SMILING PSYCHOS

the dungeon of his youth spawned
him drunk and angry


beatings turn him into stone
he feels none of her pain
as he slits her throat


the pervert who played with his dick
when he was a kid
opened his mind to devilish options


They drew first blood
He moves among them acting
like what they want him to be
until he can be the one he is
the one who would drive them away
if they were left alive

he wished life was fair
when he was the little boy lost
now that justice would strike him down
he's glad it isn't real
as he taps on your shoulder
and smiles pleasent



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WIKKAPEEHEADIA

the free encyclopedia is a joke, I know, but still someone was nice enough to put me in this thing. I now see that they are debating whether I am of any worth. None of them bother to read my work before giving opinions... Wimpodorkians!! I suppose I could care less about this, but there are a lot of shitty comments about me on there, and it would be nice if one fucking nice comment wasn't from me!!!


Why don't you do a google search on my name, john scott ridgway, go to the not so big debate and let these herpes lickers know that not everyone thinks I am 'worthless' ? Because you are a stoned sloth whose fingers are too greasy from donuts to type? Or is that KY jelly? Don't answer- I really don't want to know.


Know what? I am done wasting my career writing in here. . . I have to devote myself to the task of writing something the dorks like so I can be in Worthlesspeeheadia, A COMING OF AGE NOVEL, PERHAPS? hAS TO BE IN AN ACCEPTED GENRE THAT IS EASY TO PUBLISH, MAYBE HORROR, OR ROMANCE?



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word whores

the market that god so mindless and cool


I'll tell the kids to smoke
the aids soaked to poke


give me a big old bag of weed
and I'll write you up a creed

tell everyone you are a saint unsainted
a star fell from the sky

got your dummie books and cliff notes
your self help drivel

tell ya how to live for awhile
if it makes your money smile

i'll write porn for kids
to read about each other

tales for a crazy cat lady
to rationalize the stench of her diseases

let me tell ya about presidents
the green house effect
the whores in Bombay
and the little boys in thailand


any damn words that you please
I have a high tolerance for sleaze

tell ya whatever
they want me to tell

prop up your crosses and bosses
challange evolution itself

I'll praise fetuses
and damn abortionists criminal

write out how to hate minorities
and immigrants

don't matter what i think or feel
the market is the only thing that is real



the
death
of
us
all




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judeao-corporate lifestyling

child
they will capture you with sweet words of seduction
whisper honey and cream into your ears
promise twenty acres and a mule
sign a contract with your nation
anything to get behind you
to plunge the knife deep into your back
so they can sell your meat
to your children

nothing can stop
the mental slave traders
the judeo-corporate marauders
sailing the seas of our collective consciousness

sit here a few stories above the busy street
watch the cars dash by as they burn out the sky

this whore of a world is all played out
watch it die


so sick of the fucking corporate
excuses for killing me


BANG BANG BANG goes the gun in my head





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cogs

I could have been you
you could have been me
it's a twist of the mind
a trick of the genes
that dark god of chaos
scrawls the lines in between
the inter-changable parts
in this crippled machine.



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revelations of the bloody clown

Hi. I'm dead. My name, where I lived, who I loved and hated is not important to me. Shouldn't be to you.

There is an infinity of surprises involved in dying. I was surprised about going to hell . . . I didn't believe in any of this shit when I had flesh. Then I was surprised all the more when I found out we prefer Satan's domain by such a huge, bloody serious degree.

Why is the life god sentenced us to so painful? Because the god wanted it to be horror filled... in a cosmos with a god, how could it be other? Heaven is the same way, a horror house of blood and gore.

The whole thing with god being good and the devil being bad is all just more of the usual bullshit that the living use to brainwash themselves into plodding through another tricky day.

The one we worshiped as god was really our tormentor, and Satan, the rebel, had been fighting for us. . . makes perfect sense, once you think of it, but the god wouldn't allow enough humans to think this for the thought to grow legs among the living.



The devil, satan, the fallen angel -- he was actually entreating god to end human suffering, telling god that just because he had a need to feel like the humans 'were good enough to worship him,' that this need alone did not make what god was doing right.


God had never been questioned before in any manner that god understood as questioned, and ignored satan's pleas to spare the living beasts of their horror of short, brutal lives.

Satan loved and revered god his father, praised him for every leaf of glorious grass. . . still he couldn't just ignore the screams of the humans. Satan heard from other Angels who shared his torment, and together their disquiet grew...

When he could no longer bear feeling the humans pain, the Dark One rebelled . . . fought for what he knew would be a losing cause. What was our pain to a god? Nothing.

God the mindless child sentenced Satan to remain in the center of the earth, trapped, forever hearing the torment of the dying life forms on the surface.

The Dark Prince cries our tears while the laughter of Christ echoes on high...

True fucking story, man.

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LAMENTING THE LEMMINGS

I would not have spent
all those lonely years
trekking out here
if I did not think
I could draw blood
explode a few bombs
in the infinite realm of techno words

tell myself that I am going to try to sway
the great grey pulsing brain of us all
play the town crier
be an alarm

a paul revere whimpers a few hesitant words
in this obscure rag where I wipe my wad
harp on about an anthropologist declaring
we need to kill off 90% of ourself
for this little planet to feed us

soon the people will start doubling every year,
then every month,
then every week,
every day....
this whore of a world is all played out
the math just works that way
sorry to send out
another obvious truth to dim your day


So many words wasted
on fucking and robbing banks
time spent in an illusion far from the corporate truth
far from the fields
filled with angry young men
carrying guns
and asking WHY?




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revelations of the bloody clown

Hi. I'm dead. My name, where I lived, who I loved and hated is not important to me. Shouldn't be to you.

There is an infinity of surprises involved in dying. I was surprised about going to hell . . . I didn't believe in any of this shit when I had flesh. Then I was surprised all more when I found out we prefer Satan's domain by such a huge, bloody serious degree.

Why is the life god sentenced us to so painful? Because the god wanted it to be horror filled... in a cosmos with a god, how could it be other?

The whole thing with god being good and the devil being bad is all just more of the usual bullshit that the living use to brainwash themselves into plodding through another tricky day.

The one we worshiped as god was really our tormentor, and Satan, the rebel, had been fighting for us. . . makes perfect sense, once you think of it, but the god wouldn't allow enough humans to think this for the thought to grow legs among the living.



The devil, satan, the fallen angel -- he was actually entreating god to end human suffering, telling god that just because he had a need to feel like the humans 'were good enough to worship him,' that this need alone did not make what god was doing right.


God had never been questioned before in any manner that god understood as questioned, and ignored satan's pleas to spare the living beasts of their horror of short, brutal lives.

Satan loved and revered god his father, praised him for every leaf of glorious grass. . . still he couldn't just ignore the screams of the humans.. he heard from other Angels of their torment, and together their disquiet grew...

When he could no longer bear feeling the humans pain, the Dark One rebbelled; fought what he knew would be a losing cause . . What was our pain to a god? Nothing. God the mindless child then sentenced Satan to remain in the center of the earth, trapped, forever hearing the torment of the dying life forms on the surface.

The Dark Prince cried our tears while the laughter of Christ echoed on high...
.
True fucking story, man.



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MILLIONS OF YEARS IN THE FUTURE

EVERY ANIMAL IN A ZOO IS GOING TO EVOLVE INTO A BEAST ROUGHLY SHAPED LIKE A VERY LARGE CURDS OF COTTAGE CHEESE.


Why aren't people protesting this in the streets? Ask yourself that, why don't you? Bet ya can't cause it would like blow your mind into nezt tuesday.





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HEBLERS TALKING CAT

Dr. Helber came from a long line of slightly whacked out inventors; men and women who were geniuses in arcane manners altogether different than playing baseball or having spouses. Professors and hermit writers mostly, with the occasional sensational madmen and drunks.

As a child looking over one of his family gatherings, it had seemed to him that only the children were sane and at least nominally average in their socialization (he was always having thoughts like that, even as a child). Hank Helber had thought he would be different. In the first rebelllions of his youth, when the hypocrisy of the world was almost too much to bear, he had promised himself that he would never fall in love with the idea of something that only a few people on the earth would care about.... like his uncles who only really came alive when they were discussing their fields of study. The older they got the less they noticed things like wearing socks and brushing their teeth. A lot of the women were on anti depressents.

His family tree was full of people who climbed so high that only a couple other humans on the planet could follow them. He despised them until he was 20 and getting his masters degree, and realizing that there was no way he wanted to spend the rest of his life supporting himself dealing weed and living to surf. Economic realities forced him to leave hawaii, quit smoking weed and surfing, and start working at one of his uncles labs. His moving advance was more money than he had made in his entire life.

The huge salary stole his soul. Within six months he developed needs that he didn't even know existed when he was poor. A bidet that he could no more go without than deoderant, his shirts had to be perfectly fitted... pants had to be creased --he would have once rolled up the legs
and ignored whatever little kasnivel that was wrong with them purely to make his usual second hand purchase.

Now, here he was, finishing up twenty years of work in his own lab, after aprenticing for another ten with other top scientists in the fields related to his field of study -- inserting vocal capabilities into otherwise dumb animals, so that they could express their wills, and thus have more say in the affairs of the earth. Once long ago when the juices of youth were spurting out of his every pore he had believed that he could really help the world, save a few species from extinction.
He was pretty sure that he had.

In his biography, he wrote:

'As my lights up stairs dim and some go out entirely, I suppose that now is the time to tell the darker side of my experiments. That which is too embarrassing for me to allow to come out within 100 years of being alive. I drew up a contract based on the one Mark Twain used to keep his darker poet from effecting those he loved.

I want to tell the tale of Buk, most controversial of historic figures. As a revolutionary leader, his image has been mythologized so much that sometimes I barely recognize the cat that was, the real feline who lived. He didn't say a lot of course, but what he did has become something of the mantra of our critics,

After the surgeries and the nanotechs increasing his language abilities and the thousands of hours of being read to and lectured and all the other little surgical nuances that it took to insert the proper vocal cords in his furry throat, after giving us no indication that he could utter a sound for three months, Buk suddenly looked up at me and said, in a voice clear and modulated to perfection, "That you think you have done me a favor shows me that you are truly lost."'

He died then of course. Well, he might as well have. He wouldn't speak, eat. Withered away."

As he read over the first page of his biography, he thought, 'I kept doing the research, even after that. SO maybe this is when I lost my soul?'

For twenties years, his experiments never really got any better results. Thinking back over this, he realizes that he is kidding himself if he thinks he can take the mental pain of writing his biography... He had somehow thought he could find a little bit of redemption by offering a cautionary tale to others. The concept never really had a chance to get off the ground.


Later that afternoon, his car seemingly missed an exit off the Kennedy Expressway and slammed into a huge concrete post, tearing him into four distinct piles of flesh. His last thoughts took place in the pile where most of his brains were. He was aware of a fire waging around him and
had a feeling that there was a hell... and indeed, seconds later, from far off at first and then getting closer and closer, is a horrifying laugh that could only come from Satan.


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SEE NOW THEY VANISH

see now they vanish




When I was a child
I swore that I would not live a life
chained to the predicted work and buy cycles.


My resolve weakened.

-___---_

When I was a teenager
I swore I would rip the moments out of their ponderous histories and live them like my last.

My resolve weakened.

-------____--_--


I was a man and I swore
that I would not let my enemies write my legacy.

My resolve weakened.



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KESSLER, KEEPER OF THE PIGS

Thirty nine million two hundred and forty six thousand years before our story takes place, plate teutonics wiped out the last vestiges of their off planet civilization. No one knew about a planet called earth, or the civilization that spawned their species and sent them on great ships out into cold, black space. They destroyed their original host planet, leaving their once green and blue eden black and brown, as dead as the sterile vaccum of space that replaced the sweet oxygen of the atmosphere.


Thessler, Keep of Pigs, was not aware of any of this, and indeed would have considered the tale just so much pig shit. .. history at that moment was not helping him one bit. He had responsibilities, had to keep the pigs in line, make sure that they turned over their offerings every year.
His job was to negoitiate with the upstart animals, of course; for all times from now until the then, pigs and horses and vegetables had been forced to give humans what they required to Sustain and Pursue The Happy, as had been written over a million years before, in the first recorded histories....

Humans knew that their ancestors had given the pigs and cows and goats and various vegetibles and fruits their ability to reason to increase their ability to survive in hostile climates... being able to speak and tell their owners where they hurt or how they could be happier had seemed like the humane thing to do, though this was of course an after thought of the practical consideration of keeping their food alive as their species migrated out into more often than not cold, dead space.

Kessler watched the newsies on a wall size holo. Pigs throwing bombs, mostly. Piglets throwing stones. Suicide Porks. There was rioting in no less than seven cities down the coast. He could pretty much forget his quartily bonus
buying him a new summer house.
The Cow's were going to be trouble again this year, he was just certain of that. The damn cows were
always tryed to gloam onto any contractual advantage that the pig's wheedled out of the humans -- and the pigs were willing to send their children out as to blow up just one human over even small points of protocal, like where the damned water glasses were set during a particular state dinner.

As Keeper of The Pigs, his head was about to roll over this one. The pigs had been content for over 390,000 years. They knew their history, how the humans made them. Some of them now thought that their 'Bacon Tax' had been paid already. They were even threatening to go off into space by themselves, though they had no feasible way of doing so, without taking vegetibles and humans along to feed on. The abscence of life was almost expected during all the years of expoloration, but discovering it was true, that their planet really was a special place... that their little splash of life was all; how could the series of accidents reapeat again? Not even in the infinite vastness.

Kessler also knew a bit about how poorly they were doing with the vegetibles this year. Every source of food developed on the planet into a thinking species. Now they had only each other to prey on, in an endless cycle.. the humans corpses went to feed the plants, which than supported man and the animals that he fed upon.

As Kessler silently raged about this, he was astounded to see, from his 345th floor apartment, a space ship, a gleaming silver behemoth, glide down from a blue sky and hover over the entire downtown area. He was no less surprised later that night, when the Newsies reported that the ships were manned by the descendents of an earth plant, the Strawberry. And when the lowly humans were marched onto ships to be the food supply for the strawberries, who it turns out were intergalactic pirates with no moral scruples about destroying anything that was not strawberry, he was surprised all the more. ... but, he sure was glad to be off the hook on the pig thing, and isn't that what it's all about at the end of the day, huh? This is how certainly howThessler, Keeper of Pigs, lived happily ever after . . well, that and the complete apathy of the strawberries toward killing humans -- which they found dsstasteful if not out right immoral, and left the humans to live out their natural lifespams relatively undisturbed, and no one really seemed to care too much, after a while, that they would be eaten after their long, comfortable lives.




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I SEEM TO DO NOTHING BUT CHARITY WORK

I beleive everyone thinks about suicide at one time or another, and that for most, this is the only time in their pathetic lives that they will flirt with having a sane, rational thought. So, once more, it is off to do some charity work for the good of all mankind, or at least to lower my own personal annoyance level... I am going out into the streets armed to the teeth to take down people who are suicidal -- most of whom do not yet realize that they are suicidal (I suspect there will also be dozens of causalties amongst those who really should be suicidal and are not only because of their own lack of taste). Charity work, thou name is Pain. First it was going down to the library and punching out Grishom readers and then it was the scientology brain wash center for general garroting and fingernail and butt related torture, and now killing off all these suicidal cowards. I am so much greater of a humanitarian than like ghandi, martin, sister teresa and snoop dog all rolled into one... not to mention jesus's big brother Nebils (he would have been the christ, but he preferred to be a 'mary'; all the Catholics secretly know this, and preists all call themselves Mary' when no one else is around (with the exceptions only of warthogs, who we we all know could hardly claim the moral high ground, since they do indeed eat their young, and not in the way the preiets do).

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PEE WEE HERMAN WS FRAMED...

The cops got to his penis. Turned it on him. You slap someone around like Pee Wee did his penis, you got to expect the damn thing to turn on you. Yea, that penis was telling the cops where Pee Wee was, and what and who he was doing, in what orifice and with what thrust frequency 24 hours a day. This is not just an idle conspiracy theory dreamt up by some stoned writer in Chicago... . It's more than that. I mean, who wanted to bring PEE WEE down?

He was a gay hollywood player and you know that scared some people. This was right at the height of Act Up's breif rise to political power. Yea, the government, they knew his penis was his weakness. He just couldn't leave it alone. So, they bugged his balls, got the penis to point him right into an adult movie theater, and practically jump out of his pants.... oh, yea... Yea, the Pee was wee that day, so to speak.

I have now set the record straight. Please, spread the word, the government will do anything to keep down Pee Wee and his irrepressible Wee Pee (as PW calls his little one).

No free man of good conscious should rest easy until this penis related tragedy is dealt with.



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love they neighbor as thyself????

Does this mean that I am biblically commanded to rub the quims of hotties who live next door to me? I mean, does this mean that god himself has decreed that I am to LOVE MY NEIGHBORS AS I LOVE MYSELF??? And if so, is it just like a couple blocks, or is it the whole city?

I mean, I think I may be required to give hand jobs to thousands of chicks... and by god if that is what it takes to save my soul then.... LOVE THEY NEIGHBOR AS YOU LOVE THYSELF... since I am something of a chronic masterbater, this is going to involve a hell of a lot of dildo's and lubricants and German Sheperds trained in oral pleasuring by the ancient, chinese method that this guy Floyd who lives in a trailer at the dog track came up with. Floyd always has wine and will share it with anybody who can take his constant talk about all 'the bitches' he was 'boning' (he makes it out like he means women, but we all know he is talking about the dogs, who he buys little dresses and wigs and even make up).

Okay, I think I just had a vision from God... Yes, I did... I am commanded to love my neighbors as I do myself, and this indeed does mean that I am going to be neck deep in sweet, young things who taste like Cherry Sweet Tarts. If I am going to do this, then I have to pleasure them as many times as I have myself, so I really have a hell of a lot of catching up to do.... This could take a lot of vacuum cleaners too, not too powerful though... I won't lose any clit.'s on my watch... oh, hell no... not on my watch.

I always wondered what christians did without smokes and drinks and weed and killing whores and setting fires and fun shit? Now I know -- they are loving each other.... This explains those silly empty smiles too. And of course, now I see why now why they defend their religion despite all evidence to the contrary -- they will do anything to keep the babes believing in this whole 'love they neighbor as theyself thing...' I sure as hell wish someone had told me this years ago.


This is exactly what I needed to know to renew my faith in jesus and the super freinds. Hail Mary's Hymen and heil Jesus and fly, Super man, fly like the Easter Weasel...


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I ACCIDENTLY SORT OF SLAUGHTERED M.'S FAMILY AND YOU KNOW SHE IS GOING TO GET ALL BITCHY ...SHE IS SO OFF THE WALL.

The other day, she got all mad at me over nothing, and with my paranoid, weedy ways, I became convinced that she was breaking up with me and I, well... I sort of accidently slaughtered her family. Then I guess I might have hung their heads on 16 foot long wooden posts that I tied to the stately metal of the Michigan Avenue drawbridge, in the heart of downtown and right during rush hour....

This is as bad as that time I drank all those cappucinos (like fifteen -- they were free... the vendor had been snitty with me so he was too dead to care). That time I became convinced that the FBI should check out M'.s Bin Laden connections. She did not like being snatched off the street, whisked away to some third world country that she never saw because of the hood over her body -- her only clothing in the chilly climate-- where she was drugged and beaten and interrogated for 72 hours straight. Afterwhich, she was told that if she ever talked about this, they would snatch her again and not let her walk. They were actually quite specific about what they would do, and had her sign three different pages, all too classified for her to read... the upshot of their threat was that they would keep M. alive, in a dank prison in Bogota, slowly shitting herself to death with dissentary.


Anyways... now, I knew that on a public stunt like this, the press would probably get wind of it so I needed a great disguise. I guess I actually might have called all the press, back when I thought that we were broke up. I didn't want her to miss the event, you know.

I do not think I have any fault unless it is this -- I acted too soon. My reaction itself was normal, and actually shows the dept of my love for her. That's what I'll tell her.

I had to disguise myself while I was down on the bridge putting her grandparents and parents and sisters all on the posts -- I pulled them all out of a big bag, where they had grown all juicy from the blood, shoved them on the poles, then taped them way up on high on the bridge. I had to scale a like one and half foot beam to get up there, to the hightest point of the looping metal arms of the four lane draw bridge.

I painted myself dark blue. With crayons. It hurt like hell, but it came off easy. Mostly.
My night shaded skin melded just fine with the river when I dove in to make my escape. I retrieved my self-warming scuba pelt and air canisters,and swam back up to north the 78 blocks to the beach across from my house... in like twenty minutes or less... don't like to brag, but it's probably the fastest ever.....

Oddly enough, their description of me is so far off.
I mean, this lady told the cameraman, "We all agree. It was blue guy with a tiny dick."

'Ha,' I thought when I heard this nugget, 'I will never be caught with them looking for a tiny dick.' I of course am big and I have no idea why they slander me? Probably just keeping my size back, so the general public doesn't know, only the blue nude man with the almost montrous genitilia, and this is how they will know him.

They showed cops downtown making all the bums pull their pants down to see if they had a tiny blue dicks, and a couple did,but it turned out to be just from the cold, so they were issued socks to keep their weiners in.

Now, you are probably going to hear about this on the news, unless this too is one of those things the CIA is just going to hide from you, exactly like who killed JFK.

M. will probably find out right away. I will hold my lying position as long as possible, of course-- I will tell her that I am not now, nor ever was, painted in blue crayons, and furthermore, that I do not know what happened to all of my blue crayons. I'll stand this ground until it is absurd due to her preponderance of evidence to go on with said lie (and often well past this point, into the truly pathetic). Four cops tried to notify or interrogate her or something. I had to catch them in the buildings small lobby and quietly get behind them and get a fucking garrot over their necks and decapitate them all without disturbing M., who had us watching some chick flick...

Oh, well . . .
Got blood on my hands, weed in my head, and heads on poles.. yea, life is good.




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I SEEM TO BE DOING NOTHING BUT CHARITY WORK...

I beleive everyone thinks about suicide at one time or another, and that for most, this is the only time in their pathetic lives that they will flirt with having a sane, rational thought. So, once more, it is off to do some charity work for the good of all mankind, or at least to lower my own personal annoyance level... I am going out into the streets armed to the teeth to take down people who are suicidal -- most of whom do not yet realize that they are suicidal (I suspect there will also be dozens of causalties amongst those who really should be suicidal and are not only because of their own lack of taste). Charity work, thou name is Pain. First it was going down to the library and punching out Grishom readers and then it was the scientology brain wash center for general garroting and fingernail and butt related torture, and now killing off all these suicidal cowards. I am so much greater of a humanitarian than like ghandi, martin, sister teresa and snoop dog all rolled into one... not to mention jesus's big brother Nebils (he would have been the christ, but he preferred to be a 'mary'; all the Catholics secretly know this, and preists all call themselves Mary' when no one else is around (with the exceptions only of warthogs, who we we all know could hardly claim the moral high ground, since they do indeed eat their young, and not in the way the preiets do).



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LOVE THY NEIGHBOR AS THY SELF????

Does this mean that I am biblically commanded to rub the quims of hotties who live next door to me? I mean, does this mean that god himself has decreed that I am to LOVE MY NEIGHBORS AS I LOVE MYSELF??? And if so, is it just like a couple blocks, or is it the whole city?

I mean, I think I may be required to give hand jobs to thousands of chicks... and by god if that is what it takes to save my soul then.... LOVE THEY NEIGHBOR AS YOU LOVE THYSELF... since I am something of a chronic masterbater, this is going to involve a hell of a lot dildo's and lubricants and German Sheperds trained in oral pleasuring by the ancient, chinese method that this guy Floyd who lives in a trailer at the dog track came up with. Floyd always has wine and will share it with anybody who can take his constant talk about all 'the bitches' he was 'boning' (he makes it out like he means women, but we all know he is talking about the dogs, who he buys little dresses and wigs and even make up).

Okay, I think I just had a vision from God... Yes, I did... I am commanded to love my neighbors as I do myself, and this indeed does mean that I am going to be neck deep in sweet, young things who taste like Cherry Sweet Tarts. If I am going to do this, then I have to pleasure them as many times as I have myself, so I really have a hell of a lot of catching up to do.... This could take a lot of vacuum cleaners too, not too powerful though... I won't lose any clit.'s on my watch... oh, hell no... not on my watch.

I always wondered what christians did without smokes and drinks and weed and killing whores and setting fires and fun shit? Now I know -- they are loving each other.... This explains those silly empty smiles too. And of course, now I see why now why they defend their religion despite all evidence to the contrary -- they will do anything to keep the babes believing in this whole 'love they neighbor as theyself thing...' I sure as hell wish someone had told me this years ago.


This is exactly what I needed to know to renew my faith in jesus and the super freinds. Hail Mary and heil Jesus and fly, Super man, fly like the Easter Weasel...

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I don't know who over acted the most... probably her, yea... had to be.

Okay, putz.... dis story, it starts days ago... I didn't know if my red haired vixen was bleeding or needing or just whining... she was threatening to throw my lazy, work--avoiding ass out. And my cat. And the dog. She is really tripping when she threatens to throw the dog out... the cat and me, we have somewhat learned to live with this threat... but the doggie danger is a new one.

This was a fight that came out of a bad, bad mood that started without me, and her mood was fueled by co workers screwing with her and she was getting no release from weed at night because everyone we know was out for a couple days... okay, the fight, which was really more of a her bitching at me and complaining that I always lie to her about everything (

Well, I do not 'always lie to her about everything. "What would be the fucking point of that I asked her? Who would lie about everything. You want to know what's on tv, I do not lie to you, do I?"

She had some crazy reason to dismiss this too... something about this having no relevance.


So, anyways, she is a person who can be way over dramatic. She hurts herself with this, and I would take it from her, as I would all her pain if I could... when we together, at least. But when we are apart...

So, she basically said she was my ex girlfriend, and I took her at her word... so, like, when were broke up.. well, , during the twelve hours that M was off on her temper tantrum...I sort of slaughtered her family and hung their heads on 16 foot long wooden posts that I tied to the stately metal of the Michigan Avenue drawbridge, in the heart of downtown and right during rush hour....

I had my naked body painted a dark blue, which melded just fine with the river when i dove in, retrieved my self warming scuba pelt and air canisters, and swam back up to our beach. The only description they have of me so far is so far off that I will never be caught. I mean, if you can believe this one, the witnesses all described me as 'some blue guy with a tiny dick. Uh, lke I said, bad descriotion and that is all it is all... dammit... I am not protesting too much about this, as that one voice in my head keeps insisiting....

Now, you are probably going to hear about this on the news, unless this too is one of those things the CIA is just going to hide from you, exactly like who killed JFK.

M. will probably find out right away. Still, I will hold my lying position, for at least until it is absurd due to her preponderance of evidence to go on with said lie (and often well past this point, into the truly pathetic). I have already had to kill off four cops who tried to notify her of her family's death -- now, this is not my kill pattern at all, but I had to do what I had to stop them from notifying M. that I had slaughtered her family. This is exactly the kind of thing that she really gets on her high horse over, acts all like she has never made mistake....

Anyways, anybody tells M. about anything I been writing about the last few days oughta know I will start with the corpses closest to you, and torture-kill my way through your loved ones until you kneel crying before my knife and ask me for the merciful act of slashing your fucking throat. This is not some idle threat, like the other couple thousand I made. Those were all practice for this one.

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KILL ME AGAIN

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



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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.

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.


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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 . . .



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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.





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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


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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.



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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."

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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


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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.


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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....





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