic kills; he kept calling the body count his 'precious,' which is way over done but still a little funny to me.

I really wanted to hang up on W. The risks were just too damn high. I sat there listening to him go on an on thinking about how he could have me killed just like that and my whole life and work could be disappeared (saw it on x files, choose to believe it for the hell of it). He went on until someone came in to clean up the doig piss on the bed. "Oh, you're here."

and then he just hung up without so much as a goodbye.

I hung up my own phone and for some reason, now I feel kind of soiled inside, like I used to feel when women slept with me only to have fun, then left with little pieces of my hear... ashamed of myself... My self-esteem was gone... Don't know why?

May you have a day that reminds you of guantamano bay so well that you will need plastic surgery to make your mangled genitilia recognizable as a sex organ.

(*about this ending.. I used to put on all my entries a blurb wishing people very nasty days. I did this mostly for kicks, I admit, but I also feel deeply for the people trapped in that prison, and the torturing of American prisoner has to be fessed up to and confronted--the majority must decide how nasty they want the carriers of their name to be. And don't fool yourself, just being anti-bush will not change how much the world hates us right now.





THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

THOUGHTS ON BUSH

Various strains of thought have been rumbling through my mind over the last few days, a lot of silent moments on the beach staring out over the lake at the horizon. My scheming and fiction plotting and thinking about issues is all done in a hidden world in the grayish sponge in my skull. My physical form painted and is very fucking happy with the results, thank you very much, walked the dog through the park and into the lake, read a long introduction to a copy WALT WHITMANS LEAVES OF GRASS; in a book that contained the way he first published the book, which grew over 200 pages as the poet added to the work he considered his 'bible (Walk basically worked on this book all his life, and became a bit deluded in the end and started feeling like he was the gods choice to bring a new gospel to America; regardless, the book is fabulous, even if this one critic who obviously knows a hell of a lot more about the topic than kind of disses it in the introduction to this edition, which has Walt on the cover, and a nice marketing ribbon attatched to mark my page; let me just end this digression by saying that reading walk Whitman aloud in the bath tub is a transcendental experience -- he was trying to evoke religiosity and nationalism and love in the reader/listener, and firmly believed that only when his work was read aloud was there magic in the air). Wow... Really digressed, there eh?

Digressing on to another topic to avoid having to confront seeing THE LORD OF THE FLIES acted out by way, way too many of the supposedly civilized poor, mostly black they thought there was a golden lining to this heavy, heavy cloud... How would I feel, left in the city to fend for myself? I would have to break in someplace and get food -- the dog and cat have to eat, and I would not hesitate to blow away some nonsharing fucking jerk with a shotgun to feed my precious ones... But, this was not the case with most of these looters. Most of them are thieves all the time, some just shyster types who don't return the money when a cashier mistakenly gives them too much, and then of course there were the otherwise good people driven half mad by the storm, and seeking some emotional solace by obtaining new BRIGHT AND SHINY THANGS!!!

There is a map that I was looking at today that charts what land the oceans will reclaim due to the greenhouse melting the arctic ice, and New Orleans is expected to be a nice place to scuba dive for relics. I may get unlazy and call my buddy, whose house I was at when we got to discussing this matter and I told him of seeing the map on the net and told him the site. J Bird pulled up a blue outline of the united states, and the text at the top explained that the red shows what will soon be under water, due to all these cars and industrial growth shit... Yea, we seem to have fucked ourselves big time here...


WELCOME TO THE POST-ORIGINAL ENVIRONMENT PHASE OF HUMANITIES MESSY JOURNEY

All I can say is a whisper to a cat
words fall to the floor
smash

embedded in vowels and consonants
sounds usually amusing to my mind
bring nothing to the party

Humans Pray And Beg And Steal and some act
with no regard to others,
fuck some guy in prison
who is screaming and bleeding
and they don't give a damn...

THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

Now they government doesn't want the beat them to piss and twitches hamster army.

They would have been shipping out to Iraq today, like the W, said when we talked on the phone. I can't write much about this matter, and you will see why if you read on...

This morning I get this very strange call from some educated white sounding guy. He said he was with 'the administration,' though he would not tell me his name. He said that he was following up on all the people W. had contacted during his binge and given away national security secrets. That's what they said, at least.
"Do you know what would happen if people knew about the presidents consumption of drinkee poos, as he calls them. you gotta love that jokester.... Anyways, if you violate this mandate, we will haul your ass in under the Patriot Act and leave you strapped to a cot, laying in your own excrement, going crazier and crazier, until you forget who you fucking are... Or should I say, used to be? Because you will be a worthless shit after this, scared of everything and everyone, wandering the goddamn streets getting your ass kicked by drunken, communist leaning teenagers... In fact, the only way you will find satisfaction will be to inflict harm on others, to be honest.. Well, you'll find out about all that on your own, when you are in the federal house of corrections, I suppose. The US government is counting on you, man, so do not fuck this up. The war effort itself could be in jeopardy. We thought about killing you, by the way. Almost did. Shit, you would be dead by now. Oh, well..."

"Is there any money involved in this?"
"You get what is quite a nice little toaster."
"A toaster," I asked. "I have a goddamned toaster."
"Do it to keep from getting strapped to a cot. It will break your mind, your thoughts will be like jagged pieces of glass cutting into your deepest selves."
"Wow."
"That's from my book."
"Oh." I tremble in fear at the thought of him lecturing me on his book. Luckily, he finally cuts to the chase... Turns out, they don't want anyone to say the W. Is still getting drunk -- or at least has numerous times since his alleged vow at 40 to get rid of his frathouse demeanor and 'act' like a man. (my source is The Bush Dyslexicon -- radicalized ones thinking in a very productive manner).

I guess I should write more about the call from the W. We didn't just talk about weapons and shit, though he did go on about that stuff like some guys discuss pussy, I must say...
First thing he did was tell m, "Some goddamn shrink thinks he calls up average citizens to boost my ego. But hell no, that ain't it. What's your goddamn name? Oh, never the hell mind, I won't keep ahold of nothing about now... You know, when I make these here calls, I sometimes touch myself. Only while talking to the girls. Ha, got you man." These are fawning women, man, and they take orders sometimes from this old commander and chief... I sin into what has become a fairly stiff hankerchef. Keep that bastard hid behind my desk drawer, where the maid can't take it and try to sell it to someone to clone my highly electible ass. I keep a lot of nice stuff in that drawer... got my very most favorite marbles and a religious coloring book. I can honestly say, that while I can't quite stay in the lines, this colorable book tells the kind of story that I honestly understand and can damn well grow from into some nice thing... Yea, some very, very nice thing. Oh, what the hell am I talking about?"

I told him, "Look, dude, I do not feel comfortable hearing about your jiz rag..." I suddenly had this cold feeling run down my spine as I realized that the psycho I was talking to had secret police and entire goddamn armies to fuck with people. So I added, "Not that that matters much. Sorry if my stupid fear of jizz rags made me say that to our commander and cheig. I gotta say, too, that your honest view on the topic of coloring books is genius, sheer genius... in fact, in your sharp and wily mind, I believe there is a warrior, poet, genius."

"Well, hell yes, my momma done told me that so many times... You know goddamn well what? All those damn reporters that write about me like I am some dum, psychopedillwhip, or something... They are actually saying that my Mom, who has known about my genius since before I was born. She could tell, she said. Everyone in my damn family is a genius, and Mom can tell. She said Steven Hawkins was a genius, and he is too... man, when I found that I out I called Mom and... Shit, the dog just pissed on the goddamn bed. I'm laying here in some room with a damn name I can't ever pronounce (sic) all right and such, and the dog pissess... Goddamn it. I was watching a little porn, then when it was break time, I called people. What the hell are we talking about?"
"Oh, we were done sir, just ready to hang up.
He immediately called back. I didn't pick up the phone, and he called again and again. Finally I picked up the phone.

"Are you alright little buddy? You had a goddamn heart attack from the sheer joy of being in my presence. I always thought this would happen. Yea, doggie... Anyhoo, I have an ambulance on the way... No, I told them they had to use a helicopter, because they are a trip to ride in, man. A fucking trip."

Then I had to tell all these damn people to go away... The helicopter sucked the coffees I was taking to them up in the air and spit the hot java into the faces of some paramedic -- who used the ambulance to get his extensive facial burns looked at.

I'm really not supposed to write about what we talked about next, but since nobody in their right mind would read down this far in this entry, let me just add for you twisted folk that one united states president was very excited about my idea about training hamsters to replace our human troops. He especially liked how much money the government will save by making the small hamster armies. He told me, "You could make like about thirty seven, maybe thirty six and a half, outfits for hamsters from just one goddamn humans cloths."

This and other advantages of using hamsters were discussed, but I shouldn't write anymore, just in case... I am suddenly nervous and jumpy -- I do not want to be strapped to a couch encased in my own excrement.


Suddenly he changed the subject back to himself, and started telling me about all the kills in Iraq, which he considered his own psychopathic kills. I really wanted to hang up on him, but you just never know... He could have me killed just like that and my whole life and work could be disappeared (saw it on x files, choose to believe it for the hell of it)He went on until someone came in to clean up the piss and then he just hung up without so much as a goodbye. I hung up my own phone and for some reason, now I feel kind of used and ashamed of myself... Don't know why?


May you have a day that reminds you of guantamano bay so well that you will need plastic surgery to make your mangled genitilia recognizable as a sex organ.


(*about this ending.. I used to put on all my entries a blurb wishing people very nasty days. I did this mostly for kicks, I admit, but I also feel deeply for the people trapped in that prison, and the torturing of American prisoner has to be fessed up to and confronted--the majority must decide how nasty they want the carriers of their name to be. And don't fool yourself, just being anti-bush will not change how much the world hates us right now.


I guess I should write more about the call from the W. We didn't just talk about weapons and shit, though he did go on about that stuff like some guys discuss pussy, I must say...
First thing he did was tell m, "Some goddamn shrink thinks he calls up average citizens to boost my ego. But hell no, that ain't it. What's your goddamn name? Oh, never the hell mind, I won't keep ahold of nothing about now... You know, when I make these here calls, I sometimes touch myself. Only while talking to the girls. Ha, got you man." These are fawning women, man, and they take orders sometimes from this old commander and chief... I sin into what has become a fairly stiff hankerchef. Keep that bastard hid behind my desk drawer, where the maid can't take it and try to sell it to someone to clone my highly electible ass. I keep a lot of nice stuff in that drawer... got my very most favorite marbles and a religious coloring book. I can honestly say, that while I can't quite stay in the lines, this colorable book tells the kind of story that I honestly understand and can damn well grow from into some nice thing... Yea, some very, very nice thing. Oh, what the hell am I talking about?"




I told him, "Look, dude, I do not feel comfortable hearing about your jiz rag..." I suddenly had this cold feeling run down my spine as I realized that the psycho I was talking to had secret police and entire goddamn armies to fuck with people. So I added, "Not that that matters much. Sorry if my stupid fear of jizz rags made me say that to our commander and cheig. I gotta say, too, that your honest view on the topic of coloring books is genius, sheer genius... in fact, in your sharp and wily mind, I believe there is a warrior, poet, genius."




"Well, hell yes, my momma done told me that so many times... You know goddamn well what? All those damn reporters that write about me like I am some dum, psychopedillwhip, or something... They are actually saying that my Mom, who has known about my genius since before I was born. She could tell, she said. Everyone in my damn family is a genius, and Mom can tell. She said Steven Hawkins was a genius, and he is too... man, when I found that I out I called Mom and... Shit, the dog just pissed on the goddamn bed. I'm laying here in some room with a damn name I can't ever pronounce (sic) all right and such, and the dog pissess... Goddamn it. I was watching a little porn, then when it was break time, I called people. What the hell are we talking about?"
"Oh, we were done sir, just ready to hang up.
He immediately called back. I didn't pick up the phone, and he called again and again. Finally I picked up the phone.




"Are you alright little buddy? You had a goddamn heart attack from the sheer joy of being in my presence. I always thought this would happen. Yea, doggie... Anyhoo, I have an ambulance on the way... No, I told them they had to use a helicopter, because they are a trip to ride in, man. A fucking trip."




Then I had to tell all these damn people to go away... The helicopter sucked the coffees I was taking to them up in the air and spit the hot java into the faces of some paramedic -- who used the ambulance to get his extensive facial burns looked at.




I'm really not supposed to write about what we talked about next, but since nobody in their right mind would read down this far in this entry, let me just add for you twisted folk that one united states president was very excited about my idea about training hamsters to replace our human troops. He especially liked how much money the government will save by making the small hamster armies. He told me, "You could make like about thirty seven, maybe thirty six and a half, outfits for hamsters from just one goddamn humans cloths."




This and other advantages of using hamsters were discussed, but I shouldn't write anymore, just in case... I am suddenly nervous and jumpy -- I do not want to be strapped to a couch encased in my own excrement.





Suddenly he changed the subject back to himself, and started telling me about all the kills in Iraq, which he considered his own psychopathic kills. I really wanted to hang up on him, but you just never know... He could have me killed just like that and my whole life and work could be disappeared (saw it on x files, choose to believe it for the hell of it)He went on until someone came in to clean up the piss and then he just hung up without so much as a goodbye. I hung up my own phone and for some reason, now I feel kind of used and ashamed of myself... Don't know why?





May you have a day that reminds you of guantamano bay so well that you will need plastic surgery to make your mangled genitilia recognizable as a sex organ.





(*about this ending.. I used to put on all my entries a blurb wishing people very nasty days. I did this mostly for kicks, I admit, but I also feel deeply for the people trapped in that prison, and the torturing of American prisoner has to be fessed up to and confronted--the majority must decide how nasty they want the carriers of their name to be. And don't fool yourself, just being anti-bush will not change how much the world hates us right now.







THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

THE WORDS MADE ME DO IT

Fucking words
words spewing from everywhere
open car windows screaming ghetto anthems

npr goes on and on and on
everyone speaking gentle and literate

homeless drunks scream at phantoms
tv's give reality shows wrapped in deceptive words

dr. phil tries to save some obese soul
with shrink words-
-ignoring the fact that people get over crises quicker
if they avoid therapy
avoid words!

Why?
Because we think we talk our way into this
or that
state of mind
and the only way to get out of the mire
is to leave it behind

we calm ourselves
excite ourselves
masterbate ourselves
drink and smoke and snort and shoot and sniff ourselves
into certain sorts of being

words prop us up
crutches under our arms as we amble through the life

words create courts of impossible standards

words are redemption and condemnation
words pretend there are angels and gods
our idle lies of convienance
create false memories



some get their clues from bible words and rock lyrics and
the advertisers trying to create us by filling us with words
words that block out new information
words that make the intellectually ignorant
question evolution

words twist the histories
cover our tracks
excite and delight and spite...

words
reduce the mysteries
into something that fits into the logic of conversation
the rules of the word world
we lay over the real world

ying and yang, ying and yang...

moving sucks balls of rancid, greasy shit.

As you may or may no know, and may or may not care, I have been embroiled in the hell spawned activity known as moving. During this firewalk, the cat has scratched me true and deep, the dog got so excited over the move that she pissed everywhere for two frightful days.... and the weed was poor, my freinds, poor.... moving without weed would be impossible, of course... but still, the stank was so bad that my dealer actually just gave me stuff, because he could not bear to ask for money (this was not the crotch breathed spike, of course, but a new guy who has taken over my supply until Spike serves his four months for beating the shit out of doctor phil). Not that I mean to complain... I did have the luxury of movers, though still someone I threw my back out so bad that I couldn't get out of bed for a couple days (my convelescence had nothing to do with my finding a big stack of old porno books in the alley, though no one who knows me at all seems to believe me).

Yes, I have traveled through dark reaches to get to this keyboard, here over looking lake shore drive, listening to the rain and feeling a nice breeze coming off the lake... and yes, I do have a lake view, though it does require kind of leaning out of the window pretty far (too far to be safe without a viewing rope, which for some strange reason M. will not let me permanently affixed to a stake in that wall). I guess I am not technically supposed to bring this up after someone fell... not that I had anything to do with it. I hardly even knew the guy.

So, back on line... and trying not to grumble too much without at least pretending there is some national issue filling me with passions, and not just the usual niggling nothingnesses of a normal lost knight.






THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

what w the drunken president really means when he spews that shit...

When the bush says there is no greenhouse effect, this translates to mean that he is not ready to make american industries conform to the pollution standards needed to deal with the greenhouse effect. In other words, the oil companies and others can continue to make insanely high profits, despite the damage they are doing to people, animals and plants (damage that the taxpayers will eventually have to pay to fix . . . or at least attempt to). W does this because, despite their machavellian cries to the contrary, an amoral elite funds him and their concerns are the first to be addressed, to hell with the rest of us... and especially the animals; the way those nasty extinction rates keep rising ever so sadly upward, one would think the w had declared war on all other species...

Politicians words should always be examined for meanings other than the obvious ones that they are trying to make you believe.

Underneath our presidents' speeches, below the double-speak and plausible denial, are messages that translate into the words of a dictator; certainly stealing elections, torturing political enemies and pows, jailing without representation, and catering to an elite at the expense of the many, all seem like signs of a dictatorship . . .

We let him speak to the world with our name. We suck. THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

To stroll into the black night of this page, you will have to scroll all the way to the bottom.

















Jacko's new album flops . . . sells only 8 ooo copies... more people fucking read me in a month.




BY THE WAY, LOOK AT HIS PICTURE... WOULD YOU LET this make up coverd forty six year old plast surgery altered freak in the same room with your young son, let alone SLEEP WITH YOUR SONs?? If so, shoot your damn self in the head. If not, wonder why the hell some of these kids parents are not in jail...

Let me just add that a Massah Jackoffyourson apologist left a message on my site, evidently claiming it is safe to leave your sons in the hands, ass and mouth of the make up covered mess pictured above. Should you wish to read the words of one of the eight thousand who bought his 'COME back' record, they are there... THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

3-5 out of a hundred soldiers are going mad...

that they know of, or are admitting...

THE ASKEWED NEWS BELOW is not of my making.. just the deconstruction at the bottom...



30% of Troops Mentally Stressed After Iraq
From Times Wire Reports





Thirty percent of U.S. troops deployed to Iraq have developed stress-related mental health problems three to four months after coming home, the Army's surgeon general said.

The problems include anxiety, depression, nightmares, anger and an inability to concentrate, Lt. Gen. Kevin Kiley and other military medical officials said.


A smaller number of troops were diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, a serious mental illness.

Only 3% to 5% were diagnosed with a significant mental health issue immediately after leaving the war theater, said Col. Elspeth Ritchie, a psychiatrist.



ALLOW ME TO ADD TO THIS MANIPULATIVE LITTLE WORD PILE BY DECONSTRUCTING OUT A BIT OF TRUTH....



ONLY!!!!! ONLY!!!!! This is another criminal example of how this word can be used to shape the information that comes afterward. Only is meant to make 3 to 5 percent of our soldiers meaningless.

THREE OUT OF ONE HUNDRED SOLDIERS GO MAD!!!!!


Why did this articles title just say, 'Mentally Stressed,' rather than get to the more sensational, and tragic news... that 3-5 are really, really, loosing it.


IMAGINE A ROLLER COASTER THAT DID THIS... EVERY 33 rd PERSON WOULD GO MAD. In the private sector, if a job drove this many people to utter despire, it would be
considered criminal.



When I was young I wanted to live in a world without war.

Now I want to live in world that has no need of war.

THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

thoughts on the book.. the bush dyslexicon

I am reading the bush dyslexicon; basically rails against Bush, with no compunction at all about repeating the more scurrilous tidbits. W is dum, there is no doubt about that. He is also smart in some ways... like a slick salesman, but mostly he is a cheerleader and a liar and a petty bigot who feels blessed by god to lead the entire known universe and no matter how we turn off the tv when his evil face pops onto the screen, protest, or even vote, this boof is now representing the fucking free world.

The prof. who wrote the book I am reading tries to distance himself from the humorists who play bush like a fool, a benign, hapless innocent, like Homer. He is certainly the Homer of presidents. This book basically says that he doesn¢t compare to the other presidents in terms of skill, memory, compassion, and all around intelligence. He is the rich boy psychopath; only his god can judge him, not petty human beings. This is the same thinking that made his father practically lead Iran contra (by his own admission, he was the most informed about the mission, though he later changed to ¡disremembering¢ the events, when time came to pay the piper... you know rich people, they seldom have to pay the piper; most of the time in life, piper¢s can be paid off with money, especially if you are a rich celebrity murderer or child fucker, of course (massah jackoffyoursons childish ways come to mind, and the for all intents and purposes almost (and only almost) noble slaughter by Robert Blake of his ¡Polaroid shots in the mail to lonely bachelors¢ kind of slut wife, who was obviously going to be a terrible influence on the kids life. I guess she was known for going up to celebrities and asking them for a signature, and when they said yes, she would say, "Can you sign that with sperm in my cunt??" Or so I am convinced not so much by evidence, so much as whimsy).


Back to the book, the bush dyslexicon. I can¢t really recommend this book as a fun read. It is not fun, not the hundredth time the president sounds like an evil maniac because of some slip of his always stumbling tongue . . . Like the writer warns ya early on, this book is a political statement in a political world, a comment on the of truth in a media where a few catch phrases can statistically raise one¢s chances of election much more so than laying out an actual policy.

Language is how we tell others what we are, how we see the world, what we feel is right and wrong. A president should be more precise and better read, though not for the childish reasons the w thinks, which is "to quote back at them bastards," but for something that he precisely does not have because of his aversion to thinking and reading at the same time -- a soul softened by the empathy that leads men to true greatness..


THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

My neighbor thinks he is from outer space....

We were sitting in his dim apartment, in the middle of the afternoon, me on his black leather couch and him on a folding lounge chair striped yellow and white. Mitch was drunk. He has dark pouches under his eyes, skinny as a rail, his face always gloomy and ethereally white under his dark black hair. His eyes are the blue of wolves and huskies, not human. They lit up as he held a lighter over a bong and pulled in a hit.




?Man, your eyes are not human. ?




?Oh, yea? I made a few mistakes when I was putting together this human.? His voice is quiet and has no modulation at all, which does make him speak in a way that is other-worldly.




?Oh, well, that makes perfect sense. Frankenfuckingstein.?




?You are the most bitter human I have met.?




?Thank you.?




? If I was visible in this room, in my at rest form, I would look like a sliver of light. You wouldn¢t notice me.?




?Glad ya grew some flesh, then, I guess.?




?You would be surprised by? There are aliens all around us all the time. You either can¢t see them, or don¢t notice them as anything out of the ordinary.?









I remembered something about scientology and thirty aliens being in all humans. ?So, you¢re a scientologist then, that type of alien. The kind who pays thousands and thousands of dollars to blank eyed fools so they can hypnotize you all good and meaningful into a little made up life all your own, shielded from all facts, and all that nasty reality,¢ ?Shit, no? I don¢t expect you to believe this. In fact, I would think less of you if you did.?




This sounded too sane to be coming from a man who had just told me he was an




alien. Figuring he was going to let me in on the joke any second, I added, ?So what¢s your mission here? To drink a lot and smoke weed, maybe get into some Nugent??




?I wish I had a mission. That would be fun.?




?So you crash landed??




?No? there is no? I¢m actually a sliver of something that would look like light to you. We don¢t use ships. No one does, except, as far as I know, you humans. I made this human after studying mammals for a few minutes and then I grew the flesh. A long time ago.?




?What, like millions of years ago??




?You expect too much from aliens.?




?Yea, aliens and women, both.?




?I¢m forty nine and three quarters old.?




?Oh.?




?You have any more questions??




?Uh . . . do you eat humans?? I started laughing, but his face just kept the odd stillness and no inflections crept into his words to reveal a deeper current of moods.




?No. I hate discussing it. The people who believe me are often? odd.?




?I¢ll bet they are. I¢d leave this fucking second if you were serious.?




?No, you know I¢m serious. You just want me to be insane. That will require less effort on your part.?




?Yeah, well you got that right. You really believe this shit??




?It¢s not a question of belief, just what is.?




?To you, maybe? the rest of us are pretty unconvinced, okay?? I stood up and stretched. ?So, you do any miracles??




?No miracles.?




?How about some magic trick? You got to offer people some proof that you are an alien. No one is just going to believe you, except, like you said, the nuts.?




?And people in cults. They are easy to convince.?




?




End
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

The w spent the hour before the weekly briefing thinking about ways to get back at what he thought of as, Them damn quoters. He hated people who used quotes more than anything else that he could just then think of that pissed him off. As soon as Cheney and the others sat down in their chairs, he opened his official writing pad, the one he had put the presidential seal all over both sides of the blue cover, and read, Here is the damned problem, you seee? Quoters. Those bastards who think it is cool and learned to memorize some damn passages. Next time I am talking to some bastard head of some bastard state, and they throw a quote out at me, I want to be able to quote right back at these bastards. Quotes? Yea, quotes, damn them. They¢re like snapping some guys ass with a towel in the shower. You got to fight sting with sting in a situation like that, and I say so with, do not forget, the full force of the frigging army, of the states of united America.










Sir, umm, not to beat a dead horse, but I have to say again, it is, The United States Of America?





What I say, dammit!





States of the united America.





Is that one of them god damn hand held phones?





Yes, sir. I can play this back to you, when you deny? well, when we discuss this.





Goddamnit, give me that? The W pointed down at the recorder, his face showing a look of disgust he usually reserved for enemies of state.





Sir, it¢s got a lot of notes on there.





Are you refusing a direct order from the commander and chief, which is an act of high treason and I have read recently, I can have any body shot, if shotting is needed.




What?





He can do it.? Cheney barked out from the largest chair in the room, He can have you dead, now. I¢ll do it. Strangle your ass. Don¢t test me, I read a few books about Vietnam.





Vietnam, huh? The W interjected. He stood up and walked over to the window, clasped his hands behind his back, and in a voice which the W considered heavy, he told the gathering, I¢m been thinking maybe I¢m, uh, yeah, you know, having flash backs to Vietnam.











The group of suited men sitting around the table all looked up from their notes and computers. W¢s words had stunned the assembly into silence. No one wanted to be the first to speak, since none of them had actually been in any wars, though all had profited heartily in some way from them in the past, and actually going to vietnam was not a topic any of them liked being discussed. Yea, it¢s hell. The W added. Pure hell.








The Cheney, as he thought of himself, finally had to speak up, Sir, I . . . didn¢t know you were in Nam? The Cheney asked him in a very wary voice, as he silently went over in his mind the plan he had to assassinate the w and take control, should the w ever get too insane to handle. He had been watching for signs of this dementia since he entered the oval office, always prepared for his chance to take control? he once wrote in one of his secret journals that he had masterbated to the thought, much to the chagrin of his ¡not often enough for her tastes¢ serviced wife.





Yea, the W told them, We¢ll just see. I think I was in Vietnam, whether I remember it or not. I was drunk a lot, probably doing other shit, like doobie smoking, toot, whatever the hell they had over there to get a good one on, you know?


















A General to the W¢s right also had a plan to get rid of the president, though only in the case of that being absolutely necessary and his wife agrees. His wife had forced him to agree to the last part, one night after he told her about the plan. He got off on taking orders from her while she vacated her bladder over his feet, and since they actually both enjoyed this experience, they felt like they were meant for each other. The general could not be happier, and wanted to hold on to that woman at all costs? and he was pretty sure the w would go crazy, and cheney and the others above him on that oh so short chain of command who get unfortunately bombed by some crazy arab kids he was keeping in a van out back of the local ROTC building, all hopped up on coke and meth and chanting death to America pig breathed infidel buts. He put his hand on the but of his gun and felt a tinge of electricity cross through his right testicle. ?

Mr. President, uh,, mean. W you were not, according to existing records, in Vietnam. However should you wish to have such paperwork delivered to your office, that can be arranged asap, Sir. Dammmit, I forgot to say sir all those times before this? so, here, let me just say, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir.





I think you missed one, hoss.





Uhmm, yes, mr. president sir. Sir.





Now, as far as my time in the jungles of that hot hell. Remember them jackets that said something like, I been to Vietnam, so hell ain¢t so bad. Something to hell like that. Get me one of those. A couple, for when I spill stuff. My time in those dear, forgivingly jungle hostels. Eatin, rats. Probably. Everything is classified about this topic, all need to know. I was doing secret fucking missions. Nobody used. Hell, I had a double that filled in for me here.





Uhm, sir, is this a joke?





Are you saying Viet-fucking-nam was a joke?





Well, no?





W. The w. I was one mother fucker over there. Hell, I may have killed some babies or something when I was drunk. Man, I could tell stories, and I will. I got me a source feeding me the true stuff, shit you guys don¢t even know. That¢s what it¢s like to be the president of only the whole free fucking world!!





Cheney put down his reading material, the latest tv guide, and asked, Who told this to you, sir?





One of them CIA guys.





Which one, sir?





They all look the same. I have told you that so many damn times, Dick.





Sir, it is possible that someone has played a trick on you.





Cheney, listen, I can rewrite history, right? Like we talked about. So, why not this too? Make them believe goddamn it, and make it a law that no one can question this story. You know, send some boys over and kick some journalistic ass, or refuse somebody to some damn dance or something, whatever you have to do.





So, you made up the CIA agent?





I have no comment on that matter at this time.





The W looked down at the hand held recorder and remembered that he was going to smash the damn thing if anyone used it to correct him again? without that evidence, he could just deny whatever they said he said, like he always did. Give me that goddamn thing?





Sir, I have a lot of notes on that recorder. Please?





I just want to look at it.







The owner of the offending recorder turned to Cheney, Dick, please?









He just wants to look at it. Cheney told him with a smile that he liked to think of as classic chaney, which he had practiced for what would amount to almost six and a half year of his life.





He said that before and, well, he made that too classified to discuss, didn¢t he?





That did not happen.

W¢s cry was soon followed by a chorus of denial from all around the table. Never happened, and, That man is breaking a law by bringing that up, and other variations of groveling words.





Give me that piece of junk.





Okay.






The W bounces the hand held recorder on his palm, watches the tiny black tape spin around inside as he talks, This damn thing has caused me enough trouble. Trouble. Trouble is sitting here too damn long. The recorder falls out his hand and onto the table as he motions toward the door, I¢m going to go someplace else now. And do some president stuff.














THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

the problem with iraq and afganistan

Everyone wants to blow up the world and go to heaven, but no one wants to get all sweaty spending the time it takes to rebuild... that is too much like work.

naming a hamster general sniggly poo does not

in any way indicate that I am a pussy fag dude (not that there is anything wrong with that, all must wearily add in this post seinfeld era to remind the silent masses that I am not a rascist/sexist or pianist). Recent sources, and these are wombat hating folk who have their priorities straight as far as what's up with those damn marsupials, have suggested that I should name the hamsters killer or cutter or shooter or tank gun or gorgeous, snooty woman or any number of horrifying things.... right off the bat. At birth. Just label them a killer.

The more astute among you will have already realized that this would miss the all too crucial religous dupping phase. First, they must love god and cage, then I will threaten that love, and make them feel like they have to live up to impossible, psychoisis inducing levels of acheivements (think the Japanese school system), or lose that love... then, I will make all the religous rules so easy that they can follow all of them. This will lull them into a renaissance, a peaceful period where their arts, such as they are (scratching lines on stuff), and their pursuit of love, will be all they need concern themselves with. This joyous period will be why they fight. I will tell them that now that they have made peace with god, some petty human was fucking with them. They figure after god, what can a human be, right? I'm almost positive they will think this.

Anyways, I will get them to fight by convincing them that they are protecting their way of life. Just like the rich people tell the kids dying now. Thing is of course, the hamsters will secretly be protecting only my way of life, while their lives will just be gone. This is how things work in capatilism, where the leaders sending kids to die, like I say, have never been to war and never think of sending their kids into the military like some damn peasent.

So you can see, for my plan to proceed along the tried and true lines, I have to first convince them to love, and then smash that love into little thorny, jagged, cutting peices.

So, this explains the names...


TROOP UPDATE.

I am now showing the hamsters zombie movies, and have convinced them that this is what happens to humans when they die.... It was so easy. I just popped in ten hours of various George Romero zombie flicks. Lately, I have been telling them that if they understand what I want them to do, they should just start humping. A good fifty percent of them are with me on most of the lectures... even higher when I soak their pellets in coffee. You should see how fast their hips move with a good caffienne buzz.

I have also been trying to teach Ruby Dog to be an ally of the Hamster Army, rather than the most probable source of all of their deaths. I tried tying her up just out of reach of the hamsters, but then one of them, Lloyd, had to run over and check out Ruby Dog. The wily siberian husker do was acting like she could care less as the little brown and white fuster moved over to within reach of her leash. I thought things were going great, in fact, until Ruby Dog suddenly lunged down on the surpised rodent, scooped the damn thing up, took a couple kill bites and swallowed.

Afterwards, I told that fleabot, "Listen, you have to learn to love hamsters, dog. I mean, why can't we alll just get along. Some black guy said that after some white cops beat him up, and it was pretty cool until he kept getting busted over and over after taking all of the money he made off of his civil suite and basically driving around drunk for a couple years, mouthing off to cops... until some more kicked his ass and threw him into prison... or something like that, about an Irish guy... I'm just unsure... and too lazy to look it up."

Ruby looked at me like, "hey, if you are not going to look it up, I am not going to trust you." I have seen that look before from her during many of my lectures on military tactics, good hygeine, and the dangers of wombats...
M., in her silly world, thinks Ruby dog is merely yawning. But, well.... Like I wrote in the last update on my progress toward world dominatrix, or Paintopia (my empire will be named in due time, and will be burned into your mind with the pain of fire), M. is being kept in the dark about these new hamsters. I am sure she would just find some reason to bitch about me spending the electric and gas bill on hamsters. We'll get all that shit for free when I take over, anyways.

you could send a couple hamsters, for dog's sake... if you don't, I will hunt you down. Don't fucking think I won't.

THE RETURN OF THE MIGHTY HAMSTER ARMY!!

They will be called, 'The Mighty Beat Them To Pisses And Twitches Hamster Army,' as soon as I can figure out how to fit that on the breast of their little green field jackets. You better be afraid of them.... I tell ya.... cause they are going to tear your little world apart.

Yes, the mighty beat them to pisses and twitches hamster army is once more on the move. All is top secret at this point, and that of course means that if M. finds out about the hamsters, all is lost... the free world, everything, will just go down the crapper. I have had no luck convincing M. of the urgency of my mission, damn nay sayer she is, so I have no choice but to lie to her, in the interest of security here at the elves attic. She won't miss those collectible toys that I had to throw out until long after the army I am raising there has taken over the world and promptly replaced her toys with even better ones... she'll see this is all for her benefit in the end, or I would not be trying to be all tricky with her about the army. I am not good at tricking her, to be honest, and am surprised I have held out the four days it has taken my new hamsters to be trained.

I am expecting that any day now I will be contacted by various intelligence agencies wishing to use the trained minds of my hamster demolition squads to start checking out tunnels and caves for the scardy-ass human soldiers. These babies will die for the cause, and the news does not do any body counts on hamsters, so there will be no reason for the american public to have decide how many of their lower middle class kids they will trade to get the job done? ((Unfortunatly for those lower middle class kids, the guys deciding how many of them will die have never been to war, and would not think of allowing their children to actually fight, like some damn peasent...)).

Not that I am anti war... in fact, war gives me a chance to finally take the american government for a change, rather than the usual situation where I bitch and moan for a lubricant that just ain't coming.... by renting out some soldiers.

Half the people in the war zone are civilians. So why not at least half the hamsters? I am sure they are using hamsters now, though I know there is a place for mine, who will prove much more cost effective, but more importantly, will include bribes and goodies for all concerned in the decision to hire my army.

I have spent the day making them watch old epsiodes of Black Sheep Squadron, to instill in them a sense of comradership. I am pretty sure it is working, because they are humping the hell out of each other. M. would probably be quick to point out that the hamsters hump each other just as hard to the news caste, and indeed the television in their storage space need hardly be on for them to break out into prolonged humps. . . but I know, dammit, that they are being shaped into a fighting force by the subliminal messages in Black Sheep Squadron.

Tommorrow, I plan on teaching them advanced weaponry, by showing them all twenty seven Rambo movies, even the one where he converts to being a deer and marries Bambi in the first inner-species gay marriage.

I fear them myselves sometimes. I mean, if I can channel all the energy they put into humping into fighting, no one in this apartment building will be safe....maybe the whole town would go up in terrorist hamster flames? I hope I can control them, for all of your sake...

Time to go back down and change the posters in the storage bin. I put up cute hamster pictures that I find on the net, and shots of people being blown up with bombs and shooting guns and using all sorts of kill kill weapons (including a light saber, which will help them later on, when I start the religious lectures that will change them from an unruly fighting force of crazy but dedicated individuals who would by god die for their right to party, into a bunch of drones who follow my every command, even unto... death; I am using The Force from star wars as their primary god, because it'll be funny, but also, of course, so that everyone else will know it is a joke religion, and thus I won't have to worry about starting another damn religion... I hate when that happens).

I plan on hiring someone to start doing genetic experiments on these hamsters, as soon as I figure out how to save money and smoke weed. . . We will of courses put together a super hamster, that will be effective against maybe even smaller cats? That could take months, I suppose. In a year, I think, we can get one that is half as big as a human, with claws bigger than our heads. I'll of course have to do a search on this genetic engineering stuff at least once before declaring myself an authority... just fucking kidding. .. I ain't doing no geek searches.

General Sniggly Poo the Ninth is now in charge of the army. Like the others, I imagine he will eventually want his name changed to something that strikes fear in the hearts of all mammals (with the exception of certain breeds dogs, for some reason). I am thinking General Bloody Eviscerator Sniggly Poo, but the decision is of course his... They are just so cute when they are tiny that I can't help giving them these baby names. Damn my feminine side!!!

Well, I imagine you are pretty scared right now, huh? I am sorry to have once again made you readers piss yourself in terror. I am done, so go clean up, for dog's sake you stink!!!










THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

THE RETALIATOR

He stays in bed late, recovering from a sleepless night; the darkness was filled with mental disruptions, images that made him panicky, hyper.

He moves through his apartment feeling his back aching and a need for coffee and nicotine. He goes into the living room and picks up a red pouch and papers, rolls some tops cherry tobbacco into a smoke, goes out into kitchen and pours himself the last of the coffee from the day before, slops in milk and heads back into the living room. The dog is sleepily laying in front of the tv, the gray cat in the carpeted round perch on top of his scratching post, hovering at about the same level as the tv.

He picks up the remote and begins flipping across the channels. The huge screen fills with a double decker bus exploding into scrapnel and body parts; a black smoke envelopes the scene as people run about half crazed. Ambulances come next, then learned looking men and dressed up newscasters discussing the irony of a terrorist attack in London on the day after they got the Olympics, forcing them to go from celebrating a sign of the solidarity of civility in in all governments, to mourning their dead and drawing lines in the sand...

There is a subway and people running and screaming and smoke and stories of breaking out windows with their bare hands to get oxygen into the cars.

He takes the black book bag out of the closet, looks inside at the wires and the timer... He has practiced the walk to the Mosque for weeks, preparing for the strike back. The bombing in London seems to him the perfect timing for a blow at the muslim fundamentalists. It's almost a relief to be leaving the fucked up world.

+NEXT MONTH will be the time to start getting the new show together.

The Elves Attic Live, the series of literary readings that I was hosting at the Big Star Cafe, are sorely missed. I liked the people who showed up a lot, and the rush of being on stage getting laughs is pretty kicking. THe motivation to write comedy every week was good to experience, gave me a lot of laughs and forced me to expand my literary horizons a bit more.

Now, it is time to start again. Well, it will be as soon as we have finished this move, or at least have the work entailed done. I need to find a place first. You would think this would be harder than it is until you get into the game. Anyplace that does not have a show, wouldn't mind having one on their slow nights. They get free customers and a show. We don't ever want to charge for these shows. Period. I am not doing them for money.

I have a much better stable of writers and listeners at my behest than before this last reading, obvously. They will come if I ask, some to them all. And since the venue and a lot of people will be new, I can take out all the material I wrote last year, and organize it and read it again. I keep meaning to put together all the hamster jokes, essays, poems, etc... into a blog that can be more easily perused than this one. I need a website, but that involves more techie knowledge than I have at the moment... I will keep learning in this regard until the day I die, though, so...

Tonight we are going to another play, this one basically set around singing french songs from the twenties. As always, we were promised 'comp' tickets, and then for some reason ended up paying anyways. This happens all the time to me. I feel like we are being taken, even if we do get some kind of discount. And of course they are never plays that are at the top of my see list, merely the productions of people I vaguely know. Any play is worth seeing to me, in a way... I mean, this is why I live in a city... for the culture.

blogger kidnaps, rapes and kills....

and no, it wasn't me... believe me, if I did a crime you would not hear about it on this blog, but I am no criminal. I simply feel what other people are feeling way too much to want them to feel horror or pain or anything bad if possible.

This is the difference between me and killers, of course. They lack the ability to relate to the pain they are causing in a normal manner. Instead, the pain of others registers in their mind as sexual stimulation.

I was watching the latest news last night of a psycho killer, with my usual interest... which is the interest of someone who really wants to know the enemies face. This beahvioral template is available to all humans, depending on the usual suspects -- environmental hells and chemical/physical anomalies; so there is going to always be these fucking freaks who should have been killed the first time they proved that they don't give a shit what other people are feeling... And so the monsters will go on being created; at least without total genetic engineering, which will start the day enough people can afford the procedure and thus make it profitable to capatilists, you can fucking bet.....

The idea of living without emotions sounds like a good way to be, in ways... to be unaffected by the horror, the horror... at times, during war and crime, people have to rise above.... the problem is one of lifes zillion fucking dark ironies, you cannot selectively cut off your emoitional life; it is all or nothing, and even then hardly complete. Anger and frustration simply refuse to leave, but happiness, love and other feelings that warm the heart disappear... cold hearted bastards need to be shot before they do another crime; prisoners do not deserve to be housed with killer rapists like this.

If they have proven, as they seemingly have, that pedophiles can be identified young and still fail to be rehabilitated, then why not shoot them? Anyone who has no compunction about rape and death is a dangerous defect (and no, I do not consider any other way of being born a human a defect, more an obstacle, and even the worst of them are not serious enough for this). In a prison population, an individual who causes great risks to others is marked for death. Same with China, and other countries where the government is run first and foremost for the masses, rather than a few business concerns and a lawyer class.

This freakiller I am writing about, very rambly on this buzzy saturday afternoon as I drink coffee, smoke peach flavored tobacco and green stickies, is too gross to be mentioned, let alone his website. I watched a news program on this bastard, and the quotes from his blog I read were enough to give me a heart ach. He as much as says he is a criminal, and a pedophile at that... and no one turned him in. He could have been stopped before he killed two adults and three children and kept a young girl as his sex slave. He was another one of those guys who the system has known well since he was sixteen and bound and raped a 14 year old boy.

I wonder if anyone read his blog? One would think a few people would have stumbled in, but who knows??? I register my blogs all over so people can find them. Maybe he didn't? Anyways, if I had come across his blog talking about pedophilia and getting away with crimes, I would have done all that is possible to protect the innocent from violence and rape. Like any adult would. Yet seemingly no one reported this sicko. I SURE AS HELL HOPE THEY DO NEXT TIME...

THAT IS UP TO YOU!!!!!!

continuing my novel notes.

aldmo... made a rap album, that a producer from germany erased all the profanity off of and put in horns, and then sold copies at a christian music festival. This then took off, and Aldmo, who was just out of the Marines and wanting to do anything other than go straight -- he had conformed and did his duty and wanted to his own thing now, thank you very much. He had no money though, certainly not enough for weed and studio time. So, he went along with the german producer, and soon was a big hit on the christiam radio network in Germany. The record shot to number one on the first day out, and the next day the scandel broke. Sales for the second day were non-existent, as Christians across Germany pulled the vile cursing rap album fro their stores.

On the first night of his German toour, a good three weeks before he would be shown to be a fraud, a group of pentecostal kids, all seventeen and total virgins filled with pentup horniness because they were all so well brain washed into their weird little sect that they kept their genitals to themselves -- and indeed, touched them only while sleeping to the boys, and riding horses, in the case of two blonde twins, who could simply not helpthemselves after hours of gentle and rough clitorial rubbing from the soft yet still firm saddle horn. Aldmo was smoking as much weed as possible on the tour, and trying very hard not to talk. He was used to cussing all the time. Bitch, ho, nigger, cunt, fag.... he never knew when he was going to say a few choice words, and actually feared, with a paranoia that the pot he was always smoking made worse, that he would curse sometime in front of the microphone and the entire crowd of clean cut white Christians would just go apeshit and attack the stage and just tear him into little handfulls of red gunk...

The kids who would soon enough make up the 'Church Of Aldmo God Of Diamonds and Gold and Mercedes Esquire,' were in his dressing room before the show. None of them had smelled weed before, and keep mentioning that his american cigarette smelled different than theirs. He responded, "Yes, god knows I will stop this vile habit, but for now, the devils just got me a little bit."

"What do you mean, the devils got you a little bit?"
"I mean... well, like when you be thinking about some bi... baby doll girl, whatever... or you ladies start thinking about some beefy guy who makes your little rugs damp... Yea, then the devils just getting you a little bit. God don't mind so much, as long as you don't start listening to that little devil and following his advice. Not even god could get rid of the devil, so what the hell we doing thinking we can?"

"What's this mean, 'little rugs damp?"

"Oh, yea... In american, we say that women are like rugs... and uhm, they should be clean... and you know what I mean by clean?"

"Oh, yes... Do you have your own church?" A young girl with eyes as blue and clear as a wolves asked.

"No, oh no..." He replied,

That was all that was said before the concert, as Aldmo was cut off by his producer, and dragged rather reluctantly out onto the stage. The show was his worst ever. Wiuthout his curses, he kept forgoting the words... finally, he just started saying the word over and over in every song, for an entire half hour. The crowds frenzy seemed to grow with every jesus, until finally the christians were going all crazy in front of the stage and Aldmo had a vision... the crowds seemed to part for a second and become a perfect dollar sign. He started noticing the t shirts being sold and the pop and all the people who had bought fifty dollar tickets to see a bunch of unknown christian singers. The german kids who won the contest were entranced even more than the other kids... the mistake their contact high from aldmo's weed as a religion. In the states, Aldmo then has to convince his cult that the pot smell is special incense, like Christ burned... Christs burning of incense is in fact a tenant in the scriptures of the first unitied bible bible vhurch of of admo cornelius muhammed Esq.

Aldmo just goes by the name al with most people, but the cult always calls him by his full name. EVEN during severe crises, which drives aldmo and others around batty at least once in the book.


Aldmo at first tries to get rid of his groupies, but they keep following him. He then finds out they have been excummunicated for hearing his music. They have no where to go... since aldmo is more or less a responsible guy, and his years in the marines have him thinking he is something of an action hero (he broke up a gang fight once and had built the scene into mental basis for tales of his dangerous physical prowess,.

Okay, this is aldmo.... or at least his back story. This is the story that brings him to the action; all shit that happened before the book. The story could be told by artmo, to johnny pain, who is writing a story about him, which he pretends will be a tract that the church can use, though it is really an expose.

The story... scenes needed to move along the dog fighting scenes, and the themes to be explored: how our society treats the innocent, and a new morality that transcends all religious views. I guess this would have to be science. None of them should deny science, except the crystal guy... who will of course use any science to back up his own theories.

What brings them together is self welfare, pure and simple. They do not necessarily like each other, and are at odds in ways that are too deep for them to change at this point in their lives.

scenes: 1) johnny pain talking to a missionary. johnny pain talking to aldmo. Johnny pain beating up gang banger. Aldmo going around to the different people in the building and asking of their help. He also turns his cult into an armed force, and starts preaching to them that they are going to go through their trials, but not against the state, like all the crazy cults he is always comparing to theirs, but against a gang of satan inspired dog fighters.

attacking the dog fight. okay this is five basic scenes.

the conflict starts with the dog fight, and that should kick off the book, too. After this scene, the others can come to his aide, just enough to stop other gang bangers from jumping on Johnny. The gang bangers leave screaming they will be back. Aldmo has come to his aide, because he has wanted to meet the writer for some time. Yet, everyone he asked ot introduce him had made excuses, because they were sure the atheistic Pain, who sounded like a reactionary hard ass half the time and claimed to hate all religions equally, would rip into aldmo.

Aldmo then goes to his cult and stirs them up. One of them is dispatched to buy a gun...

Wait, I am trying to think of this in a such a straight way, like one war, but the plot is not for a basically realistic book, but one that is fantastic, and should well be plotted in a way that takes this into account.

How about one of aldmos people doing miracles? I can also make this universe they act in different than here. There can be monsters, aleins... but the enemy of the actual themes has to be real and ever present, if there indeed is one...

LONDON'S BURNING...

He stays in bed late, recovering from a sleepless night; the darkness was filled with mental disruptions, images that made him panicky, hyper.

He moves through his apartment feeling his back aching and a need for coffee and nicotine. He goes into the living room and picks up a red pouch and papers, rolls some tops cherry tobbacco into a smoke, goes out into kitchen and pours himself the last of the coffee from the day before, slops in milk and heads back into the living room. The dog is sleepily laying in front of the tv, the gray cat in the carpeted round perch on top of his scratching post, hovering at about the same level as the tv.


He picks up the remote and begins flipping across the channels. The huge screen fills with a double decker bus exploding into scrapnel and body parts; a black smoke envelopes the scene as people run about half crazed. Ambulances come next, then learned looking men and dressed up newscasters discussing the irony of a terrorist attack in London on the day after they got the Olympics. One of the experts points out the Irony of London going from celebrating the Olympics, a sign of the solidarity of civility in countries despite how their governments acted at home, and then the waking the next morning to bombs going off and the mass transit shut down.




There is a subway and people running and screaming and smoke and stories of breaking out windows with their bare hands to get oxygen into the cars.



He takes the black book bag out of the closet, looks inside at the wires and the timer... He has practiced the walk to the Mosque for weeks, preparing for the strike back. The bombing in London seems to him the perfect timing for a blow at the muslim fundamentalists. It's almost a relief to be leaving the fucked up world.

The metaphors are now clear, so here are some notes on plot...

THIS IS ONE OF THOSE ENTRIES that is not meant to necessarily entertain you, or even make you think or get pissed or any of the number of reactions I would like to get from people who read my words. No, this one is a worker entry, meant to find ways to continue the plot I am developing for the next novel. I am not going to be happy with anything that is stripped down and simple; i suspect that few novels that can be adequatly described in a paragraph or two are worth reading. I want a series of complicated sub plots, a caste of characters that goes from the achingly normal to the absurd (including a man who may or may not be from outer space, depending on what seems best when I start writing everything down in the pliant stone that will be the plot outline ... after which I can finally start doing what I do best, which is plain old writing.

I described some of the other characters in an earlier entry, but I need them all in one file for now, so I am going to repeat myself for a few lines...
The hamsters are going to become the troops at war.

M. is going to be the voice of reason that is hopefully, underneath all the partisan talk and heated debate, whispering in our ears.

Spike is going to become the unthinking flag waver, who just goes along with Bush.

Rick is going to be the religous guy, into crystals as the portals into different dimensions when he believes that he experiences god, who barely cares about the planet at all. He does all the little recycling things, but he doesn't botherr with the depressing aspects of the environmental crises because he expects to get his rewards on 'another dimension.' He lives across from Johnny Pain, and they share the same balcony, and certain likes and dislikes in movies and what not, that leads to an unlikely freindship (which is the basis of a hell of a lot of comedy).


The Alein, who is named Robert Mitchum, a name he took from his favorite actor in films, which he is addicted to. He does not like to go out in public, because he believes that his ultimate job is going to end up being destroying humans, so that balance can be restored to the ecoshpere... he is desperatly searching for ways to avoid this happening, but his experiences have convinced him to expect the worst.

Johnny Pain is the protaganist. He is not as crazy as he appears in here sometimes.. the hamster army is going to be something he writes about, out of his frustration at being one lonely and probably worthless voice in the clamouring crowds trying to effect the national consciousness.

This NATIONAL CONSCIOUSNESS is going to be a key to all the characters in some ways, because they will either represent people who are now effecting society or wish they were.

AMO: is a black guy, failed hip hop singer, who has started an illegal baptist fundamentalist church in the basement. He keeps a podium on rollers in his storage bin, and pulls that out and sets up a colorful assortment of folding chairs and lawn chairs that he has scavanged from the alleys on his daily search for tin cans. His congregation will basically be clean cut republican white kids, who find being preached to by a black minister proof that they are compasionate conservatists, not the robotic leeches that they truly are.

THE PLOT: The various people should come together or not on a larger issue. This issue has to be one that requires quasi legal actions -- shooting up a dog fight, torturing a gang banger and slicing his throat. This will all take place after the gang has basically declared war on the apartment building. They do this after Johnny Pain beats the shit out of a kid who tries to steal his dog to fight it.

The other neighbors decide to come in on his side, despite their differences, because protecting the innocent and needy is something we all agree on.

The guy who is or is not an alein may either save their asses in the end, or think he can and become a worthless victim when his mania is exposed.

A book within a book may be used.... In this case, the hamster wars could be written about, and in them can be a mirror of the events happening in the apartment building. This would have to be mucho subtle, or just balls out the events.


THE NARRATION: An omniscent narrator makes more sense, if I am going to have all these bizare subplots going on. I would like to be able to see the world and say the world from the perspective of my characters in a way that is intimate and telling, which would be much harder if the tale was told only from the events that Johnny Pain knows about...

This would mean starting with Johnny Pain and the dog, then moving on to the others and getting their reactions or non reactions. I could title the various chapters in ways that show who is thinking. This could be as simple as 'APT. Q' to designate the shift of perspective.

I want my omniscent narrator to be a character as well, of course. He will basically be the me that I am sometimes, and wish I was more... the moral voice screaming from the back of my mind that the dog needs walked and the bills need paid and the woman needs more time and the fucking earth needs saved.....

The plot needs a lot more thought. I have subplots for all of these folks written down somewhere, but since I always remember the latest stuff about my book, I am just going to begin anew, in a way.... writing the same thing in a different way can really add to the end product, as DH Lawrences incredible novels show--he wrote them from the perspective of various characters, then finalized drafts that threw most of this work out.

THE CHARACTERS AND THEIR SUBPLOTS: THE eight characters need at least one subplot, and then ways that they connect to the over arching plot. They all need a few days worth of writing to fill in their back stories and really get to know their mentality; to in fact create a mental room in my mind where I can go in and be them...


At present the people in an apartment building band together to fight off a dog fighting gang, after the cops tell them that since it is just a misdameanor, they don't even bother going after the gangs for dog fighting, just murders and drugs and rapes..



the characters:

SPIKE:


JOHNNY PAIN:


MARIANNE:

THE ALEIN:

AMO;


AMO'S CONGREGATION:


RICK:

I have run out of time for writing... M. will soon be home, and our task of moving will have to coninue... not to mention the dog is pissed off at me because I haven't taken her out yet... this entry will be continued... maybe.

SOME DISSOLVE AWAY

I made a student movie at Columbia College, based on my story She, black and white, twistedly funny, with a few soul-trembles.

I wrote and directed, though the guy who did most of the camera work added a great deal of his own 'Taxi Driver' kind of style. We had two great women involved in the shoot, one an actress, and the other a junkie film maker, who played the junkie in the movie.

The heroin addict was a petite russian jew with dark hair and innocent brown eyes; I came on to her during the period when she was new in school and off the drugs, and she was obviously into the idea, asking me to spend the night and what not... but we never had sex, and the rejection involved caused me to just move on. I wondered about this no sex policy of hers even more when I found out she had taken up with a junkie who called himself an artist -- much to the dismay of everyone in my life, who reacted to my buying a 60 dollar drawing from him like I was an idiot... all through this, I didn't know anything about her past junkie life and she never once said the word AIDS.

The last time I saw her, she was covered in horrible brown sores, weighed maybe seventy five pounds of jagged jutting bones. That is when she told me that she had always wanted to have sex with me, but she was afraid that she would give me aids. Her fears led her to fall under the spell of the first decent enough guy she meant who had the disease.

As far as that film went, unfortunatly, when we showed the thing in the last class, which was where it would be decided if our film could go into the larger show Columbia hosts, which is scouted by smart directors and producers, our film broke and the prof. was so mad that we never did show anyone... this is my fault, since I was the director. I kind of let this other guy, a soon to be cineamatographer/editor, do all the actual cutting and pasting of film. Mostly because I was starting a relationship with the actress and was too busy with her and my other girlfriend...


The kicker is... Reuben, who's last name eludes me or I would still be trying to find him (he lived on the far south side), took off with the film and never did give me a copy. I only saw the rushes, never the finished product all together at once...

IN THE SURE THAT WILL HAPPEN FILE, ...


Should you find this film, I will make giving me a copy worth your while... you know, pay you three hundred bucks, trade a small painting, blow you (girls only, now... and subject to M.'s approval), or whatever.... would sure be nice to see that cool little woman who played the junkie again, even if on a silly student film.

LET THE METAPHORS COMMENCE....

Metaphors are tricky little slippery slivers of soap, falling out of your hand in a prison shower.... you put them in your writing and poetry in the hope that a few folks will go, "Now, that did he mean by that black crow?" A few other folks, like me, will think, "Hmmm... I know this metaphor of black is supposed to be depression, but this writer doesn't seem to use metaphors, and if she does they are her subjective interpretations of reality. A crow in Poe does not mean the same as a crow in Don Juan's novels based on native american spirituality (which fools and youngsters think is true to life stuff).

So what does Johnny Pain think of metaphors? He tries to be funny or understood much too much to worry about a lot of metaphors. This is why hamsters in here have been a little nebulous in their meaning. Mostly, the furry little hussies and hosses have represented americans who will not be lead by a liberal, though somewhat Nazi, Johnny Pain. I am now going to take the blog a little darker. Like my early poetry and short stories.

My fiction, should you ever care to read it, is at the bottom of this blog. There are the stories and excerpts from my unpublished novel; a disturbed darkness runs through, like a a polluted black creek bubbling with some mystery chemicals. Angels and She and Iron are good examples.

So, since I have not always been playing by the rules of fiction in here, let alone keeping track of my metaphors, seeems only fair to you folk that now that I am going to write a longer narrative in here that will involved an on going use of metaphors, I want to give you all due warning.

The hamsters are going to become the troops at war.

M. is going to be the voice of reason that is hopefully, underneath all the partisan talk and heated debate, whispering in our ears.

Spike is going to become the unthinking flag waver, who just goes along with Bush.

Rick is going to be the religous guy, into crystals as the portals into different dimensions when he believes that he experiences god, who barely cares about the planet at all. He does all the little recycling things, but he doesn't botherr with the depressing aspects of the environmental crises because he expects to get his rewards on 'another dimension.' He lives across from Johnny Pain, and they share the same balcony, and certain likes and dislikes in movies and what not, that leads to an unlikely freindship (which is the basis of a hell of a lot of comedy).


I think adding this entry will make the story line accessible to readers in a way that is seldom offered in new fiction. With older, more established works, the prolouge is often a great source of what is going to happen metaphorically, and what some of the themes are about. I prefer to have as much information in my head as possible about what to look for in literature. I discovered as much about myself when I was reading Shakespeare (and let's face it, you don't get a lot of surprise endings in the better literature).

So, let me know what you think, if you are one of those hand full of people who leave messages in here.

ADVERTISEMENTS CAUSE GREAT ANXIETY!

This goes on at a subconscious level, no matter how you scoff at the claim that the new and improved hand products are the best in the world and all that other hyperbole....

According to Milton Glaser, who was on PBS this morning and is one of the most astute minds possible, watching those millions of advertisements on TV makes a creation of jittery electric currents run back and forth madly through your mind screaming, "I WANT THAT NEW THINGAMAJIG!!!!!"


Even as we scoff at ads and know they lie, this process takes place on a subconscious level. The lucky charms elf sticks his little dick right into your gray brain and spews out a clouds of anxiety that waft through your chest, smash into your heart and set it pounding.

Research shows the ads on TV can cause anxiety in people, because they see millions of bright and shiny beads and thingies that they do not have. Simple enough: we primates want to touch shiny things and look at them -- we are curious apes. When we can't do this, anxiety creeps in from our primordial mind...

Ads work so well all around us are people dedicating their lives to buying new and improved gadgets and whimsy's.

You should know that below your radar, the ads are telling you something that you believe heart and soul, though you don't know why? No matter how much you scoff/ how much you scoff/how much you scoff (advertisements just repeat their main points until your subconscious understands) at the claim that the new and improved products are the best in the world and all that other hyperbole, you are absorbing them into yourself. You are more than likely an anxiety driven lifestyle based on living out an advertisement which lies and lies...The entire culture is like this now, to some extent.


Why we allow something to cause anxiety in the entire population is a much more complex story...


Very bad things are happening to our culture because of our constant exposure to advertisements. One is that since we are trained to accept being lied to, we expect lies, and thus accept lying politicians.

Think now of the zillions of advertisements you have read; we see them from childhood to grave in this criminally consuming culture. They have effected us, just like anything in a humans environment will. We expect politicians to lie, and when they get caught, it is no big deal..

Politicians flip-flop on issues all the time; a lot of them check to see what the people in their districts want and just go with whatever will get them re-reelected, promising whatever the hell, since no one really expects them to do anything they say on the campaign trail.

Four or Five presidents have been elected because of promises of a national health care system. Some of them went on to be very popular presidents, like Clinton (who as a student of politics, was surely aware that this issue would get him elected, because he was literally saying that he would give people free health care, and not too many people are against that). When the politicians flip flop on an issue for whatever reason, we merely accept that they often lie while trying to get elected. He went on and got reelected, despite the blow job, cigar, lying his ass off... Because, he's a politician, and that is part of the job. Same with salesmen; I was in sales, and know all the seemingly harmless lies they tell... 'just happened to be in the neighborhood,' or whatever...

Everyone accepts these things in our society. A lot of people accept Bush stealing the election in 2004 (or at least trying his damnedest, through his brother's political organization, to do so). Why was there no marching in the streets, like there is in a lot countries when something like this happens?

We like to think it is because we are civilized, but no...

It is because we expect our politicians to be sleazy, and advertisements have made us accept the fact that we live in an environment where we hear a lot of lies. An election in a consumer culture is all about what will be get one elected and be easily believed, not what the truth is... No, not what the truth is at all..

The kicker is that even though we know the ads and politicians lie, we merely accept this. We have become a passive electorate that the politicians can count on to be manipulated into supporting them by using lying images. Like evoking God and JFK and Lincoln and other icons that they try to associate themselves with even when it is a total lie, purely because underneath your radar, this works great on people raised watching advertisements.

And this has happens subliminally, below the surface of your pea of consciousness; the proof of this is that despite your head knowing the images are lies and how much you 'scoff' at the claims of the salesmen hawking knives on late night television, the advertisement does it's job anyways. You like the looks of those knives, and become anxious because you can't get them, and relieved and happy if you do. This is why those infomercials are so successful.


ADVERTISEMENTS CAUSE ANXIETY:


Research shows that ads like on TV can cause anxiety in people because they want all these bright and shiny things that they can't have.


REMEMBER: No matter how you scoff/how much you scoff at the claim that the new and improved products are the best in the world and LOTS OF OTHER HYPERBOLE, this conditioning of your brain goes on -- in that part of your brain that is not a part of you that you think of as you.

SHAME ON US ALL!!!!!!!!