Mostly I am on my other blog lately, http://theelvesattic.blogspot.com and my site where I am pounding out my late3st book, http://wakingupjesus.blogspot.com
you slaughtered
the me with you
the only me I knew
there was always another you
for someone else
that you hid away
a flicker of emotions
from the genes
takes me where angels
fear to tread
my survival instinct
became embodied in that smile
we find the silver lining -- it looks dead grey, at first
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
PERSONA NON GRATA
"HARFILDOOP, eh? Changing jobs is it, then?" The older man squinted a bit as he looked him over, then smiled kindly and motioned toward the wooden chair in front of his desk. He was wearing the typical office outfit of a tie, shirt, dress pants and shoes.
"No, sir. I had a fall, head injury. Since then... well, it was recommended to me that I overlay my last programming again." Harfildoop lied.
He was in a great hall in the Receiving Area,tucked into a small cubicle with just enough room for a wooden desk and a chair for visitors. Visitors had to be led in and out of the maze of cubicles and desks. The building was over a four blocks long and absolutly stuffed with brown room dividers. All of the administrators looked the same in this deparment -- programmed as they were, to be kindly administrators filled genuine concern for the people they deal with.
He is surrounded by hundreds of other workers who are being reassigned the personality best suited for their new jobs. To be fair, everyone had to change jobs every three years -- otherwise no one would do the menial labor. One could buy ones way out of this, like one could almost anything in Trumpville.
Everyone was programmed to love their job, no matter how menial. He has gone along with the system since his birth, for over three hundred years, and had no idea there was a choice -- until the rebels programmed him to join their cause...
The administrator laughed and told him, "Oh,
"Well, that sounds very easy, doesn't it? Okay, yes, i would recommend a full memory dip, destroy any last vertiges of your subjective experiences. Any phobias developed since your last personality adjustment?"
"No, sir... well, wait no... have I always had the rat thing?"
"Well, I'll check on that. Can't be having you fear rats out in space, eh? No getting rid of them buggers. No matter where humans go, we bring them fucking rats."
"Really?"
"Well, I like to think so. Love rats, myself. Real troopers, they are. Okay, I have everything we need to input your data. Have a seat over there, and as soon as we have the new you programmed, we'll bring you in."
"
Of course."
Harfildoop looked nervously about the room; the tranquil blue color was designed to make him sleepy, and usually did, when he was changing jobs and needed his personalty adjusted. Personality reconstruction was required, though it hardly had to be -- who would want a personality ill suited for their job?
People once had done something like that, had to work at jobs they hated -- he remembered as much from ancient history. Humans were miserable until psychiatry matured enough to provide relief of the mental anguishes, both large and small, that had been man's lot since they were ooze.
The personality overlays had never been a problem for him before. They usually inserted enthusiam for the next job into the personality, so he was always happy, in fact. He had always accepted that his tastes changed, and his ideas were those that best suited being in harmony with geographical area, as determined by the computers and then injected into him through drug induced hynosis, and mild, very selective, electric shock. He had never cared that he was changed into something else... or he thought that he didn't. Now that he knew they were making people to run machines, that they were all part of a mind numbing religious beuracracy that was entrenched world wide, he was ready to do what he could for mankind, as the machine trained them. All personalities were willing to sacrifice to save the Trump Empire.
Now he wanted to stay who he was. There was a woman who he did not want to forget. She was programmed for him, and he for her.
He slides his hand into his suit coat pocket, feels around for the detonator... puts his index finger on the button. . . he breaths in deep, as his lungs expand he feels the bomb belt pushing hard against his ribs. A terrorist? At first, before the overlay was complete, he had been so damned surprised. The resistance was hacking into the personality reconstruction site, and they gave him a personality meant to thrill at the thought of fighting and love explosions -- convincing him to blow up the Personality Processors....
He didn't like the idea of killing his agent, the more he thought about, the more he realized that he did not want anyone dead.
He had never felt like he had a choice until right then. . . he had never tried to deny a personality trait, in fact he had always encouraged them, of course -- they were expensive, after all. But now... he did not want to die.
Two months ago, he reported for new work assignment, and was excited to see that he was going to get to go off planet to help mine an asteroid belt out near Venus. He did his paperwork, then went down to get his personality traits. He was going to be amiable for awhile, which he liked. Management types had to be hard asses sometimes, and he was no better than anyone else, so he had to play the asshole sometimes...Everything that day was normal until he went under... he layed down on a slab of steel covered in a white sheet, and then the slab pulled back into the machine, into a steel tunnel leading into the mettalic bowels; a very small space that seems to wrap around him like a fist.
The usual images that flooded the mind were benign, comfortable. This time the images were horrifying, showing the outers, the ones living in the radioactive dust beyond the Trump Ecosphere. Horrifying babies born with grotesque arms and heads growing out of their stomachs, four eyes, six arms... all dead...dead... probably killed. He had known next to nothing about the outers; knew just what his various personalities needed to use his best work years for the good of all. He had always believed that they wanted to live outer, but now he knew better. Now he has met with them, in the months since his personality changed into code name Praxis.
They are new at making terrorists. Made mistakes with him. For the first time in his existence, he felt free will. He had no idea such a thing existed until his last overlay. Now it seemed precious somehow. He didn't want another personality to posses him that has no free will -- in fact he would not even know the term, since the computer would consider such knowledge 'Socially Disruptive.'
He thought, 'at least I'll never have to be a plumber again, or anyone else who loves the smell of shit. . . god, I seemed to hate that even though I loved it. Weird.'
He knew that there were nine terrorists, one at every center in the city. The timing was exact, and the routine at such places never erred. They would all be sitting, waiting for the computer to put together a program for their next life. Everyone in their place, tucked into the small island of humanity that is left here in what was the United States. Almost ten million people.
He looks out into the hall, at the garbage can with the nuclear bomb. He had not known they still existed until the machine inserted the how to into his brain.
Now he hated everything the unholy temple stood for - making men into machines serving a mindless system that goes on of its own accord . . . a mental disease, and he was the cure.
Around his was a world that he was about to help destroy. . . . 'whoever programmed me as a terrorist had to be among the ruling thirty,' he thinks.
They were the consensus voters on all new personality adjustments. Their job was to keep mankind moral through deep psychological training. One of them had decided that the only moral thing to do was destroy the tools of the system. Someone would build more personality adjusters, of course. The resistance planned to strike fast, before the machines could start producing the mercilous soldiers that they create as needed.
The agent will be gone for up to a half an hour; the apparatus of the programmer was so cost prohibitive that their clinic was forced to share nine of them.
Plenty of time for him to find his way out of the building, to somewhere safe. He was detonating the bomb through a cell phone, and could set it off from the other side of the world if he wanted.
He thinks, 'No one is to blame.' He could see the system now with new eyes, comprehend how it just went on and on unchallanged; it could not be defeated without the bombs... he was sure of it...
A fog was lifting from his mind. The rebels told him that they had enhanced his intelligence, sight, smell and sense of touch. They were trying to make what they called 'great men and women.'
There were no great men anymore. Great men cause trouble. The histories dismissed them as narcisstic users.
Now the rebels were making them again. His conditioning had him convinced that their cause would win and that he would be a martyr welcomed in heaven with laurels and song. . .
He looks out of the cubicle, and seeing no one, he begins to make his way toward the door, following red arrows on the floor. He thinks maybe he will leave the building, and then detonate the bomb. He has to ask three people for directions on his way out.
He finally makes it to the revolving glass doors, pushes his way in, begins to come out the other side. A black shape appears in his periphery vision, then there is pain in his chest, like someone has punched him hard as hell. Another knife stabbed deep into his back, through his ribs into his heart... they were stabbing him again, and again.... Someone reaches into his pocket and finds the detonator. He recognizes his killer. A woman from the resistance. They had sent her as back up... in case he did what he did.
He wishes like hell the machine had never made him a terrorist... longs for a quiet, peaceful life. As his slows, he closes his eyes and thinks, 'death feels just like falling into a nice deep sleep. That's a fucking relief. I thought this was going to be so. . . . .'
The blast throws him through the air, across the plaze in front of the building, into the glass window of a bank kitty corner from the administrations building. The thick glass holds firm, breaking most in his body -- though he could care less, since he was already dead.
===========================================
THE ABOVE IS A TRUE STORY. I knew old 'Hard on Hardy,' in college. Weird that he went to live in the future and all, but hey -- who am I to criticize the guy? I suck.
"No, sir. I had a fall, head injury. Since then... well, it was recommended to me that I overlay my last programming again." Harfildoop lied.
He was in a great hall in the Receiving Area,tucked into a small cubicle with just enough room for a wooden desk and a chair for visitors. Visitors had to be led in and out of the maze of cubicles and desks. The building was over a four blocks long and absolutly stuffed with brown room dividers. All of the administrators looked the same in this deparment -- programmed as they were, to be kindly administrators filled genuine concern for the people they deal with.
He is surrounded by hundreds of other workers who are being reassigned the personality best suited for their new jobs. To be fair, everyone had to change jobs every three years -- otherwise no one would do the menial labor. One could buy ones way out of this, like one could almost anything in Trumpville.
Everyone was programmed to love their job, no matter how menial. He has gone along with the system since his birth, for over three hundred years, and had no idea there was a choice -- until the rebels programmed him to join their cause...
The administrator laughed and told him, "Oh,
"Well, that sounds very easy, doesn't it? Okay, yes, i would recommend a full memory dip, destroy any last vertiges of your subjective experiences. Any phobias developed since your last personality adjustment?"
"No, sir... well, wait no... have I always had the rat thing?"
"Well, I'll check on that. Can't be having you fear rats out in space, eh? No getting rid of them buggers. No matter where humans go, we bring them fucking rats."
"Really?"
"Well, I like to think so. Love rats, myself. Real troopers, they are. Okay, I have everything we need to input your data. Have a seat over there, and as soon as we have the new you programmed, we'll bring you in."
"
Of course."
Harfildoop looked nervously about the room; the tranquil blue color was designed to make him sleepy, and usually did, when he was changing jobs and needed his personalty adjusted. Personality reconstruction was required, though it hardly had to be -- who would want a personality ill suited for their job?
People once had done something like that, had to work at jobs they hated -- he remembered as much from ancient history. Humans were miserable until psychiatry matured enough to provide relief of the mental anguishes, both large and small, that had been man's lot since they were ooze.
The personality overlays had never been a problem for him before. They usually inserted enthusiam for the next job into the personality, so he was always happy, in fact. He had always accepted that his tastes changed, and his ideas were those that best suited being in harmony with geographical area, as determined by the computers and then injected into him through drug induced hynosis, and mild, very selective, electric shock. He had never cared that he was changed into something else... or he thought that he didn't. Now that he knew they were making people to run machines, that they were all part of a mind numbing religious beuracracy that was entrenched world wide, he was ready to do what he could for mankind, as the machine trained them. All personalities were willing to sacrifice to save the Trump Empire.
Now he wanted to stay who he was. There was a woman who he did not want to forget. She was programmed for him, and he for her.
He slides his hand into his suit coat pocket, feels around for the detonator... puts his index finger on the button. . . he breaths in deep, as his lungs expand he feels the bomb belt pushing hard against his ribs. A terrorist? At first, before the overlay was complete, he had been so damned surprised. The resistance was hacking into the personality reconstruction site, and they gave him a personality meant to thrill at the thought of fighting and love explosions -- convincing him to blow up the Personality Processors....
He didn't like the idea of killing his agent, the more he thought about, the more he realized that he did not want anyone dead.
He had never felt like he had a choice until right then. . . he had never tried to deny a personality trait, in fact he had always encouraged them, of course -- they were expensive, after all. But now... he did not want to die.
Two months ago, he reported for new work assignment, and was excited to see that he was going to get to go off planet to help mine an asteroid belt out near Venus. He did his paperwork, then went down to get his personality traits. He was going to be amiable for awhile, which he liked. Management types had to be hard asses sometimes, and he was no better than anyone else, so he had to play the asshole sometimes...Everything that day was normal until he went under... he layed down on a slab of steel covered in a white sheet, and then the slab pulled back into the machine, into a steel tunnel leading into the mettalic bowels; a very small space that seems to wrap around him like a fist.
The usual images that flooded the mind were benign, comfortable. This time the images were horrifying, showing the outers, the ones living in the radioactive dust beyond the Trump Ecosphere. Horrifying babies born with grotesque arms and heads growing out of their stomachs, four eyes, six arms... all dead...dead... probably killed. He had known next to nothing about the outers; knew just what his various personalities needed to use his best work years for the good of all. He had always believed that they wanted to live outer, but now he knew better. Now he has met with them, in the months since his personality changed into code name Praxis.
They are new at making terrorists. Made mistakes with him. For the first time in his existence, he felt free will. He had no idea such a thing existed until his last overlay. Now it seemed precious somehow. He didn't want another personality to posses him that has no free will -- in fact he would not even know the term, since the computer would consider such knowledge 'Socially Disruptive.'
He thought, 'at least I'll never have to be a plumber again, or anyone else who loves the smell of shit. . . god, I seemed to hate that even though I loved it. Weird.'
He knew that there were nine terrorists, one at every center in the city. The timing was exact, and the routine at such places never erred. They would all be sitting, waiting for the computer to put together a program for their next life. Everyone in their place, tucked into the small island of humanity that is left here in what was the United States. Almost ten million people.
He looks out into the hall, at the garbage can with the nuclear bomb. He had not known they still existed until the machine inserted the how to into his brain.
Now he hated everything the unholy temple stood for - making men into machines serving a mindless system that goes on of its own accord . . . a mental disease, and he was the cure.
Around his was a world that he was about to help destroy. . . . 'whoever programmed me as a terrorist had to be among the ruling thirty,' he thinks.
They were the consensus voters on all new personality adjustments. Their job was to keep mankind moral through deep psychological training. One of them had decided that the only moral thing to do was destroy the tools of the system. Someone would build more personality adjusters, of course. The resistance planned to strike fast, before the machines could start producing the mercilous soldiers that they create as needed.
The agent will be gone for up to a half an hour; the apparatus of the programmer was so cost prohibitive that their clinic was forced to share nine of them.
Plenty of time for him to find his way out of the building, to somewhere safe. He was detonating the bomb through a cell phone, and could set it off from the other side of the world if he wanted.
He thinks, 'No one is to blame.' He could see the system now with new eyes, comprehend how it just went on and on unchallanged; it could not be defeated without the bombs... he was sure of it...
A fog was lifting from his mind. The rebels told him that they had enhanced his intelligence, sight, smell and sense of touch. They were trying to make what they called 'great men and women.'
There were no great men anymore. Great men cause trouble. The histories dismissed them as narcisstic users.
Now the rebels were making them again. His conditioning had him convinced that their cause would win and that he would be a martyr welcomed in heaven with laurels and song. . .
He looks out of the cubicle, and seeing no one, he begins to make his way toward the door, following red arrows on the floor. He thinks maybe he will leave the building, and then detonate the bomb. He has to ask three people for directions on his way out.
He finally makes it to the revolving glass doors, pushes his way in, begins to come out the other side. A black shape appears in his periphery vision, then there is pain in his chest, like someone has punched him hard as hell. Another knife stabbed deep into his back, through his ribs into his heart... they were stabbing him again, and again.... Someone reaches into his pocket and finds the detonator. He recognizes his killer. A woman from the resistance. They had sent her as back up... in case he did what he did.
He wishes like hell the machine had never made him a terrorist... longs for a quiet, peaceful life. As his slows, he closes his eyes and thinks, 'death feels just like falling into a nice deep sleep. That's a fucking relief. I thought this was going to be so. . . . .'
The blast throws him through the air, across the plaze in front of the building, into the glass window of a bank kitty corner from the administrations building. The thick glass holds firm, breaking most in his body -- though he could care less, since he was already dead.
===========================================
THE ABOVE IS A TRUE STORY. I knew old 'Hard on Hardy,' in college. Weird that he went to live in the future and all, but hey -- who am I to criticize the guy? I suck.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
what u doin? me? killin', you know, just killin'. . .
I woke up this morning thinking, "Damn, I'm in the mood to fucking kill those assholes protesting abortions."
We stretched a bit, soon enough sat up, drowsily creeping toward our first cups of coffee. I told M, " The fucking government should give us psycho killer's a license, okay? To fucking kill those assholes protesting abortions."
By this time -- that being mere seconds since the little death with dreams dropped away, as I opened passed into another pointless day, M., the weekend pot head, was handing me a bowl and simply ignoring what I had said, like she tends to do when the conversation gets too weird for her. Once, when my mom was talking about all the people she tortured, M. broke into an anecdote and tried to get everyone to start talking about my paintings. My family just quieted for a moment as they all kind of looked at M. with what used to be called the evil eye... I had to cock my shotgun at that point, let that 'cha-ching' tell my family that I was keeping thier asses covered when they are near me and mine. I also hide a few claymores under thier chairs, all wired to an apparatus I have hidden under my shirt sleeve, on my forearm. These are the same babies I use in the front yard, where some say that they have led to the mysterious disappearences of hundreds of door to door salespeople? Now, me, I don't know if this is true, or not... in fact, the whole not incriminating myself thing is something I really need to keep in mind while I am typoing away in here.
I was wearing full body armor during this family gathering, and still wishing like hell, every time by bum leg hurts -- which is every time I take a step, that I had been all armored out during the New Years Mayhem, as the papers called Dad's party. I guess we just drove around in a limo shooting people who were wearing furs... I mean, we may kill, my family, but we have fucking high standards of what is civilized, okay? I mean, we do not kill the working man, or steal from him to support our killing ways, if possible, but there is always going to be some collaterol damage, like civilians getting deep, deadly if not cleaned, ankle scratches from vicious, highly trained hamster troops --- who probably go just plain out blood crazy and don't care whose ankle they assault in battle.
Over all, you could say we are on the side of the underdog, alright? My mom was in the union, where our genetic predisposition toward just cutting down our enemies came in handy, as you can imagine. We actually used to occasionally have to keep a dead body in our freezer, just for a day or so, until a Fixer came in with acid and turned her into what he said was an enviornmentally safe liquid that he pouered into a sewer hole... making me think, I will drink this man into my body sometime....
There are too many people on the planet. Over population could be the death of us all. Something will have to be done. In the case of deer, which are not nearly as ecologically upheaving as humans, there is a license, a season, and lots of laws against breaking these taboos. Why not give psycho killer's a licenses? We could kill all rapists and murderers hands down no exceptions and no apologies accepted -- because if these bastards want to be cold, let's let society be cold right back. Don't let them live. You rape a woman and you are a major freak who needs to die. You molest a kid and you die slow. They could just let loose all the damn prisoners in for these offenses, out into some damn woods, and get this over crowding issue finally dealt with.
Human meat would come into vogue; the skins could be fashionable boots and other fashion excessories. I mean, human testicles could be ground up and sold to chinese peasents as cures for just whatever the hell we decide. Ignorant peasents are easy to dupe. The skin will be make shirts, ottomans's and.... oh, I don't know some kind skimpy skirts... I don't have this quite all worked out yet, but I do have about a dozen notepads filled with tiny letters that constitute my notes on the subject of what will be done with the skin. I for one think burning or burying corpses is a waste of meat, not to mention the skin, which could be used to make inexpensive clothing items and fashion accessories.
T be continued after I hunt down some bums and blast them right off the welfare line and sate my need.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
We stretched a bit, soon enough sat up, drowsily creeping toward our first cups of coffee. I told M, " The fucking government should give us psycho killer's a license, okay? To fucking kill those assholes protesting abortions."
By this time -- that being mere seconds since the little death with dreams dropped away, as I opened passed into another pointless day, M., the weekend pot head, was handing me a bowl and simply ignoring what I had said, like she tends to do when the conversation gets too weird for her. Once, when my mom was talking about all the people she tortured, M. broke into an anecdote and tried to get everyone to start talking about my paintings. My family just quieted for a moment as they all kind of looked at M. with what used to be called the evil eye... I had to cock my shotgun at that point, let that 'cha-ching' tell my family that I was keeping thier asses covered when they are near me and mine. I also hide a few claymores under thier chairs, all wired to an apparatus I have hidden under my shirt sleeve, on my forearm. These are the same babies I use in the front yard, where some say that they have led to the mysterious disappearences of hundreds of door to door salespeople? Now, me, I don't know if this is true, or not... in fact, the whole not incriminating myself thing is something I really need to keep in mind while I am typoing away in here.
I was wearing full body armor during this family gathering, and still wishing like hell, every time by bum leg hurts -- which is every time I take a step, that I had been all armored out during the New Years Mayhem, as the papers called Dad's party. I guess we just drove around in a limo shooting people who were wearing furs... I mean, we may kill, my family, but we have fucking high standards of what is civilized, okay? I mean, we do not kill the working man, or steal from him to support our killing ways, if possible, but there is always going to be some collaterol damage, like civilians getting deep, deadly if not cleaned, ankle scratches from vicious, highly trained hamster troops --- who probably go just plain out blood crazy and don't care whose ankle they assault in battle.
Over all, you could say we are on the side of the underdog, alright? My mom was in the union, where our genetic predisposition toward just cutting down our enemies came in handy, as you can imagine. We actually used to occasionally have to keep a dead body in our freezer, just for a day or so, until a Fixer came in with acid and turned her into what he said was an enviornmentally safe liquid that he pouered into a sewer hole... making me think, I will drink this man into my body sometime....
There are too many people on the planet. Over population could be the death of us all. Something will have to be done. In the case of deer, which are not nearly as ecologically upheaving as humans, there is a license, a season, and lots of laws against breaking these taboos. Why not give psycho killer's a licenses? We could kill all rapists and murderers hands down no exceptions and no apologies accepted -- because if these bastards want to be cold, let's let society be cold right back. Don't let them live. You rape a woman and you are a major freak who needs to die. You molest a kid and you die slow. They could just let loose all the damn prisoners in for these offenses, out into some damn woods, and get this over crowding issue finally dealt with.
Human meat would come into vogue; the skins could be fashionable boots and other fashion excessories. I mean, human testicles could be ground up and sold to chinese peasents as cures for just whatever the hell we decide. Ignorant peasents are easy to dupe. The skin will be make shirts, ottomans's and.... oh, I don't know some kind skimpy skirts... I don't have this quite all worked out yet, but I do have about a dozen notepads filled with tiny letters that constitute my notes on the subject of what will be done with the skin. I for one think burning or burying corpses is a waste of meat, not to mention the skin, which could be used to make inexpensive clothing items and fashion accessories.
T be continued after I hunt down some bums and blast them right off the welfare line and sate my need.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
SONGS FOR THE DEAD
Fuck you
one and all
I will die
before I let you
chain me to your ignorance
never meant to make you do
any more than think
to unbridle
your ideas from emotions
debating
out a consensus
is not for you
i know
not for you
been to swamps
and mountaintops
ran with the madmen
and theives
seen the saints and sinners
the women who please
never found nothing
not one damn thing
in all that mystic wandering
pledged alliegance to women
states of mind
told myself I was different
then that I was just acting in kind
screams of the anguished
fill my mind
confusion my patron saint
no absolutes reign in this state
I tend to stay
in the statistical middle
of opinions and powers
I go along and at worst look dour
no one cares to hear my whines
no one will do what I say
They won't stay if you cry
They will banish you
from their life
and thoughts
replace your memory
with a monster's mask
someone easy not to miss
sorry to run so far ahead
never meant to lose touch
I'll live as I please
dance sometimes
sometimes seeth
slouching through the room
insolent and cold
inhuman
I'll take your tears
and fears
and all that is dear
toss that shit
into a deep mud puddle
and just walk away
fuck you and your values
you're too dense
to see under the surface
a tiny bit
of an inch
I'm not going to be held prisoner
chained
to your dead head
will not be held back
by you
no more
I will smile cold and dispassionate
slice open your jugular
and feel your bloods' warmth
splash on my face
drive nails into your
hands and feet
cut your brow
with a crown of thorns
whatever . . . it . . . takes . . .
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
one and all
I will die
before I let you
chain me to your ignorance
never meant to make you do
any more than think
to unbridle
your ideas from emotions
debating
out a consensus
is not for you
i know
not for you
been to swamps
and mountaintops
ran with the madmen
and theives
seen the saints and sinners
the women who please
never found nothing
not one damn thing
in all that mystic wandering
pledged alliegance to women
states of mind
told myself I was different
then that I was just acting in kind
screams of the anguished
fill my mind
confusion my patron saint
no absolutes reign in this state
I tend to stay
in the statistical middle
of opinions and powers
I go along and at worst look dour
no one cares to hear my whines
no one will do what I say
They won't stay if you cry
They will banish you
from their life
and thoughts
replace your memory
with a monster's mask
someone easy not to miss
sorry to run so far ahead
never meant to lose touch
I'll live as I please
dance sometimes
sometimes seeth
slouching through the room
insolent and cold
inhuman
I'll take your tears
and fears
and all that is dear
toss that shit
into a deep mud puddle
and just walk away
fuck you and your values
you're too dense
to see under the surface
a tiny bit
of an inch
I'm not going to be held prisoner
chained
to your dead head
will not be held back
by you
no more
I will smile cold and dispassionate
slice open your jugular
and feel your bloods' warmth
splash on my face
drive nails into your
hands and feet
cut your brow
with a crown of thorns
whatever . . . it . . . takes . . .
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
franklins long long life
Franklin looked over the knick knacks of his life and noticed himself staring out. He sat back in the chair, pushed away from his desk, looked at the pictures neatly laid out before him, the grey stapler, the computer monitor, the chipped cup filled with pens and pencils; and realized, in a manner deep and profound to him, that these disposable trinkets were really the sum of him; the numbers in the equation of his life.
He looked up on the beige walls of his cubicle, at the plaques that he had received over the years commending him for making the various sales quota's, and such; the largest of them was for never using a sick day, for which he also received a nice bonus. Back then he thought that he could drag himself to work with the plague if he had to. Just then, however, nothing in his life motivated him to go on.
His attendence record was destroyed after he ignored searing pains in his side and his apendix burst. His lawyer had wanted him to sue, and somehow the company caught wind of that and cancelled all bonuses based on attendence as a pre-emptive measure, making him quite unpopular with some of the long term enployees who used to go on their vacations each year on the bonus. Most of them had to quit vacationing, he included. Not that he would have done anymore than get drunk on cheap beer and watch movies.
After his apendix exploded in his gut, he caught numerous infections, and ended up having to lay in the hospital for almost two months. Laying in the metallic grey and white room in his paper pj.'s with nothing around him to remind him of who he was, he had felt the same sense of loss that was sweeping through him that morning and convincing him that his life was falling apart. Before the hospital, eight o clock meant this job, nine that one... there was a purpose to his existence, even if it was just making him money he did not even neccessarily need anymore. With no office to go to, he became that sterile, lysol scented room... a creature that he did not recognize. A thing that ate and spewed, ate and spewed.
Whittlecuts comes by his cubicle, nods politely. Frank nod's back. In the office, everyone knew their place, he liked to say. Middle mangement made him basically the boss of most people in the company. He would never be made the head of the company, or ever really listened to in the important meetings. He knew this, and was just grateful he had been able to go as far as he did. He had no faith in himself at all. Indeed, he had no self to have faith in. He was merely a sum of what the corporation wanted him to be; from them he got his hair cut, car, manner of speaking, choices of restaurants, where he vacationed --he had become just like the herd of adults that he had despised when he was a kid.
Now looking back, he can see that no one, not one kid he knew., grew up to be the usual answers from kids about what they want to be when they grow up. No firemen, astronauts, presidents or even nurses.
The town he lived in was where he was born and he knew everyone there. Just four hundred people in a small space out in the flat fields of Ohio with huge homes built by McKill's Company, and they all looked the same. Brick red. Period. Every house in the town. The front windows and porches were alleged to be where the houses would all be different. At least that was what the brochure said. They were being careful to sell lots where the buyers could not see anything similar to their house; and no one noticed at first, not with all the tree's that had been planted, as well as the privacy walls up around people's lawns. The price was so good that they sold out in a few days, mostly to realitors. Some had already turned over their properties and gotten rich.
He seems to hear David Byrne singing in his ear, "This is not my beautiful house." It had seemed that way since his wife, Phyllis, passed away. He had come into work just a week after the funeral. That was all his vacation days. They would have gave him a leave of absence, but he had no idea what to do with himself other than cry. With her gone, who he was seems more in question than ever. He liked the person he was with her. She had been enough for him. He was on the sunset side of middle aged, balding and grey and bespeckled... without youthful beauty, he felt barely visible to others. They treated him like an old man. He was more than that. He was once young like the kids in the cubicles on the floor below his, and now was older --having that kind of life knowledge should have made the twenties something kids curious. No. He didn't eat alone because there was always someone else there like him, alone and just eating.
He reaches down and opens the left hand drawer of his desk. His skin looks thin on his aged hands; it is almost transparent, shows his blue veins pulsing underneath. He takes out a hand held recorder and a black .38. He writes on sticky note -- MY LAST WORDS, puts it on the recorder and starts talking. "Hi. Sorry to leave this mess in the office. I had no alternative. I did not want to make my house unlivible for my daughter. My will, made out a few years ago, gives her the house. I am sorry for what I am doing. I left this body long before this, in some ways. Became inhuman in small ways. Stopped seeing the person pouring me coffee in restaurants. Learned to ignore any and all distractions from my purposes in life -- including my children. I gambled that religion and money would see me through anything, but now I know there are no saviors and you can't buy love. That my pain seems endless. I no longer will roll the stone up the mountain, or let any birds eat my organs. That's all folks."
He puts the gun on his temple. Feels the cold circle of the barrel on his warm skin, closes his eyes and squeezes the trigger. Behind his closed eyelids, he sees the bullet hitting the side of his head, smashing through his skull... His head hurts like hell and he is still alive...
He passes out.
Franklin woke up in a hospital where he stayed until he was stable enough to ship to the psychiatric ward. His doctor prescribed Xanax and Prozac. He stayed in the hospital six months, became physically disabled and qualified for two pensions.
The rest of his life he spent seeking out books he loved, vistas in nature, great art... He was his surroundings, that they had said was true in the hospital. For the next thirty years, Frank became something of an eccentric, bought an RV and traveled all year long. He met another woman eventually, and felt grateful to be alive... and almost grateful that he shot himself. He never forgot the day in his cubicle noticing what he had become, and the thought kept him moving from the Niagra falls to the Everglades to the Smoky Mountains and the Pacific ocean. . . and yes, for once in my tales, he lived happily ever after.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
He looked up on the beige walls of his cubicle, at the plaques that he had received over the years commending him for making the various sales quota's, and such; the largest of them was for never using a sick day, for which he also received a nice bonus. Back then he thought that he could drag himself to work with the plague if he had to. Just then, however, nothing in his life motivated him to go on.
His attendence record was destroyed after he ignored searing pains in his side and his apendix burst. His lawyer had wanted him to sue, and somehow the company caught wind of that and cancelled all bonuses based on attendence as a pre-emptive measure, making him quite unpopular with some of the long term enployees who used to go on their vacations each year on the bonus. Most of them had to quit vacationing, he included. Not that he would have done anymore than get drunk on cheap beer and watch movies.
After his apendix exploded in his gut, he caught numerous infections, and ended up having to lay in the hospital for almost two months. Laying in the metallic grey and white room in his paper pj.'s with nothing around him to remind him of who he was, he had felt the same sense of loss that was sweeping through him that morning and convincing him that his life was falling apart. Before the hospital, eight o clock meant this job, nine that one... there was a purpose to his existence, even if it was just making him money he did not even neccessarily need anymore. With no office to go to, he became that sterile, lysol scented room... a creature that he did not recognize. A thing that ate and spewed, ate and spewed.
Whittlecuts comes by his cubicle, nods politely. Frank nod's back. In the office, everyone knew their place, he liked to say. Middle mangement made him basically the boss of most people in the company. He would never be made the head of the company, or ever really listened to in the important meetings. He knew this, and was just grateful he had been able to go as far as he did. He had no faith in himself at all. Indeed, he had no self to have faith in. He was merely a sum of what the corporation wanted him to be; from them he got his hair cut, car, manner of speaking, choices of restaurants, where he vacationed --he had become just like the herd of adults that he had despised when he was a kid.
Now looking back, he can see that no one, not one kid he knew., grew up to be the usual answers from kids about what they want to be when they grow up. No firemen, astronauts, presidents or even nurses.
The town he lived in was where he was born and he knew everyone there. Just four hundred people in a small space out in the flat fields of Ohio with huge homes built by McKill's Company, and they all looked the same. Brick red. Period. Every house in the town. The front windows and porches were alleged to be where the houses would all be different. At least that was what the brochure said. They were being careful to sell lots where the buyers could not see anything similar to their house; and no one noticed at first, not with all the tree's that had been planted, as well as the privacy walls up around people's lawns. The price was so good that they sold out in a few days, mostly to realitors. Some had already turned over their properties and gotten rich.
He seems to hear David Byrne singing in his ear, "This is not my beautiful house." It had seemed that way since his wife, Phyllis, passed away. He had come into work just a week after the funeral. That was all his vacation days. They would have gave him a leave of absence, but he had no idea what to do with himself other than cry. With her gone, who he was seems more in question than ever. He liked the person he was with her. She had been enough for him. He was on the sunset side of middle aged, balding and grey and bespeckled... without youthful beauty, he felt barely visible to others. They treated him like an old man. He was more than that. He was once young like the kids in the cubicles on the floor below his, and now was older --having that kind of life knowledge should have made the twenties something kids curious. No. He didn't eat alone because there was always someone else there like him, alone and just eating.
He reaches down and opens the left hand drawer of his desk. His skin looks thin on his aged hands; it is almost transparent, shows his blue veins pulsing underneath. He takes out a hand held recorder and a black .38. He writes on sticky note -- MY LAST WORDS, puts it on the recorder and starts talking. "Hi. Sorry to leave this mess in the office. I had no alternative. I did not want to make my house unlivible for my daughter. My will, made out a few years ago, gives her the house. I am sorry for what I am doing. I left this body long before this, in some ways. Became inhuman in small ways. Stopped seeing the person pouring me coffee in restaurants. Learned to ignore any and all distractions from my purposes in life -- including my children. I gambled that religion and money would see me through anything, but now I know there are no saviors and you can't buy love. That my pain seems endless. I no longer will roll the stone up the mountain, or let any birds eat my organs. That's all folks."
He puts the gun on his temple. Feels the cold circle of the barrel on his warm skin, closes his eyes and squeezes the trigger. Behind his closed eyelids, he sees the bullet hitting the side of his head, smashing through his skull... His head hurts like hell and he is still alive...
He passes out.
Franklin woke up in a hospital where he stayed until he was stable enough to ship to the psychiatric ward. His doctor prescribed Xanax and Prozac. He stayed in the hospital six months, became physically disabled and qualified for two pensions.
The rest of his life he spent seeking out books he loved, vistas in nature, great art... He was his surroundings, that they had said was true in the hospital. For the next thirty years, Frank became something of an eccentric, bought an RV and traveled all year long. He met another woman eventually, and felt grateful to be alive... and almost grateful that he shot himself. He never forgot the day in his cubicle noticing what he had become, and the thought kept him moving from the Niagra falls to the Everglades to the Smoky Mountains and the Pacific ocean. . . and yes, for once in my tales, he lived happily ever after.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
FALLING STARS
SYLVIA PLATH
EARNEST HEMINGWAY
HUNTER S THOMPSON
suicide renders years of therapy impotent
they go somewhere far from being a star
become desperate enough to think
the murky unknown has to be better
stand in wonder when the rich and famous
let their hands grow traitorous
a life you can only dream of
finds a desperate murk to lose themselves in
worth by proximity to god
just ain't working for them
they must feel there's no worth
in the persistent pains of an average day ?
they shine like beacons spewing blackness into the daylight
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
EARNEST HEMINGWAY
HUNTER S THOMPSON
suicide renders years of therapy impotent
they go somewhere far from being a star
become desperate enough to think
the murky unknown has to be better
stand in wonder when the rich and famous
let their hands grow traitorous
a life you can only dream of
finds a desperate murk to lose themselves in
worth by proximity to god
just ain't working for them
they must feel there's no worth
in the persistent pains of an average day ?
they shine like beacons spewing blackness into the daylight
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
TYEST
TESTETRE
HOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
HOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Fuck you
one and all
I will die
before I let you
chain me to your ignorance
never meant to make you do
any more than think
to unbridle
your ideas from emotions
debating
out a consensus
is not for you
i know
not for you
been to swamps
and mountaintops
ran with the madmen
and thieves
seen the saints and sinners
the women who please
never found nothing
not one damn thing
in all that mystic wandering
pledged alliegance to women
states of mind
told myself I was different
then that I was just acting in kind
the screams of the anguish
fills my mind
confusion my patron saint
no absolutes reign in this state
I tend to stay
in the statistical middle
of opinions and powers
I go along and at worst look dour
no one cares to hear my whines
no one will do what I say
no one should
They won't stay if you cry
They will banish you
from their life
and thoughts
replace you
with a monster's mask
someone it is easy not to miss
sorry to run so far ahead
never meant to lose touch
I'll live as I please
dance sometimes
sometimes seeth
slouching through the room insolent and cold
inhuman
I'll take your tears and fears
and all that is dear
toss it into a deep mud puddle
and walk
fuck you and your values
you're too dense to see under the surface
a tiny bit of an inch
I'm not going to be held prisoner
chained to your dead head
will not be held back by you
no more
I will slice open your jugular
and feel your bloods' warmth
splash on my face
smile cold and dispassionate
drive nails into your
hands and feet
cut your brow
with a crown of thorns
whatever . . . it . . . takes .. .
fuck you THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
one and all
I will die
before I let you
chain me to your ignorance
never meant to make you do
any more than think
to unbridle
your ideas from emotions
debating
out a consensus
is not for you
i know
not for you
been to swamps
and mountaintops
ran with the madmen
and thieves
seen the saints and sinners
the women who please
never found nothing
not one damn thing
in all that mystic wandering
pledged alliegance to women
states of mind
told myself I was different
then that I was just acting in kind
the screams of the anguish
fills my mind
confusion my patron saint
no absolutes reign in this state
I tend to stay
in the statistical middle
of opinions and powers
I go along and at worst look dour
no one cares to hear my whines
no one will do what I say
no one should
They won't stay if you cry
They will banish you
from their life
and thoughts
replace you
with a monster's mask
someone it is easy not to miss
sorry to run so far ahead
never meant to lose touch
I'll live as I please
dance sometimes
sometimes seeth
slouching through the room insolent and cold
inhuman
I'll take your tears and fears
and all that is dear
toss it into a deep mud puddle
and walk
fuck you and your values
you're too dense to see under the surface
a tiny bit of an inch
I'm not going to be held prisoner
chained to your dead head
will not be held back by you
no more
I will slice open your jugular
and feel your bloods' warmth
splash on my face
smile cold and dispassionate
drive nails into your
hands and feet
cut your brow
with a crown of thorns
whatever . . . it . . . takes .. .
fuck you THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
songs for the dead
Fuck you
one and all
I will die
before I let you
chain me to your ignorance
never meant to make you do
any more than think
to unbridle
your ideas from emotions
debating
out a consensus
is not for you
i know
not for you
been to swamps
and mountaintops
ran with the madmen
and thieves
seen the saints and sinners
the women who please
never found nothing
not one damn thing
in all that mystic wandering
pledged alliegance to women
states of mind
told myself I was different
then that I was just acting in kind
the screams of the anguish
fills my mind
confusion my patron saint
no absolutes reign in this state
I tend to stay
in the statistical middle
of opinions and powers
I go along and at worst look dour
no one cares to hear my whines
no one will do what I say
no one should
They won't stay if you cry
They will banish you
from their life
and thoughts
replace you
with a monster's mask
someone it is easy not to miss
sorry to run so far ahead
never meant to lose touch
I'll live as I please
dance sometimes
sometimes seeth
slouching through the room insolent and cold
inhuman
I'll take your tears and fears
and all that is dear
toss it into a deep mud puddle
and walk
fuck you and your values
you're too dense to see under the surface
a tiny bit of an inch
I'm not going to be held prisoner
chained to your dead head
will not be held back by you
no more
I will slice open your jugular
and feel your bloods' warmth
splash on my face
smile cold and dispassionate
drive nails into your
hands and feet
cut your brow
with a crown of thorns
whatever . . . it . . . takes .. .
fuck you THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
one and all
I will die
before I let you
chain me to your ignorance
never meant to make you do
any more than think
to unbridle
your ideas from emotions
debating
out a consensus
is not for you
i know
not for you
been to swamps
and mountaintops
ran with the madmen
and thieves
seen the saints and sinners
the women who please
never found nothing
not one damn thing
in all that mystic wandering
pledged alliegance to women
states of mind
told myself I was different
then that I was just acting in kind
the screams of the anguish
fills my mind
confusion my patron saint
no absolutes reign in this state
I tend to stay
in the statistical middle
of opinions and powers
I go along and at worst look dour
no one cares to hear my whines
no one will do what I say
no one should
They won't stay if you cry
They will banish you
from their life
and thoughts
replace you
with a monster's mask
someone it is easy not to miss
sorry to run so far ahead
never meant to lose touch
I'll live as I please
dance sometimes
sometimes seeth
slouching through the room insolent and cold
inhuman
I'll take your tears and fears
and all that is dear
toss it into a deep mud puddle
and walk
fuck you and your values
you're too dense to see under the surface
a tiny bit of an inch
I'm not going to be held prisoner
chained to your dead head
will not be held back by you
no more
I will slice open your jugular
and feel your bloods' warmth
splash on my face
smile cold and dispassionate
drive nails into your
hands and feet
cut your brow
with a crown of thorns
whatever . . . it . . . takes .. .
fuck you THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
PRESIDENT SAYS, 'IN ORDER TO SAVE THE IRAQI'S, WE MAY HAVE TO KILL EVERY DAMN ONE OF THEM."
PRESIDENT SAYS, 'IN ORDER TO SAVE THE IRAQI'S, WE MAY HAVE TO KILL EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM BASTARDS."
As W. The Rockstar President went out to get his mail today, he made the somewhat cryptic statement, "Yea, I got me some bad boys in here, some of them nuclear ones...been using it to keep my collection of cowboy hats on, and to make nifty endtables. But, I am thinking now, that the only way to save the Iraqui's is to fall back on what was, I hope the world will remember, my original plan, which is to kill all of the Iraqui's, so we know that they are safe from factions in their own society that would terrorize the march of freedom. Like with animals -- and you would not believe the reports I get on how many people these despicable NARCO TERRORISTS kill and mayhem. If it isn't alligators taken some kid in the nile, it is a . . . well, some god forasken pig eating somebody at a goddamned petting zoo. I will not stand by and say 'hey, they are animals, so they can kill on my watch.' I think them other presidents were scared of bears or something . . . being from texas, and having shot many a bear out in the wild, where dad would put the pens that held these feirce beasts as we crept to within a hundred yards, risking life and limb, to kill these creatures. Oh, it was a battle between man and animal of the likes unseen since dad went into that Chicken Coup to hunt the often peckish hen. He barely came out of that one alive. There were ankle scratches that to this day he cannot bear to remember. In fact he faints, like we all do. Chicken scratches can be as painful as... well, hell, bullets, I imagine. Well, more bullets than one. People can still walk with a bullet, but when dad took that chicken scratch, they had to airlift him to Mountain Sinia -- there was not way in hell he was walking with that gash, which almost broke the skin."
The president then scratched his groin, belched, went back inside with his mail and slammed the door shut behind. THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
As W. The Rockstar President went out to get his mail today, he made the somewhat cryptic statement, "Yea, I got me some bad boys in here, some of them nuclear ones...been using it to keep my collection of cowboy hats on, and to make nifty endtables. But, I am thinking now, that the only way to save the Iraqui's is to fall back on what was, I hope the world will remember, my original plan, which is to kill all of the Iraqui's, so we know that they are safe from factions in their own society that would terrorize the march of freedom. Like with animals -- and you would not believe the reports I get on how many people these despicable NARCO TERRORISTS kill and mayhem. If it isn't alligators taken some kid in the nile, it is a . . . well, some god forasken pig eating somebody at a goddamned petting zoo. I will not stand by and say 'hey, they are animals, so they can kill on my watch.' I think them other presidents were scared of bears or something . . . being from texas, and having shot many a bear out in the wild, where dad would put the pens that held these feirce beasts as we crept to within a hundred yards, risking life and limb, to kill these creatures. Oh, it was a battle between man and animal of the likes unseen since dad went into that Chicken Coup to hunt the often peckish hen. He barely came out of that one alive. There were ankle scratches that to this day he cannot bear to remember. In fact he faints, like we all do. Chicken scratches can be as painful as... well, hell, bullets, I imagine. Well, more bullets than one. People can still walk with a bullet, but when dad took that chicken scratch, they had to airlift him to Mountain Sinia -- there was not way in hell he was walking with that gash, which almost broke the skin."
The president then scratched his groin, belched, went back inside with his mail and slammed the door shut behind. THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
PRESIDENT TELLS SHOCKED WORLD,"IN ORDER TO SAVE THE IRAQI'S, WE MAY HAVE TO KILL EVERY DAMN ONE OF THOSE BASTARDS..."
PRESIDENT TELLS SHOCKED WORLD,"IN ORDER TO SAVE THE IRAQI'S, WE MAY HAVE TO KILL EVERY DAMN ONE OF THOSE BASTARDS..."As W. The Rockstar President went out to get his mail today, he made the somewhat cryptic statement, "Yea, I got me some bad boys in here, some of them nuclear ones...been using it to keep my collection of cowboy hats on, and to make nifty endtables. But, I am thinking now, that the only way to save the Iraqui's is to fall back on what was, I hope the world will remember, my original plan, which is to kill all of the Iraqui's, so we know that they are safe from factions in their own society that would terrorize the march of freedom. Like with animals -- and you would not believe the reports I get on how many people these despicable NARCO TERRORISTS kill and mayhem. If it isn't alligators taken some kid in the nile, it is a . . . well, some god forasken pig eating somebody at a goddamned petting zoo. I will not stand by and say 'hey, they are animals, so they can kill on my watch.' I think them other presidents were scared of bears or something . . . being from texas, and having shot many a bear out in the wild, where dad would put the pens that held these feirce beasts as we crept to within a hundred yards, risking life and limb, to kill these creatures. Oh, it was a battle between man and animal of the likes unseen since dad went into that Chicken Coup to hunt the often peckish hen. He barely came out of that one alive. There were ankle scratches that to this day he cannot bear to remember. In fact he faints, like we all do. Chicken scratches can be as painful as... well, hell, bullets, I imagine. Well, more bullets than one. People can still walk with a bullet, but when dad took that chicken scratch, they had to airlift him to Mountain Sinia -- there was not way in hell he was walking with that gash, which almost broke the skin."
The president then scratched his groin, belched, went back inside with his mail and slammed the door shut behind.
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 president then scratched his groin, belched, went back inside with his mail and slammed the door shut behind.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
SENATOR MCCAIN ADMITS STORING FOOD IN HIS CHEEKS
Senator John, Chipmunk Cheeks, McCain has finally admitted that he keeps large quantities of food in his extended cheeks.
Telling this reporter, "It all started when I was in Nam, in a prison, laying there in a hundred and twenty degrees of hell, feeling rats eating my goddamn dick... and just being too tired to do anything about it... well, didn't mean to talk about that. You publish that shit and I will have you dead by morning. Now, anyways, for the record... I was laying there one day and had a vision, of a mighty chipmonk, telling me that if I ever was around a lot of food again, I would be like the mighty chipmonk and save some for later, in my cheeks. I had no idea I would end up with these jowls at this age. Not complaining, I can keep a full boned chicken in this side. And a couple side dishes over here, not to mention a gun and a playboy, which were my other vows while inprisioned."
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Telling this reporter, "It all started when I was in Nam, in a prison, laying there in a hundred and twenty degrees of hell, feeling rats eating my goddamn dick... and just being too tired to do anything about it... well, didn't mean to talk about that. You publish that shit and I will have you dead by morning. Now, anyways, for the record... I was laying there one day and had a vision, of a mighty chipmonk, telling me that if I ever was around a lot of food again, I would be like the mighty chipmonk and save some for later, in my cheeks. I had no idea I would end up with these jowls at this age. Not complaining, I can keep a full boned chicken in this side. And a couple side dishes over here, not to mention a gun and a playboy, which were my other vows while inprisioned."
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
i wish i could have been aborted
home
by johnny pain2.25.066:43 PM
You would think that having fetuses vacumed out of vaginas would be a concern only of young women who have no idea how they could raise a child, or a parent they fear even telling of the problem, or an insistent boyfriend, or even a medical fear of having their quims stretched out -- (I can relate, I mean, think of how much guys would like having an infant shoved up their asses; and if they do seem like they would like this, wait until they are sleeping, take a chef's knife and stab down deep into their hearts). Unfortunatly, no, impregnated women are not soon to be making this decision... No, fat, stuck up, myth addled white men, Republicans, are using the issue to get votes from the right wing christians, and by god they have no belief in your freedom of choice what--so--ever. . .
If they ban abortion, this means they would be legally censoring behavior to the dictates of their religion... some seperation of church and state, huh? The fucking elephant blowing Republicans act like they believe in the constitution, and it is just that -- an act. 'Every political formula is fiction; only the force produced is real,' says the book irregular modern warfare, and I believe it to be true. M. does not want to have children, and would certainly have entertained an abortion if she had gotten pregnant. I had my seed ripped out of a quim once. In Toledo, Ohio, with a woman who was my wife at the time. Back in 1982, I think. She was on a medication that was known to cause birth defects, and told me about her decision at the same time that she told me she was pregnant. Neither of us were joyous over the event, believe me.... And then... there were FUCKING Christ-o's out in front of the place with a garbage can filled with dolls that had been splashed with red paint. I guess there was also some fool walking around carrying a cross. Talk about putting your nose in other people's business!!! They made a bad situation for all even worse with their posters of grotesque fetuses... As I drove up they parted to let me in... or I would have ran their asses over!!! I WANTED TO KILL THEM... still do. I also wish I had a twenty year old son. And that taffy and milk chocolate trees were growing everywhere.
If abortion were merely an issue of sensibilities, I would say that her body is her body, and take the women's side over the myth addled any day. I would chalk this up to another instance of the mind mushed trying to make their myth work in the real world, where it often does as much harm as good. But, studies show that in areas with abortion, crime drops like twenty percent. This happened like twenty years after abortions were legalized in the state. Seems to show that women who aborted thier children, were actually getting rid of quite a few future criminals. These women are probably more concerned about themselves than not creating criminals, of course, but they were getting rid of fetuses that they could not raise properly.
This means abortions lower the crime rate. This makes this issue not between the right wing boofs and the women's rights workers... this makes this an issue for our entire society.
We would not want dogs raised in the environments some of these abortions were going to end up in, and we sure as hell don't want to deal with the warped kids raised there.So if these bastards get this legislation through the supreme court, expect those 'super predators' they used to talk about to be more and more frequently in the news over killing people like you and me.Stop Abortion = More Crime. The only arguements for stopping abortion are based upon myths and fallacies.
Do you want to live by myths, with no hope of ever getting your head out of your asses???? Oh, the smell, the smell!! Then go ahead. Some people need to keep their heads in their asses to bear up to the horrors of the every day battering of emotions, not to mention shit like floods, wars. But DO NOT TRY TO TELL ME HOW I HAVE TO LIVE.
Take this freedom away from the women and they will riot in the streets, if they have any sense (of course whether they have any sense or not is questionable)..... yea, this is everyone's issue, and we all shouldbe up in arms over this shit... except me, I get to have sense and not protest in any way, because I am more valuable to the world writing. And that's my story and I am sticking to it... I guess I should add that if you are one of those people who just has to kill somebody over issues like this, I cannot legally tell you who or why or what method to use, but I can say you'd be my hero, and I'd probably take a collect phone call from you in jail and say nice stuff and make you laugh. . . not that I would think you had approached the issue the best way.
Killing people for a cause makes everyone look bad.
Like the people who spiked trees and caused lumber jacks to get injured. They are just working grunts with no more control over the logging industry than me, so hurting them was stupid. People now hear the term 'tree hugger' and hate the folk.
So, what can we do to stop this? Senators and congress people can fight this down, perhaps... but the supreme court is packed with people who are against abortion, and now that south dakota is banning them, they will end up in front of the supreme court battling their case...Good bye Roe vs Wade is practically already here. Sorry to see it in my life time.... this little splinter of time that I breath is about to step back in time.
Damn it, I'm going to have to grease up my guns, oil down the mortar and figure out exactly which politicians used this issue to get elected, and which ones were genuinely christians. I'd have to kill the latter first, since they are the most despicable. Then I would go after the ones who appealed to the most base impulses of the jesus gibbering to gain office second. Have to take down at least ten of them, just to be sure I have that killing feel out of my system before I come home. M will kick my ass if I kill something in the apartment and go and get blood everywhere again.Y
ea, and next time my trigger finger gets itchy, I'm pulling a drive by on the protestors outside of this abortion clinic on western. They love fantasizing themselves into people on an important mission from god, the drama queens. Give them some actual drama, and they'll probably break out in toungue speaking and wet themselves as they line up to be martyred. Well, I suppose I will have to run this by the neighborhood dogs. Ever since that frying pan grew mysteriously quiet, they are giving me signals on who to kill, as well as, I might add, the run down on alein abductions and who killed jfk, bobby, and Martin... not to mention the best damn definition of iambic pentameter I have had the pleasure of hearing.T
HOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
by johnny pain2.25.066:43 PM
You would think that having fetuses vacumed out of vaginas would be a concern only of young women who have no idea how they could raise a child, or a parent they fear even telling of the problem, or an insistent boyfriend, or even a medical fear of having their quims stretched out -- (I can relate, I mean, think of how much guys would like having an infant shoved up their asses; and if they do seem like they would like this, wait until they are sleeping, take a chef's knife and stab down deep into their hearts). Unfortunatly, no, impregnated women are not soon to be making this decision... No, fat, stuck up, myth addled white men, Republicans, are using the issue to get votes from the right wing christians, and by god they have no belief in your freedom of choice what--so--ever. . .
If they ban abortion, this means they would be legally censoring behavior to the dictates of their religion... some seperation of church and state, huh? The fucking elephant blowing Republicans act like they believe in the constitution, and it is just that -- an act. 'Every political formula is fiction; only the force produced is real,' says the book irregular modern warfare, and I believe it to be true. M. does not want to have children, and would certainly have entertained an abortion if she had gotten pregnant. I had my seed ripped out of a quim once. In Toledo, Ohio, with a woman who was my wife at the time. Back in 1982, I think. She was on a medication that was known to cause birth defects, and told me about her decision at the same time that she told me she was pregnant. Neither of us were joyous over the event, believe me.... And then... there were FUCKING Christ-o's out in front of the place with a garbage can filled with dolls that had been splashed with red paint. I guess there was also some fool walking around carrying a cross. Talk about putting your nose in other people's business!!! They made a bad situation for all even worse with their posters of grotesque fetuses... As I drove up they parted to let me in... or I would have ran their asses over!!! I WANTED TO KILL THEM... still do. I also wish I had a twenty year old son. And that taffy and milk chocolate trees were growing everywhere.
If abortion were merely an issue of sensibilities, I would say that her body is her body, and take the women's side over the myth addled any day. I would chalk this up to another instance of the mind mushed trying to make their myth work in the real world, where it often does as much harm as good. But, studies show that in areas with abortion, crime drops like twenty percent. This happened like twenty years after abortions were legalized in the state. Seems to show that women who aborted thier children, were actually getting rid of quite a few future criminals. These women are probably more concerned about themselves than not creating criminals, of course, but they were getting rid of fetuses that they could not raise properly.
This means abortions lower the crime rate. This makes this issue not between the right wing boofs and the women's rights workers... this makes this an issue for our entire society.
We would not want dogs raised in the environments some of these abortions were going to end up in, and we sure as hell don't want to deal with the warped kids raised there.So if these bastards get this legislation through the supreme court, expect those 'super predators' they used to talk about to be more and more frequently in the news over killing people like you and me.Stop Abortion = More Crime. The only arguements for stopping abortion are based upon myths and fallacies.
Do you want to live by myths, with no hope of ever getting your head out of your asses???? Oh, the smell, the smell!! Then go ahead. Some people need to keep their heads in their asses to bear up to the horrors of the every day battering of emotions, not to mention shit like floods, wars. But DO NOT TRY TO TELL ME HOW I HAVE TO LIVE.
Take this freedom away from the women and they will riot in the streets, if they have any sense (of course whether they have any sense or not is questionable)..... yea, this is everyone's issue, and we all shouldbe up in arms over this shit... except me, I get to have sense and not protest in any way, because I am more valuable to the world writing. And that's my story and I am sticking to it... I guess I should add that if you are one of those people who just has to kill somebody over issues like this, I cannot legally tell you who or why or what method to use, but I can say you'd be my hero, and I'd probably take a collect phone call from you in jail and say nice stuff and make you laugh. . . not that I would think you had approached the issue the best way.
Killing people for a cause makes everyone look bad.
Like the people who spiked trees and caused lumber jacks to get injured. They are just working grunts with no more control over the logging industry than me, so hurting them was stupid. People now hear the term 'tree hugger' and hate the folk.
So, what can we do to stop this? Senators and congress people can fight this down, perhaps... but the supreme court is packed with people who are against abortion, and now that south dakota is banning them, they will end up in front of the supreme court battling their case...Good bye Roe vs Wade is practically already here. Sorry to see it in my life time.... this little splinter of time that I breath is about to step back in time.
Damn it, I'm going to have to grease up my guns, oil down the mortar and figure out exactly which politicians used this issue to get elected, and which ones were genuinely christians. I'd have to kill the latter first, since they are the most despicable. Then I would go after the ones who appealed to the most base impulses of the jesus gibbering to gain office second. Have to take down at least ten of them, just to be sure I have that killing feel out of my system before I come home. M will kick my ass if I kill something in the apartment and go and get blood everywhere again.Y
ea, and next time my trigger finger gets itchy, I'm pulling a drive by on the protestors outside of this abortion clinic on western. They love fantasizing themselves into people on an important mission from god, the drama queens. Give them some actual drama, and they'll probably break out in toungue speaking and wet themselves as they line up to be martyred. Well, I suppose I will have to run this by the neighborhood dogs. Ever since that frying pan grew mysteriously quiet, they are giving me signals on who to kill, as well as, I might add, the run down on alein abductions and who killed jfk, bobby, and Martin... not to mention the best damn definition of iambic pentameter I have had the pleasure of hearing.T
HOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Friday, February 24, 2006
who'd of thunk it?????
The Fridlips came to power when I was a 67 year old. Surprised the hell out of me. Up until then, I really thought the world was a bit smarter than that on average, but I was obviously tragically wrong. The leader of a religion voted into the leadership of The One World Government?
When I was young, we would never have done this. Back then, the point was to let others live as they would, as long as no one else was getting hurt. Back then, though, our politicians were too smart to put much faith in religion, so they just pretended enough to appear to be religous, as any good machaivellian will tell you a leader must to get enough votes to maintain control of a pseudo-democracy. The madness of having the masses vote something into being is wild and uncontrollable, and they finally did it, voted in what we all feared, the rough hewn, populous candidate who decided to stay on past the eight years; the one with the army behind him, the one we found out wouldn't be leaving the throne after eight years; the one whodecided that since he had the armies to do it, he would keep the post indefinatly . . . Religous justifications were given, and within about twenty years, anyone who doubted the veracity of the priest/politico's was considered a heretic and jailed. Until they could be reprogramed -- by then the governement priests had brain washing techniques long perfected and knew how to produce whichever personality best suited their needs.
Religion was not always the controlling power in the world. My grandkids don't believe me when I tell them this. They think life on earth is always as it is now, like they have been taught in a thousand ways by the time they are three... the puppets on Sesame Street lying... that would not have happened when I was a child. I know that there was a society before the one we live in... I know what they do to people who Blashpehmy. For 157 years I have forced myself not to judge them.
I was a good citizen, a popular comedian for awhile.I don't when or exactly why i started writing about anything except politics and religions. I guess, like my manager told me at the time, and as I repeated over cocktails a thousand times over the years, I wanted people of all religions and political stripes to be my fans, buy my books and cd's. I told this line to my radical friends, of which I had quite a few back then. They still thought I was selling out, and slowly the dissolved, never again to be seen in my life. . . until they appeared in the paper after their arrests. I think it is truer that I did what I did to protect my family.
I did not like the take over by the ridiculously named Our Smiling Peace Ruler Dude Divine Leader Of The Fridlips. Back then, had I been alone, I think I would have just let myself die. I have always told myselt that I do this for my family... I have to believe as much. The alternative, that I am a coward, is to horrorifying for me to entertain. A lot of my friends, in that time, organized a march or something like that, full well knowing they were going to be tortured and killed -- they commited suicide by state.
Not me, I carried my cross through the world. First for the faces of my children, and then my grandchildren, and soon my great, great, great, great grandchildren... all happily living in the blissful ignorance of their youth. Their life has to be allowed to go on. Even if they are religious puppets of the Absurdist's Sect... So I reminded myself of what happens to the family's of heretics, and stayed silent.My last hope is that these words will spread like an infection from mind to mind. There is probably about a zero chance this little thought room of mine will survive this time. Humans being what they are, some person who doesn't fit the mold, will someday rediscover the idea of atheism. I have been secretly talking to Jacob 87987.
I may have planted the seeds of scepticism in his mind, though that seems grandiose when I write it on this page. When I told him this, it truly seemed that I was preserving something vital and important. More than likely, all I have given him 'is an odd memory of his grandfather, when he was old and starting to show the first signs of senility, babbling about something that he knew, from reading history books no less, did not happen. The Fridlips rewrote the past too radically for anyone from my time to recognize the planet.
NOW the world has always been just as it is, created in one fell swoop by The Super Dope Dude (their label for their god was once laughable to me; after all these years, even I say the words with a bit of reverence. Such an absurd old man I have become. I awoke one morning and the world was filled with cockroaches, though I was fine... I make reference to a writer who existed in the time they say no longer exists, Kafka; he lived years before me even, back then were all these different religions and they all despised each other to one degree or another -- one, the Jews, which Kafka was, were particularly picked on. He felt like learning he was a Jew was like being turned into a cockroach.
Jacob 97987 has been taught the word. He knows not to say it, and has kept our secret for nearly four years, from the age of seven to eleven. Even though I have seldom lived up to the words, I have always said that the reason to live this horrorifying life is to stop the horrorifying. At least a little bit, what we can; as much as one grain of sand can effect the ocean. The best of us have become urban missionaries, take the time to put together baskets for the poor, run soup kitchens and second hand stores, nurture the youth. They are the ones who focus on the problems in the now, instead of protesting some unstoppable war. . . spend their time putting together baskets for the poor, running the soap kitchens and second hand clothing stores, nurturing the youth. They seem to count to me, are like secular saints to me, an atheist even after over a hundred years of living in a world where the word does not exist. Tthe children now, they are raised under the new religous dictates where the word 'secular' -- and indeed the entire concept of the secular, is never inserted into their questing minds. Dictionaries no longer have this word, and of course they don't have THE WORD -- atheist. T
he kids are given the answers that best suit the state, and nothing more. They are supposed to be carefully constructed personalites that are best suited toward the produce and consume marketthat the wealthy have decided upon -- their decision, no doubt, colored by the fact that they do not want their lives of consument idle and luxury to be jepradized. The wasteful sides of us are being bred out genetically, so parents can be sure that their child will fit in; they are lowering intellegences and destroying parts of the brain that critically think. They are better off being A Smily Fit In, as the government describes 'the healty consumer product' that results from the Whacky Wonderful Surgery. as the commercials call it when the state begs expecting mothers to get the surgery for their squalling whelps )conversly, they also show dark, horrorifying commercials about the results of not having the childs brain scrambled; shots of a lone man, looking at the ground, his face filled with his psycic pain). A tube is inserted into the nose, right up into the brain, then swished about all haphazardly, destroying the right side of the frontal lobe, getting rid of creativity and higher language skills in the process. They seem so happy afterwards. The mandatory drugs certainly help.
Lately, for years, I guess now, I have been entirely alone in putting off the 'Smiley Surgery.' Their rituals still make me laugh, actually.... like when they make everyone walk backwards two steps for every one hundred steps forward. They even gain points from this and other religous ridiculousnesses, and can trade them in for various prizes when they get to heaven. They get virgins for so many, motorcycles, luxury cars--always the hottest one on the market at the very moment the new Religous Billboards showing the model go up around town.
The eyesores are very three blocks, by order of the Super Dude. They color them differently in every town, so they do not detract from the natural beauty. . . that is what they say, at least. They look like shit to me, though the more conditioned citizens, like my sons sons and on down the generations thin they are works of art that are somehow better looking than mountains, and streams; or in my case, lake Michigan. None of them could understand why I was saddened by the billboard blocking my view. The hot property now has such views, they tell me. Everyone wants one, they tell me. No one alive now would understand how I used to laugh at the Fridlips . . . They were led by ruthless men, and still are by their children; they are the uneducated, fucking goat farmers from the most backwards parts of the world. They will not read anything except The Fridlips Frapples. They passed laws saying that all dogs must have their genitilia covered, as must sheep and goats, because the leaders knew that they got aroused by the thought of bestiality and could only assume that the masses felt the same way. I had a million jokes come to mind abou that one. . . and like always, I kept my blasphemy to myself. And I laughed inside when I saw all these people, five times a day, putting their elbows to their ears and humming that damn song, "'We Are The State, This Is So We Are,' over and over... ten times. People are solemn during the rituals, take them so fucking seriously.
My generation is almost gone. Soon no one will even remember the ideas that were cherished in my youth. Well, no one except Jacob 87987. . . and I am still not quite sure that he doesn't think he is hearing the babbling of an old man's dementia.... though I am sure that all of this is true. I think it is. Is it? I went to a Priest Talk To who told me the past I remember is false, something inserted in my mind by LEXPODDLEKID, the evil opposite of the Kugldopple, their highest god--thingy.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
When I was young, we would never have done this. Back then, the point was to let others live as they would, as long as no one else was getting hurt. Back then, though, our politicians were too smart to put much faith in religion, so they just pretended enough to appear to be religous, as any good machaivellian will tell you a leader must to get enough votes to maintain control of a pseudo-democracy. The madness of having the masses vote something into being is wild and uncontrollable, and they finally did it, voted in what we all feared, the rough hewn, populous candidate who decided to stay on past the eight years; the one with the army behind him, the one we found out wouldn't be leaving the throne after eight years; the one whodecided that since he had the armies to do it, he would keep the post indefinatly . . . Religous justifications were given, and within about twenty years, anyone who doubted the veracity of the priest/politico's was considered a heretic and jailed. Until they could be reprogramed -- by then the governement priests had brain washing techniques long perfected and knew how to produce whichever personality best suited their needs.
Religion was not always the controlling power in the world. My grandkids don't believe me when I tell them this. They think life on earth is always as it is now, like they have been taught in a thousand ways by the time they are three... the puppets on Sesame Street lying... that would not have happened when I was a child. I know that there was a society before the one we live in... I know what they do to people who Blashpehmy. For 157 years I have forced myself not to judge them.
I was a good citizen, a popular comedian for awhile.I don't when or exactly why i started writing about anything except politics and religions. I guess, like my manager told me at the time, and as I repeated over cocktails a thousand times over the years, I wanted people of all religions and political stripes to be my fans, buy my books and cd's. I told this line to my radical friends, of which I had quite a few back then. They still thought I was selling out, and slowly the dissolved, never again to be seen in my life. . . until they appeared in the paper after their arrests. I think it is truer that I did what I did to protect my family.
I did not like the take over by the ridiculously named Our Smiling Peace Ruler Dude Divine Leader Of The Fridlips. Back then, had I been alone, I think I would have just let myself die. I have always told myselt that I do this for my family... I have to believe as much. The alternative, that I am a coward, is to horrorifying for me to entertain. A lot of my friends, in that time, organized a march or something like that, full well knowing they were going to be tortured and killed -- they commited suicide by state.
Not me, I carried my cross through the world. First for the faces of my children, and then my grandchildren, and soon my great, great, great, great grandchildren... all happily living in the blissful ignorance of their youth. Their life has to be allowed to go on. Even if they are religious puppets of the Absurdist's Sect... So I reminded myself of what happens to the family's of heretics, and stayed silent.My last hope is that these words will spread like an infection from mind to mind. There is probably about a zero chance this little thought room of mine will survive this time. Humans being what they are, some person who doesn't fit the mold, will someday rediscover the idea of atheism. I have been secretly talking to Jacob 87987.
I may have planted the seeds of scepticism in his mind, though that seems grandiose when I write it on this page. When I told him this, it truly seemed that I was preserving something vital and important. More than likely, all I have given him 'is an odd memory of his grandfather, when he was old and starting to show the first signs of senility, babbling about something that he knew, from reading history books no less, did not happen. The Fridlips rewrote the past too radically for anyone from my time to recognize the planet.
NOW the world has always been just as it is, created in one fell swoop by The Super Dope Dude (their label for their god was once laughable to me; after all these years, even I say the words with a bit of reverence. Such an absurd old man I have become. I awoke one morning and the world was filled with cockroaches, though I was fine... I make reference to a writer who existed in the time they say no longer exists, Kafka; he lived years before me even, back then were all these different religions and they all despised each other to one degree or another -- one, the Jews, which Kafka was, were particularly picked on. He felt like learning he was a Jew was like being turned into a cockroach.
Jacob 97987 has been taught the word. He knows not to say it, and has kept our secret for nearly four years, from the age of seven to eleven. Even though I have seldom lived up to the words, I have always said that the reason to live this horrorifying life is to stop the horrorifying. At least a little bit, what we can; as much as one grain of sand can effect the ocean. The best of us have become urban missionaries, take the time to put together baskets for the poor, run soup kitchens and second hand stores, nurture the youth. They are the ones who focus on the problems in the now, instead of protesting some unstoppable war. . . spend their time putting together baskets for the poor, running the soap kitchens and second hand clothing stores, nurturing the youth. They seem to count to me, are like secular saints to me, an atheist even after over a hundred years of living in a world where the word does not exist. Tthe children now, they are raised under the new religous dictates where the word 'secular' -- and indeed the entire concept of the secular, is never inserted into their questing minds. Dictionaries no longer have this word, and of course they don't have THE WORD -- atheist. T
he kids are given the answers that best suit the state, and nothing more. They are supposed to be carefully constructed personalites that are best suited toward the produce and consume marketthat the wealthy have decided upon -- their decision, no doubt, colored by the fact that they do not want their lives of consument idle and luxury to be jepradized. The wasteful sides of us are being bred out genetically, so parents can be sure that their child will fit in; they are lowering intellegences and destroying parts of the brain that critically think. They are better off being A Smily Fit In, as the government describes 'the healty consumer product' that results from the Whacky Wonderful Surgery. as the commercials call it when the state begs expecting mothers to get the surgery for their squalling whelps )conversly, they also show dark, horrorifying commercials about the results of not having the childs brain scrambled; shots of a lone man, looking at the ground, his face filled with his psycic pain). A tube is inserted into the nose, right up into the brain, then swished about all haphazardly, destroying the right side of the frontal lobe, getting rid of creativity and higher language skills in the process. They seem so happy afterwards. The mandatory drugs certainly help.
Lately, for years, I guess now, I have been entirely alone in putting off the 'Smiley Surgery.' Their rituals still make me laugh, actually.... like when they make everyone walk backwards two steps for every one hundred steps forward. They even gain points from this and other religous ridiculousnesses, and can trade them in for various prizes when they get to heaven. They get virgins for so many, motorcycles, luxury cars--always the hottest one on the market at the very moment the new Religous Billboards showing the model go up around town.
The eyesores are very three blocks, by order of the Super Dude. They color them differently in every town, so they do not detract from the natural beauty. . . that is what they say, at least. They look like shit to me, though the more conditioned citizens, like my sons sons and on down the generations thin they are works of art that are somehow better looking than mountains, and streams; or in my case, lake Michigan. None of them could understand why I was saddened by the billboard blocking my view. The hot property now has such views, they tell me. Everyone wants one, they tell me. No one alive now would understand how I used to laugh at the Fridlips . . . They were led by ruthless men, and still are by their children; they are the uneducated, fucking goat farmers from the most backwards parts of the world. They will not read anything except The Fridlips Frapples. They passed laws saying that all dogs must have their genitilia covered, as must sheep and goats, because the leaders knew that they got aroused by the thought of bestiality and could only assume that the masses felt the same way. I had a million jokes come to mind abou that one. . . and like always, I kept my blasphemy to myself. And I laughed inside when I saw all these people, five times a day, putting their elbows to their ears and humming that damn song, "'We Are The State, This Is So We Are,' over and over... ten times. People are solemn during the rituals, take them so fucking seriously.
My generation is almost gone. Soon no one will even remember the ideas that were cherished in my youth. Well, no one except Jacob 87987. . . and I am still not quite sure that he doesn't think he is hearing the babbling of an old man's dementia.... though I am sure that all of this is true. I think it is. Is it? I went to a Priest Talk To who told me the past I remember is false, something inserted in my mind by LEXPODDLEKID, the evil opposite of the Kugldopple, their highest god--thingy.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
THE FUTURE... WHO'D HAVE THUNK????
The Fridlips came to power when I was a 67 year old. Surprised the hell out of me. I really thought the world was a bit smarter than that on average, but I was obviously, tragically, wrong. The leader of a religion voted into the leadership of a country? When I was young, we would never have done this. Times have changed -- the madness of having the masses vote something into being is wild and uncontrollable, and they finally did it, voted in what we all feared, the one who found they couldn't leave the throne after eight years and decided, since he had the armies, to stay...
Religous justifications were given, and any who doubted the veracity of the priest/politico's was considered a heretic and jailed until they could be reprogramed -- by brain washing techniques long perfected at producing whatever personality best suited those in control.
Religion was not always the controlling power in the world. I know that it is illegal to write such 'blashphemy,' and my writing has stayed away from criticising them for all of my 157 years. I was the good citizen who simply started writing about anything except politics and religion... I wanted people of all religions and political stripes to be my fans. Or so I told myself and mymore radical freinds -- who thought I was 'selling out'. I did what I did to keep my family safe. Not that I wasn't effected by the take over by Our Smiling Ruler Dude, Divine Leader Of The Fridlips. Had I been alone, I think I would have just let myself die. At least I hope this is true. The alternative, that I am a coward who suffered through this life for no good reason, is too horrifying for me to entertain.
No, I carried my cross through the world. All just for the faces of my children, and then my grandchildren, and soon my great, great, great, great grandchildren... all happily living in the blissful ignorance of their youth. Their life has to be allowed to go on. Even if they are religious puppets of the Absurdist's Sect... So I have always, when my urge to fight them has risen, reminded myself of what happens to the family's of heretics, and stayed silent.
My last hope is that these words will spread like an infection from mind to mind. I have been secretly talking to one of them, a Jacob 87987. I may have planted the seeds of scepticism in his mind, or just given him a slightly odd memory of his grandfather babbling about something that he knew, from reading history books no less, did not happen. Jacom 97987 has been taught the word. He knows not to say it, and has kept our secret for nearly four years, from the age of seven to eleven.I have always said that the reason to live this horrorifying life is to stop the horrorifying. Or at least a little bit, what we can; as much as one grain of sand can effect the ocean. The best of us have become urban missionaries, take the time to put together baskets for the poor, run soup kitchens and second hand stores, nurture the youth. Instead of protesting other problems, they are the ones who focus on the problems in the now, instead of protesting some unstoppable war. . . spend their time putting together baskets for the poor, running the soap kitchens and second hand clothing stores, nurturing the youth. They seem to count to me, an atheist even after over a hundred years of living in a world where the word does not exist, like secular saints. 'Secular Saints.' These words mean something else to the children now, they are raised under the new religous dictates where the word 'secular' -- and indeed the entire concept of the secular, is never inserted into their questing minds. They are given the answers that best suit the state, and nothing more. They are supposed to be carefully constructed personalites that are best suited toward the produce and consume market the wealthy have decided upon -- their decision, no doubt, colored by the fact that they do not want their lives of consument idle and luxury to be jeoperdized.
The wasteful sides of us are even being bred out genetically, so parents can be sure that their child will fit in; they are lowering intellegences and destroying parts of the brain that critically think. They are better off being A Smily Fit In, as the government describes 'the healty consumer product' that results from teh surgery. A tube is inserted into the nose, then swished about all haphazardly, destroying the right side of the frontal lobe, getting rid of creativity and higher language skills in the process.They make everyone put their elbow on their ear five times a day, and walk backwards every one hundred steps. You gain points toward various prizes in heaven with every holy act. You can't cheat, they tell the masses, because the one god will see you. They get virgins for so many, motorcycles, luxury cars... always the hottest one on the market at the very moment the new Religous Billboards go up around town. Every three blocks. They color them differently in every town, so they do not detract from the natural beauty... that is what they say at least. They look like shit to me, though the more conditioned citizens, like my sons, think they are works of art that are somehow better looking than mountains, streams, or in my case, the lake. None of them could understand why I was saddened by this. I used to laugh at them, at first... They were the uneducated, fucking goat farmers from the most backwards parts of the world... they passed laws saying that all dogs must have their genitilia covered, as must sheep and goats, because the leaders knew that they got aroused by the thought of bestiality and could only assume that masses felt the same way. Oh, how I laughed at that. And I laughed when I saw all these people, five times a day, putting their elbows to their ears and humming that damn song, "'e Are The State, The Is So We Are,' over and over... ten times
.Now everyone is so solemn during the rituals, take them so seriously, cover all the dogs and goats and sheep -- an act that somehow sexualized them, oddly enough. My generation is almost gone. Soon no one will even remember the ideas that were cherished in my youth. Well, no one except Jacob 87987. I have told him to tell his children. I doubt he will. Much as I hate to admit it, even he is beginning to look at me like I am mad....
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Religous justifications were given, and any who doubted the veracity of the priest/politico's was considered a heretic and jailed until they could be reprogramed -- by brain washing techniques long perfected at producing whatever personality best suited those in control.
Religion was not always the controlling power in the world. I know that it is illegal to write such 'blashphemy,' and my writing has stayed away from criticising them for all of my 157 years. I was the good citizen who simply started writing about anything except politics and religion... I wanted people of all religions and political stripes to be my fans. Or so I told myself and mymore radical freinds -- who thought I was 'selling out'. I did what I did to keep my family safe. Not that I wasn't effected by the take over by Our Smiling Ruler Dude, Divine Leader Of The Fridlips. Had I been alone, I think I would have just let myself die. At least I hope this is true. The alternative, that I am a coward who suffered through this life for no good reason, is too horrifying for me to entertain.
No, I carried my cross through the world. All just for the faces of my children, and then my grandchildren, and soon my great, great, great, great grandchildren... all happily living in the blissful ignorance of their youth. Their life has to be allowed to go on. Even if they are religious puppets of the Absurdist's Sect... So I have always, when my urge to fight them has risen, reminded myself of what happens to the family's of heretics, and stayed silent.
My last hope is that these words will spread like an infection from mind to mind. I have been secretly talking to one of them, a Jacob 87987. I may have planted the seeds of scepticism in his mind, or just given him a slightly odd memory of his grandfather babbling about something that he knew, from reading history books no less, did not happen. Jacom 97987 has been taught the word. He knows not to say it, and has kept our secret for nearly four years, from the age of seven to eleven.I have always said that the reason to live this horrorifying life is to stop the horrorifying. Or at least a little bit, what we can; as much as one grain of sand can effect the ocean. The best of us have become urban missionaries, take the time to put together baskets for the poor, run soup kitchens and second hand stores, nurture the youth. Instead of protesting other problems, they are the ones who focus on the problems in the now, instead of protesting some unstoppable war. . . spend their time putting together baskets for the poor, running the soap kitchens and second hand clothing stores, nurturing the youth. They seem to count to me, an atheist even after over a hundred years of living in a world where the word does not exist, like secular saints. 'Secular Saints.' These words mean something else to the children now, they are raised under the new religous dictates where the word 'secular' -- and indeed the entire concept of the secular, is never inserted into their questing minds. They are given the answers that best suit the state, and nothing more. They are supposed to be carefully constructed personalites that are best suited toward the produce and consume market the wealthy have decided upon -- their decision, no doubt, colored by the fact that they do not want their lives of consument idle and luxury to be jeoperdized.
The wasteful sides of us are even being bred out genetically, so parents can be sure that their child will fit in; they are lowering intellegences and destroying parts of the brain that critically think. They are better off being A Smily Fit In, as the government describes 'the healty consumer product' that results from teh surgery. A tube is inserted into the nose, then swished about all haphazardly, destroying the right side of the frontal lobe, getting rid of creativity and higher language skills in the process.They make everyone put their elbow on their ear five times a day, and walk backwards every one hundred steps. You gain points toward various prizes in heaven with every holy act. You can't cheat, they tell the masses, because the one god will see you. They get virgins for so many, motorcycles, luxury cars... always the hottest one on the market at the very moment the new Religous Billboards go up around town. Every three blocks. They color them differently in every town, so they do not detract from the natural beauty... that is what they say at least. They look like shit to me, though the more conditioned citizens, like my sons, think they are works of art that are somehow better looking than mountains, streams, or in my case, the lake. None of them could understand why I was saddened by this. I used to laugh at them, at first... They were the uneducated, fucking goat farmers from the most backwards parts of the world... they passed laws saying that all dogs must have their genitilia covered, as must sheep and goats, because the leaders knew that they got aroused by the thought of bestiality and could only assume that masses felt the same way. Oh, how I laughed at that. And I laughed when I saw all these people, five times a day, putting their elbows to their ears and humming that damn song, "'e Are The State, The Is So We Are,' over and over... ten times
.Now everyone is so solemn during the rituals, take them so seriously, cover all the dogs and goats and sheep -- an act that somehow sexualized them, oddly enough. My generation is almost gone. Soon no one will even remember the ideas that were cherished in my youth. Well, no one except Jacob 87987. I have told him to tell his children. I doubt he will. Much as I hate to admit it, even he is beginning to look at me like I am mad....
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Join the Blue Ribbon Online Free Speech Campaign!
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
FUCK THOSE TREES!!! BUY MY BOOKS!!!
FUCK THOSE TREES!!!! BUY MY BOOKS!!
I mean, who doesn't hate trees, what with their getting to be so fucking tall and living to be a thousand, not to mention that they get to have squirrels live in them. How could we not be resentful of these sneering behemoths?
YOU KNOW THEY DESPISE US. Their name for us roughly translates to 'the ones who are so stupid that the damned squirrels won't even live in them and they are fucking nuts.' I know people like to say, the tree huggers at least, that this is partially because they see our lives like we would view a movie being played like five speeds faster than normal, which makes us look all slapstickish -- not that this is any excuse for their smug elitism...
They are a drag on the entire ecosystem, these bastards. And don't even get me started on how they take the whole winter off!! I wish all to hell that I could take the winter off and just sleep, but no..... Those lazy fucking plants!!
Help me kill them!
Buy my book, and get a free 100% tree bark T shirt reading: 'OH, FUCK THE RAINFOREST.' *
* T-SHIRTS subject to availability and I HAVE none IN STOCK and never will.
I mean, who doesn't hate trees, what with their getting to be so fucking tall and living to be a thousand, not to mention that they get to have squirrels live in them. How could we not be resentful of these sneering behemoths?
YOU KNOW THEY DESPISE US. Their name for us roughly translates to 'the ones who are so stupid that the damned squirrels won't even live in them and they are fucking nuts.' I know people like to say, the tree huggers at least, that this is partially because they see our lives like we would view a movie being played like five speeds faster than normal, which makes us look all slapstickish -- not that this is any excuse for their smug elitism...
They are a drag on the entire ecosystem, these bastards. And don't even get me started on how they take the whole winter off!! I wish all to hell that I could take the winter off and just sleep, but no..... Those lazy fucking plants!!
Help me kill them!
Buy my book, and get a free 100% tree bark T shirt reading: 'OH, FUCK THE RAINFOREST.' *
* T-SHIRTS subject to availability and I HAVE none IN STOCK and never will.
sticking straws in cow shit and snorting the gas???
Let me just add this tidbit to the general malaise of your existence ... this one about the growing popularity of catching a buzz off the Methane gases released from shit. Yes, they stick straws in steaming piles and sniff away. I would think is the kind of thing you would want to stay away from? Hey but what would I do if I lived in a country where I am denied the constitutionally mandated 'pursuit of happiness' that is at the base of hemp addiction . . . and always, as a write, in the back of my mind, the honest one forces me to add... but what do I know?
Certainly, I do not know shit. Not like these guys at least. I mean, I may have tried this while walking Ruby a couple times when I was out of weed... you know, those desperate times when every bit of paraphenila in the house gets scraped for resins.... but probably not.
On this same topic, in Singapore they cut the heads off of pot smokers and suppliers. As a result, no one smokes... sadly enough, this leads to a huge problem with glue sniffing, which is about a million times more damaging than pot to your brain. Way TO GO JOHNNY LAW, SHOOT THEM SUICIDES DOWN DEAD BEFORE THEY CAN DO A MORTAL SIN....
Getting high is your right. Fuck em' if they don't get it. Fight The Mower. And all that protest jargon that is meant to stir up.
Anyways, April Second IS DEALER'S DAY, as everyone knows... tradition has it, here in the states, that on this day we all buy gifts for our dealers, or at least give them a card with a few extra bucks. Flowers are nice, but not required (as long as the payment given is double the price of two dozen roses, which varies from state to state here, so you will want to check before giving this out because you can damn well bet your dealer knows and if you low ball you will get the shakiest dam bags... lots of seeds. Stems... oh, dog, you do not want to see the kind of low grade buddage you can get for dissing a dealer).
I HATE STEMS AND SEEDS SO FUCKING MUCH.
Oh seed and stems!!
How I hate thee!!
Making my bag
All weighty!!!
With unsmokable
Wasty!!!
I seem to have digressed into Poetry? I am sitting here writing with my mouth full of toothpaste, the entire time I put together the above... because I had some thought while brushing my teeth, walked out to the computer to jot it down and ended up just staying until now... bet you feel like this paragraph has enriched your life, eh? Ha!! Made you waste a few seconds of your life!!!
Certainly, I do not know shit. Not like these guys at least. I mean, I may have tried this while walking Ruby a couple times when I was out of weed... you know, those desperate times when every bit of paraphenila in the house gets scraped for resins.... but probably not.
On this same topic, in Singapore they cut the heads off of pot smokers and suppliers. As a result, no one smokes... sadly enough, this leads to a huge problem with glue sniffing, which is about a million times more damaging than pot to your brain. Way TO GO JOHNNY LAW, SHOOT THEM SUICIDES DOWN DEAD BEFORE THEY CAN DO A MORTAL SIN....
Getting high is your right. Fuck em' if they don't get it. Fight The Mower. And all that protest jargon that is meant to stir up.
Anyways, April Second IS DEALER'S DAY, as everyone knows... tradition has it, here in the states, that on this day we all buy gifts for our dealers, or at least give them a card with a few extra bucks. Flowers are nice, but not required (as long as the payment given is double the price of two dozen roses, which varies from state to state here, so you will want to check before giving this out because you can damn well bet your dealer knows and if you low ball you will get the shakiest dam bags... lots of seeds. Stems... oh, dog, you do not want to see the kind of low grade buddage you can get for dissing a dealer).
I HATE STEMS AND SEEDS SO FUCKING MUCH.
Oh seed and stems!!
How I hate thee!!
Making my bag
All weighty!!!
With unsmokable
Wasty!!!
I seem to have digressed into Poetry? I am sitting here writing with my mouth full of toothpaste, the entire time I put together the above... because I had some thought while brushing my teeth, walked out to the computer to jot it down and ended up just staying until now... bet you feel like this paragraph has enriched your life, eh? Ha!! Made you waste a few seconds of your life!!!
AM I PROUD TO BE A FUCKING OUTLAW IN RUSSIA?
No... just, as always, disappointed in your species.
Russia just banned saying anything offensive about religion.
they closed infinite gates in their minds
slipped back down the ladder
Add that to all the places on the planet where speaking your mind will make the STUPID IGNORANT ONES come after the EDUCATED... THEY KILL THE EDUCATED FIRST BECAUSE THEY ARE MOST DANGEROUS TO THE STATUS QUOGuess that makes me a fucking outlaw in Russia, huh? Strange when ones own morality makes one an outlaw. I think it should be the opposite.
===Ever wonder why I can always get up a good frothy face over religion? Read on...
========The next paragraph is a newsreport from one of my favorite blogs...
=============After the recent Muslim caricature controversy, Russian media organisations have been ordered not to publish anything that could be construed as offensive to any religion or risk losing their licences.
=================How long before they decide on one religion, or one wins whatever war... and they legislate up a whole new human being, a halfing deformed bastard culture? That would be so cool. In comics. Real life situations like that tend to suck very, very badly. Expecially when another Jim Jones takes over.
Russia just banned saying anything offensive about religion.
they closed infinite gates in their minds
slipped back down the ladder
Add that to all the places on the planet where speaking your mind will make the STUPID IGNORANT ONES come after the EDUCATED... THEY KILL THE EDUCATED FIRST BECAUSE THEY ARE MOST DANGEROUS TO THE STATUS QUOGuess that makes me a fucking outlaw in Russia, huh? Strange when ones own morality makes one an outlaw. I think it should be the opposite.
===Ever wonder why I can always get up a good frothy face over religion? Read on...
========The next paragraph is a newsreport from one of my favorite blogs...
=============After the recent Muslim caricature controversy, Russian media organisations have been ordered not to publish anything that could be construed as offensive to any religion or risk losing their licences.
=================How long before they decide on one religion, or one wins whatever war... and they legislate up a whole new human being, a halfing deformed bastard culture? That would be so cool. In comics. Real life situations like that tend to suck very, very badly. Expecially when another Jim Jones takes over.
HAVE A DAY WHERE
everything you hold dear and sacred is drawn into debasing cartoons, insulting not only you, but everyone you know right down to their bones. . . wonder what it would be like if you had a real enemy to throw a bomb at, and not just another man masquerading as a soldier?
MORE GOAT FUCKING ADVICE
Like great, great old uncle Smigwhilliple used to say, in his ancient, wheezy thin voice,"Better get ya' a' fuckin' them goats, you know, because when you are too old to get a woody, like me, oh then, well then, you'll miss the feel of that goat."
This kind of has become our family motto since then. I for one have the entire sentence tattooed on my penis in like two inch letters.
Sometimes, Uncle Smigwhilliple would sit staring out the windows for all the long hours between lunch and dinner , just a watching the goats out in the field with a slight gleam in his eye. Mom used to tell the neighbors who stopped by and saw him, "He's a thinkin' goats, that one is."
This paragraph has nothing at all to do with what I am really writing about, which is the eternal, sublime, almost grotesque sex of the mighty she goat. Does this fact make you think you are wasting your time allowing these words to leap off the screen through your eyes and into your skulls squishy grey filling? Just wondered how that worked... uh, sorry.
Carry on, now... nothing here to see, please move on. Don't fucking force me to remove you from this entry. I have to come over there and make you get your ass away from this entry you are going to regret it. In fact, should this happen, I will eat all your goats. And not the way youse do either, you syphliss drippings!!!!!!
This kind of has become our family motto since then. I for one have the entire sentence tattooed on my penis in like two inch letters.
Sometimes, Uncle Smigwhilliple would sit staring out the windows for all the long hours between lunch and dinner , just a watching the goats out in the field with a slight gleam in his eye. Mom used to tell the neighbors who stopped by and saw him, "He's a thinkin' goats, that one is."
This paragraph has nothing at all to do with what I am really writing about, which is the eternal, sublime, almost grotesque sex of the mighty she goat. Does this fact make you think you are wasting your time allowing these words to leap off the screen through your eyes and into your skulls squishy grey filling? Just wondered how that worked... uh, sorry.
Carry on, now... nothing here to see, please move on. Don't fucking force me to remove you from this entry. I have to come over there and make you get your ass away from this entry you are going to regret it. In fact, should this happen, I will eat all your goats. And not the way youse do either, you syphliss drippings!!!!!!
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
VIOLENCE SUBVERTED? ENCOURAGED?
I have been thinking about the site in terms of all the serial killer stuff that I am putting on there. I was starting to take it totally in the direction of a sick comment on being desensitized to violence by the media, video game culture, etc... the whole Kill Bill phenomena is gross to me, at heart. Tarantino thinks violence is a dance. He deserves to get his ass really, really fucking kicked once so he can find out just how ugly and brutal and smelly and naseauting it all really is. But... for some reason, I find this character really funny...
You hear artists say all the time, "I am not responsible for how people use my art." They say this after suicides and murders, folk like Marlyn Manson and the Rock Star Video game makers.... I say fuck that, to some degree -- if you don't feel responsible for your art, why would you do it? Art is about communicating with others on very deep levels that defy easy interpretation. So I try to do stuff with stories, usually, even if it is just softening my readers souls toward eccentrics and misfits or druggies or whatever...So along comes all this serial killer stuff that I have been writing about. No one has complained. I keep it so tounge in cheek that if anyone did, I would have the out that it is obviously meant to be funny. But what else is this prose doing?Is it also glorifying violence? I don't want to do that. I started thinking about this topic after coming across a critical article on people who collect Serial Killer momentos and art. I find that sick as hell, and would never in a million years want something like that around me. I would burn it. In fact, I should start buying them up and burning them. I will if I get rich. I find serial killers sick fucks, and interesting only because they are a curiousity in this weird, weird world... and I am curious about how anyone could be like that, and there are a lot of answers--too many for one or ten lifetimes. What am I doing with this serial killing that makes such prose acceptible to an educated, intellectual westerner like myself? I am subverting the very violence that I write about, making fun of the character who kills people, show him to be a reactive asshole who has no feelings for other people. This is how they really are, to a degree... common traits at least. To read prose about serial killers is kind of a hard thing for people to do. Making it funny helps. I am interested in that kind of stuff and read about it, because I don't have whatever twist in my mind that would make me kill. I don't kill insects if I can help it. I do feel like killing sometimes, but that is only because as a writer I feel like I have to be very emotionally honest, but that is a world away from even lightly smacking another human being.So, the people who read my work will apply the context that defines what the term 'serial killer' means as they read this; if they find them sexy, they may find that--certain sicko women do, or they might find that they only like the descriptions of the killing and kind of ignore the humor. Those things could happen, but obviously I have an intent that shows in my work, and they can easily see my intent as well.At the base of all my prose is a kind of working out of the universe, a way of defining the world that is compatible with science and ecology and peace and all the good stuff that people have to cling to to get through the chaos. To do this, I have to write about some dark stuff. That is some of the evidence I need. So how do I get people to come with me down dark paths? A lot of people do not even read the news because it is so depressing. That means that they don't know that there are more slaves right now -- 275million -- than ever before on the planet... or care to do the shit that would stop it... like they were trying to do a hundred years ago with the civil war. But if I write an article saying how cool it is that we have all these slaves, and how the return to slavery is just what we need to get rid of the pesky unions, PEOPLE will learn this and laugh. The laughter is like the yin to the yang. So, that is my justification for writing shit like, "I want to cut your mothers head off and fuck her throat hole... just like I did my dear old mum" as a potential pick up line in a bar... are you buying 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.
You hear artists say all the time, "I am not responsible for how people use my art." They say this after suicides and murders, folk like Marlyn Manson and the Rock Star Video game makers.... I say fuck that, to some degree -- if you don't feel responsible for your art, why would you do it? Art is about communicating with others on very deep levels that defy easy interpretation. So I try to do stuff with stories, usually, even if it is just softening my readers souls toward eccentrics and misfits or druggies or whatever...So along comes all this serial killer stuff that I have been writing about. No one has complained. I keep it so tounge in cheek that if anyone did, I would have the out that it is obviously meant to be funny. But what else is this prose doing?Is it also glorifying violence? I don't want to do that. I started thinking about this topic after coming across a critical article on people who collect Serial Killer momentos and art. I find that sick as hell, and would never in a million years want something like that around me. I would burn it. In fact, I should start buying them up and burning them. I will if I get rich. I find serial killers sick fucks, and interesting only because they are a curiousity in this weird, weird world... and I am curious about how anyone could be like that, and there are a lot of answers--too many for one or ten lifetimes. What am I doing with this serial killing that makes such prose acceptible to an educated, intellectual westerner like myself? I am subverting the very violence that I write about, making fun of the character who kills people, show him to be a reactive asshole who has no feelings for other people. This is how they really are, to a degree... common traits at least. To read prose about serial killers is kind of a hard thing for people to do. Making it funny helps. I am interested in that kind of stuff and read about it, because I don't have whatever twist in my mind that would make me kill. I don't kill insects if I can help it. I do feel like killing sometimes, but that is only because as a writer I feel like I have to be very emotionally honest, but that is a world away from even lightly smacking another human being.So, the people who read my work will apply the context that defines what the term 'serial killer' means as they read this; if they find them sexy, they may find that--certain sicko women do, or they might find that they only like the descriptions of the killing and kind of ignore the humor. Those things could happen, but obviously I have an intent that shows in my work, and they can easily see my intent as well.At the base of all my prose is a kind of working out of the universe, a way of defining the world that is compatible with science and ecology and peace and all the good stuff that people have to cling to to get through the chaos. To do this, I have to write about some dark stuff. That is some of the evidence I need. So how do I get people to come with me down dark paths? A lot of people do not even read the news because it is so depressing. That means that they don't know that there are more slaves right now -- 275million -- than ever before on the planet... or care to do the shit that would stop it... like they were trying to do a hundred years ago with the civil war. But if I write an article saying how cool it is that we have all these slaves, and how the return to slavery is just what we need to get rid of the pesky unions, PEOPLE will learn this and laugh. The laughter is like the yin to the yang. So, that is my justification for writing shit like, "I want to cut your mothers head off and fuck her throat hole... just like I did my dear old mum" as a potential pick up line in a bar... are you buying 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.
HAMSTER ARMY DOING TRAINING EXCERCISES ON IRAQ BORDER
Rumors continue to fly that Rockstar W has hired a private army to take over for american troops presently quagmired in Afganistan and Iraq. For weeks these unsubtainted rumors could not be substantiated . . . until now.He is hiring my hamster army.
THis is pretty cool, but he won't fork out the money to buy them personal body armor, or even metal sheeting to keep their little jeeps safe from sniper bullets. Just like he tried to do with the human soldiers, who W is known to refer to, confusedly, as 'the masses meat,' in an evident reference to their coming from the masses of the classes that historically supply the battle fodder in wartime, due to their relative powerlessness in society. When asked about the 'masses meat,' comment, the W had this to say, "Look, you weasely asshole. I got something called breeding okay? The masses ain't. And new meat, hell, that's just something that soldiers been called since... or was that a prison movie? That one I saw that. . . caused me to get a woody with the guy on guy action. You had those two homo's killed didn't you? I'll need the videos of that, by the way. Little research I am doing. Top secret."
Later, as the W came out of House Of Blues, where he had just seen his fantasy concert, which he arranged as a command performance, with the Rolling Stones opening for his all time favorite, the Chimpmunks, he was heard to ask, 'How the hell do they get those Chipmunks to sing anyways? I mean on the records, you know? I mean, I could tell this was just a cartoon. But on the records, that shit is straight up chipmunk.'
When asked about the possibility of the government hiring a hamster army, the W responded, "Now, that is one hell of an idea. I bet the president who does come up with that great idea will .... well, get patted on the but, so to speak, by the whole nation. Not a faggie but pat, I' talking a football player to football player... hell."When reminded of what he was talking about, the W continued, "Hamsters are just brilliant. I'd get them if I could. Surely the enemy is checking them out, breeding their baddest, toughest crop of hamsters ever, I hear. I can't say nothing but good about hamster armies, that is for damn sure."
"Does this mean, rockstar president w sir, that you have a hamster army? And my question has a second part, as well. Is this hamster army equipped in any way to defeat well armed humans?"
"What the hell? Two parts? Did I say I was giving you goddamn interview? Okay, we have hamsters. Lots of them. I been keeping them in the basement. They got a huge one here. Everybody else thinks I'm keeping the bodies of hookers back there, and stays out. "
Cheney was quickly flown to the scene in a helicopter. Taking the rockstar president w's place at the microphone (where w had been making fart noises and then laughing over and over for the last forty five minutes). "Hey, whatever he said, he was just kidding. Pulling your legs. Hamsters in the White House basement? Hell, dead hookers maybe, but not some rodent. I am anti-rodent, in most cases. Lab rats are required. I am not anti-lab rat. Hell, I hope they torture rats. Anyways, no hamsters here. Now, who wants to go on a press junket to Honolulu? Anybody? I can send anyone who doesn't want to go to Cuba, little slice of cuba where you can wear a hood for a couple years, find out what it's like to have your balls wired up to the electric sockets in your room, so whenever your interrogator comes in ands flips on the lights you can't wait to tell them what they want. Wait, I did not say that. No, I was just kidding. I mean, I said it, in the context of kidding. We're practicing for, uh, April Fools Day. THough of course, last year, when the W called Russia and said the Nukes were in the sky was excessive, though I think everyone can laugh about it now. Except that one town that was actually nuked. Thank god that wasn't in America. There was not one American death. No one thanks the president for that. The Cheney Out."
Flashing 'v' for victory signs, Cheney was observed getting into a limosine with twelve, horny, obviously erect afgan hounds. Cheney's personal ass greaser, Rush Limbaugh, was also seen in the limo, dipping his hands into large vats of Crisco and laughing maniacally.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
THis is pretty cool, but he won't fork out the money to buy them personal body armor, or even metal sheeting to keep their little jeeps safe from sniper bullets. Just like he tried to do with the human soldiers, who W is known to refer to, confusedly, as 'the masses meat,' in an evident reference to their coming from the masses of the classes that historically supply the battle fodder in wartime, due to their relative powerlessness in society. When asked about the 'masses meat,' comment, the W had this to say, "Look, you weasely asshole. I got something called breeding okay? The masses ain't. And new meat, hell, that's just something that soldiers been called since... or was that a prison movie? That one I saw that. . . caused me to get a woody with the guy on guy action. You had those two homo's killed didn't you? I'll need the videos of that, by the way. Little research I am doing. Top secret."
Later, as the W came out of House Of Blues, where he had just seen his fantasy concert, which he arranged as a command performance, with the Rolling Stones opening for his all time favorite, the Chimpmunks, he was heard to ask, 'How the hell do they get those Chipmunks to sing anyways? I mean on the records, you know? I mean, I could tell this was just a cartoon. But on the records, that shit is straight up chipmunk.'
When asked about the possibility of the government hiring a hamster army, the W responded, "Now, that is one hell of an idea. I bet the president who does come up with that great idea will .... well, get patted on the but, so to speak, by the whole nation. Not a faggie but pat, I' talking a football player to football player... hell."When reminded of what he was talking about, the W continued, "Hamsters are just brilliant. I'd get them if I could. Surely the enemy is checking them out, breeding their baddest, toughest crop of hamsters ever, I hear. I can't say nothing but good about hamster armies, that is for damn sure."
"Does this mean, rockstar president w sir, that you have a hamster army? And my question has a second part, as well. Is this hamster army equipped in any way to defeat well armed humans?"
"What the hell? Two parts? Did I say I was giving you goddamn interview? Okay, we have hamsters. Lots of them. I been keeping them in the basement. They got a huge one here. Everybody else thinks I'm keeping the bodies of hookers back there, and stays out. "
Cheney was quickly flown to the scene in a helicopter. Taking the rockstar president w's place at the microphone (where w had been making fart noises and then laughing over and over for the last forty five minutes). "Hey, whatever he said, he was just kidding. Pulling your legs. Hamsters in the White House basement? Hell, dead hookers maybe, but not some rodent. I am anti-rodent, in most cases. Lab rats are required. I am not anti-lab rat. Hell, I hope they torture rats. Anyways, no hamsters here. Now, who wants to go on a press junket to Honolulu? Anybody? I can send anyone who doesn't want to go to Cuba, little slice of cuba where you can wear a hood for a couple years, find out what it's like to have your balls wired up to the electric sockets in your room, so whenever your interrogator comes in ands flips on the lights you can't wait to tell them what they want. Wait, I did not say that. No, I was just kidding. I mean, I said it, in the context of kidding. We're practicing for, uh, April Fools Day. THough of course, last year, when the W called Russia and said the Nukes were in the sky was excessive, though I think everyone can laugh about it now. Except that one town that was actually nuked. Thank god that wasn't in America. There was not one American death. No one thanks the president for that. The Cheney Out."
Flashing 'v' for victory signs, Cheney was observed getting into a limosine with twelve, horny, obviously erect afgan hounds. Cheney's personal ass greaser, Rush Limbaugh, was also seen in the limo, dipping his hands into large vats of Crisco and laughing maniacally.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
TV SCREAMS
don't be PC
the tv screams
words are just words
until they become Columbine
or appear on a comic with allah and his knives
voice after voice after face screaming BUY NOW don't wait/ offer won't last/great discounts/
claims of the paid liars we invite into our living rooms
Woner what do they tell the children
the flim flam men and the shiny skinny ladies
do they taunt everyone into trying to be plasticine
always afraid of showing ourselves
hiding away the cripples inside
silent stoics spending whithered days mentally running away from the constant mourning
the flurry of extinctions in the animal kingdom
the plight of every dog on a leash
every cat declawed
horrors of the farm
- all the trade offs to survive this time
the mind games we use to avoidthe mental mine field
that explode our tentative constructs
set the sick sinners loose from the chains of culture
make us see cows faces in our burgers
child slaves in our shirts
Hitlers' mustach under every preachers nose
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 tv screams
words are just words
until they become Columbine
or appear on a comic with allah and his knives
voice after voice after face screaming BUY NOW don't wait/ offer won't last/great discounts/
claims of the paid liars we invite into our living rooms
Woner what do they tell the children
the flim flam men and the shiny skinny ladies
do they taunt everyone into trying to be plasticine
always afraid of showing ourselves
hiding away the cripples inside
silent stoics spending whithered days mentally running away from the constant mourning
the flurry of extinctions in the animal kingdom
the plight of every dog on a leash
every cat declawed
horrors of the farm
- all the trade offs to survive this time
the mind games we use to avoidthe mental mine field
that explode our tentative constructs
set the sick sinners loose from the chains of culture
make us see cows faces in our burgers
child slaves in our shirts
Hitlers' mustach under every preachers nose
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
VIOLENT MOVIES
violent movies
Why not let John Wayne go in and correct everything
have him do it in two hours
brave and steadfast in the face of danger
standing up when his cowboy buddies are laying down
he of course shoots them alllike twenty of themwith a six shoote
LET THE MOVIE END
with no crying widows
no burned out buildings
no lives forever disrupted
no one waving a white flag from a roof
no suicide bombers
no kings
no dictators
no slaves
no whores
no religions
no crack
no herion
no one crying over any damn thing at all...
LET THE MOVIE END
with a lone girl with dark brown hair
the face of liz taylor when she was a diamond
she is softly humming a song to herself
her eyes closed as she slowly/slowly dances to the tune
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Why not let John Wayne go in and correct everything
have him do it in two hours
brave and steadfast in the face of danger
standing up when his cowboy buddies are laying down
he of course shoots them alllike twenty of themwith a six shoote
LET THE MOVIE END
with no crying widows
no burned out buildings
no lives forever disrupted
no one waving a white flag from a roof
no suicide bombers
no kings
no dictators
no slaves
no whores
no religions
no crack
no herion
no one crying over any damn thing at all...
LET THE MOVIE END
with a lone girl with dark brown hair
the face of liz taylor when she was a diamond
she is softly humming a song to herself
her eyes closed as she slowly/slowly dances to the tune
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
dragging the sickness out into the light
Don't you hate it when you read about some celebrity going in and out of treatment over some horrifying addiction? It is like, you know, sooner or later this person is going to use something again. They make all sorts of declerations of this and that about being sober, or perhaps just drinking booze and smoking and downing coffee but staying away from the hard stuff... When My Man Mitchum came out of treatment, a reporter asked him how he had changed.... Mitchum, who was being interviewed in a bar as he put away ungodly amounts of scotch, said something like, "Since I went through treatment, I'm drinking everything on the rocks." (this quote is much funnier than what I have written here). I keep telling you kids to stick to the weed, but I didn't listen so why should I expect you to?Not that I want to make light of going through treatment. There are few hells I understand better than the one of addiction. Everything I believe on the topic was written in scars. I can be pretty bad about this kind of shit if I let myself, because I just can't seem to get myself to moderate when it comes to drinking. I gave it up years ago because of all the mayhem this kind of pattern can have on ones life. I couldn't function drinking. Some can, but me... no, some big fuck up always happened that made me too ashamed to drink. I really could not control who I slept with, or what kind of mischeif I might decide was cool while drunk. Including fighting, which is a very ugly trait. I got my ass kicked exactly once in my life, and that was when I was eighteen and whisky drunk. I was so foolish that the shame rides down my nerves to this day and slams into my stomach with a big splash of acid...Regrets? I want to be a man who has regrets, because everyone should have a few. Everyone. Except machines and psycho paths. Prisons are filled with people who have no regrets for the most heinous behavior, yet I get floored by the horrible emotions that fill me if I am late walking my dog. Damn is the world a subjective place...Anyways, the treatment thing... I just wanted to say that I did it myself, and it was such a big mind fuck ... but I don't know if I would be who I am today, for good or bad, if I had not gone through treatment. I learned a lot of reasons to quit drinking... problem was, they involved invisible freinds, and that illusion doesn't stick with me, no matter how much brain washing I and others subject it to.Now I smoke enough weed to qualify as some kind of rastafarian. I don't have the hair, and can't spell the religion, but there is some kind of loophole in the law that allows people to take drugs for relgious purposes. I couldn't deal with that hair... just having long hair is a nightmarish chore... so I really do need to start a religion.hey, I just had a vision from the all powerful alarm clock that I worship... I must start a new religion, so people can finally truly know that their bad habits will still be allowed in heaven. Attaining the bliss of this religion requires sending me money, which I will then send the 'spirit' of up to heaven... this evil money you send buys you different things in heaven. Like, you want a flat screen in heaven? We are talking all eternity here, so you probably want something with an exceptional picture, right? Send me just ten dollars, and our god will give you a tv set so big that it looks like a drive in, and you can watch anything you want while floating on a cloud. You're probably wondering what kind of snacks are in heaven... well, none, unless you buy them now. Sorry, I don't write the revelations, I just scribe them for the big guy-gal... So, join my religion to learn about Fritos as big a truck, oreos with so much filling coming out the sides that you can ski on them... I have been ordered to call this true, true heaven The Realm of Jolly Fat Fuckers. All we'll do is eat and fuck -- and don't worry, we'll have no boring virgins in this heaven -- no, these women know how to do it all!!! And the women in this heaven actually like to give guys head. M. doesn't believe this last part. Damn her.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Don't you hate it when you read about some celebrity going in and out of treatment over some horrifying addiction? It is like, you know, sooner or later this person is going to use something again. They make all sorts of declerations of this and that about being sober, or perhaps just drinking booze and smoking and downing coffee but staying away from the hard stuff... When My Man Mitchum came out of treatment, a reporter asked him how he had changed.... Mitchum, who was being interviewed in a bar as he put away ungodly amounts of scotch, said something like, "Since I went through treatment, I'm drinking everything on the rocks." (this quote is much funnier than what I have written here). I keep telling you kids to stick to the weed, but I didn't listen so why should I expect you to?Not that I want to make light of going through treatment. There are few hells I understand better than the one of addiction. Everything I believe on the topic was written in scars. I can be pretty bad about this kind of shit if I let myself, because I just can't seem to get myself to moderate when it comes to drinking. I gave it up years ago because of all the mayhem this kind of pattern can have on ones life. I couldn't function drinking. Some can, but me... no, some big fuck up always happened that made me too ashamed to drink. I really could not control who I slept with, or what kind of mischeif I might decide was cool while drunk. Including fighting, which is a very ugly trait. I got my ass kicked exactly once in my life, and that was when I was eighteen and whisky drunk. I was so foolish that the shame rides down my nerves to this day and slams into my stomach with a big splash of acid...Regrets? I want to be a man who has regrets, because everyone should have a few. Everyone. Except machines and psycho paths. Prisons are filled with people who have no regrets for the most heinous behavior, yet I get floored by the horrible emotions that fill me if I am late walking my dog. Damn is the world a subjective place...Anyways, the treatment thing... I just wanted to say that I did it myself, and it was such a big mind fuck ... but I don't know if I would be who I am today, for good or bad, if I had not gone through treatment. I learned a lot of reasons to quit drinking... problem was, they involved invisible freinds, and that illusion doesn't stick with me, no matter how much brain washing I and others subject it to.Now I smoke enough weed to qualify as some kind of rastafarian. I don't have the hair, and can't spell the religion, but there is some kind of loophole in the law that allows people to take drugs for relgious purposes. I couldn't deal with that hair... just having long hair is a nightmarish chore... so I really do need to start a religion.hey, I just had a vision from the all powerful alarm clock that I worship... I must start a new religion, so people can finally truly know that their bad habits will still be allowed in heaven. Attaining the bliss of this religion requires sending me money, which I will then send the 'spirit' of up to heaven... this evil money you send buys you different things in heaven. Like, you want a flat screen in heaven? We are talking all eternity here, so you probably want something with an exceptional picture, right? Send me just ten dollars, and our god will give you a tv set so big that it looks like a drive in, and you can watch anything you want while floating on a cloud. You're probably wondering what kind of snacks are in heaven... well, none, unless you buy them now. Sorry, I don't write the revelations, I just scribe them for the big guy-gal... So, join my religion to learn about Fritos as big a truck, oreos with so much filling coming out the sides that you can ski on them... I have been ordered to call this true, true heaven The Realm of Jolly Fat Fuckers. All we'll do is eat and fuck -- and don't worry, we'll have no boring virgins in this heaven -- no, these women know how to do it all!!! And the women in this heaven actually like to give guys head. M. doesn't believe this last part. Damn her.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
President Rockstar W. Once Again Experiences Flash Backs To Books About Vietnam
THE PRESIDENT ROCK STAR W'S STATE OF THE UNION REPORT DEBACLE has gone widly unnoticed by the public, who have genuinely stopped reading any stories about the presidnet because, as one liberal source is said to have said to someone who said it to someone who said it to me, quote: "We won't read it, period. Too fucking depressing. Having this guy in the white house is like having a death in the family every fucking day. You have to just let that anger go. Sometimes I just think the CIA put him in there to drive me crazy. They have this one secretary there, I talked to her on the phone when I called, and though she would not admit anything, I know that she was assigned to drive me crazy." T
he unscensored version of the true, true, true, true, true story. . . on certain levels. Really. . .White House Sources say Rockstar W. was too wasted to attend, so Robot W. , who everyone secretly likes a lot better than the real one, was called in once again to give a speach.
When the story first broke to the press that Rockstar W was sitting around all day coloring and absolutly refuse to do any of what he calls, 'presidenting,'once again, the Robot W handled himself so well that American's just kind of accepted him. Rockstar W. is said to be so proud of the robot Rockstar W. that they have made a copy of W.'s wife, who it is rumoured will give The Real Rockstar W. head all day if he wants it, which has, again, allegedly, led to the president's much discussed chaffing problems on his penis, which he was hospitalized for the second day after Rockstar W's Robot Wife arrived.
Robot W can care less about Rockstar W's Robot Wife, but the W. has still demanded that he not be told about their little trysts because he doesn't trust anyone who doesn't know less than him, and that leaves mighty few.
The Rockstar W. later gave a brief statement to the press. Looking somehow serious, bemused, and arrogant all at once, the now red eyed and liquor breathed W. talked about his absence from the State Of The Union address. "Maybe I'm just being paranoid, or something, man, but dang nabit... the reason... I wasn't able to do this event, which was..."
At this point Cheney out of the door. Clearly visible inside the door was what first was thought to be the robot w's robotic wife, kneeling on the floor with come in her hair, on her face... though later reports made clear that this was indeed just the rockstar w's real wife, not her new and improved version, so no one really gave a shit. Though no one is allowed to tell the president, due to a new law passed today, which makes it a crime punishable by life in prison.
Rockstar W. turned to Cheney and high fived After finding out he was talking about from a reporter, Rockstar President W continued."Yeah, I been missing a lot shit lately. Stuff I damn well want to do,not just this stuff. You think it's easy living with my memories of Nam? It ain't man, it ain't. A car backfires and I hit the ground. I wake up late at night sweating and screaming about 'killing gooks.' I mean, I don't have anything against the Vietnamese people now. We fought them. They didn't want to fight us. We went there. Should of kicked their asses, didn't."
Cheney then had a breif, whispered conference during which, apparently, he was once more reminded that he had never been to Vietnam.
"Okay... I read a lot of vietnam books when I was a kid. Back when I was strong and could read about long marches and brutal fighting with no problem at all. No one told me that I would be scarred for life, and suffer these flashbacks. Hey, I thought I was helping save the democratic way by reading about the firefights... oh, man, I still look up at all the planes going over to make sure they are one of ours. Hell if I'd been writing those books, we could have won that damn war. Fact I might just do that, with some damn ghost writer... Why the hell am the only one who can come up with new ideas like this. I guess that's why I'm a rock star, man... I know everything. Everything. Chicks? Got em. Smoke? Got em. Blow? Got em. I get the munchies man, I got cooks ready to fucking serve me their own arm if I ask... that shit's kind of gross, and like I told my mom, I didn't they would take a presidential decree that seriously. She didn't buy that because I had those security... uhm, what are they... my posse, yea... the sunglasses guys in the suits.. well, they did where suits, until I became a rock star, and could afford to dress and get haircuts like the very early beatles."
W then opened the floor breifly for reporters questions.
"You are saying, sir, that being with loose women, doing drugs, and hanging out with a posse of Beatles look a likes is more important than giving the state of the union address?"
"What the fuck? What the hell planet are you from? I thought they were only letting the nose to the ass guy's come to these things. Hey, somebody catch that little reporter there, that fat one, the one that looks liberal. Damn, I guess I have to fucking point for you damn beatle heads. Yea, you guys, beat the hell out him... Okay, now who has another question... you."
"Hello sir, I'm with Rolling Stone magazine. I wanted to ask...""
Fucking Rolling Stone, huh?"
"Yes, sir. And my question..."
"Bet you get some fucking good weed, don't you boy?"
"Uh, no... We now kiss your ass, too, sir... and it used to be that Republicans were, well, against weed. I grew up Republican, of course, because you only let third generation Repulican reporters into these press conferences..."
"That's a fucking national secret!" The W. Screamed. " Somebody shoot that fucker. Make him disapear."
"Four men dressed like the early Beatles then surrounded the reporter, who our sources at the White House say is now in a monastary somewhere and will not be contacting anyone anywhere ever again. Reporters on the scene claimed to have no more questions as we all high fived the W and then went out to Ginger and Mary Ann's, a strip club with a Gilligan's Island theme -- on him. It was fucking great.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
he unscensored version of the true, true, true, true, true story. . . on certain levels. Really. . .White House Sources say Rockstar W. was too wasted to attend, so Robot W. , who everyone secretly likes a lot better than the real one, was called in once again to give a speach.
When the story first broke to the press that Rockstar W was sitting around all day coloring and absolutly refuse to do any of what he calls, 'presidenting,'once again, the Robot W handled himself so well that American's just kind of accepted him. Rockstar W. is said to be so proud of the robot Rockstar W. that they have made a copy of W.'s wife, who it is rumoured will give The Real Rockstar W. head all day if he wants it, which has, again, allegedly, led to the president's much discussed chaffing problems on his penis, which he was hospitalized for the second day after Rockstar W's Robot Wife arrived.
Robot W can care less about Rockstar W's Robot Wife, but the W. has still demanded that he not be told about their little trysts because he doesn't trust anyone who doesn't know less than him, and that leaves mighty few.
The Rockstar W. later gave a brief statement to the press. Looking somehow serious, bemused, and arrogant all at once, the now red eyed and liquor breathed W. talked about his absence from the State Of The Union address. "Maybe I'm just being paranoid, or something, man, but dang nabit... the reason... I wasn't able to do this event, which was..."
At this point Cheney out of the door. Clearly visible inside the door was what first was thought to be the robot w's robotic wife, kneeling on the floor with come in her hair, on her face... though later reports made clear that this was indeed just the rockstar w's real wife, not her new and improved version, so no one really gave a shit. Though no one is allowed to tell the president, due to a new law passed today, which makes it a crime punishable by life in prison.
Rockstar W. turned to Cheney and high fived After finding out he was talking about from a reporter, Rockstar President W continued."Yeah, I been missing a lot shit lately. Stuff I damn well want to do,not just this stuff. You think it's easy living with my memories of Nam? It ain't man, it ain't. A car backfires and I hit the ground. I wake up late at night sweating and screaming about 'killing gooks.' I mean, I don't have anything against the Vietnamese people now. We fought them. They didn't want to fight us. We went there. Should of kicked their asses, didn't."
Cheney then had a breif, whispered conference during which, apparently, he was once more reminded that he had never been to Vietnam.
"Okay... I read a lot of vietnam books when I was a kid. Back when I was strong and could read about long marches and brutal fighting with no problem at all. No one told me that I would be scarred for life, and suffer these flashbacks. Hey, I thought I was helping save the democratic way by reading about the firefights... oh, man, I still look up at all the planes going over to make sure they are one of ours. Hell if I'd been writing those books, we could have won that damn war. Fact I might just do that, with some damn ghost writer... Why the hell am the only one who can come up with new ideas like this. I guess that's why I'm a rock star, man... I know everything. Everything. Chicks? Got em. Smoke? Got em. Blow? Got em. I get the munchies man, I got cooks ready to fucking serve me their own arm if I ask... that shit's kind of gross, and like I told my mom, I didn't they would take a presidential decree that seriously. She didn't buy that because I had those security... uhm, what are they... my posse, yea... the sunglasses guys in the suits.. well, they did where suits, until I became a rock star, and could afford to dress and get haircuts like the very early beatles."
W then opened the floor breifly for reporters questions.
"You are saying, sir, that being with loose women, doing drugs, and hanging out with a posse of Beatles look a likes is more important than giving the state of the union address?"
"What the fuck? What the hell planet are you from? I thought they were only letting the nose to the ass guy's come to these things. Hey, somebody catch that little reporter there, that fat one, the one that looks liberal. Damn, I guess I have to fucking point for you damn beatle heads. Yea, you guys, beat the hell out him... Okay, now who has another question... you."
"Hello sir, I'm with Rolling Stone magazine. I wanted to ask...""
Fucking Rolling Stone, huh?"
"Yes, sir. And my question..."
"Bet you get some fucking good weed, don't you boy?"
"Uh, no... We now kiss your ass, too, sir... and it used to be that Republicans were, well, against weed. I grew up Republican, of course, because you only let third generation Repulican reporters into these press conferences..."
"That's a fucking national secret!" The W. Screamed. " Somebody shoot that fucker. Make him disapear."
"Four men dressed like the early Beatles then surrounded the reporter, who our sources at the White House say is now in a monastary somewhere and will not be contacting anyone anywhere ever again. Reporters on the scene claimed to have no more questions as we all high fived the W and then went out to Ginger and Mary Ann's, a strip club with a Gilligan's Island theme -- on him. It was fucking great.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
BOUNCING TOMMY CRUISE AND THE CULT OF PERSONALITY
"Across 90 nations, 5,000 people hear his (bouncing tommy cruise) scientology every hour," International Scientology News proclaimed last year. "Every minute of every hour someone reaches for LRH technology, simply because they know Tom Cruise is a Scientologist."The above is from the la times. I want to break bouncing tom in half, punch his ho in the stomach, kill all his relatives.... I MEAN, IT IS A CRIME TO LEAD PEOPLE INTO CULTS.JUST LIKE IT IS A CRIME TO USE RELIGION TO TRICK PEOPLE OUT OF MONEY.... CRIMES, BUT NOT ILLEGAL... Oh, no... you are allowed to trick people out of money for fortune telling, sin forgiving, talking to saints and even god, and all sorts of other institutionalized scams. You can't scam people with bookeeping, or fraudulent stocks, lemon cars, or just about anything else except religion. Why is it that we allow the religious folk to scam people? I SAY BECAUSE MY AIM IS OFF, OTHERWISE, SHOOT EM DOWN -- GUT SHOOT EM AND LEAVE EM IN A WELL WITH A COUPLE DOZEN RATS THAT WILL SLOWLY EAT THEM OVER THE COURSE OF THEIR DYING DAYS. And there are still fools out there who wonder why I have to kill to maintain proper mental health? IDIOTS!!!! They would feel so much better if they could just get some bouncing celebrity in their sights and shoot em' down flat dead!!!! THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
PEOPLE KEEP FORCING ME TO KILL THEM
I am getting sick of all the people who force me to kill them. You know what I mean. Last night I was on the el train coming home from scoring a little weed, sitting there buzzing and drawing. Around me was a very normal crowd of all colors. Then The But came on the train, loud talking into a headset phone. She is cursing like mad, everything is, "Fuck that Bitch." She sits down right by me of course.I tell her, "Hey, turn that down." She doesn't hear me, so I tap her shoulder with my drawing pad. Looking all shocked, she says, "Oh, we got a white black thing going on.... Jennie..."
I don't know what else she was going to say. I pulled the Bowie knife oot of my waist, sttood up and then used both hands to bury that sharp metal down deep her skull.A couple people clapped, so I took a bow.Later, I am out walking Ruby Dog, Mary Ann is with me, the cold winter has let up temporarily and we are loving being out neighborhood, our walk, each other. I remember that we are getting low on milk, so I ask Mary Ann to hold onto the dog while I go into this carry out.I go in and grab a half gallon. The guy who runs/owns/probably lives in the back with his three wives and four indentured slaves/ talks on his cell phone throughout our transaction. I get my change and turn to leave and the bag breaks.... the milk is fine, so I go back to the guy and he tries to give me ONE BAG again. I go, "Hey, it just broke with one, so it has to be double bagged.
""Now you are costing me three bags," he says.
I had my change and my double bagged milk and there was no reason anymore for me to pretend to be nice. AS I walk out I tell him, "You're a total asshole. You fuck your mother in the ass. You suck off your father, don't you?" Arab guys get really pissed off by this (learned that while driving cab, where actually I got along with the arabs perfectly well). He followed me out the door screaming something about me being a bad customer. I just gave the fucker my back.
He tried to sting me, so I had to sting him.Since I was with M., I couldn't really do shit to the guy. She gets so pissed when she has to testify against me. I calmed down the best I could, and M. was proud of me for 'being an adult and walking away from violence.' She almost made me feel guilty, because all the while I knew that I would be going back to that guys store and basically try to destroy his life. Assholes. They have to be gotten out of the gene pool.Around Midnight, when M. was deep in her sleep, I took an empty gallon of milk and went down to the gaf station on the corner, filled it up for a buck fifty. I took the gasoline down into the basement, to our storage room, and hid it away for later -- when the gasoline attendent will have half forgotten that I came down and got gas.
Two weeks passed. I added this guy to my stalking list, which is pretty crowded at this point, so I had to let my survaillance go on certain people who are of interest to me for reasons I can't even begin to understand. His name turned out to be Halik Brlin, so I just called him Rab. A pompous fuck, he was cheating on his wife and his girlfriend, doing three women, and all of them fat, unattractive, and kind of loud mouthed; basically, white trash. He drank all day long, beat his kids, his wife. Over bearing isn't strong enough for the naZI EMPIRE that he created in his house.... He was also insured for quite a bit of money. I was happy to see all of this, as you can imagine...necause, of course, hatred for your enemies makes your balls grow bigger.I decided to cook him in his car. He had a two door escort, so all I needed to do was put a chain around the doors, pour on the gas and listen to that rude motherfuckers death cries. I caught him that night, as he was coming out of his store. Put my gun right into the side of his head and told him, "I want your money, and then I am I am going to tie you up to get a running staret. I don't mind shooting your ass -- and I will if you give me the slightest fucking problem. I know you got a fucking gun, too, so hand it over."
During the stalk, I had seen him trying to imporess women with some fucking tiny liuttle pearl derringer he carried -- the poodle of guns.He handed over the gun, then a big wad of bills. "Give me your car keys." I tell him.He hands them over, too.Once he is inside, I take the chaing and throw it over the roof of the car, then get down on my stomach and push one end under the car, chain it together tight.When he sees me coming at the him with a jug of gasoline, he starts trying to break the windows. I slosh the stuff all over the escort, going front to back, getting some on the sides, event he tires. He is using his bloody hands to try and smash out the drivers side window. He could probably do it if he layed down and used his feet, but of course there was no way in hell I was going to tell him that. I tossed a paper match and the Gasoline soaked, maroon escort went up in magniificent shards of red and orange and yellow.
Don't ask me why, but at the last second, I started thinking about all of this guys kids. Wondering if they were better off without him. I had a baseball bat, for in case he did break out, and could easily still save him... then I remembered all the insurance money they would get, and that no matter how many tears they cried, his kids were better off being rich and free of assholes. Not to mention, my mission is of course to cleanse the gene pool of assholes.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
I don't know what else she was going to say. I pulled the Bowie knife oot of my waist, sttood up and then used both hands to bury that sharp metal down deep her skull.A couple people clapped, so I took a bow.Later, I am out walking Ruby Dog, Mary Ann is with me, the cold winter has let up temporarily and we are loving being out neighborhood, our walk, each other. I remember that we are getting low on milk, so I ask Mary Ann to hold onto the dog while I go into this carry out.I go in and grab a half gallon. The guy who runs/owns/probably lives in the back with his three wives and four indentured slaves/ talks on his cell phone throughout our transaction. I get my change and turn to leave and the bag breaks.... the milk is fine, so I go back to the guy and he tries to give me ONE BAG again. I go, "Hey, it just broke with one, so it has to be double bagged.
""Now you are costing me three bags," he says.
I had my change and my double bagged milk and there was no reason anymore for me to pretend to be nice. AS I walk out I tell him, "You're a total asshole. You fuck your mother in the ass. You suck off your father, don't you?" Arab guys get really pissed off by this (learned that while driving cab, where actually I got along with the arabs perfectly well). He followed me out the door screaming something about me being a bad customer. I just gave the fucker my back.
He tried to sting me, so I had to sting him.Since I was with M., I couldn't really do shit to the guy. She gets so pissed when she has to testify against me. I calmed down the best I could, and M. was proud of me for 'being an adult and walking away from violence.' She almost made me feel guilty, because all the while I knew that I would be going back to that guys store and basically try to destroy his life. Assholes. They have to be gotten out of the gene pool.Around Midnight, when M. was deep in her sleep, I took an empty gallon of milk and went down to the gaf station on the corner, filled it up for a buck fifty. I took the gasoline down into the basement, to our storage room, and hid it away for later -- when the gasoline attendent will have half forgotten that I came down and got gas.
Two weeks passed. I added this guy to my stalking list, which is pretty crowded at this point, so I had to let my survaillance go on certain people who are of interest to me for reasons I can't even begin to understand. His name turned out to be Halik Brlin, so I just called him Rab. A pompous fuck, he was cheating on his wife and his girlfriend, doing three women, and all of them fat, unattractive, and kind of loud mouthed; basically, white trash. He drank all day long, beat his kids, his wife. Over bearing isn't strong enough for the naZI EMPIRE that he created in his house.... He was also insured for quite a bit of money. I was happy to see all of this, as you can imagine...necause, of course, hatred for your enemies makes your balls grow bigger.I decided to cook him in his car. He had a two door escort, so all I needed to do was put a chain around the doors, pour on the gas and listen to that rude motherfuckers death cries. I caught him that night, as he was coming out of his store. Put my gun right into the side of his head and told him, "I want your money, and then I am I am going to tie you up to get a running staret. I don't mind shooting your ass -- and I will if you give me the slightest fucking problem. I know you got a fucking gun, too, so hand it over."
During the stalk, I had seen him trying to imporess women with some fucking tiny liuttle pearl derringer he carried -- the poodle of guns.He handed over the gun, then a big wad of bills. "Give me your car keys." I tell him.He hands them over, too.Once he is inside, I take the chaing and throw it over the roof of the car, then get down on my stomach and push one end under the car, chain it together tight.When he sees me coming at the him with a jug of gasoline, he starts trying to break the windows. I slosh the stuff all over the escort, going front to back, getting some on the sides, event he tires. He is using his bloody hands to try and smash out the drivers side window. He could probably do it if he layed down and used his feet, but of course there was no way in hell I was going to tell him that. I tossed a paper match and the Gasoline soaked, maroon escort went up in magniificent shards of red and orange and yellow.
Don't ask me why, but at the last second, I started thinking about all of this guys kids. Wondering if they were better off without him. I had a baseball bat, for in case he did break out, and could easily still save him... then I remembered all the insurance money they would get, and that no matter how many tears they cried, his kids were better off being rich and free of assholes. Not to mention, my mission is of course to cleanse the gene pool of assholes.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
cancer is eating the eel in my head
ZOMBIE JESUS IS EATING THE EEL .....If ever a true life adventure was meant for the Hallowed Pages of The Reader's Digest Condensed Version, it's this day of mine -- which may even make it into the hardbound Best Of The Year Addition.At ten o clock this morning, I was diagnosed with no less than deadly highly deadly diseases. The pain was so intense that they shot me up with so much morphine that the diseases actually seemed worth it..I found out the grim reaper was standing in the corner of the emergency room where I was splayed out having some kind of tube shoved into my nostril. A shrew faced doctor with a pompous air whose taste in suites and ties amused his co-workers, broke the news to me in a loud, white emergency room. The youngish, earnest, bloody looking dude told me, "You should already be dead. With all of these ten deadly diseases, only a superhuman constitution could live this far...""Yes, yes..." I told him, "Tell me something I don't know?' I'm fucking Johnny Pain, alright?""And you don't do something about this shit, I am kicking every ass in here, man.... patients and all. Hell I'll do some of my own brand of surgery on your ass, boy!"Well, I'm getting ahead of myself aren't I.... this started before the hospital, the ambulance ride, the green jello... Odd day. M and I were awakened by a dense rain of toads falling dwon from the bedroom ceiling. Most, disgustingly enough, were urinating on the way down... M for some reason blamed me... She thought that i had the toads to get stoned on... They aren't the kind that you can get stoned on, though... and god don't I know it... I licked them all and I can pretty much gaurantee you that they enjoyed the experience a hell of a lot more than me .. the horny bastards spewed on my toungue. I tried to get up out of bed and noticed these welts all over me, and that when I tried to lift myself up on my elbows, they both broke into compound fractors that spewed blood across the white walls of me bedroom. I screamed and screamed for help, and finally, during a commercial break in M.'s favorite local news show, she came into the bedroom and asked me in a snide voice, "Are you trying to get out of walking the dog? Some people gotta work, art-boy." She always suspects me of subterfuge like this, so why should this time be any different, I suppose?Then she kind of saw all the blood around my arms and got a concerned look and said, "You broke something of mine. Someting glass. Don't lie now, what was it?"I may have passed out at that point, or she beat me unconscious, depending who you believe; sleeping in the same room with this woman and her knives kind of makes my sanity require that I go with passing out, though Mary Ann answer's on the topic have all been, well, somewhat non- commital.Then this pot belly pig floated in through the window of the hospital room, wearing a shiny, red velvet vest, smiling broadly as he drifted up to the ceiling fan, reached out his rhoof, took ahold and allowed himself to be spun around the room a few times and then let loose and shot back out into the robin egg sky from which he had come. As he receeded off into a robin egg sky filled with thin, wind whisked whisps of white, I distinctly saw the pig give us all what could only be described as a 'merry wink.' That Night, I reasearched all the ancient pig myths on the net, and though most of them turned out to be bestiality sites, there was one that told of pig named KLOPI who was taught to use some fundamental words, and seemed to have told a tale about a pig god that winks a log, and can fly. Thank god for Wiccapedia... when you really have to know the latest.You can guess the rest, of course... The next day, my doctors could not believe how good I looked. After about ten thousand tests, they were just amazed to find out that all of my ten deadly diseases were simply gone. Yes. I suspect aleins, but I ain't looking no gift horses in the mouth you know...I AM NOW CURED OF ALL TEN DEADLY DISEASES THAT WERE TO KILL ME BEFORE THE NIGHT IS OUT...Yes, My miraculous recovery will obviously be written up in many a medical journal.I WOULD BE SELFISH TO KEEP THIS KIND OF HEALING POWER TO MYSELF. YOU SEE, I HAVE DISCOVERED THAT I LIVE IN A HOLY ENVIRONMENT WHERE ALL ARTIFACTS ARE INFUSED WITH WHAT I CALL CRYSTAL JIZZ. CRYSTAL JIZZ IS EVEN MORE POWERFUL THAN REGULAR CRYSTAL, BECAUSE IT CAN GROW INTO SUPER CRYSTAL WITH TEN MILLION TRILLION TIMES THE POWER OF OTHER CRYSTALS WHEN GESTATATED WITH THE OVUMS OF WOMAN FROM VENUS. I have been able to harnass these powerful, cosmic, flows of crystal jizz into a nice pendent of a pig that you just have to wear around your neck for like a week to learn more than Buddha ever dreamt of under his boddi. tree. At 68.99 plus 34 dollars shipping and handling, Nirvana has never been cheaper!!!Trust me on this, alright? SEND FOR YOU CRYSTAL JIZZ before you die from one of the ten deadly diseases* we are guaranteed to cure you of.(Actual list of diseases cured is Confidential Company information).
. . . AND ZOMBIE JESUS IS EATING THE EEL .....This amazing human story is meant for the hallowed pages of the Reader's Digest condensed version if ever a true life tale of adventure was!!!!!!!! About ten o clock this morning, I was diagnosed with no less than ten deadly diseases. They shot me up with so much morphine that I believed all of the diseases were worth it, actually...I found out the grim reaper was standing in the corner of the emergency room where I was splayed out having some kind of tube shoved into my nostril. A shrew faced doctor with a pompous air whose taste in suites and ties amused his co-workers broke the news to me in a loud, white emergency room where I went in after starting to bleed from embarrassing places). The youngish, earnest, bloody looking dude told me, "You should already be dead. With all of these ten deadly diseases, only a superhuman constitution could live this far...""Yes, yes..." I told him, "Tell me something I don't know?' I'm fucking Johnny Pain, alright?""He could die right now?" Some intern added.Then a nurse was like, "No.... he could die....right.........now!""Me next," says the doctor. "Okay.... now!!!"I had a pretty good idea that they were betting on when I was going to die, and they confirmed as much later when... Well, I'm getting ahead of myself. This morning I was awakened by a dense rain of toads falling from my bedroom ceiling. Most were urinating. M./ of course blamed me for this somehow... And these were not the toads you can get all stoned from, and god don't I know it... I licked them all and I can gaurantee you they enjoyed the experience a hell of a lot more than me -- horny bastards spewed on my toungue... I tried to get up out of bed and noticed these welts all over me, and that when I tried to lift myself up on my elbows, they both broke into compound fractors that spewed blood across the white walls of me bedroom. I screamed and screamed for help, and finally, during a commercial break in M.'s favorite local news show (she won't dress until she knows the weather), she came into the bedroom and asked me in a snide voice, "Are you trying to get out of walking the dog? Some people gotta work, art-boy." She always suspects me of subterfuge like this, so why should this time be any different, I suppose?Then she kind of saw all the blood around my arms and got a concerned look and said, "You broke something of mine. Someting glass. Don't lie now, what was it?"I may have passed out at that point, or she beat me unconscious, depending who you believe; sleeping in the same room with this woman and her knives kind of makes my sanity requires that I go with passing out, though Mary Ann answer's on the topic have all been, well, somewhat non- commital.This grey and red and white speckled pot belly pig floated in through the window of the hospital room, pushed through the white curtains weary a shiny red velvet vest, smiling broadly as he drfted up to the ceiling fan, grabbed it with his hoof, spoun himself around in a circle and whipped back out into the sunny day from which he had come. He flew back up high over an apple tree, and then as he started to disappear in whisps of wind whisked white, he winked at me. The most merry wink.I felt better right away, which wasn't easy with all that morphine they were giving me for the pain of dying from ten of the deadliest diseases known to man (the kind you can pick up anywhere, even from anti-bacteria wipes). That night as I layed around really, really getting into this lawrence welk special, it came to that I would get me a pot belly pig and that I would be cured.Well, you can guess the rest. I woke up the next morning in perfect health. Those doctors had never seen anything like this before, but when I told them that I had been cured by natures healers, they pointed out that pot belly pigs alone could not have done this. Well, this made us look further, and of course that is when we discovered The Honorable KING OF PIGS, FLOGON SQUINTY ONE WITH MANY FLAPS OF FLAPPY, one of the few Pot Belly Pigs who will work on Humans. After what we have done to them, who can blame the little shits?Of course we have all of the proof of this in our brochure. You didn't think we would keep something this good to ourselves, did you? Hell No. We are going to save the whole damn world, people.YES!!!!!!!!!I AM NOW CURED OF ALL TEN DEADLY DISEASES THAT WERE TO KILL ME BEFORE THE NIGHT IS OUT...Yes, My miraculous recovery will obviously be written up in many a medical journal.I WOULD BE SELFISH TO KEEP THIS KIND OF HEALING POWER TO MYSELF. YOU SEE, I HAVE DISCOVERED THAT I LIVE IN A HOLY ENVIRONMENT WHERE ALL ARTIFACTS ARE INFUSED WITH WHAT I CALL . . .CRYSTAL JIZZ, CRYSTAL JIZZ. THESE ARE EVEN MORE POWERFUL THAN REGULAR CRYSTAL, BECAUSE THEY CAN GROW INTO SUPER CRYSTAL WITH TEN MILLION TRILLION TIMES THE POWER OF OTHER CRYSTALS ... though only when GESTATATED WITH THE OVUMS OF WOMAN FROM VENUS, who have yet to be discovered. I have however been able to harnass these invisible crystal Jizz particles into a gold pendant of the KING OF PIGS, FLOGON SQUINTY ONE WITH MANY FLAPS OF FLAPPY. Where this powerful symbol of the runny snout for a week and you will learn more than Buddha dreamt of under his bodi tree. This little pig... he used to look like Piglet, but Disney wanted too much of a cut... anyways, umm, Hey, SEND FOR YOU CRYSTAL JIZZ before you die from one of the ten deadly diseases we are guaranteed to cure you of.*(Actual list of diseases cured BY CRYSTAL JIZZ is Confidential Company information).BECOME A DISTRIBUTOR OF CRYSTAL JIZZ AND SHIFTY VAC AND BE A MILLIONARE BY NEXT TUESDAY -- IF YOU GOT WHAT IT TAKES, AND MOST DO!!! LET US BE SAINTS TOGETHER!!! Hey, sounds like a cult is in order. I am glad someone brought that up. Of course I would have to lead, since I have the loudest shouting voice.THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
. . . AND ZOMBIE JESUS IS EATING THE EEL .....This amazing human story is meant for the hallowed pages of the Reader's Digest condensed version if ever a true life tale of adventure was!!!!!!!! About ten o clock this morning, I was diagnosed with no less than ten deadly diseases. They shot me up with so much morphine that I believed all of the diseases were worth it, actually...I found out the grim reaper was standing in the corner of the emergency room where I was splayed out having some kind of tube shoved into my nostril. A shrew faced doctor with a pompous air whose taste in suites and ties amused his co-workers broke the news to me in a loud, white emergency room where I went in after starting to bleed from embarrassing places). The youngish, earnest, bloody looking dude told me, "You should already be dead. With all of these ten deadly diseases, only a superhuman constitution could live this far...""Yes, yes..." I told him, "Tell me something I don't know?' I'm fucking Johnny Pain, alright?""He could die right now?" Some intern added.Then a nurse was like, "No.... he could die....right.........now!""Me next," says the doctor. "Okay.... now!!!"I had a pretty good idea that they were betting on when I was going to die, and they confirmed as much later when... Well, I'm getting ahead of myself. This morning I was awakened by a dense rain of toads falling from my bedroom ceiling. Most were urinating. M./ of course blamed me for this somehow... And these were not the toads you can get all stoned from, and god don't I know it... I licked them all and I can gaurantee you they enjoyed the experience a hell of a lot more than me -- horny bastards spewed on my toungue... I tried to get up out of bed and noticed these welts all over me, and that when I tried to lift myself up on my elbows, they both broke into compound fractors that spewed blood across the white walls of me bedroom. I screamed and screamed for help, and finally, during a commercial break in M.'s favorite local news show (she won't dress until she knows the weather), she came into the bedroom and asked me in a snide voice, "Are you trying to get out of walking the dog? Some people gotta work, art-boy." She always suspects me of subterfuge like this, so why should this time be any different, I suppose?Then she kind of saw all the blood around my arms and got a concerned look and said, "You broke something of mine. Someting glass. Don't lie now, what was it?"I may have passed out at that point, or she beat me unconscious, depending who you believe; sleeping in the same room with this woman and her knives kind of makes my sanity requires that I go with passing out, though Mary Ann answer's on the topic have all been, well, somewhat non- commital.This grey and red and white speckled pot belly pig floated in through the window of the hospital room, pushed through the white curtains weary a shiny red velvet vest, smiling broadly as he drfted up to the ceiling fan, grabbed it with his hoof, spoun himself around in a circle and whipped back out into the sunny day from which he had come. He flew back up high over an apple tree, and then as he started to disappear in whisps of wind whisked white, he winked at me. The most merry wink.I felt better right away, which wasn't easy with all that morphine they were giving me for the pain of dying from ten of the deadliest diseases known to man (the kind you can pick up anywhere, even from anti-bacteria wipes). That night as I layed around really, really getting into this lawrence welk special, it came to that I would get me a pot belly pig and that I would be cured.Well, you can guess the rest. I woke up the next morning in perfect health. Those doctors had never seen anything like this before, but when I told them that I had been cured by natures healers, they pointed out that pot belly pigs alone could not have done this. Well, this made us look further, and of course that is when we discovered The Honorable KING OF PIGS, FLOGON SQUINTY ONE WITH MANY FLAPS OF FLAPPY, one of the few Pot Belly Pigs who will work on Humans. After what we have done to them, who can blame the little shits?Of course we have all of the proof of this in our brochure. You didn't think we would keep something this good to ourselves, did you? Hell No. We are going to save the whole damn world, people.YES!!!!!!!!!I AM NOW CURED OF ALL TEN DEADLY DISEASES THAT WERE TO KILL ME BEFORE THE NIGHT IS OUT...Yes, My miraculous recovery will obviously be written up in many a medical journal.I WOULD BE SELFISH TO KEEP THIS KIND OF HEALING POWER TO MYSELF. YOU SEE, I HAVE DISCOVERED THAT I LIVE IN A HOLY ENVIRONMENT WHERE ALL ARTIFACTS ARE INFUSED WITH WHAT I CALL . . .CRYSTAL JIZZ, CRYSTAL JIZZ. THESE ARE EVEN MORE POWERFUL THAN REGULAR CRYSTAL, BECAUSE THEY CAN GROW INTO SUPER CRYSTAL WITH TEN MILLION TRILLION TIMES THE POWER OF OTHER CRYSTALS ... though only when GESTATATED WITH THE OVUMS OF WOMAN FROM VENUS, who have yet to be discovered. I have however been able to harnass these invisible crystal Jizz particles into a gold pendant of the KING OF PIGS, FLOGON SQUINTY ONE WITH MANY FLAPS OF FLAPPY. Where this powerful symbol of the runny snout for a week and you will learn more than Buddha dreamt of under his bodi tree. This little pig... he used to look like Piglet, but Disney wanted too much of a cut... anyways, umm, Hey, SEND FOR YOU CRYSTAL JIZZ before you die from one of the ten deadly diseases we are guaranteed to cure you of.*(Actual list of diseases cured BY CRYSTAL JIZZ is Confidential Company information).BECOME A DISTRIBUTOR OF CRYSTAL JIZZ AND SHIFTY VAC AND BE A MILLIONARE BY NEXT TUESDAY -- IF YOU GOT WHAT IT TAKES, AND MOST DO!!! LET US BE SAINTS TOGETHER!!! Hey, sounds like a cult is in order. I am glad someone brought that up. Of course I would have to lead, since I have the loudest shouting voice.THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
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