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

killin' whores and lace slip covers for toasters

.

Some girl wrote to me and said reading my blog was like smelling someone elses farts.


No, I made that up... but it's true, in, like, other dimensions...


If everyone who came here gave me a fucking dime? I would have, like, enough money to buy a flat screen and a whore, or two (well, at least the whores could happen, should M. reverse her no prostitutes policy, which I think she will, because I will not let this go and sooner or later she will give in to me, or I will have to pretend like she did and then she forgot that she did and just go ahead and grab me some diseased quimly... wait, I hate fucking whores--they are criminal addicts, desperate people who wish they were somewhere else while you fuck -- how pathetic . . . and sadly enough, attractive after a dozen beers... luckily, when they offered me sex for a ride in my taxi, which probably happened maybe fifty times over the years, I always turned them down. . . . except once, because the woman was so insistent that she grabbed my cock and put it in her mouth before I could do anything to stop her, practically... she then proceeded to give me the worst head of my life... it was so bad . . . I will spare you the gross details... I pulled her off (a almost unheard of act by the male species, so you can imagine how bad her dry, dry mouth felt on Chuckles tender head). This embarrasses me to write, but if I don't have honesty, I am nothing but a facade on these pages... and I really hope to transcend that empty, flesh puppet using the carefully worded script described in your job description kind of being... you know? Hope you know. There is nothing worse than becoming just what society wants people to be, because the fucks in charge of a lot of the human genres of fashionable and edible and religous correct folk are often Psycho Killers -- driven sociopathic by the horrors they have to confront that become monsters eating thier brains until they can only feel self esteem and contempt.


I actually had a buddy who was addicted to whores; used to spend all his money on them. I got him to move away from his whore infested neighborhood and move in with me, when I lived in Roscoe Village, which was a mellow, graceful, and wonderfully livable neighborhood until quite recently when the young condo owners came in with their three cars and empty streets became full and starbucks appeared like magic and soon enough, the area that used to house Riverside Amusement park and was the home of tough carnies, was swallowed back into the generic sameness of the fashion magazine infected).



I have met a lot of prostutues. Cab driving just led me into the most interesting fucking situations; prostitutes proved to be the worst people I met; criminal to the point that they are always looking for a way to rip you off. I was not kidding when I wrote about that one who tried to kill me with a butcher knife--which tends to affect ones perceptions... Of course, to be fair, let me just mention that another woman comes to mind, one of those women who looks like an angel and fucking her is like having the finest champagne on the planet... not that one needs that... but she sure made hundreds of thousands of dollars as a high class hooker. She used to date an artist buddy. The whore saved up her money and went off to college... She was nice, though her ability to emphathize with other people is probably stunted all to hell...

Wait a minute, how the hell did I end up talking about whores again? This always happens... shit... I... I didn't write anything about killing whores did I ?? Did I mention naming the maggots swirling through the flesh holes in their faces and squeezing out around their eyes, pouring out her nose like living snot??? shit, did I put something in here about covering their dead faces with lace slip covers for toasters and drawing a little smily face on them so the fun can continue as long as I can stand the smell of rotting corpse (Note to self: you've downed some bongsiddy-bang today, so you have to be careful here... don't forget to take this evidence out before you publish... another Note To Self: wash the blood off your hands, it is getting the keys all sticky. . . and the cat... FOR DOGS SAKE, REMEMBER TO COME BACK AND ERASE ALL THIS STUFF!!!!... change that title about killing whores too)!!!!




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 Death Of Bob The Wino Knight

In one dimension, a hoboish drunk, late fifties and over-weight, sits stinky and silent on a bench in Loyola Park. No one knows that he is secretly watching everyone there, on the look out for any sort of trouble. That was his job now. He had lost everything except his need to drink... and of late, the cheap wine had started to make his brain resemble smooth vanilla pudding with chocolate chips and coconuts -- a disease that was going to help kill him in twelve days, when the first icey Northeasterner roars acrss the lake and freezes to death any wino who has the bad luck of passing out on a street corner all exposed to the evilish elements of the cold, cold wind chilled air that freezes their flesh and slows their heart down more and more, until they end up in a paupers grave . .. but that night, he was just drunk enough to feel like he could take on the world!!

He turned real quick, alerted by a movement in the corner of his eye, and saw a young women with a Depaul University shirt walking a yapping small white dog... The dog started sniffing a tree and preparing to let loose some used up foods and liquids... He watched the woman closely. He had a feeling she was just going to leave the shit and he was pissed. Really pissed. Too pissed to calm down even after the women suddenly pulled a box of blue, scented bags out of her pocket and knelt down and picked up the steaming pile of poo. He glared at her as she passed and was pleased when she quickened her step. 'Have to keep an eye out for that one,' he thought, though he knew he would forget because he forgot everything at somepoint in the day, when the wine made his speach a moan that drove away anyone he tried to bum a smoke from or tell about some squirrel that he saw that day.

There had been no crime that day... Once a cop had told him this was the safest park in the city.

Only he, Bob The Drunk, knew that he was a knight, and entirely responsible for keeping people in line. The Kids he watched especially. And of course those damn dog walkers. If they tried to get away without cleaning up, he yelled at them, made a scene... usally they ran from him and he would just have to accept that he couldn't pass out in that spot until the stuff was dry enough.. He knew that they would think twice about leaving shit in his park after his rebuke, at least. He was also worried about trolls, though he had yet to see anything more than a few of their ghosts.

And indeed, there was no crime that night; or the next, or the next... until finally, Bob laid down the doorway of a closed dry cleaner and felt the wine pull him down into blessed black. Six hours and fourteen minutes and ten seconds later, he froze to death.

Bob was quite surprised to find himself reincarnated and already an eight year old girl . . . which is why she started drinking so young and became a lesbian and changed her name back to Bob. True story.







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

dead people in my head

DEAD PEOPLE linger forever
lives are too short to forget
nothing has closure until your eyes
are sewn shut by a mortician

I want to be able to feel them
without this wall of pain between us

the horror of knowing they are just plain gone
shocking moments of realization come over and over
out of nowhere and everywhere

I need some ritualistic way to go beyond this emotional murk
a long, long arm to reach through the pain
burst out on the other side
where my memories of them are just fond
not surrounded by the taunting faces of their powdered and painted corpse

they are lost to me
hidden by this wall of pain
my living memories have been thrown into a dark room
the door has been bricked up
leaving their pale ghosts alone
gasping
whithering into the forgotten

i want my daddy
i want my brother
i want my friends
the list grows with the passing years
until a crowd of them are back there
behind that brick wall
clamoring about like rats

I hear them scratching on the walls
screams of pain as their nails tear off
as they try to dig through the brick with their bloody hands

I want them sit on the couch and talk or not
to just fill the space that they created in me
so empty 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.

THANK YOU... SORT OF.

I hit fifty thousand and three visitors on my blog counter at my other site, http://theelvesattic.ebloggy.com

that's from since I started keeping count, last summer. I am pleased that hundreds to thousands of you come in here every day. Thank you for sharing your psychosis with mine.

By the way, I'm on the verge of starving and you should send me money soon . . . or, perhaps, hamsters. . . actually, preferrably hamsters. I would have money if I didn't have to spend so much on Hamsters... if only M. would quit letting me get angry and sick the Ruby doo and Buk on the troops.... DAMN HER AND HER LAPSED BABY SITTING SKILLS!!! Not that I need a sitter... no, not all the time. Others won't agree with me, I know.


Wait, you could send me... well, someone mentioned Ninja Chimps? I'd take a couple those. Probably pawn them for a few bucks. Or maybe just chain them up in a storage unit somewhere, and then pimp them out over the internet. At least until they starved. I have a strict policy against feeding chimps.

Anyways, thank you for coming in here and reading me for free. I know that is the only way I could ever get a readership, I suppose, but still... it irks me, dammit!!! But, I came in here to thank you readers and show my unfailing humility, as always... still, you know, why did I go to school all those years if I was just going to then write in a damn blog and ignore all the more traditional forms of text AND THEN WIND UP POORER THAN some used up and battered ex-con sparrow... a lice itchy feathered friend on no one that has just been hit by a frisbee that smashed its wing bones into tiny painful shards leaving it helpless on the sidewalk as it looks up at a family of ravenous, frothy mouthed black rats with small, though very loud, chainsaws, whose eyes have a look of bizarre, painful sexual wantings that its buttocks quiver in fear....


FIGHT THE MOWER!!!


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

finger foods... yumma, yumma, yumma doo!!

State Street was madness, the crowds thick and musty in the third day of mushy falling snow; moving down the sidewalk was a chore, and the stores even worse. There were only a few days left before christ mass and everyone in the greater chicago area seemed to be shopping downtown under the bright glow of red and green lights. The cold air was filled with a sense of crazy frenzy.

That was the year when Cannabalism was the big fad. Those human fingers were the best!! I get hungry as a pup without a tit remembering those red and green boxes with the break dancing elves and that hippy-esque raindeer. The commercial advertisements were especially effective that year, I guess, when they broke all our taboos about eating each other. I know I got all caught up in that ad campaign where they had a long haired, stoned looking Rudolph with Snoop Dogs voice, and all those gay, swishy elves.

Everyone wanted those specially packaged holidy edition finger snacks; people were breaking out into fights when Marshall Fields announced that they would soon be out of the delicious nibble. That was the year when all the winos sold their fingers for drinking change and had to hold their styrofoam begging cups in their teeth (after the states outlawed wino fingers, they started importing the brown ones, of course, and while a lot of people think they are less flavorful, i can't taste any difference). Writing about this little taste bud tickler makes me really, really, really hungry for one of those pinkies, the ones coated in butter and cinamon and topped with white frosting.

The Gods Of Munchy say: "I don't care what all those labor activists say about south americans being made slaves so they can have their non essential organs transplanted into paying customers, I got a weedy need to gnaw on ten of those pinkies and no reason is going to get between me and those fat filled vein cloggers."











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

Killing Again....

I was out letting Ruby kill squirrels today. We are up to fifty three and a half (one was pretty badly wounded, but managed to scramble up a tree with just two and a half legs). For the sake of all that you consider Holy or funny, do not tell M. about this. She already suspects something is up because of the blood she keeps finding on Ruby's snout. I have her convinced that ruby has a secret stash of Strawberry Jelly; which I make all the more believable by hiding some jam that I put on her lips occasionally, when the stench of squirrel entrails and all the other disgusting shit she swallows down with glee becomes a bit much. I mean, Husky's have no breath, so I have to be pretty careful about this.

I am of course trying to film all of our kills. In the footage, I do a lot of close ups so the squirrels look huge and do voice overs like for a badly dubbed Godzilla import from b-movie japan, "Oh.... no.... professor, they giant squirrels lose now. Run must we from mighty hairy one with teeth of doom cheese.'

When she rips up the squirrels, their intestines remind me of Harpo Marx's hairdo. Don't try to make people laugh by wearing them as a wig though, because society just ain't ready for those kind of sophisticated laughs, or so my experiments down by the lake on other dog walkers and alarmed passers by seem to indicate.

I am usually against killing animals, but since it makes the pup so happy and watching the videos makes me laugh.... well, it's Like John Lennon said, 'Whatever gets you through the night.' A lot of people don't know he was referring to Squirrel Killing with these lyrics, but you know me, I miss nothing....



Ruby is still ignoring my orders to kill humans, though I think this squirrel slaughter has been a step in the right directions. I'm thinking, once I get her ready to kill, that I am going to go to Bahrain and take out Massah Jack-OFF=Your Son. Or maybe I'll just go after the weak and sick around here? There a couple retirement centers that would make this oh so easy.... I have notes.

Hard to tell what I'll do? The parole officers and doctors are better at predicting that stuff than me, so I leave it to them.






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

DEAD PEOPLE IN MY HEAD

DEAD PEOPLE linger forever
lives are too short to forget
nothing has closure until your eyes
are sewn shut by a mortician

I want to be able to feel them
without this wall of pain between us

the horror of knowing they are just plain gone
shocking moments of realization come over and over
out of nowhere and everywhere

I need some ritualistic way to go beyond this emotional murk
a long, long arm to reach through the pain
burst out on the other side
where my memories of them are just fond
not surrounded by the taunting faces of their powdered and painted corpse

they are lost to me
hidden by this wall of pain
my living memories have been thrown into a dark room
the door has been bricked up
leaving their pale ghosts alone
gasping
whithering into the forgotten

i want my daddy
i want my brother
i want my friends
the list grows with the passing years
until a crowd of them are back there
behind that brick wall
clamoring about like rats

I hear them scratching on the walls
screams of pain as their nails tear off
as they try to dig through the brick with their bloody hands

I want them sit on the couch and talk or not
to just fill the space that they created in me
so empty 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 Death Of Bob The Wino Knight

In one dimension, a hoboish drunk, late fifties and over-weight, sits stinky and silent on a bench in Loyola Park. No one knows that he is secretly watching everyone there, on the look out for any sort of trouble. That was his job now. He had lost everything except his need to drink... and of late, the cheap wine had started to make his brain resemble smooth vanilla pudding with chocolate chips and coconuts -- a disease that was going to help kill him in twelve days, when the first icey Northeasterner roars acrss the lake and freezes to death any wino who has the bad luck of passing out on a street corner all exposed to the evilish elements of the cold, cold wind chilled air that freezes their flesh and slows their heart down more and more, until they end up in a paupers grave . .. but that night, he was just drunk enough to feel like he could take on the world!!

He turned real quick, alerted by a movement in the corner of his eye, and saw a young women with a Depaul University shirt walking a yapping small white dog... The dog started sniffing a tree and preparing to let loose some used up foods and liquids... He watched the woman closely. He had a feeling she was just going to leave the shit and he was pissed. Really pissed. Too pissed to calm down even after the women suddenly pulled a box of blue, scented bags out of her pocket and knelt down and picked up the steaming pile of poo. He glared at her as she passed and was pleased when she quickened her step. 'Have to keep an eye out for that one,' he thought, though he knew he would forget because he forgot everything at somepoint in the day, when the wine made his speach a moan that drove away anyone he tried to bum a smoke from or tell about some squirrel that he saw that day.

There had been no crime that day... Once a cop had told him this was the safest park in the city.

Only he, Bob The Drunk, knew that he was a knight, and entirely responsible for keeping people in line. The Kids he watched especially. And of course those damn dog walkers. If they tried to get away without cleaning up, he yelled at them, made a scene... usally they ran from him and he would just have to accept that he couldn't pass out in that spot until the stuff was dry enough.. He knew that they would think twice about leaving shit in his park after his rebuke, at least. He was also worried about trolls, though he had yet to see anything more than a few of their ghosts.

And indeed, there was no crime that night; or the next, or the next... until finally, Bob laid down the doorway of a closed dry cleaner and felt the wine pull him down into blessed black. Six hours and fourteen minutes and ten seconds later, he froze to death.

Bob was quite surprised to find himself reincarnated and already an eight year old girl . . . which is why she started drinking so young and became a lesbian and changed her name back to Bob. True story.


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

LAUGHING AT YOU

the taunt of the nerves
screaming 'FUCK YOU' at me
in screechin' voices of grinding veterbrae
a garage band banging away at the blessed silence
psychos with knives all up and down my spine

illness
a mental landscape filled with dangling nooses
you learn to laugh
at all the oportunites to die
missed
for this one grand and pathetic moment


learn to laugh until you sit alone in your room laughing all day

let the plants die
shit yourself
starve the animals
kill the whole the fucking planet

laugh at the darker shadows
flitting across the newscasters painted faces




just
keep laughing



because
that's
what
it's
all
about

proof inbreeding is still rampant in Tennessee

Rarely in recorded time have so many been so stupid for so long...

This guy claims that a man who was pretending to be a cop forced him, over the phone, to strip search one of his 20 year old workers and then.... have her blow him.

UNBELIEVABLY... AND THIS IS TRUE IN A WAY THAT IS MUCH TRUER THAN WHEN I USUALLY SAY TRUE... A TRUER TRUE TRUE, IF YOU WILL... This has evidently happened at various McDonalds down around what is usually considered the brother-sister fucking belt of America, Tn, Ky, where the mountains are cold and lonely, the next family often too far away to walk. McDonalds, rightly so, claims that someone should have realized this was a prank call when the supposed cop who was blaming the female employee with stealing a purse, ordered her to blow the manager. Only an alert Janitor finally went, "What the hell?" Of course the manager, a 41 year old guy who had practically zero chance of ever scoring with one of his hot young employees, was probably all happy when he realized the girl was going to go along with the request.

Thank god they got that pervert for rape, sort of... they gave him some plea where he admits no guilt, but does not contest the fact that the evidence would prove him guilty.

Again, the in breeding is even popular in legal circles, where brothers and sisters often marry to keep all the family pigs together....
Not that this diminishes the sight of those mountains down there one speck.


So, you know, next time you feel like pulling a prank on really, really stupid people, just get the number of some mcdonalds down there and pretend to be a cop who believes someone from the mcdonalds is making obscene phone calls, and needs the women on duty to recite a particular script, so your 'wtiness' can identify the alleged 'perverted phone caller' on their shift. Just insert your favorite perversion into the script you make the chick a dees recite and you could potentially cut down on your phone sex bills by thousands of dollars a month... and let me tell you, that frees up a lot of cash for orderin porn over cable...again, don't tell M. this is me, because when she notices the upswing on the charges, I am going to claim that the cat, Buk, has become addicted to internet porn.

By the way, I am kidding about acting like a cop.. this is not funny. Act like you are a cop and you go to jail... as you should. The perv.'s and criminals are always robbing people and worse after gaining their trust by pretending to be cops. Anyone whose name was so used should be pissed. The law will slap you down!!!

Of course, it does no good in a preventive sort of way for me to write this, since only inbreds don't find most of what I say obvious and interesting only in a kind of sick way that you don't want anyone else to know about... and no inbred would have read all the words it takes to get this far down teh page.. (to be kinder for some fucking reason, let me add that in breeding usually takes a couple generations to provoke serious quirks... and this is my stand until a certain cousin of mine loses her looks--she avoids me now, but my fantasy life tells me she will one day thrill me breifly at a family reunion, like in that penthouse forum letter-- which is one of the true ones).


Yea, inbreds are not exactly flocking to this sight. Irony, sarcasm, using metaphors, semi-colons, commas...

They run from such things....

grab the nearest remote and sink down into a sports trance, reducing the world to a field of big sweaty men banging into each other, chasing each other around, dancing, patting each others asses. All that fag stuff the homophobe jocks and adolescent boys are into. I mean, the whole colaseum thing for me started going downhill when they stopped having christians fight lions and leopards and bears and ostriches. Probably hamsters, too; though the evidence is scant, I am putting an article together about this for that on line encyclopedia for boofs, Whatapeeheadia--and then it will be true forever).

Below is a real article about this felonious lap licking.

Should you read all the way down through this article without feeling yourself actually growing more and more misanthropic, immiediantly email me the phone number of your dealer!!! For confidential research purposes only!!!


Andrew Wolfson
awolfson@courier-journal.com
The Courier-Journal

A Bullitt County man who claimed he was duped into sexually humiliating a teenage McDonald's worker last year by a man impersonating a police officer pleaded guilty yesterday to a felony charge of unlawful imprisonment.



In a plea bargain approved by his victim, Walter Nix Jr., 43, will get probation after agreeing to a one-year term for the felony and for sexual misconduct, a misdemeanor. He originally was charged with sodomy and assault, for which he could have been sentenced to 20 years in prison.
According to police and court records, Nix said he thought he was following an officer's orders when he directed Ogborn, who was detained four hours in the restaurant's office, to do exercises in the nude and perform oral sex on him. He also slapped her several times on her buttocks, at the direction of the caller, the records show.



The incident was the focus of a Courier-Journal story Sunday that noted that the strip-search was among at least 70 performed at fast-food restaurants and other businesses from 1995 through 2004 at the direction of a caller who claimed he was investigating crimes. Ogborn agreed to be identified by name in the newspaper.



A private prison guard, David N. Stewart, of Fountain, Fla., was charged in July 2004 with impersonating a police officer and soliciting sodomy in the Mount Washington case. He has pleaded not guilty, and his trial is set for Dec. 13. Summers is charged with unlawful imprisonment, a misdemeanor, and her trial is scheduled for Dec. 7. She also has pleaded not guilty.
Bullitt County Commonwealth's Attorney Mike Mann said in an interview yesterday that he agreed to probation for Nix because he has no prior record and because it would have difficult to persuade all 12 members of a jury to reject Nix's defense -- that he was duped by someone he thought was a law-enforcement officer.



"It would have been hard not to have one juror say, 'I might have gotten that call and done the same thing,' " Mann said.

(JOHNNY PAIN INTERRUPTING HERE..
CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS JUROR??? AND ALL TWELVE OF THE THOSE BUMPKINS WENT ALONG WITH HIM!!!! SOMEONE OUT THERE THOUGHT I WAS KIDDING ABOUT THE BROTHER-SISTER FUCKING BELT DOWN THERE IN DANIAL BOONE COUNTRY bet they feel silly now!!!))).





Still, he said he found it disturbing that anyone would believe that "sodomy is part of a lawful criminal investigation. There had to be a point where he realized that this wasn't right," Mann said of Nix.



Nix didn't explain his plea in the courtroom and left without talking to reporters. His lawyer, Kathleen Schmidt, said he was too nervous for an interview.



Ogborn's co-counsel, William C. Boone Jr., said his client approved the deal because "she wants somebody to say they are sorry and for somebody to say she did nothing wrong," both of which he said Nix has promised to say at sentencing.

"She is tired of McDonald's blaming her for what happened," Boone said.

The company also has said that agents outside its control -- Stewart and Nix -- were at fault.

The company's Louisville lawyer, W.R. "Pat" Patterson Jr., referred questions to spokeswoman Tara McClarin, who in a prepared statement said, "McDonald's regrets these unfortunate incidents and is pleased to know that those who have been criminally charged are being brought to justice."
Nix entered an Alford plea, maintaining his innocence while acknowledging there is enough evidence to convict him.
As part of the plea agreement, Mann agreed to drop an assault charge against Nix and to reduce the sodomy count to sexual misconduct, a misdemeanor punishable by up to 12 months in prison. He also raised the unlawful imprisonment charge to a felony, which carries a sentence of one to five years. Ogborn, a high school senior who had just turned 18 at the time of the incident, hadn't received a single admonition in her four months at the McDonald's when the man who called himself "Officer Scott" called and said an employee had been accused of stealing a purse. Summers said later that she picked out Ogborn because the caller's description fit her "to the T." Following the caller's instructions, Summers took Ogborn into the office and had her remove one item of clothing at a time until she was naked.

Although McDonald's said Ogborn could have left at any time, Summers had taken away her clothes, and she was able to only partially cover herself with an apron. The incident continued until a maintenance man who worked at the store questioned it and the caller hung up.

Nix and Summers were among at least 13 people across the United States charged with crimes for executing searches for the caller. Seven have been convicted of various crimes. Stewart so far has only been charged in the Bullitt County incident.

Celebrity Animals Who Have Slept Their Way To Fame

I guess I should come out with an opinion on this 'hot' topic that is sweeping across the blogs... Well, we all know Spuds Machenzie owed everything to certain oral technique which he first perfected on himself and then used to take Hollywood by storm... He had free beer!!!! For life!!! How many fucking dogs achieve that??? None. So, I don't blame him . . .

He sure could lick lap. I'm sure everyone has by now seen the tapes on the net of him lap loving Paul Schaffer while he was on the Letterman Show... I guess he had been up smoking crack and licking himself for like a week before the show, and just kind of staggered over to the band and his brain blew out and he jumped on the stunned though obviously pleased Mr. Shaffer.

Spuds never did come down they say, just sits in that hospital all doped up on thorazine and very, very slowly licks his ass over and over. . . I hear that he gets day passes out to visit the Playboy Mansion and his Scientology Auditing, but I guess he still just sits there drooling on his own privates no matter where he is.. Sad case. Like those Corey's who used to act in stoner movies like pot heads though they were really like herion addicts? They do the same thing, but on the streets. Spuds at least knew to save his money.

So, after thinking about Spuds a bit, and seeing that amazing, amazing oral artistery he once had and his now slow, ineffective manner of licking his soft bone... well, I just feel sorry for him, I guess. I mean who here can say what they would do if they could lick themselves?

The classic tale of animal whoring always was and of course always will be -- Flipper.

I don't know if I can add anything to the whole 'blow hole' scene that emerged out in Hollywood at that time... I mean, that horny sea stud, I have a poster of him pumping Tryone Powers in the ass, while James Dean hip whacks his blow-hole and Shirly McClain lickis a pickle sticking out of his ass... Everyone bought that one... but, besides the well known stuff... I happen to have heard he was the one who first gave Drew Barrymore Blow...

They say she crawled faster than any of the other infants at the commercial tryouts. Yea, Flipper was the one who convinced Drew's Mom to drug the tot and let Roman Polanksi babysit and all this other shit that lead to her unique and quirky brillance. The Flip took her mom out, and just for a goof--for an anecdote to tell to his jaded celebrity buddies, he got her stoned on acid and weed and hypnotized her into giving her kid speed and letting her hang out with micheal jackson and that damn chimp that he has butt fucking him 24 hours a day (a habit he picked up from Elizabeth Talyor, who actually eats the monkeys through out the day and is always calling in for more).

When Flipper died, everyone said he od'd, but no...
that's just less embarrassing than the truth, which is what his official biographers have been saying forever. . . . I happen to know he died from rectal bleeding, after getting fisted by a bull elephant that he kept all methed up and chained by his pool.


Oh, well... this topic saddens me so. I wish animals could get parts without having to sleep their way through production office after production office, but that is just the way things are done. I mean, everytime I see a pup on some commercial, I know that it isn't an innocent, oh no... not after being on the hundreds of couches it takes to make it in that business. Poor little lap lickers. Remember them around the holidays, and for those few blessed days, try not to throw shoes at them when they start licking themselves... for the animals, dammit!!!

... 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 MERRY MAYPOLE

Okay, so... Let's say that religion is a disease that infects people and makes them act in aberrant manners, and kills millions.

Which leads me to often joke about ways to destroy the religions, in ways that I hope will infect some people who will one day go on to be influential... I have given up on thinking I will ever be, but maybe some kid who reads me will write a great American atheistic constitution for the new personality/technobeing of the future? There is no way to tell, so I am assuming this is true... And will be putting it on my Resume.'


With all this talk about killing off christ, it is important to remember the revenge aspect of all this Jabber. My snide sneer is footnoted by Nietzsche, who said we execute prisoners because of a deep rooted need to take revenge. My cab driver mentor, Mike Paite -- alias Mike Masters, told me that if someone 'stung me', then I should always sting back -- to maintain good mental health. I was an assholes worst nightmare -- a crazy, revenge seeker who knew they had been pissing on service people all their lives, but would soon learn to think twice about that social sin... I have so many stories of the sting that they might be a book one day, certainly a short story? Tales of the Sting.. Maybe I will base it on this story I'm writing about?

So, here is an entry about Puritans killing some free spirits.


This here old, old story is by the master, Nathaniel Hawthorne. His grandfather was one of the preachers who instigated witch hunts in early, puritan america.

Nat. saw through the superstition, was a modern man in his time, knew Henry James, Herman Melville, and other writers who are called, in the lexicon of English Majors and Exams, THE AMERICAN TRANSCENDENTALISTS. They lived in a time when the idea that there was simply nothing but rotting flesh left of us after we died was too intense for them... But, they did reject conventional religion, which was almost impossible for the generations that came before them.

This led them to seek other ways to fill their hunger for answers to the big questions. They tried to talk to the dead, etc... In the end, they believed only that man could 'transcend' his daily life and see some kind of truth behind the curtain of the day to day that we see.
What that truth was, they all had different ideas.

I am bringing him up because of the Merry Maypole, a story that I have been threatening to rewrite since college. The story is about a bunch of hedonists who give up the every day life to have drunken orgies and play on their Maypole (which is a pole with a lot ropish things coming off, enough that all the players hold one as they walk or skip or dance around in circles... which only a very drunken person would love as much as they do).
The hedonists are hated by the religious puritans in a nearby village. And when one of their children decides to chuck the very, very conformist and superstitious lifestyle of her parents and join her lover in the drinking games of the Maypole crowd... the christos lose it!!! Kill them all, including the 'infected' daughter.

nowadays, people walking around a Maypole and drinking is way too tame for us. They would hardly be sentenced to death for this (except in the backward, ass-breath cultures). Considering the kind of trouble drunks get in, maybe we should start having these Maypoles all over the city? We could get them all started with a good advertising campaign run by spuds Mackenzie and other famous advocates of liver damage and drunk driving and silly fucks with people we don't know...

People often accuse me of being an asshole because I slam religion. Well, I have a lot of anger at religions exactly because they hurt me so bad... they gave me this big lie that I believed to the point that I only fucking based my life on the damned teachings. Then I learned they were all lying and that was not fun.... Duh.

People do hate me for this, and I used to get lots of letters from them, until they realized how easily I could slam them into next week with my witty ways.... I mean, I have no life other than sitting here all day thinking up mean shit to say, and they have to work and all that shit, so they are obviously at a disadvantage. I am always shocked by how alone I feel out here, how unexpected my voice is to some people.. I am not exactly parroting anything that unknown (except to people too young or ignorant to be at my level of educational factoid, time accumulated knowledge). One of my Jobs, as I see it, is to make sure this little voice of reason still speaks somewhere, even if I am way, way on the margins of the literary community. ... and never amount to much more than a trail of small clouds of illegal smoke.

Today a comment from a reader told me that she felt like she was the only one who was clear eyed enough to consider religion the disease. .... or more that she often feels that way, I guess.

It's not easy being a closet atheist. That is exactly where I was once, when I was a teenager. I felt like a cursed freak because the books I had read showed me how to see through the illusions so easily accepted by uncritical minds. If not for reading other people who felt the same as me, like Kurt Vonnegut, Frank Herbert, Jerzy Kosinski, Gabrial Garcia Marquez and a lot of others.... I might have given in to the ennui of feeling all weirdo and alone and damaged and simply ceased to exist.

we are left adrift in this ocean of stupidity
scramble to stay afloat
to get a gasp of brown air


we gorge ourselves
go to work
fuck
repeat what we hear like parrots
have our childish pastimes

die after a life exploited by grafting rulers
politicos
preachers
priests
the myriad of parasites on the body politic.


when you doubt the witch doctors
you're killed or ostracized
depends on how primitive your country


you can't see no TV shows advancing athiesm
can't hear no politicians admitting the braver stance
can't find no voice
for trillons of unspoken doubts
for the beliefs of the best of us


evolved to want a god
by the killers who have always gone after the free thinkers
and stabbed them through the brain with a sharpened cross
until the gene for the free minded was almost destroyed
almost....

paralyzed by our fears of being called crazy by the crazy's
cowards who won't scream at the hypocrites
don't see the disease festering in minds all around us
minds we love and would kill for
we leave diseased, lessened
frozen in the words of ancient, ignorant tribes
who were just trying to describe the world
without the benefit of the empiricists... scientists we trust with our health
our living space
our cars
our psychological beleifs
our military
ourselves

almost everything
almost . . .
except throwing out the leeching liars
living in the mosques, temples, rectories, etcetera.

crazy ways of ours!!!!
craaaaaazzzzyyyyyy!!!!!






***** The ABOVE POEM WAS Mused up By THE BOOK, THE CASE AGAINST RELIGION... as well as my usual muse, b.




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

there are soldiers in my TV

There are soldiers in my TV!
running up the side of a mountain
breaking down doors
driving tanks
talking
taking orders
sending emails
playing video games
talking to their parents and wives


There are soldiers in my TV!
walking beside endless coffins
dressed in their finest uniforms
firing salutes
to try to make ourselves believe there is sense'
that lives go on
after the battle has torn them in two

There are soldiers in my TV!
crazy eighteen year olds
hopped up on testorone
riding the wave of their sexual peak

sublimating those lost fucks into energy
to keep moving through the desert
to keep fighting the forever war
to once more face a city filled with snipers and bombs



There are soldiers in my TV!
they lay wounded in tents
dying in hospitals
dead on the nightly news
a million and some prayers
for peace
remain unanswered
as if god himself
turned way
from our endless slaughter


There are soldiers in my TV!
shot and fallen
bloody stains on their chests
the flesh of their faces ripped away
blown up by road side bombs
layed by religious freaks
hopped up on heaven



There are soldiers in my TV!
crashed and dragged through dusty streets
becoming a macabe parade
as the cheering sunni's dance and cheer for death


There are soldiers in my TV!
in movies with beautiful people
playing out intricate plots
pasted over anti war messages
that are drowned out
by the seductive roar
of machine guns



There are soldiers in my TV!
I ache to hear we have won
that no more lives
will be sacrificed to the war
against the enemies of our culture
the ignorant fundamentalists would strip of us of our freedom
to listen to rock n roll
to love who we would

they would drag our women back into darker times
force their lies on all who would live
under the sinning sons of of a darker allah


There are soldiers in my TV!
I want to bring them home
to a peaceful world
where their blood isn't needed
the same old eutopia I have wanted
since I first learned to cry


There are soldiers in my TV!
when I change the channel
the world is only as big as the part that I see
as quiet as my sleepy neighborhood


























Along the Tigris River



















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

HUSBAND AND WIFE SUICIDE BOMBERS???

I wish I could strangle these two with my bare hands. They are deluded cowards. Dying is easy, living is hard. What really strikes me as odd about a hubby and a wifey suicide bombers is the whole 72 virgins thing. I mean, these fuck heads think that men will get all these virgins to mess with for eternity? But, he has a wife... I know that M. would not let me have one virgin, let alone 72... I mean, the women do not get 72 men in their silly, oh so deadly myth.

I guess this just shows you again the irrationality of the mystics. By the way, I use the word mystic to mean anyone who takes a leap of faith. Anyone who is religous is a mystic. All are delusions, and my despising of these head fucks is equal to all religions.

Another funny thing about this is that E.O. Wilson, one of the most influential thinkers of our time and the father of the discipline I believe sheds more light on humanity than any other -- sociobiology, believed that we have a gene that makes us feel good about sacrificing ourselves for others. Some mechanism that over rides the basic, primal urge to survive. E.O. Wilson was writing about soldiers who jump on gernades to save their fellow warriors. Alturistic? I think that is the word he used.

On this veteren's day, I want to thank my father, John Kenneth Ridgway, for volunteering for the war, doing his duty, and coming home a kind and generous man who was liked by all. He was such a wonderful man. . . and I want to thank anyone else who is or out or going to be in the armed forces. I wish there was no need for this kind of sacrifice (and don't kid yourself with your anti-war rhetoric,
the very people you would stop from doing their job protect your ass from the worst evils you can imagine).. under the Taliban, they would kill me, stone your momma for wearing a dress, kill you for that peice of ass you nibbled behind your spouses back... not to mention, there would be no truth on the radio and televisions, and we would, be soon enough, in just a few generations, turned into the same wet brained ignoramouses they are.... remember how the greeks made those great strides into the world of free men having a voice in the affairs of government? Remember how those concepts were lost to humanity for awhile? Our culture will go that way, too... and without our armed forces, instead of growing into a more sane culture, we will step back into the stone age.

I hate like hell that I am on the same side as Bush in this... sorry, mom...

oh, go have a day where you blow every veteren you meet, saving the sperm in your distended cheek, like a squirrel gathering nuts, then spit all that jizz into the face of the next war protestor you see... or just sit back and look around at your life and realize how much of it is only possible with the blood of many a good man and women...


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

THERE ARE SOLDIERS IN MY TV!

There are soldiers in my TV!
running up the side of a mountain
breaking down doors
driving tanks
talking
taking orders
sending emails
playing video games
talking to their parents and wives


There are soldiers in my TV!
walking beside endless coffins
dressed in their finest uniforms
firing salutes
to try to make ourselves believe there is sense'
that lives go on
after the battle has torn them in two

There are soldiers in my TV!
crazy eighteen year olds
hopped up on testorone
riding the wave of their sexual peak

sublimating those lost fucks into energy
to keep moving through the desert
to keep fighting the forever war
to once more face a city filled with snipers and bombs



There are soldiers in my TV!
they lay wounded in tents
dying in hospitals
dead on the nightly news
a million and some prayers
for peace
remain unanswered
as if god himself
turned way
from our endless slaughter


There are soldiers in my TV!
shot and fallen
bloody stains on their chests
the flesh of their faces ripped away
blown up by road side bombs
layed by religious freaks
hopped up on heaven



There are soldiers in my TV!
crashed and dragged through dusty streets
becoming a macabe parade
as the cheering sunni's dance and cheer for death


There are soldiers in my TV!
in movies with beautiful people
playing out intricate plots
pasted over anti war messages
that are drowned out
by the seductive roar
of machine guns



There are soldiers in my TV!
I ache to hear we have won
that no more lives
will be sacrificed to the war
against the enemies of our culture
the ignorant fundamentalists would strip of us of our freedom
to listen to rock n roll
to love who we would

they would drag our women back into darker times
force their lies on all who would live
under the sinning sons of of a darker allah


There are soldiers in my TV!
I want to bring them home
to a peaceful world
where their blood isn't needed
the same old eutopia I have wanted
since I first learned to cry


There are soldiers in my TV!
when I change the channel
the world is only as big as the part that I see
as quiet as my sleepy neighborhood


























Along the Tigris River

cock fighting

Men should stop using their cocks in this manner. From what this article says, they strap razors on their cocks, then use them to fight in little rings. They even bet on this shit.

I was even more surprised to see that cock fighting is illegal in all but two states? I mean, if two guys want to cock fight, who am I to judge? Well, a reactionary asshole, that's who...


I mean, I can see a couple gay consenting adults slapping penises as part of foreplay, but PLLLLEEEAAASE, you fools, stop with the razors already -- you could endanger your cocks with this activity!!

I mean, I am sure a lot of my readers are way into this... you probably have little outfits you dress it up in (barbi seems about the right size) but, hey, come on, admit it, I know that most of the men who read this rag of a blog already have a bit of size problem without having an inch or two loped off... not me though... no, no, not me... really...

I had no idea this problem was so well ensconsced in the american landscape. This article says that there are underground circuits where guys fight with their cocks in every state of the union. South Americans tend to be the most involved, since I guess they fight with their cocks all the time down there. This figures, because so many of them come from macho cultures where the only way they can accept themselves having sex with other guys is to pretend they are just 'fighting.' Closet cases are so sad. Scream your name!!!!

Man, I would have to drink a hell of a lot of tequila before I would even have the guts to strap a razor on my cock, let alone actually endanger the little boy by using him in a fight... not that this sounds that erotic to me. Maybe squash wars... oh, in black fishnet... anyways, let me just say these cock fighters are perverts.


Next thing you know, there will be ass fighting, where guys stick swords up their rectums and then battle it out... I suppose they would have to use little mirrors to look behind them? You know, I am sure this is already happening as a matter of fact... because anything sexual has been tried by some drunken ape.

You humans, you suck so bad.... all of us marsupials feel that way.


I have to admit that I just kind of scanned this one, because of the mental images the article evoked of maimed, bleeding cocks made my genitals ache.


I did write something of a comment after this article, should you care for another lame joke or two...



Supporters: Cockfight Bill Could Stem Flu
By FREDERIC J. FROMMER, Associated Press Writer
Sunday, November 6, 2005
(11-06) 09:15 PST WASHINGTON, (AP) --


A cockfighting bill aimed at stemming the spread of bird flu to the U.S. has stalled despite support from the Bush administration and the poultry industry. The bill targets trade from Southeast Asia, where cockfighting is suspected of spreading bird flu from chickens to humans. The measure would increase penalties for transporting fighting birds across state lines and from other countries. But the chairman of the House Judiciary Committee has not brought the bill, which has passed the Senate, to a vote. Cockfighting is banned in every state except Louisiana and New Mexico."That's a bit of a stretch to say that the animal fighting bill should be an important part of any avian flu efforts," said Jeff Lungren, spokesman for Judiciary
Committee Chairman James Sensenbrenner, R-Wis.
Issues such as the Patriot Act and immigration have kept the committee busy, Lungren said, who played down the idea that the bill would do much to keep bird flu from reaching the U.S. Yet Agriculture Department officials have made just that case.Last year, then-Agriculture Secretary Ann M. Veneman said the bill would enhance the department's ability to protect U.S. poultry against avian flu and other diseases. Her successor, Mike Johanns, expressed support for the bill during his confirmation hearings. He told Sen. Rick Santorum, R-Pa., that it would help deter cockfighting, which "could play a role in the introduction and spread of exotic poultry diseases." Johanns also said the bill made sense from an "animal welfare standpoint." President Bush has made the fight against bird flu a priority, asking Congress for $7.1 billion to help the country prepare for a possible pandemic.












Cockfighting pits two roosters sporting steel blades on their legs. During a typical tournament, one-third to one-half of the birds die; many endure broken wings, punctured lungs and gouged eyes.Cockfighting is popular in parts of the South, where spectators often gamble on the outcome. In states where the sport is illegal, it's conducted underground. Last year in Thailand, an 18-year-old man who raised fighting cocks died from avian flu. According to health authorities, he would suck mucus and blood from his injured roosters' beaks, a practice not uncommon in that part of the world. Also, the fights themselves can spread disease because the birds slash each other in the pit. A recent report by the New England Journal of Medicine found that most bird flu victims in Southeast Asia were people who had direct contact with birds, including people who handled and groomed fighting cocks. It is already illegal to ship fighting birds to the United States and across state lines, a misdemeanor punishable by up to a year in jail. The proposed legislation would make the violation a felony, with jail time of up to two years.











"We know that if we get to a vote on the floor, it will pass," Green said. The bill has 184 other sponsors. The Judiciary Committee passed the bill in the last Congress, with Sensenbrenner's backing, but the legislation never made it through the House. Last year, U.S. cockfighters formed Citizens for Preserving Historic Animal Use, which spent $60,000 lobbying against the legislation from mid-2004 through mid-2005, federal records show. Repeated messages left with Larry Meyers of the Washington lobbying firm Meyers & Associates, who was listed as the lobbyist on those reports, were not returned.


Cockfighters also established a political action committee, Citizens for the Humane and Ethical Treatment of Animals, or CHETA, which gave $1,000 each to then-Majority Leader Tom DeLay, R-Texas, Rep. Steve King, R-Iowa, and Rep. Pete Sessions, R-Texas. (NOTE THE USE OF DOUBLE SPEAK, OR ORWELLIANISM, IF YOU WILL).King has been one of the most outspoken opponents of the animal fighting bill on the Judiciary Committee. In an e-mail interview King said that 3 million "human illegal aliens pour across our southern border every year. We can't control our borders. What are we doing trying to regulate chicken travel?" (OKAY, SOMEONE NEEDS TO TELL THIS GUY THAT CHICKENS ARE NOT AS SMART AS HUMANS, AND DO NOT WADE THROUGH THE RIO GRANDE TO WORK AS LOW TO NO WAGE LABOR...KAY?).













The National Chicken Council, which represents chicken producer-processors, has urged Congress to pass the legislation.

(MY ENEMIES ENEMY IS MY FRIEND... sad little chickens all in pens with their beaks cut off, producing embryos for their masters... ).

"Because cockfighting is unlawful in all but two states, the traffic is underground," council spokesman Richard Lobb said. "It's potentially a means by which animal disease can be spread."









-----------uhhh, back to me wisecracking through the foam in the my mouth....


To drop my boof joke about cockfighting.... and be honest here for a second,... I guess this could be called the revenge of the cock, this whole asian flu thing? We made them slice each other up for a few seconds of fleeting pleasure, so they kill us. The deaths from the flu, as you read, are particularly prevelent in the cock fighters. Ha!!!!!

The wrath of the god of cock is hard, yet surprisingly soft... and we have pissed off the engorged one something fierce with this one... Next chance I get, I am going off planet with some aleins. You just watch me, I'll do it this time!!!
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A Few Seconds Taking Orders

'I am too much like them,' the kid-soldier thinks as he acts on his orders, brings up his M-16 and fires into the doorway. Civilians die. They die. Like his friends. He learns quick to feel as little as possible; has no idea how those unfelt moments will come back to him over the years as mental monsters, raging through his nightmares and waking him screaming in the night.



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HE STOPPED LIVING HERE TODAY

Pain came

hides behind those same old eyes
says the same old words
still surprises this gullible ass

they paint you a smile that hides
the horror of those last seconds

your religion
dies
with you

wish you really were flying away somewhere

you scream in my memories
for a few more laughs
another chance
to wear the smile of a child
then
fall
silently
into photographs


for D & M

TRUER STORIES

Frank Soup woke up the first morning he bore the tattoo on his forehead with no idea what he was about to see written in bold red letters above his eyebrows... in the morning mirror, he blinked his red blurry eyes a few times and focused in and out on the words... then he tried to wipe them off and felt the pain of peeling tiny scabs off the words 'FUCK YOUR MOTHER, KILL YOUR FATHER.' Reading the famous Morrison line from The End made him vomit.

"Argghhh," he yelled loud enough to make a cat at his feet go running out of the room. "A fucking tattoo... they cost... shit." He ran back into his bedroom, looked around on the floor and located his pants, pulled out the wallet and opened it up ... two bucks. Two singles where there had been his entire paycheck. He also found the reciepts from two utilities bill that he couldn't remember paying... Then he found a receipt for the tattoo and groaned again when he saw that he had tipped the guy a hundred bucks.

Indirectly, the six months that it took for him to save up for the surgery that removed his tattooo, led to his great discovery, some twenty years later, the orgasmic. The O was a combination of lasers that stimulated the same glands as sex; only all at once in an incredibly intense manner that could be prolonged indefinatly. Even after the tattoo was gone, his reputation remained worse than ever. No one seemed to forget his six months with the tattoo, and indeed, none ever would. Once he had invented the device, of course, it was a short walk to becoming the new husband of the queen of england, which led to his kingship. True story.


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 satanic santa suit

He had a messy memory of messes. Messes big and small, by governments and bosses and parents and neighbors... messes from the wind itself and quakes and eruptions. Messes from bad luck and bad decisions... and like he told a reporter from the Toledo Blade, he found his escape was to become the characters that he played on the stage. This is very much applauded in movie stars of a certain ilk, but he was a fifty seven year old convienance store clerk who was bucking a company policy on red hats and t-shirts to dress in drag for a small part in a way, way small theater company. This would have been a lot easier had he been gay, and not divorced and actually half hoping to meet a woman someday...

Though none of his customers showed any outward sign that they were judging him, the general frost on the night was apparent to him a half hour into his shift. One young white guy who looked a little gay himself was particularly nervous, made him lay the money down on the counter instead of taking the bills and change out of his hand...

Another couple in their teens burst out laughing the second they were out the door. One of them yelled something he half heard, but he was pretty sure it had to do with 'aids bait.'

He had figured the southern accent he had effected would clue people in that he was an actor, but he was wrong. During a moment of extreme anxiety that came on the crest of three cups of coffee and maybe ten cigarettes and two candy bars, he simply put a small sign out on in front of the register reading, "I'm just rehearsing for a role. Don't be alarmed."

Of course three or four customers later was a gay guy who pointed at the sign and told him, "Man, I guess you think that gay people are alarming or something, huh? That's just pathetic."

He apologized, pulled the sign down... told himself that he should have known better. And he wondered why, no matter how much he wished it were not so, he gave a shit what strangers thought of him... For the first time in over forty years of acting in this or that community production, he wished to all hell that he had just given up on his principals on this one occasion... no one had cared when he talked in character before, or even when he dressed like a hood, or whatever... his boss had shown up one night and bitched him out for being out of his uniform, but mostly the fifty year old leach ignored the night shift completly.

He felt so shitty that he almost just closed early, but that would really have meant his job, and the small commercials he occasionally did were fewer and farther between as he started pushing out gray hairs and an ever larger gut.

An hour or so before his shift ended, a guy in drag came in. The man in a dress stopped just inside the front door, put her wrists on her hips and yelled, "Oh, you are so brave!" Then he bowed to him. When the guy left, he sat back in his chair and looked around the empty store, down the white linolean rows lined with snacks, into the glass door at the frozen pizza, and felt a little better about his decision, though he knew he wouldn't do it again.

He was letting go of a method of acting that he had believed and half expected to feel bad about it but he didn't... he was surprised to find himself relieved, even. 'I really don't have to do that to be a good actor. In fact, I am not going to be santa from the second week in November until December twenty fifth.' The change would be a real break in tradition with him, since he had taken the part time job almost fifteen years ago, and always seemed to almost magically have no parts about then.

He held his resolve right up until what would normally have been his third day in a Santa suit. He was looking through a pile of bills with one hand, sliding them over the coffee table, while with his other he held the tv remote and flipped through the rotation of seventy five cable channels for the third time in the last fifteen minutes, when he lost his inner struggle, just simply allowed himself to meld into Santa, dropped the remote and ignored the bills, walked almost robotically to his closet, reached in and found his coat, hat, pants and beard.... and he stayed in the red costume with itchy facial hair until he got home from a bar at three am christmas morning, fed his goldfish, set his alarm for work, and went to bed.
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I'VE JOINED A BILLY IDOL COVER BAND

We're called Really Idle.

We cover the music from his period between eight and ten years old, before he had any songs or anything... this way we don't have to get together and practice or perform or anything, and we still get to tell people we are in a band. We are looking for a drummer, by the way... even someone who taps on the driving wheel during songs will be okay, because there is obviously no drum in any of our non-songs (we play what we call non-songs, by the way). I hear that there is already quite a big buzz in the music industry about us. At least, uhmm... I think there will be by the time you read this, since this is I guess the first official record that our band exists.

You see, contrary to what is generally believed, I am pretty cool... right? I mean, right???? Oh, fuck you all in your right nostrils with a maggot writhing cucumber infected with pink eye and tape words!!!!
Man, I really wish I had just spent my life raising an army... what a waste of time I am... well, was... until this band thing came along. I know we will go to the top if I really believe hard enough, man. I just know it. THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

to get my latest writing....

I wondered why the hell my count had shot up so much recently, and after searching my name on google, I may have found out why... my half famous buddy mentioned me on his 'professional' website. Jason Pettus. He is the one who taught me to look up my name to see who was writing about me. Pretty cool world, real ly.... anyways, he only mentioned this site, since it has an rss feed. My original site, which is where I usually write, is http://theelvesattic.ebloggy.com , which is only available on computers, I believe ( or to some degree or another. I don't seem to have enough time to daydream, let alone do all the research I would need to even appear technologically sophisticated). I use this site, actually, to back up the stuff that I like more than most of what I write... even though the first review I have ever read of this blog -- Jason's -- warned people I was 'Rantyer,' than him. I barely put any rants in here compared to the other...
Interesting that he did this, because I too am sick of my ranting. I have tried to be open to letting the blog become whatever the hell was on my mind that day, to be intellectually and emotionally honest, and of course I discovered this was boring as hell. I mean, I trained to be a writer because there really is more to it than just sitting down and letting some magical muse work through me . . . Jack K.'s On The Road is the great myth in this area (sorry to burst your coffee buzz, but it just so happens that Jack edited the hell out of that manuscript).

So, if the rants have bothered you -- as they have me, than let me just say that I am moving into a different area with my blog lately. I have stopped trying to use this thing to biographically explain myself or convince people of my view or vent my spleen about the daily news. I decided that this was just the wrong way to go, that I was preaching to the choir and driving away the sinners (so to speak... I mean, only sinners are interesting to me, because I have had enough self rightous assholes invade my space for one lifetime and let me warn all you asshoples that I am usually armed -- so keep your stories about HOW I SHOULD live and all your various creeds to your own sick, pus seeping selves).



Rants. I sure do like giving rants... they make me feel like I have meaning, though I know better... anyways... just wanted to come in here and write this shit about the other site...










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RUBY IS CARRYING AROUND A DEAD RACCOON

She carries the small corpse everywhere. Occasionally she takes it by the neck and violently shakes it back and forth, in a spine snapping motion that throughout the noble huskies evolution has killed countless other critters -- who despite their own fuzzy faces and big innocent eyes, look to the smiling huskies like nothing but a little fun and lunch. Yes, the dog is a killer after all. I have still had no success getting her to kill. I am still learning how to command her to kill in a few of the more obscure Innuit dialects, but I suspect that even if I figure out the right command, the wily husky might just not be in the mood -- and she will do nothing without the proper mood, to the point that no matter how many times I drag her away from the piles of piss on the bushes we pass on our walks, she still stops and fights at the next pile of piss (of course, with the less indulgent, decidedly more ready to scream and strike M., Ruby always acts all obedient, then when we are out alone she tests me at every turn, and since it embarrasses the hell out of me to yell at a dog like some psycho, I indulge the hell out of her. I mean, this is a dog, okay,

they practically own the terms loyalty, care, and unconditional love. I respect them as superior beings. Only idiots and psychos don't (and I am neither, as long as I can keep the thin, chemical line that I walk within certain accepted boundaries... And while this may appear an ideal to some in my life, I assure you that most days pass with me well within my own perimeters, which include a buzz but discludes anything that gets me too wasted to work; I guess I should say pot and my milder than ever non narcotic pain meds are about all I can handle at my age, a time now when death is all around me and I want less to do with it than ever. I think crack, benzos, heroin, pills in general and anything you snort is just crazy now. I don't even want mushrooms or acid again.... Because the side effects really are just too painful, and the high not nearly amusing enough to make up for the post psychedelic depressions that I know so well... Not that I shouldn't make clear that long ago, when life was young and I was in high school, I felt differently... Stupid, ignorant shit that I was, I am very surprised that this body last long enough to produce me, the more sedate, intellectual wanderer).


Dog!!! I was just about to hit the punch line on the dead raccoon when I digressed all to hell here into something I had been thinking it was probably time to write in here again, since I watched the HBO's Methodonia, a documentary on addicts on methadone, and I don't want my small time Hunter S Thompsoning to be taken wrong. Now, then... Let us go back to a husky, her face an almost shining bright white, eyes the clear, clear blue of an arctic sky over a snowy tundra, shaking the hell out of a small raccoon corpse. The raccoon let out a few sounds at first. Squeaks and kind of a clicking. It still will, if you pick it up and squeeze the head just right, or the tail area, where the little guy has two machines that make noises designed to drive puppies a little crazed. Whoever came up with this dog toy was well aware of the dark side of the canine. This little raccoon may look and cute and fuzzy, but we are talking the heart of darkness here!!! The killer all ancient and allegedly dissolved, lurking just behind the hypnotic eyes of a femme fatale. Damn, I wish I would tap into this and get her to at least pretend to kick ass around hoody, wino looking men.

I am taking Ruby with me to the halloweed party just so we can make her up a toy that looks like road kill, which she can chomp on all night. She likes fake blood, as has been established in earlier video tapings about the neighborhood where I used her, making her pretend to attack anyone passing me on the streets who showed all the usual signs of being terrorified of dogs; I really have to figure out how to get some streaming footage of that in here, but all of that will have to wait until all the reward posters and the newspaper articles die down.... I mean, the cops and the guardian angels will forget about these incidences soon enough... it was all demonized after that woman got all scared and wimpy and ran in front of a bus. I mean, she is luck to be alive, but all she can do on the news is talk about 'finding that bastard.' I feel really kind of sorry for the guy who did this, and was surprised, as was M., to hear they have a dog that at least sounds similar to ours.

Anyways, if you have been wondering where I have been... Well, I have been meaning to bring this up.... I mean, this isn't easy for me. I have loved this blog and all. I mean, we went some places, did some things... But, before that... There was, u, cable TV. Okay, cable TV. Then came the dark, dark day when through some fluke the bill was nearly four hundred dollars and the decision was made to let the TV watching go for awhile.... Yea, sure, there have been lots of painting, a years worth of comedy and literary readings and more readers than in years or maybe even ever before, but... Well, we got cable again, and....


So, you know, I'll stop in once in awhile. I mean, you get so you've seen all the movies for that month pretty quick when you do nothing else. And there are only about four to six hours a day that I actually have to watch my shows. I mean, during that time I should be taking advantage of music channels and painting, since it does still pay me money, which these words, however charming and expensively came by, refuse to do... YOU FUCKING BASTARDS AND YOUR WORLD!!!! Uhm, well... So, you know, I got the cable remote in my hand and there is some stuff I want to... Well, to be honest, I just want to flip around awhile, get my bearings back... So, have a good life.




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THE TELLING SCENT OF URINE.

A Tale of Dog Walking In The Big City...

The gorgeous husky, with her perfect markings and apparently smiling white face with sky blue eyes, makes about 30 % of the people we pass smile. The neighborhood is about populate enough that you may or may not walk a couple blocks without meeting anyone. So, saying hello to everyone isn't a problem, like downtown, where people are passing by in mass, and where only a psycho would try to say hello to everyone (for the sake of the honesty that this blog might as well have, if it is to have any meaning at all, I might as well write that yes, I did get drunk and try this, but it was out of love, man... ). Today, I was out with her and we passed this corner where someone was just gardening the hell out of their little patch of earth. Flowers color co-ordinated, stunning... Ruby happily pulls me over to the flowers and shoves her nose into a yellow rose glistening with large, glittering drops of morning dew. A hot youngster all in black with a red baseball cap passes by and laughs, tells me, "I can't believe that dog loves smelling flowers so much. That is so cool."

Naturally smooth dude that I am, I unconsciously caught myself having the impulse to flirt with the girl. After a split second of reflection, I allowed myself the digression, merely for the benefit of the young child's ego, of course, because and let me just state this once more in writing, I will never break the sanctity of my commitment to the woman who pays the bills... That doesn't sound right. I'll have to remember to rewrite this before I put it on the blog, change it to something about my lovely M. Or something.

Anyways, back to my chance encounter with this model level hotster this morning on the street corner, beside the flowers. Once I was in seductive mode, nothing could have stopped me from being charming I suppose. She had just commented on how the dog loved smelling flowers, so I decided to respond, in a confident and somewhat scholarly voice, telling the creamy lass, "No, she is not actually smelling the flowers. Indeed, she is after the wondrously rich scent of urine."

I was about to add how much Ruby could decipher from the scent of urine, but the girl must have been really, really dum or something because she looked at me like I had said something rude, or weird or something, and then just walked off...

That's all.



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.The Elves Attic Live Shows Have Been resurrected. PRAISE DOG!!!!

The Elves Attic Live show has been resurrected. PRAISE DOG!!!!




The cafe where I was holding a literary reading, where I basically read a lot of comedy which got everyone laughing, and a lot of other talented people did their things, closed down and we stopped having our show for awhile.

I miss the scene. One women read chapters from her on going novel about her life with a severely ill child. Another read poems. There was some music. An acapello Doors song that was astoundingly good -- from a drunken lawyer who is one of my most loyal fans and is very cool.

The new show is going to be a little different. I started the old show as a sort of traditional reading but I welcomed any kind of act, where I featured one person or a band, then we took a break and opened up the stage to anything. I always tried to have like twenty minutes worth of material just in case no one showed up, but that never happened.










The new show will emphasize my reading the comedy stories of Johnny Pain. I will go back to the beginning of him in this blog, and read all of his entries. This will all be taped and made available on DVD's... I have all the software to edit the DVD's, so I hopefully those two years of film school taught me something and I can make fun out of the footage. This stuff does make people laugh.

I am not saying this to brag... I am kind of surprised by it. I really was much more into writing serious prose, but then when I started the live show at the same time I started this blog, the comedy got such a good reaction that it kind of took over. I have the drunken georgie boy bush, too... And massah jackoffyhourson. It should be a cool scene. I am kind of the only punkish guy there. If Punk is how my comedy should be defined? I have called the writing different titles in the flyers I passed out all over the neighborhood. I will just make up some temporary definition for the new posters, too, I suppose.



The comedy is serious as hell, I should add, because I am a serious guy... Not morbid or anything, just sort of... Serious.


Ah, the new show . . .



I am going to have bands, a great hip hop guy, Talib, who writes some searing, powerful poetry. The woman I mentioned earlier, who is writing a novel... She may have finished it, but I don't think so? Oh, a lot of people. We will be advertising in the paper in the huge city of Chicago so all kinds of people will show up. Like last time, some will come back and become regulars, etc...

I treat everyone really nicely at these shows, and welcome everyone and kind of make the audience laugh at my little asides between performers. We try to be poet friendly, that was the concept. Because here in Chicago, the Poetry slams began, and they often involve berating the poets and throwing them off stage. I have been in many of them at the place where they started, the green mill. They are mean to the bad poets or anyone who goes on too long. I went on too long once and they started snapping their fingers.,.. But Mark Smith, the host, was into the poem and shushed them. I thought that was very cool. That guy recites poetry at the shows and he is powerful. This goes on every Sunday here in the windy city. I read there when I was thinking I was going to be a poet.
Now I think the poetry was merely good training in how to write power sentences, etc...



I guess this is another one of those entries where I am kind of stepping away from being Johnny Pain and being Scott Ridgway. Scott Ridgway is indeed as pathetic as Johnny Pain, but he is not nearly as funny and interesting. The reason I have not been writing is that I am painting -- and getting some fine results; this new apartment has a sunroom that is my office/studio. It is great. But I promise to come back and be funny again soon.





You know, it's funny... Today went amazingly well for me. I saved like a hundred bucks on something, giving us a bit of extra money, an d then I found out we could do the show at this new cafe, and I spent hours walking the dog and got dragged into lake mich... Did more decorating on the new apartment, hanging pictures and paintings. Today we had cable installed. A big package we are getting cheap for a special. I actually saved some money that I thought I had to spend on that one too. Anyways, the point is that when things really suck I am funny, but when I am all happy and stoned and all, I just want to paint and watch TV and... Just this boring dribble... There is none of the anger.... Righteous indignation... None of the 'my sense of justice is wronged... No one I want to fight... Etc...

I loved today, when a lot of cool things fell into place, and I finished a great (for me) painting ( and have three more I am getting going, and another that is almost done). I keep saying I will get more drawings and the new paintings in here. Saturday I may actually do so... The drawings are very intricate, and will become large paintings... I mean huge... You will see what I mean when you see them. The problem is that I just moved, and cannot find the cord to attach the phone to the damn computer, so I have to go to a friend's' with a similar camera and... A hassle.




Well, on this day of peace, where I walked around the neighborhood all day doing various little chores, the dog at my side, cheerily saying hello to everyone I met, I am blathering.... People usually smile and say hi back. It is something M. And I do as part of our revolution -- we say hello to everyone we pass... Well, at least out in the neighborhoods. Downtown is a different matter, of course. But I walk past people mostly in the park across the street, or on the beach, but also on the streets. I once said hello to this guy as I left to walk the dog, and when I came back he was still there. He told me that he was locked out and having this shitty day and was feeling like hell, but when I said hello to him, he kind of just felt better... Interesting. Some people ignore me. Real cute girls sometimes think I am hitting on them and ignore me. I understand. I hate being seen as prey, too.




Sorry to be so fucking boring. Don't worry, my life will suck again at any second, certainly before the end of the weekend some crises will come up... Dog only knows...




So, hey, did you know that looking at bright colors sets off chemicals in your brain that make you happy? This is why I started painting in the first place, and part of why people get so addicted to doing it. I recommend painting very highly. Just read some books and play around, you will probably be surprised by how good you are. People are always making decisions about colors and stuff with clothes, etc.. So they unconsciously already have a lot of the training that goes into making a pleasing composition with the colors...




Enough of this fucking prattle. Have a good night. No guarantees on tomorrow though... None at all...

HOW TO DATE, MARRY, GET SHOT, STABBED..

Not that I am anyone your parents would want you listening to, but this is me preaching none the less. This is the secret of life, okay? Here is what you do: Find another inmate in the asylum who has a form of madness you can live with.

In my thirties, this changed a bit to only sleep with women you will marry. As soon as I learned this trick , another quickly followed: which is putting up with living with someone who is basically insane and gets to yell at me all she wants and I can not, in any way, smack the shit out of her. When I went looking for M. , I told myself that I would only date women I could marry; luck and a very specific ad in an alternative newspaper, helped, too.

I do love her in better and worse, and she loves me the same way. That is a damn fine feeling, having a woman at your back (as long she isn't stabbing you, which will happen, because they are nuts and you just have to deal with this like an intern at a psycho ward--- it helps to always tell them they are right, over and over).




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i AM SO FUCKING PATHETIC

What the hell am I doing sitting around thinking about sodomizing various rodents and plants? Like most people, I often ask myself this question. And like most others as well, too, I know there are no easy answers as to why sodomy, rodents, and squash are just so damned funny to me. I'll tell ya though, confidentially speaking, I fear that down this road is no Hemingway like adulation, nor even a Grisham who weathers the literary storm of the critics as he merrily laughs all the way to the bank. . . no, no... this just makes me weirder than before. The older I get the more creepy it will be. I'll get busted for hanging out in pet stores playing pocket pool in front of an aisle prominently advertised as the hamster hutch. I'll claim the young girl clerks excited me, and the cops will play along to keep the conversation from even going near what I like to think of as 'the exotic scent of man rodent love.'


I guess this is about as close as I can get to expressing my fucked up moods lately. I feel adrift, like an astronaut on a permanent space walk with only a slight, tenous rope keeping me from spinning off into the cold, distant stars. The rope would of course be made of hemp. I worked all day writing a stupid comedy story for in here, than on a drawing which is easily another one of the best I have done (I recently had a big break through in drawing and took my shading to a whole nother level; not that this means I suck any less over all).
I truly feel like a failure most of the time. This is a sign of sanity, I suppose, as much as anything else... or as close as I am likely to get to one.

Oh, go put it in a sock with some vasoline and have your way with yourself. Then die in the act, so from this day forward all will scoff and chortle at the mention of your disgraced name. Or buy a hat?

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NEVER TRY TO BE YOUR OWN LAWYER WHEN YOU ARE FIGHTING VEGETABLE MOLESTATION CHARGES. SERIOUSLY, DON'T DO IT.

VEGETABLE MOLESTATION CHARGES. SERIOUSLY, DON'T DO IT.

I held up the small, dark green squash for the jury to see. For the past three hours they had heard some pretty revolting (to some) testimony about me, and now was my turn to launch a brilliant defense and bring them back into my fold. "Some see only a vegetable here. Me, I see ... Well, nothing erotic, like most people would". For some reason, this made one of the jury women kind of scow?

"Now, Me," I continued, "I have no use for this squash. None. Especially at this temperature. Room temp. or better is the general rule when boffing a veg, as I have heard from others. But me? No, I merely see food. It is them, those who oppress me, who are actually guilty here. They have this need to sex up cute young vegetables and . . . "




The judge interrupted at this point, telling me, "Johnny, stop rubbing yourself with the squash or I am going to have the bailiff take it out back and smash it." That judge, he was one mean bastard.




I really tried to stop rubbing that vegetable on my crotch, but it was just... A very difficult time to stop, and when I explained this to the judge, he yelled, "Mr. Pain, you have now lost the right to bring any more vegetables into this court. Now, or forever. Bailiff, take that squash from this sick bastard."





I wanted to be all non chalant about handing over the squash, because I didn't care, really, what happened to a squash -- let alone one that was much colder than room temperature. Even then, I am afraid as I started to hand over the squash, I accidentally let loose with a kind of cry of pain, or something. To be honest, though in a purely platonic way, I had grown close to that plucky little squash. Any one would have. That one was special. I guess then there was some chasing around in the courtroom. Someone was held down and forced to give up a true friend. And all during this, the judge was all, "Hit that bastard!! Knock him into next week!!" So I finally just turned that little queen over to the bailiff. . . . And I haven't seen her since.




Once everything settled down, I continued my defense with, "Some vegetables really want it." Looking the various jury members in their eyes as I spoke, I added, "We've all seen the come hither look of a summer squash, once in awhile, from time to time."




The prosecutor objected, and that damn judge goes, "Sustained!! You even go there, Pain, and I will jail you for contempt of court. Which I just may do anyways. Just for damn hell of it. I despise you that much."




"Okay," I went on, "Let's all try to remember -- as if any could forget, that glorious, glorious day that comes after thanksgiving and well before christmas, when the halloween pumpkins are all thrown out... who hasn't marveled at how the alley ways are transformed into almost surreally erotic walks of delight."




Then the judge just wouldn't let me talk anymore. I don't think that was legal, but he says it was, along with hitting me with that little hammer of his. I really think it prejudiced my case when he had the jury hold me down so he could hit me with his little judicial club. Anyways, the sentencing comes next week... or not.
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GOD HATES ME. ME, SPECIFICALLY.

God has had it in for me forever. I mean, he hated me before I was even born.... He knew I would have a relationship with Jesus that would end bad. God is one mean, snide old bastard. He gets off on that shit.

Now he has given me a bunch of hamsters, all who seem -- surprise, surprise -- to be lacking in the skills that hamsters are famous for, like hand to hand combat...

You know, God told me once, when he was in one of his 'holier than thou' moods, that he does indeed know where every sparrow falls and all that shit, but he hates most of them, and is secretly glad their lives are over, so he can quit pretending he loves them.

He makes no pretense toward liking the angels who make their way through the pearly gates. No. He just kind of listens to whatever you say, then throws up some stupid pseudo psychological euphamism like, "Ask a cloud, my son, and remain quiet for ten years."






God first mounted me when I was five years old. I was sleeping in my parents bed, in between them, and I woke up and could not get my legs to work. My lower half had just stopped working. Scary stuff. This went on for a year. Yea, that old bastard had those nurses stabbing me with huge needles that seemed about the size of jack hammers in my memory. Of course, he put me in a poor family out in the middle of bum fuck, and then he gave me a brain that has about as much chance of living a normal life as a toad has of becoming a mercedes (Inever claimed to write great metaphors, alright?).

At eighteen, the bastard struck again. First he cursed me with alcoholism, thinking that would keep jesus away from me... he is always trying to change the future, but he is as trapped as us, I guess. That's what pisses him off the most... he lost the ability to be surprised or filled with wonder and all that kind of rainbow colored unicorn crap. Talk about a cynic. His little creatures just disappointed the hell out of him, of course. Not all animals -- he was quite pleased wih Kiwis.

Anyways, while I was in treatment for drinking, I met a girl whose mother introduced us . . . a pretty little princess who I ended up marrying, just two years before she had her coming out party as a lesbian. I could have saved the matrriage but that surgery was just a bit much. I like my penis. My penis is my freind and yours.


Yeah, that God, had to curse me for all eternity. The evidence is so clear. I mean, once I even walked in on him and Jesus when they were talking and overheard God say, "I think you should break up with him. He's trouble. Forsake him. Forsake him I say!! If you want, I can curse the hell out of him?"


That's when they noticed me and kind of stared down into their whisky glasses (of course they are drunks, we are made in their image, you know) and after a few minutes of quiet they changed the subject to sports or something.




Anyways, back to this curse....

At eighteen, the height of my sexual potency, he made my spine fall apart and a body caste my second skin for a year. Picture a long haired turle. By the time this little curse ended, I weighed a hundred and twenty pounds and needed narcotics so bad that I cried when I was taken off of them... that masochistic freak just loves my pain, too -- he has this whole Job rap about my suffering, but he can barely say his with a straight face.

After this, then the silly marriage... something remarkable happened.... I figured I must have gotten drunk and said a prayer or something, because he pretty much left me alone all through my late twenties and thirties. While I was going on my forever journey through college, I really thought I was finally getting somewhere... but, no . . . That God, he is smart, and so he waited until I was one class away from graduating, then he reached into my spine and crushed two vertebrates so badly that the nerves are constantly on fire. Now I am always, 24 7, in pain bad enough to make you puke. And the future holds more and more knives cutting into my flesh.

God has a very strange sense of humor based on tricking people. I once saw him kill three babies for a practical joke on the parents and the doctors. He laughed maniacally at that. The angels are no better. None of them really like humans. Our name, in their language, roughly translates into 'Those Who Excrete Shit All The Time.' They don't want people to know this, but hell, they're just going to have to deal.

I learned a lot when I was dating Jesus. Went to their house for dinner and all. Angels were serving us and one of them dropped a glass of water and jesus was all like, "You are going to hell for that, bitch. I hope you learn to like hot posers in your ass, for your sake."



I tried to intervene, "Hey, where's your forgiveness man? Didn't you ever work in the service industry?"



This made them both laugh. Then god said, "Jesus work? Yea, right... a long, haired peacenik work? Hell no. I asked him to give an extra fin to the puff fish, a light blue one, and he puts it off all fucking week, says he is 'dealing with sins and shit.''

Jesus raised his hands and goes, "It is done."

I guess that was all it took to make the fin,but afterwards jesus did look kind of exhausted. Hell, I bet he couldn't run around the block without divine intervention. He smoke 96 packs of cigarettes a day, and only lord knows how much weed -- he rolls these huge bombs and hangs out down by he pearly gates greeting stoners. People think he is being followed by a miraculous cloud, but no, that is just the weed and cigs. This is the kind of thing that made me fall for him, before I knew he was a lying war monger.

I am sure god is reading this over my shoulder -- jesus too. They have no boundaries when it comes to looking at other people and reading their thoughts. I think this is something they use in indecent ways that violate any little bit of privacy you think you have. I mean, Jesus was always using his x ray vision to check out hot bods (he swings both ways of course, and sometimes he would tell me the penis sizes of all the men walking by -- and it was true, the ones who dressed the best had the smallest peckers). He can always tell fake boobs though, and this is good because I hate the way those fake ones feel.




Some days I think it would be better to die than have to take all these pills and suffer all this pain. Who wouldn't? I am totally worthless as a human being. This is because I am crippled, mostly. I guess a lot of writers fight these darker ghosts. Everyone wakes up and wonders if the pain of another day is worth trudging through, and even writing this is whiny. But I wasn't kidding, god does hate me specically. I broke up with his son who is so 'perfect' and all. Well, fuck those deities. Fuck them with satan's long, hard one...







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