Mostly I am on my other blog lately, http://theelvesattic.blogspot.com and my site where I am pounding out my late3st book, http://wakingupjesus.blogspot.com
John Mccain Keeps Food In His Cheeks!!!
Senator John, Chipmunk Cheeks, McCain has finally admitted that he keeps large quantities of food in his extended cheeks. Telling this reporter, "It all started when I was in Nam, laying there in a hundred and twenty degrees of hell, feeling rats eating my goddamn dick... and just being too tired to do anything about it... well, didn't mean to talk about that. You publish that shit and I will have you dead by morning. Now, anyways, for the record... I was laying there one day and had a vision, of a mighty chipmonk, telling me that if I ever was around a lot of food again, I would be like the mighty chipmonk and save some for later, in my cheeks. I had no idea I would end up with these jowls at this age. Not complaining, I can keep a full boned chicken in this side. And a couple side dishes over here. Not to mention, a gun and a playboy, which were the two things I vowed to have with me if I was ever captured again. Laying there in that lonely bamboo prison, my only friends were rats. For the most part they still are. I took one as my wife. Back in nam. When she died I ate her meat, but I kept her skin. I still keep it hidden in my recturm. Old habits die hard I guess. In fact, I still raise rats, for both food and companionship, of course."
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Thursday, April 10, 2008
give me greg the bunny or give me death
bGive Me Greg the Bunny or Give Me Death! Blah! Petition
Give Me Greg the Bunny or Give Me Death! Blah! Petition, hosted at PetitionOnline.com...
www.petitiononline.com/Blah3/petition.html · Cached · Save http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=21591488&blogID=53840703
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mwLX2ywdZ1w
this last link will take you to warren the ape. Dan Milano, the genius behind the show, is now on robot chicken and other shows.. But he deserves his own. Anyone with money out there should contact this group and finance them. Warren will work for drugs and whores, and Greg can convinced to work for certain types of jello, though it changes daily because he gets in these moods. I always drop a few valium in his drink, and some speed in warren's... makes for some good conflict.
Seriously folks, watch the dvd of greg the bunny from IfC (THE FOX SHOW IS GREAT, TOO. Yet, the independent stuff they were doing with film parodies is in a way closer to my art than any one else. And dan and seth are genuinely cool.copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Give Me Greg the Bunny or Give Me Death! Blah! Petition, hosted at PetitionOnline.com...
www.petitiononline.com/Blah3/petition.html · Cached · Save http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=21591488&blogID=53840703
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mwLX2ywdZ1w
this last link will take you to warren the ape. Dan Milano, the genius behind the show, is now on robot chicken and other shows.. But he deserves his own. Anyone with money out there should contact this group and finance them. Warren will work for drugs and whores, and Greg can convinced to work for certain types of jello, though it changes daily because he gets in these moods. I always drop a few valium in his drink, and some speed in warren's... makes for some good conflict.
Seriously folks, watch the dvd of greg the bunny from IfC (THE FOX SHOW IS GREAT, TOO. Yet, the independent stuff they were doing with film parodies is in a way closer to my art than any one else. And dan and seth are genuinely cool.copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
the hunter's sacred pantheon explodes
from a fist exploding in the mountains of Denver
from SEA TO SHINY SEA
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Sunday, April 06, 2008
warren the ape
heads up
china
and wherever the hell you are
Warren the ape-ished one is laying in front of the sofa unconscious and dribbling the usual vomit and vomit like substances from the corners of his fuzzy mouth.... some whore he was beating on earlier probably broke out of her restraints (I ain't coping to letting her go, but the footage would be too tempting for me to pass up, probably)and is right now cutting his toes off with a switch blade. M is all freaking out, so I told her warren was all into the toes getting cut off and sewed back on thing, and since Warren is Warren, M. believed me enough to excuse herself to vomit...
Dan Milano, your allowing me the privilege and pleasure of playing with Warren a bit has been INSPIRING!!!!
opywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
the vampire story
Vampire Story
home
by jsr
19/01/07
4:53 AM
"Streaks of moonlight come down from holes in the ceiling of the barn; clouds of dust rise from his steps. He has been tracking the beast for weeks... In unfamiliar country, he had found himself trapped without shelter as the sunset, rode for miles before finding the dilapidated barn.
The forest outside is dense with black trees; winter bare of leaves, the branches are outlined by a dusting of brilliant white snow. He is keeping watch on the road . . . waiting for the . . . when he hears boards creaking behind him, up in the loft . . . and he realizes the creature has found the same sanctuary.
He walks into the middle of the barn and looks up into the darkness above him. The lofts are cloaked in opaque blackness. The warmth of the torch brings stinging sweat down his forehead, into his eyes. He starts to wipe it away and the beast streaks down from the rafters, a huge blur of black leather slapping down on top of him. He feels the bite in his neck and swoons as the blood flows away from his brain...
Two nights later, shivering deep inside from the cold, he awakens . . . draws in a deep gasp, becomes aware of his parched throat and dry, cracked lips... His tongue feels thick, like it's covered in fuzz.
He remembers the bite; his swoon... knows what he has become. He had always expected that vampires felt different, inhuman... a sort of animalistic, hedonistic something that would make murder come easy. There was no change, none that he could tell... other than the thirst.
He resolved to end it before it came to that.
Evil begets evil. The phrase begins playing over and over in his mind. Evil begets evil. Evil . . .
No . . . he tells himself . . . no. He takes the stake from his bag, tucks it in his belt and crawls up a wooden ladder to the loft, intent on throwing himself down and stabbing the wood through his heart. He gets to the top, swings around and sits down, lets his feet dangle over the side, takes in a deep breath and wonders if he will go to hell? He expected when he was a vampire that he would not give a damn about god and here he was, a vampire, and none of the questions were anymore answered than before. It really was beginning to strike him that he had more or less been infected with something that effected his body, and not his mind . . .
He didn't want to die; that came to him sitting there; even if he was a vampire -- that which he had hated and solemnly vowed to spend his short, brutal life hunting -- he still wanted to live. He isn't sure why?
He had lived to destroy evil . . . Now, he was evil . . . though he didn't feel evil at all, and had done nothing evil . . . he was still a vampire, and they were evil . . . he was sure of that when he was hunting them!!
Now?
Had he been hunting down and killing creatures like himself?
A sinking vertigo seems to spin his head around a bit as he realizes that he must have killed vampires who felt just like he did. They never stopped to talk to the creatures... the moment they met, the battle was on."
They were sitting around a fire by the lake on the shores of Chicago, an illegal thing they did once in awhile after digging out a hole in the dunes to hide the flames from the cops patrolling the park, listening to Hamms squeaky voice spinning what he called the vampire tale. A tale he had just finished, though Cracks was none-the-wiser, and was indeed waiting for something more to come... as they all were.
After a long minute, it dawned on him that the story was over, and Cracks was once again just confused. Like he always was when Hams got to telling stories. Hams loved to trick people into coming to the end of stories, and finding someone was in a coma, or an alternative reality, or was really a ghost, or whatever -- something out of nowhere.
'This story,' Cracks thought, 'is his worst ever. A vampire story? What was he trying to say? What does a vampire represent? Is this some stupid 'love king kong' kind of things?'
Cracks was tempted to kill Hamms, as he usually was after one of his stories.
He knew that Hamms would be so easily to kill. The
small, grey mouse would fit into the palm of his hand. And it wasn't like he was even a fierce rodent. No, Hamms had the hesitant air of someone who hung out with a lot of drunken stoners who will step on him if he is not careful.
His tail had been broken no less than six times in his short life.
Hamms isn't sure why he tells the tales he does? The ends just come to him, like the stories, and if he thinks about them too much, they became like all the other stories he has heard, and they had begun to bore him deep in his soul. He shouldn't have expected the humans to understand this.
Hamms was only a mouse in appearance, obviously, or he could not have told the tale. He was from a planet that was as dissimilar from earth as could be -- so dissimilar that eventual space traveling humans wouldn't even bother looking for life there.
He was on earth trying to learn about humans stories. He called them lies, in his mind. Tricks, more or less.
Most creatures who had developed in the cosmos were interested in the truths of the universe, and while some humans were this way, and all were capable, there were others . . . a mental subspecies that wanted to believe lies -- thinking the truth hurt too much. They were living virtual lives, basically, based on soap operas and drugs and bad novels and movies and a myriad of symptomologies rich and intriguing... at least to Hamms, and a handful of other scientists who specialized in primitive cultures.
The humans under Hamms mental microscope were literally going to the carnival while their planet died. He was going to start his paper for the inter-galactic news feed with a line about that.
rite 2006 john scott ridgway
home
by jsr
19/01/07
4:53 AM
"Streaks of moonlight come down from holes in the ceiling of the barn; clouds of dust rise from his steps. He has been tracking the beast for weeks... In unfamiliar country, he had found himself trapped without shelter as the sunset, rode for miles before finding the dilapidated barn.
The forest outside is dense with black trees; winter bare of leaves, the branches are outlined by a dusting of brilliant white snow. He is keeping watch on the road . . . waiting for the . . . when he hears boards creaking behind him, up in the loft . . . and he realizes the creature has found the same sanctuary.
He walks into the middle of the barn and looks up into the darkness above him. The lofts are cloaked in opaque blackness. The warmth of the torch brings stinging sweat down his forehead, into his eyes. He starts to wipe it away and the beast streaks down from the rafters, a huge blur of black leather slapping down on top of him. He feels the bite in his neck and swoons as the blood flows away from his brain...
Two nights later, shivering deep inside from the cold, he awakens . . . draws in a deep gasp, becomes aware of his parched throat and dry, cracked lips... His tongue feels thick, like it's covered in fuzz.
He remembers the bite; his swoon... knows what he has become. He had always expected that vampires felt different, inhuman... a sort of animalistic, hedonistic something that would make murder come easy. There was no change, none that he could tell... other than the thirst.
He resolved to end it before it came to that.
Evil begets evil. The phrase begins playing over and over in his mind. Evil begets evil. Evil . . .
No . . . he tells himself . . . no. He takes the stake from his bag, tucks it in his belt and crawls up a wooden ladder to the loft, intent on throwing himself down and stabbing the wood through his heart. He gets to the top, swings around and sits down, lets his feet dangle over the side, takes in a deep breath and wonders if he will go to hell? He expected when he was a vampire that he would not give a damn about god and here he was, a vampire, and none of the questions were anymore answered than before. It really was beginning to strike him that he had more or less been infected with something that effected his body, and not his mind . . .
He didn't want to die; that came to him sitting there; even if he was a vampire -- that which he had hated and solemnly vowed to spend his short, brutal life hunting -- he still wanted to live. He isn't sure why?
He had lived to destroy evil . . . Now, he was evil . . . though he didn't feel evil at all, and had done nothing evil . . . he was still a vampire, and they were evil . . . he was sure of that when he was hunting them!!
Now?
Had he been hunting down and killing creatures like himself?
A sinking vertigo seems to spin his head around a bit as he realizes that he must have killed vampires who felt just like he did. They never stopped to talk to the creatures... the moment they met, the battle was on."
They were sitting around a fire by the lake on the shores of Chicago, an illegal thing they did once in awhile after digging out a hole in the dunes to hide the flames from the cops patrolling the park, listening to Hamms squeaky voice spinning what he called the vampire tale. A tale he had just finished, though Cracks was none-the-wiser, and was indeed waiting for something more to come... as they all were.
After a long minute, it dawned on him that the story was over, and Cracks was once again just confused. Like he always was when Hams got to telling stories. Hams loved to trick people into coming to the end of stories, and finding someone was in a coma, or an alternative reality, or was really a ghost, or whatever -- something out of nowhere.
'This story,' Cracks thought, 'is his worst ever. A vampire story? What was he trying to say? What does a vampire represent? Is this some stupid 'love king kong' kind of things?'
Cracks was tempted to kill Hamms, as he usually was after one of his stories.
He knew that Hamms would be so easily to kill. The
small, grey mouse would fit into the palm of his hand. And it wasn't like he was even a fierce rodent. No, Hamms had the hesitant air of someone who hung out with a lot of drunken stoners who will step on him if he is not careful.
His tail had been broken no less than six times in his short life.
Hamms isn't sure why he tells the tales he does? The ends just come to him, like the stories, and if he thinks about them too much, they became like all the other stories he has heard, and they had begun to bore him deep in his soul. He shouldn't have expected the humans to understand this.
Hamms was only a mouse in appearance, obviously, or he could not have told the tale. He was from a planet that was as dissimilar from earth as could be -- so dissimilar that eventual space traveling humans wouldn't even bother looking for life there.
He was on earth trying to learn about humans stories. He called them lies, in his mind. Tricks, more or less.
Most creatures who had developed in the cosmos were interested in the truths of the universe, and while some humans were this way, and all were capable, there were others . . . a mental subspecies that wanted to believe lies -- thinking the truth hurt too much. They were living virtual lives, basically, based on soap operas and drugs and bad novels and movies and a myriad of symptomologies rich and intriguing... at least to Hamms, and a handful of other scientists who specialized in primitive cultures.
The humans under Hamms mental microscope were literally going to the carnival while their planet died. He was going to start his paper for the inter-galactic news feed with a line about that.
rite 2006 john scott ridgway
detective story
Detective Story
home
by jsr
21/01/07
3:17 AM
Hectorly worked as a private detective out of a small office on Wabash, in Chicago's loop, with a window right across from the rusted metal tracks of the elevated train. Double Pane windows and insulated brick walls keep the noise out as the trains scream past. The room was ill-lit, one small grey, industrial looking steel lamp on his desk. On the floor was a mint green indoor/outdoor carpeting with numerous black cigarette burns and various unidentifiable stains of most colors. The off-white paint job stained beige with nicotine smoke added even less luster to the already dingy flat.
Someone kept smoking cigars in the bathroom that he shared with a group of freelance writers next door who wrote porno about children for children, and the stench filled his office. He hated it, and was chain-smoking Marlboro's in the hope of defeating the odor. He had tried room deoderizing sprays, incense, candles... One day he had the thought that his deoderizer had been more than defeated -- it had actually been consumed by the cigar smoke and shit out into something nasty. That's when he decided to start fighting smoke with smoke, lighting one up whenever the smell got bad... he wasn't used to smoking more than three or four a day, and ratcheting his smoking up to twenty, sometimes thirty, during his work day was giving him a sticky, hacking cough, though he was glad to exchange that for the naseua from the cigars. He isn't sure why one smoke would cancel out another, just that it worked. Everyone told him it wouldn't work, and tended to claim it didn't even after he carefully explained that it did. This was pissing him off to no fucking end.
At 2:38 pm, a famous face walked into the office, stopped midway into the room, pulled a paper face mask out of his fany-pak, which was elaborated drapped with red strings and decorated with obscure, religous looking symbols, and explained, "Sorry, you see... it's cool tht you smoke, because you're a HP Weon. Normally, I don't allow people to face with me who ... smoke. But, you know, I am happy to talk to you... as soon as one of the ... assitants... bring my oxygen tank up from the limos. One of them will explain the rest. I'll wait outside in the Big Breathy. That's Scamatomolgy speak, in case you're wondering. My assistant will brief you."
The assistant came in, an earnest looking young man in an expensive blue suit with a pearl grey tie and a shiny black shirt. "Mr. Smooze's religion demands, when leaving the Big Breathy, that he wear a Scamoto Oxy Devicotron - an oxygen tank, to you... that's the way we talk. Intriged?"
"No... I'm thinking about kicking your ass. . . but I ain't got nobody at this point who will bail me out... so I think you better wait outside."
"You're a Higher Power Weon. I have to do what you ask."
"Call me that again, the ass kicking goes up a notch or two. I'll break bones, man."
"No, that's a good thing to be... that's why Mr. Toadmouth Smooze the First will be Facing with you in... let me check the now." He pauses and makes a handmotion in front of a camera on his belt, and someone evidently speaks to him...
"in... 25 seconds. You are High Power Weon, you're surely wondering why? Right?"
"You are asking for an ass kicking... every word you say, boy... translates into something else I want to kick your ass over... you really should shut up."
"A PWW is the high, high of the five... The five, man! Mr S. will explain what that is. Stay Enhanced... Five seconds to arrival. Thank you for your time."
The assistant rushed out of the room before Hectorly could make good on his threat, which he had fully intended to do. The veins inside his forehead are pounding. It feels to him like his anger is pulsing through them. Hectorly was raised a proto-marxist by his union president mother, and even though he had come to think he knew better, he still found his first impulse was to consider anyone with money part of the problem; this combined in his mind with the weird way the actor had just approached him and how much he despised cults in general and was pushing up his blood pressure something fierce, which his doctor had warned him against repeatedly after his last heart attack.
Hectorly had watched the man go from childstar, to teen in treatment, to a popular front-man for the latest Hollywood cult to target uneducated, narcissistic actors... and become a recent star of a string of a series of movies very loosely based on the television show I SPY... minus the cartoony aspects, and the black guy became an evil spy... which striped the story down to two men going mano mano with advanced spy technology. Hectorly had seen the preview and had hated, truly, truly hated, to see a great idea from sullied first by the movie, and then the association with a cult... a cult wanting the movie to make money was enough to keep him away from the flick. He had read how the religion was out buying up tickets to increase the ticket take of the movie and make it appear more successul than it was -- after all, they figured, what's good for Smooze, is good for Scamatomology.
The star came back into the room with a sleak, black enamelled oxygen tank attached to his belt and running a line up to a clear plastic mask that covered all of his mouth and one eye.
"Oh, Jesus, I'm afraid to ask... and yet, I know I have to.. why does your eye need oxygen?"
"It's religious device that can only be Comprendo'd by certain people who know... secrets."
"You start talking to me about... your fucking secrets, and I will cap your ass. I'm just crazy that way. Ask my momma... no, that's right, you can't... because I killed the bitch when she started trying to shove her religion down my throat."
"Uh, excuse me?"
"You have a problem with me killing my mother?"
"Not while I need your Servy Wersies. That's ..."
"Some language you made up to linguistically trap people in a language of your choosing, with your set of assumed truths?"
"Hey, let's talk english, here. Your a Brainy Brain, aren't you? We can work on that. When I say Servy Wersies, it means I have a Usey for you. That makes you, in this circumstance... My Higher Power Weon. Not socially or anything... though you can always have some assistants for whatever. You get famous, though, and boy... we got your parties, and the favors... we'll plant a field of your favorite wheat. That's popular with our Celebes."
You said there's some kind of test? No...
"Oh. Shit, I hate tests. I had to take one once. Boy, did I get my mom to fire that tutor's ass. We banned his ass from the set and he cried like one of my assistant's who I've stripped down in front of a bunch of my friends and made dance around if they want to keep their goddamn jobs."
"You did that?"
"Enough times it got boring. I made some of them put bottles up their asses. Tom Cruise gets bored and makes his assistants fight to the death. I think it's because he likes to fuck the corpses in the these holes he drills into their skulls, but he says it isn't just that... who knows? Those Alpha Seven Romeos, they do as they please. They get beards that are color coordinated insidey and outsidey, as we say. Intrigued?"
"You didn't come here to discuss that crusty but hair, did you?"
"I love talking crusty but hairs!!"
"That was a joke."
"I keep a lock of crusty but hair in a golden locket that I keep on a chain around my neck, next to my heart, at all times."
"I meant that Smooze is a crusty but hair."
"Oh, he wishes. Sure, sure... he does. Have you heard that rumour that Katie is a getting a sex change? It's just a rumour. He'll sue anyone who repeats it without hard core evidence. I mean, you could learn secrets about stuff like this... after a few courses."
"NO. Whose hairs are those in your locket?"
"Oh, just various ones that I took off my used enema collection. Intrigued?"
"Oh, hell no... Do you have a reason for being here, besides getting me so pissed off that I have no recourse except to kill you?"
Proceed to part two... if you wanta.
"Yes.... Oh, yes... that's why you're a Higher Power Weon, a HPW... You have something I Needy. Someone has stolen my red ruby and diamond encrusted, one of kind designer but plug. This was concieved by Andy Warhol, originally, then Pollack did the actual work of shaping the wood and putting in the bumpy, humpy jewels. Oh, god, I miss it."
"You read the sign on the door that says No But Plug Related Jobs. You think I put that up there for my health, asshole?" Hectorly lit a cigarette, took in a big drag and then blew smoke out across the room, filling the space with undulating white tendrils.
"I thought you would make an exception, for me..."
"Yes, right. People make exceptions for you all the time, don't they? I mean, you're rich and famous, so why wouldn't everyone treat you like your shit doesn't stink."
"Well, that's just the way it is. And I have been told from a good source, the chick who changes my diapers, that she likes the smell... so there, Smarty Pants Negative. I didn't make the rules. The religion says that about your behavior, not you... we know how to change your behavior."
"I'll bet you do. You start doing anything that even looks like you are trying to change my behavior, and I will kill you, your family, and everyone in your fucking blackberry."
"That would take awhile."
"I am sure it would be my pleasure to kill your nutty cult freinds... or at least it would be good for the world. They put most scam artists in jail... you guys found a hook... believe your own scam. The last sane one was probably the writer of Dianetics -- about ten years before he wrote the book and disappeared onto his yacht with those young boys."
"They were assistants. Everyone keeps enough to run a fucking yacht, come on. Well, business people... and some other people, who you could learn about..."
"You what? I've had enough... in fact, way more than enough... "
He opened the lower drawer of his desk and pulled out an electric meat carver, turned it on and jumped across the desk, grabbing the moviestar by the throat. "I am going to have to cut your neck veins. Don't worry, it won't hurt?"
"Really?"
"Oh, hell no."
opywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
home
by jsr
21/01/07
3:17 AM
Hectorly worked as a private detective out of a small office on Wabash, in Chicago's loop, with a window right across from the rusted metal tracks of the elevated train. Double Pane windows and insulated brick walls keep the noise out as the trains scream past. The room was ill-lit, one small grey, industrial looking steel lamp on his desk. On the floor was a mint green indoor/outdoor carpeting with numerous black cigarette burns and various unidentifiable stains of most colors. The off-white paint job stained beige with nicotine smoke added even less luster to the already dingy flat.
Someone kept smoking cigars in the bathroom that he shared with a group of freelance writers next door who wrote porno about children for children, and the stench filled his office. He hated it, and was chain-smoking Marlboro's in the hope of defeating the odor. He had tried room deoderizing sprays, incense, candles... One day he had the thought that his deoderizer had been more than defeated -- it had actually been consumed by the cigar smoke and shit out into something nasty. That's when he decided to start fighting smoke with smoke, lighting one up whenever the smell got bad... he wasn't used to smoking more than three or four a day, and ratcheting his smoking up to twenty, sometimes thirty, during his work day was giving him a sticky, hacking cough, though he was glad to exchange that for the naseua from the cigars. He isn't sure why one smoke would cancel out another, just that it worked. Everyone told him it wouldn't work, and tended to claim it didn't even after he carefully explained that it did. This was pissing him off to no fucking end.
At 2:38 pm, a famous face walked into the office, stopped midway into the room, pulled a paper face mask out of his fany-pak, which was elaborated drapped with red strings and decorated with obscure, religous looking symbols, and explained, "Sorry, you see... it's cool tht you smoke, because you're a HP Weon. Normally, I don't allow people to face with me who ... smoke. But, you know, I am happy to talk to you... as soon as one of the ... assitants... bring my oxygen tank up from the limos. One of them will explain the rest. I'll wait outside in the Big Breathy. That's Scamatomolgy speak, in case you're wondering. My assistant will brief you."
The assistant came in, an earnest looking young man in an expensive blue suit with a pearl grey tie and a shiny black shirt. "Mr. Smooze's religion demands, when leaving the Big Breathy, that he wear a Scamoto Oxy Devicotron - an oxygen tank, to you... that's the way we talk. Intriged?"
"No... I'm thinking about kicking your ass. . . but I ain't got nobody at this point who will bail me out... so I think you better wait outside."
"You're a Higher Power Weon. I have to do what you ask."
"Call me that again, the ass kicking goes up a notch or two. I'll break bones, man."
"No, that's a good thing to be... that's why Mr. Toadmouth Smooze the First will be Facing with you in... let me check the now." He pauses and makes a handmotion in front of a camera on his belt, and someone evidently speaks to him...
"in... 25 seconds. You are High Power Weon, you're surely wondering why? Right?"
"You are asking for an ass kicking... every word you say, boy... translates into something else I want to kick your ass over... you really should shut up."
"A PWW is the high, high of the five... The five, man! Mr S. will explain what that is. Stay Enhanced... Five seconds to arrival. Thank you for your time."
The assistant rushed out of the room before Hectorly could make good on his threat, which he had fully intended to do. The veins inside his forehead are pounding. It feels to him like his anger is pulsing through them. Hectorly was raised a proto-marxist by his union president mother, and even though he had come to think he knew better, he still found his first impulse was to consider anyone with money part of the problem; this combined in his mind with the weird way the actor had just approached him and how much he despised cults in general and was pushing up his blood pressure something fierce, which his doctor had warned him against repeatedly after his last heart attack.
Hectorly had watched the man go from childstar, to teen in treatment, to a popular front-man for the latest Hollywood cult to target uneducated, narcissistic actors... and become a recent star of a string of a series of movies very loosely based on the television show I SPY... minus the cartoony aspects, and the black guy became an evil spy... which striped the story down to two men going mano mano with advanced spy technology. Hectorly had seen the preview and had hated, truly, truly hated, to see a great idea from sullied first by the movie, and then the association with a cult... a cult wanting the movie to make money was enough to keep him away from the flick. He had read how the religion was out buying up tickets to increase the ticket take of the movie and make it appear more successul than it was -- after all, they figured, what's good for Smooze, is good for Scamatomology.
The star came back into the room with a sleak, black enamelled oxygen tank attached to his belt and running a line up to a clear plastic mask that covered all of his mouth and one eye.
"Oh, Jesus, I'm afraid to ask... and yet, I know I have to.. why does your eye need oxygen?"
"It's religious device that can only be Comprendo'd by certain people who know... secrets."
"You start talking to me about... your fucking secrets, and I will cap your ass. I'm just crazy that way. Ask my momma... no, that's right, you can't... because I killed the bitch when she started trying to shove her religion down my throat."
"Uh, excuse me?"
"You have a problem with me killing my mother?"
"Not while I need your Servy Wersies. That's ..."
"Some language you made up to linguistically trap people in a language of your choosing, with your set of assumed truths?"
"Hey, let's talk english, here. Your a Brainy Brain, aren't you? We can work on that. When I say Servy Wersies, it means I have a Usey for you. That makes you, in this circumstance... My Higher Power Weon. Not socially or anything... though you can always have some assistants for whatever. You get famous, though, and boy... we got your parties, and the favors... we'll plant a field of your favorite wheat. That's popular with our Celebes."
You said there's some kind of test? No...
"Oh. Shit, I hate tests. I had to take one once. Boy, did I get my mom to fire that tutor's ass. We banned his ass from the set and he cried like one of my assistant's who I've stripped down in front of a bunch of my friends and made dance around if they want to keep their goddamn jobs."
"You did that?"
"Enough times it got boring. I made some of them put bottles up their asses. Tom Cruise gets bored and makes his assistants fight to the death. I think it's because he likes to fuck the corpses in the these holes he drills into their skulls, but he says it isn't just that... who knows? Those Alpha Seven Romeos, they do as they please. They get beards that are color coordinated insidey and outsidey, as we say. Intrigued?"
"You didn't come here to discuss that crusty but hair, did you?"
"I love talking crusty but hairs!!"
"That was a joke."
"I keep a lock of crusty but hair in a golden locket that I keep on a chain around my neck, next to my heart, at all times."
"I meant that Smooze is a crusty but hair."
"Oh, he wishes. Sure, sure... he does. Have you heard that rumour that Katie is a getting a sex change? It's just a rumour. He'll sue anyone who repeats it without hard core evidence. I mean, you could learn secrets about stuff like this... after a few courses."
"NO. Whose hairs are those in your locket?"
"Oh, just various ones that I took off my used enema collection. Intrigued?"
"Oh, hell no... Do you have a reason for being here, besides getting me so pissed off that I have no recourse except to kill you?"
Proceed to part two... if you wanta.
"Yes.... Oh, yes... that's why you're a Higher Power Weon, a HPW... You have something I Needy. Someone has stolen my red ruby and diamond encrusted, one of kind designer but plug. This was concieved by Andy Warhol, originally, then Pollack did the actual work of shaping the wood and putting in the bumpy, humpy jewels. Oh, god, I miss it."
"You read the sign on the door that says No But Plug Related Jobs. You think I put that up there for my health, asshole?" Hectorly lit a cigarette, took in a big drag and then blew smoke out across the room, filling the space with undulating white tendrils.
"I thought you would make an exception, for me..."
"Yes, right. People make exceptions for you all the time, don't they? I mean, you're rich and famous, so why wouldn't everyone treat you like your shit doesn't stink."
"Well, that's just the way it is. And I have been told from a good source, the chick who changes my diapers, that she likes the smell... so there, Smarty Pants Negative. I didn't make the rules. The religion says that about your behavior, not you... we know how to change your behavior."
"I'll bet you do. You start doing anything that even looks like you are trying to change my behavior, and I will kill you, your family, and everyone in your fucking blackberry."
"That would take awhile."
"I am sure it would be my pleasure to kill your nutty cult freinds... or at least it would be good for the world. They put most scam artists in jail... you guys found a hook... believe your own scam. The last sane one was probably the writer of Dianetics -- about ten years before he wrote the book and disappeared onto his yacht with those young boys."
"They were assistants. Everyone keeps enough to run a fucking yacht, come on. Well, business people... and some other people, who you could learn about..."
"You what? I've had enough... in fact, way more than enough... "
He opened the lower drawer of his desk and pulled out an electric meat carver, turned it on and jumped across the desk, grabbing the moviestar by the throat. "I am going to have to cut your neck veins. Don't worry, it won't hurt?"
"Really?"
"Oh, hell no."
opywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
cowboy story
cowboy story
home
by jsr
15/01/07
3:49 PM
Scruffed up cowpokes take a night off from a trail ride out of Texas, pushing four hundred and thirty seven head of long horns up to a stock yard outside of Kansas City. They ride their sore asses into a small town a couple miles away from the herd, tie up their horses outside the only bar. They find a few empty seats inside and survey the scene in the mirror hanging behind the bar. Six round wooden tables stained and chipped and carved up as all hell, set on rough looking hardwood floors, filthy bronze spittoons set beside the chairs, surrounded by missed splotches of seeping brown tobbaco syrup.
A fat, sloppy looking whore with red lipstick smeared messily around her mouth sits in a chair by the bar, her chin sleepily falling down to her chest. Glistening saliva seeps from the corners of her mouth. She is snoring in great primal blasts from her quivering nose... "Snzzzzzzzahhhh!!!!" Followed by long, wheezy intakes of breath.
Slats looks at the whore and figures the woman is older than his mother. He's thirteen and went on the damn trail ride specifically for the whores.
He had been looking forward to seeing his first whore for years... And now, hell, the skinny little girls from his home town were better looking than this pale, unhealthy looking woman in a soiled red dress with her make-up all smeared from the other drunks she's been fucking. He takes another sip of the bitter whisky and wishes like hell he had never trusted Elber Neetles, who talked about his year on the trail like it was some grand ass adventure, not once mentioning how your whole body started aching after a week and didn't let up until you was home a month... like he heard his first day, from some old cowboy who wasn't having none of his shit.
A wild haired mule kicks open the swinging doors leading into the dim, cigar stanked bar. Walking on hind legs and holding two blazing black six guns at his waist, a smoking cigar in the corner of his lip... he takes aim on and shoots down every human there, then begins firing on the barkeeper's various cats. He kills everyone except a mouse, Lester, and Slats... who are both severly wounded.
Lester died a couple hours later, Slats woke up some weeks later, wounded and hurting. The first nurse he remembered was demur brown field mouse, Ester, who was the daughter of deceased Lester, and the adopted daughter of the mule who killed the cowboys.
They taught him the language of the mule and slowly, him and Ester became good friends. Within two years later Slats becomes embroiled in the culture and religion of the Mules, and further... he found himself slowly, inexplicably, irrationally, falling in love with Ester. He knew that a man cannot properly love a mouse, so he did his best to try and put his tender feelings out of his mind.
Still, the day came, when Ester come into his room and found Slats naked with sunflower seeds spread all over his body.
Ester was disgusted and afeared by the attentions of a penis that if it attempted intercouse would literally burst her body like a balloon. The wise mouse she was, Ester went out into the field and found a mule that she was pretty sure would marry the strange human in their midst. The Mules name was Ester, as well. The two Esters went into the house and were sure that they were going to come out with a satisfactory conclusion that involved sexual organs that would not tear anyone asunder.
And yes... Slats did marry Ester The Mule, but he never did forget Ester the mouse, and often, while making love to Ester the Mule, he fantasized it was Ester the mouse and his penis was literally tearing her asunder...
Slats eventually lost all rememberance of ever having been a human being. Indeed, he became solemly convinced that he was the nasty love child of a turnip and a clothes line, and he could barely stomach the shame.
A large barrel of 90 proof, pure white moonshine, on an abondoned barn in backwoods Kansas inhabited by a small herd of wild mules, ran clean out.
Slats spent what he thought were a few months on the moon, though actually it was just a couple days in a ditch where he was laying on his side and vomiting and staring at one of his twitching fingers. When he came to his beard was down to the ground... as he started to walk home, it became clear to him that he had spent the last few days or so living on an abondoned barn, screwing a mule and drinking from a large barrel of moonshine.
He isn't sure why there are mouse entrails everywhere, even dangling from his privates...and he will not remember, until many, many years later still, when he is an old man with hundreds of thousands of grand children -- after marrying a series of cockroaches in his autumn years while on a morphine based snake oil binge... and a single tear will roll down his dry,wrinkled cheek, as he reaches into his crusty diaper and touches his warm, urine dribbling penis and remembers his tender love for his long lost Ester the Mouse.
pywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
home
by jsr
15/01/07
3:49 PM
Scruffed up cowpokes take a night off from a trail ride out of Texas, pushing four hundred and thirty seven head of long horns up to a stock yard outside of Kansas City. They ride their sore asses into a small town a couple miles away from the herd, tie up their horses outside the only bar. They find a few empty seats inside and survey the scene in the mirror hanging behind the bar. Six round wooden tables stained and chipped and carved up as all hell, set on rough looking hardwood floors, filthy bronze spittoons set beside the chairs, surrounded by missed splotches of seeping brown tobbaco syrup.
A fat, sloppy looking whore with red lipstick smeared messily around her mouth sits in a chair by the bar, her chin sleepily falling down to her chest. Glistening saliva seeps from the corners of her mouth. She is snoring in great primal blasts from her quivering nose... "Snzzzzzzzahhhh!!!!" Followed by long, wheezy intakes of breath.
Slats looks at the whore and figures the woman is older than his mother. He's thirteen and went on the damn trail ride specifically for the whores.
He had been looking forward to seeing his first whore for years... And now, hell, the skinny little girls from his home town were better looking than this pale, unhealthy looking woman in a soiled red dress with her make-up all smeared from the other drunks she's been fucking. He takes another sip of the bitter whisky and wishes like hell he had never trusted Elber Neetles, who talked about his year on the trail like it was some grand ass adventure, not once mentioning how your whole body started aching after a week and didn't let up until you was home a month... like he heard his first day, from some old cowboy who wasn't having none of his shit.
A wild haired mule kicks open the swinging doors leading into the dim, cigar stanked bar. Walking on hind legs and holding two blazing black six guns at his waist, a smoking cigar in the corner of his lip... he takes aim on and shoots down every human there, then begins firing on the barkeeper's various cats. He kills everyone except a mouse, Lester, and Slats... who are both severly wounded.
Lester died a couple hours later, Slats woke up some weeks later, wounded and hurting. The first nurse he remembered was demur brown field mouse, Ester, who was the daughter of deceased Lester, and the adopted daughter of the mule who killed the cowboys.
They taught him the language of the mule and slowly, him and Ester became good friends. Within two years later Slats becomes embroiled in the culture and religion of the Mules, and further... he found himself slowly, inexplicably, irrationally, falling in love with Ester. He knew that a man cannot properly love a mouse, so he did his best to try and put his tender feelings out of his mind.
Still, the day came, when Ester come into his room and found Slats naked with sunflower seeds spread all over his body.
Ester was disgusted and afeared by the attentions of a penis that if it attempted intercouse would literally burst her body like a balloon. The wise mouse she was, Ester went out into the field and found a mule that she was pretty sure would marry the strange human in their midst. The Mules name was Ester, as well. The two Esters went into the house and were sure that they were going to come out with a satisfactory conclusion that involved sexual organs that would not tear anyone asunder.
And yes... Slats did marry Ester The Mule, but he never did forget Ester the mouse, and often, while making love to Ester the Mule, he fantasized it was Ester the mouse and his penis was literally tearing her asunder...
Slats eventually lost all rememberance of ever having been a human being. Indeed, he became solemly convinced that he was the nasty love child of a turnip and a clothes line, and he could barely stomach the shame.
A large barrel of 90 proof, pure white moonshine, on an abondoned barn in backwoods Kansas inhabited by a small herd of wild mules, ran clean out.
Slats spent what he thought were a few months on the moon, though actually it was just a couple days in a ditch where he was laying on his side and vomiting and staring at one of his twitching fingers. When he came to his beard was down to the ground... as he started to walk home, it became clear to him that he had spent the last few days or so living on an abondoned barn, screwing a mule and drinking from a large barrel of moonshine.
He isn't sure why there are mouse entrails everywhere, even dangling from his privates...and he will not remember, until many, many years later still, when he is an old man with hundreds of thousands of grand children -- after marrying a series of cockroaches in his autumn years while on a morphine based snake oil binge... and a single tear will roll down his dry,wrinkled cheek, as he reaches into his crusty diaper and touches his warm, urine dribbling penis and remembers his tender love for his long lost Ester the Mouse.
pywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Saturday, April 05, 2008
rabbi's trailer park emporium great meth war
Rabby's Trailer Park Emporium's Great Meth Wars
Me and Boner and Shappy been up three days smoking our new batch of meth--this White Trash turned out prettty damn good. Our eyes are bulging out of our head's so much that Shappy actually had one pop out. We had a hell of time getting it back in. He bled a lot, too. Passed out at some point. I guess that's a good sign. Like I told Boner, "You sleep off a hang-over, so why the hell not bleeding too much?"
Yea, this White Trash is great... well, except for smelling like Boner's shit. That's 'cause we thought we were going to sell some to this kid down at the 7-11 on fourth street, Gerald The Battery Boy, a a twelve year old who steals car batteries to support his habit -- that's one industrious kid, and I am keeping my eye on him because he could prove to be a potential rivalry who I will have to run out of the trailer park, like I did his older sister, when she tried to bring in her own crank from those high-falutin Woodcocks on the southside of the park -- all those southsiders think that they're better than us just because they're on that side of Merrywinkle Unicorn Lane. I say, hell no, we all got the meth-mouths and live in a trailer park.
At least in public... inside, I know them southsiders are just so smart and all Game Show sophisticated -- how the hell am I supposed to compete with that? Sometimes when I am around them, I wish my parents had all educated me by putting on Wheel Of Fortune and them 'hard' game shows that require guessing at the size of different words-- who the hell can tell one size of word from the other, I say... but then, I wasn't raised watching 100,000 question, was I mom? This is one of the reason the social worker used to say I was using meth as an eight year old. Hell, sometimes on meth I feel like I could get everything perfect on the Price Is Right (which requires years and years of price checking, and then getting called ... which is why all the older price checkers at Kmart go there on vacations, which they can afford every ten or so years, depending on saving habits!!
Sometimes I remember that social worker coming in and looking at the tv and asking my mom and dad why they never put on something educational, like Hollywood Squares? They were both a little embarrassed to be raising us on Jerry that day. This was the only time I ever saw my daddy squirm, and it made an impact on me... sure, it hurt. Dad just waited until the social worker was gone and then told us she was 'putting on airs,' that we could go to her house right at that very moment and find her watching Jerry because 'nobody, in their hearts, can resist that show.' At the time I believe him.
I seem to have gotten off the topic again. Meth could possibly be adding to this, like Boner thinks, but I doubt it. He is filled with strange notions ever since being forced to watch Ophra, back last year when he was in jail and ended up some intellectual black guys bitch. I wish the hell he would take that guys picture down from the living room wall... keeps giving me an uncomfortable feeling way up in my but.
NOw, I guess I was about to explain why our new batch of White Trash meth smells like Boner's shit -- which is generally known around these parts to be surprisingly different than the smell of his ass.
Well, getting from our territory to the 7-11 is mighty tricky, of course. Any time we go out of our territory, we put ourselves in extreme danger of getting attacked by rival meth gangs, not to mention the Waterloo, Indiana Police Department. They won't actually come in the trailer park anymore. They claim it's cause of the smell and that they just don't plain give a shit about the people who live here. ... but when we leave, they are all over us the second we venture out of Shappy's Trailer Park Emporium.. And when you got the meth mouth, there ain't no hiding it from the cops. No matter how many times you tell 'em you just got out of treatment and are working a program now, they will search ya. Hell, most of them know our names by now.
So I figured I'd just use some of the education I got in the big house. Got Boner to stick a bunch of little bags of meth up his but. Keistering is we call it when we're in jail. Hell, when I was in Marion, I kept a contraband turkey up in my hershey hole for three days while it thawed enough for me to cook it up on my hot plate.
We figured we could go down to the alley back of the 7-11, and just let them cops search us. That way, they'd think we were clean and leave us alone.
Of course, two pigs came up to us the second we left the trailer park and threw us against their cars and searched us. One of em says, "Even these three aren't stupid enough to leave with meth. They can learn. Hmp."
Bastard. I told him that I read tv guide just for the articles, but he didn't seem to believe me.
After they left, the customers began slinking up. Once we had their cash, Boner would grunt and strain until he farted out a bag or two.
The idea, as you can tell, was perfect.
CONTINUE READING IN THE NEXT ENTRY... if ya got this far.
the elves attic
Rabby's Trailer Park Emporium's Great Meth Wars
home
by jsr
02/01/07
3:57 PM
This is part twoo....
There was a problem though... the Woodcocks were across the street in
their usual spot, trying to horn in on our business. Them Woodcocks are
an inbred tribe from the hotey-totey, stuck up south-side of the trailer
park. They think they're all fancy 'cause they got cousins to marry and
such, which keeps all the cars in the same family. We sure as hell wish
we had cousins, but after that lab we were running during the Anual
SKeeter Reunion And Pig Fucking blew all up... shot the house like twenty
feet into the air and killed all our relatives, including our most
favorite slutty cousins and a pig I had had my eye on for years...
Them Woodcocks send their eight and nine year olds out to do the delivery.
Marge the Momma told me she does it that way for two reasons-- said
when the kids were in jail was about the only time they got to schooling,
and of course being minors they usually got off with nothing little
sentences that the Woodcocks prided themselves in being able to handle
standing on their heads.
Anways... so people had a choice between our bags, which Boner was wet
farting out and they were kind of dripping brown stuff during the hand
off, or the Woodcocks nice clean bags. Well, at first... I have to say,
there for awhile, I thought we were in some real trouble. But then this
trucker come up, and when he got a bag of our stuff, he got on the CB and
started bragging on how he was doing some meth that smelled like a White
Ass. Next thing we knew, perverts from adult bookstores for miles around
and truck stops all over this side of the county were pulling up behind
the 7-11 asking for some White Ass.
Them Hoity-toity Woodcocks were fuming like a vat of grain alcohol filled
with decongestants!!
We were so happy with the results that we had Boner keister the money on
the way home, only he didn't have no more bags and the money got all
shitty . I guess it kind of looked like a brown dye pack had went off on
the money, like from a robbery, and when we tried to spend it on a bunch
of cough syryup and decongestants and such the Guy at the Jewels called
the cops on us.
The cops could tell it wasn't a dye pack, but they didn't want to come
close to the money. Told us were going to go out back and burn every bit
of it, or we were going to jail for doing perverted shit with money. I
tried to tell him that we did not put the money up our anuses for
satisfaction. Duder was having none of it. Got all pissed off and was
waving his baton around as he screamed, "Hey, when I get to putting money
up my ass, I burn it afterwards, because I live in a goddamn society!!!"
Then he proceeded to beat Boner, which turned him on... the big old woody
shoving out of his pants seemed to make the cop hit him harder, and
harder... Then those two knuckleheads made a date at some porta-potty
behind the Kroger's Market.
The world is such a messed up place. Sometimes i think we are the only
sane people in an insane world, man. I mean, if people would just let us
be, the world would be perfect. Well, except for meth-mouth, lack of
cousins, and the Boner-butt smell of this meth.
Boners' White Ass Meth Enemas!!
home
by jsr
11/01/07
6:37 PM
Carl came up with a solution to the problem of the fifteen foot tall Jesus mud balls and Boner's gay trucker religion. I'll tell ya, when Boner took that kitten and dipped it in a chemical vat and held it over them flames and used that eye dropper and meth and Crisco and all the other shit to turn Carl into some Super Gay Cat, I thought he was crazy. But he told me he learned the recipe from the most twisted prisoner that he ever bitched, and sure enough...
Carl told me and Shappy, "We have to offer him some way of getting his but attention. Right now, he's in butthole heaven. He won't give that up easy."
Carl then kind of fluttered about the room in that swishy way of his as he added, "Well, he does love his enemas... we could put the white ass in enemas and put Boner in charge of production! To get the smell that we all love so much, Boner could dip each of the enema's in his White Ass smell. We'll poke each and every one up his but before we sell it. That way, he would be selling his but juices. You know he's always dreamed of finding a way to market his sweet, sweet but juices."
And that's true, Boner's dream has always been to market his but juices. Or his 'sweet, sweet but juices,' as he always called them. I just thought that was crazy. Same as I did when Boner said he was going to make himself a Super Gay Cat that can talk.
Carl went out back, weaving between the half-naked truckers, their sagging white beer bellies and matted chest hair and flabby titties showing sadly through their tightlty stretched white tube tops... They were all involved in some kind of Daisy Chain that I tried not to look at.
Carl had in his mouth a big old red enema filled with White Ass and Crisco and Water, snuck up beside where Boner's fat ass was hanging off one of them big mud balls, shoved that red nozzle up deep into boner and and jumped up and down on it, splashing the meth deep up into that old boys bowels.
Boner's face lit right up, and his ears started flapping like they do... he looked like he couldn't have been happier with that white ass blasting through his bowel. Carl jumped up beside him and real quick explained to him about how we wanted to put him charge of putting his but juices on the new line of White Trash Enemas.
Boner was so happy that he jumped down off the balls with no regard to his anus having just been filled by a large enema. His feet hit the ground and he let loose with a brown blast that splattered the truckers and fag hags and their groupies.... This seemed to launch them all into some kind of sexual frenzy, which set off a new round of vomiting among the neighbors that was a watching and taping everything on their cell phones. Shappy had to run back inside.
I guess actually Boner was relieved that Carl was taking this latest gay religion of his with a grain of salt, instead of the usual week long hissy fits he's known for. By the time they got back up inside the trailer, Carl got Boner to agree to disband the religion in exchange for renewed litter box privilges -- Boner has been messing in the plants up under the windows and behind the couch ever since these two started having problems over Boner's Bitching...
Boner told all the trucker's to go home, and they reluctantly did. You would think they would learn after awhile that Boner doesn't really mean it when he starts these religions, but they fall for it everytime. Carl says it's cause Boner is so hot, but I happen to know Carl was conditioned to think this by Boner when he was a small kitten.
I'm letting him keep the mud balls and the little shrine, mostly because it will be easy for his gay trucker buddies to find our trailer, which should help the traffic problem that all these truckers have been causing as they cruise around the trailer park looking for some White Ass.
Boner's as happy as can be with his new product line -- him and Carl have been trying out different types of enemas all afternoon. They've still got like six crates to go and they're both already leaking something awful.
I'm going to have to hose out the whole trailer when they'e done. . . like I always have to when those two get to playing with enemas. Sure am glad things are back to normal around here.
Boner Says He's Bitching For God Now
home
by jsr
11/01/07
3:33 PM
Three awful days have passed since Boner first put the fifteen foot mud balls in the back yard. Things have kind of spun out of control ever since then, with all these huge semi-truck's sporting rainbow flags blocking every entryway into Rabby's Trailer Park Emporium. I guess by now the Legend of White Ass has been told across CB radios all over The six county area, and carved into the stalls of every truck stop from here to Fort Wayne.
There are now a couple hundred of them out there, gay truckers and their groupies -- various fag hags have been showing up today, too. All of them wearing just them pink trucker caps saying Peterbilt, and them damn white tube tops and nothing else. The sight is making the neighbors vomit, and that is not adding anything pleasent to the usual dog shit and urine scent of this trailer park.
The cops have been keeping watch on this from outside the trailer park, which is making me nervous as hell. I sent shappy up to see what they was doing and he says they're just drinking beers and whacking off. Shappy thinks this is all anyone ever does, so when he is supposed to be checking on cops or Buffalo Survaillance, or whatever... he always just comes back and says, "They're drinking beers and whacking off." Boner buys this story everytime, too.
I am now convinced that Boner started his gay trucker's church all because I told him that he couldn't keep putting the meth up his but.
By now you all should know that he keistered the latest batch of White Trash meth, turning it into the gay trucker phenomena White Ass... and that I told him we weren't a going to let him put anymore meth up his but. This was after Boner was all happy with having farted out all these bags, tricking the cops and getting to make his asshole the center of attention.
Boner was pretty sure this was the best thing that ever happened to him. A crying Carl told me this afterwards. Carl at least is avoiding the mud ball religion thing. He's just in the back room snorting white ass and playing with those crumpled up paper balls of his.
Anyways, I'm a thinking now that Boner Statrted this whole religion just to keep putting the meth up his butt. If I had told him that he could keister some of it, maybe... but no, I was so sick of smoking meth that smelled like his ass that I pretty much told him there was no way the white trash was getting anywhere near his asshole.
I guess I shouldn't have been so hard on him. Boner has had a difficult life, what with being abducted by a family of pigs, and raised out back of the house. He was a teenager before my parents realized anything was the amiss. Like daddy used to say, "If you'd a been raised by pigs, a rutting on your brothers and sisters all your life, then you'd fuck sheep and chickens and stray cats, too."
I hate to say it, but I am almost ready to join the enemy camp, which has turned out to be none other than the secretly gay meth snorting minister Gilford Tuttle. He is on the CB every day now, from when he wakes up until he passes out late at night, going on and on about the heathen activity taking place in Boner's church. His descriptions are pretty damn graphic, and not for the light hearted. Shappy is of course wetting himself whenever he hears the guys voice, and then the diarraeh starts and no place in this trailer is splatter free after a few days of this, believe me.
Boner took all the latest batch of white trash, and has spent the morning 'converting' it into white ass, by having his minions poke bags up into his but, which he then wet farts back out.
They've got some kind of religous chant going while he does it. Whenever another bag of white trash is poked in -- on the end of this large black dildo, Boner's yelling, "I'M BITCHING FOR GOD!!"
His followers then chant back, "He's god's bitch."
They've been doing this all morning.
"I'm bitching for god."
"He's god's bitch."
It gets to you after a few hours, believe me.
Boner Snorting Meth and Screwing Gilford Tuttle
home
by jsr
09/01/07
2:50 PM
Like anyone who was listening to Tuttle's program this afternoon, I have just learned that Boner has continued the Bitch ways that he learned in prison, and is once more out peddling his ass. Boner decided to expose this preacher after listening to this Tuttle's CB radio 'salvation station,' which he uses to harrass trucker's passing by on highway 6. We was a listening to the show, because a lot of the Trucker's are our customers... Well, Gilford was going on about the Mountanous Balls of Jock Jesus, and some trucker who was just passing through came back at him, saying something about how having a Jesus with big balls seemed a little gay to him. Hell, anyone can see this jock jesus thing is a little gay -- Boner is known to often touch himself during the Savation Station CB broadcastes, which often include graphic descriptions of a well-muscled Jesus working out.
Tuttle didn't seem to know this though, and he got all full of himself and started ranting about how homosexual marriages were going to cause a break down in the local sewer systems. He is always saying this, and most people have just come to accept it as true.
When Boner heard this stuff about the gay marriage would destroy the local sewer systems, again... and then Carl broke down and started crying over it... Well, Boner just went crazy, picked up that CB and jumped on, right in the middle of the show, and starting saying how he was bitching for Gilford Tuttle, doing crazy gay stuff on meth in some abondoned porta potty. But Bouncing, hip hopping, ankle flipping...
I guess Boner met his 'gay trick,' this preacher, when he was out selling that white trash meth that smelled like his but. Of course it has become all the damn rage in the underground gay scene here in town, which up until this I had pretty much believed was just Boner and his cat Carl.
Gays have been drawn by this but-smelling meth from as far away as a truck stop out on interstate 75!! Somebody carved our name into the wall out there, and we've been getting calls asking for White Ass all the time. That's what the street name for this stuff has become -- White Ass, which does not please me one bit... makes light of our trademark name, White Trash. I have been damned careful with my Branding, like I learned from reading part of an article about Martha Stewart during the year I was in prison... the third time, I think. We have tried so hard to keep White Trash in good graces with our sensitive customers, like the grade schoolers and their parents. I'm doing my best damage control, trying to get the kids to call this batch White Poo, or something more kid friendly...
I would also like to assure our customer's that our next batch is going to be kept the hell out of Boner's but!!! I don't care if my decision has made him cry. Lord, he did love farting out them bags, after keistering them down to the 7-11. Made him and his asshole the goddamned center of attention, and you know he likes that. Personally, I'd almost rather quit the meth than have to smoke his ass smell again... almost.
And as far as this thing with this Gilford Tuttle, he is denying everything, I guess. ... but Boner has tapes and proof and such that we will be releasing throughout the day, as he finds the stuff.
I GUESS A DENIAL HAS APPEARED ON THE TRAILER PARK EMPORIUMS' SITE FROM THIS TUTTLE... HERE IT IS.
What, Me, But Bounce? Oh, no...
I have been accused . . . I, Gilford Tuttle, most blessed on high among men, has been actually accused of having meth fueled gay sex with some hot stud from the disreputable, untrustworthy 'southside' of the trailer park. I have not now, nor have I ever, slid my dick into this guys hot ass. Nor has his hard, long, tall one slid up deep, deep inside my quivering bowels. In fact, I am so heterosexual that if I am not at church, I am usually testicles deep in the little lady. Can't get enough of the vagina, I always say in private and silently, as the lord commands. Yes, I am 'regular' with my wife.
I have recently heard that there are even some kind of 'fake tapes,' which has a voice that does sound like me. Oh, that Satan.... he is so damn clever. Of course the dark prince will do about anything to bring down the most blessed man on the planet, I who drink of the sweet, sweet sweat dripping from the Mountanous balls of Jock Jesus... On these tapes, there is much begging for meth and hot gay, sweaty meth sex. They are just so fake.. obviously the spewings of Satan's mighty wand!!
Leaders such as me are often attacked by gay men who claim we have been having hot, drug fueled sex all damn day and half the night. The time has come for all good men to ignore this hot, heathen Boner's blasphemy!!
I have just had a vision that Jesus will be very, very pissed at anyone who believes this slander against the one he has blessed the most.
To make this go away, new revelations in The Tuttle Scriptures And Family Budget, say that all I have to do is to think of the Jock Jesus With Balls Bigger Than Man Can Even Comprehend, and say three times -- GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN!!! GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN!!! GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN!!!
There, now we can all forget about this blasphemy, and go home and drink a long, cool glass of Pigmilk!!!
What? You still haven't obeyed the Lord and started drinking pig milk?
Why, "Got Pigmilk?" is what all the hip kids say -- and a wrathful god Demands.
This Tuttle is obviously very, very slick. A worthy adversary for me, Skeeter Skeeter Skeeter the seventh. He just doesn't understand that Boner has no reason to lie about this at all.
In fact, the fallout over Boner's decision to go public with his latest 'bitching,' has effected him something awful. Him and Carl are having problems over it, and I guess Boner has been banned from their litter box, which is causing some problems behind the couch that smell way too much like our meth.
He's in the bedroom crying and Carl will not comfort him this time.
New Development.. Boner has just come bouncing out of the back bedroom saying he is probably going to take it all back... I guess him and Tuttle agreed to hold a prayer meeting at some book store, Shemsties Frog Slapping Hole. He says they'll be 'a kneeling and a squeeling.' I guess that means prayng.
Later In The Night....
Strange shit. Boner come home from this meeting with the Gilford Tuttle and just went straight to the back yard, where he got out the back hoe and started digging up a bunch of the yard. I tried to get him to tell me what was going on, but he was all spaced out on the White Ass or something... I mean, the White Poo... When I tried to grab the keys out of the back hoe, he pulled a knife on me and you can bet I come in real quick....
So now a few hours has passed and it turns out he's making these huge, brown balls. They got to be like fifteen feet high. Then to make matters worse, he starts loudly praying to these things and lighting those mexican candles with the sayings about lotto winning and stuff. As the night has gone by, gay meth heads have been showing up and Boner is doing something to them, making them all kneel down and... well, pray. That's about the last thing Boner ever knelt down to do.
A bunch of gay truckers and their groupies praying to huge, brown balls in the back yard is not going to be good for the straight business.
When he finally came in, we asked him what the hell was going on, and he explained to me and an obviously miffed Carl.
"I've got religion, again."
Boner was always taking on the religion of whover he was 'bitching' in prison, so this was nothing new, but huge balls in the back yard is not going to be good for business... Well, actually, with the White Ass customer's it could pack them in... No, then we would lose that all important family trade -- our bread and butter.
This is what I was thinking anyways, when I tells Boner he has to get rid of them mud balls. Her got all weird and grabbed his shotgun and said he'd kill every heathen on the planet before he would touch one hair on them balls. He looked like he did that time the county worker said he had to get Carl fixed, and we all know they ain't never seen her again. He's sitting out there right now, on top of one of them fifteen foot high mud balls with that shotgun and a big old bag of White Ass, surrounded by all them gay trucker's in their pink little trucker caps and tube tops. One of them must have been hauling a load of white tube tops and pink trucker caps that say Peterbilt, because they are all wearing them. And nothing else. A disgusting site. Slappy is just sitting in the corner shivering and shaking and wetting and pooing on himself. Carl is in the back room throwing stuff around and chasing balls of wadded up paper, just a little swishing mess of a gay cat over this shit. When Boner comes down and sees how upset Carl is, he is going to feel bad, like he always does when he accidently starts one of his gay religions.
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00:copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Me and Boner and Shappy been up three days smoking our new batch of meth--this White Trash turned out prettty damn good. Our eyes are bulging out of our head's so much that Shappy actually had one pop out. We had a hell of time getting it back in. He bled a lot, too. Passed out at some point. I guess that's a good sign. Like I told Boner, "You sleep off a hang-over, so why the hell not bleeding too much?"
Yea, this White Trash is great... well, except for smelling like Boner's shit. That's 'cause we thought we were going to sell some to this kid down at the 7-11 on fourth street, Gerald The Battery Boy, a a twelve year old who steals car batteries to support his habit -- that's one industrious kid, and I am keeping my eye on him because he could prove to be a potential rivalry who I will have to run out of the trailer park, like I did his older sister, when she tried to bring in her own crank from those high-falutin Woodcocks on the southside of the park -- all those southsiders think that they're better than us just because they're on that side of Merrywinkle Unicorn Lane. I say, hell no, we all got the meth-mouths and live in a trailer park.
At least in public... inside, I know them southsiders are just so smart and all Game Show sophisticated -- how the hell am I supposed to compete with that? Sometimes when I am around them, I wish my parents had all educated me by putting on Wheel Of Fortune and them 'hard' game shows that require guessing at the size of different words-- who the hell can tell one size of word from the other, I say... but then, I wasn't raised watching 100,000 question, was I mom? This is one of the reason the social worker used to say I was using meth as an eight year old. Hell, sometimes on meth I feel like I could get everything perfect on the Price Is Right (which requires years and years of price checking, and then getting called ... which is why all the older price checkers at Kmart go there on vacations, which they can afford every ten or so years, depending on saving habits!!
Sometimes I remember that social worker coming in and looking at the tv and asking my mom and dad why they never put on something educational, like Hollywood Squares? They were both a little embarrassed to be raising us on Jerry that day. This was the only time I ever saw my daddy squirm, and it made an impact on me... sure, it hurt. Dad just waited until the social worker was gone and then told us she was 'putting on airs,' that we could go to her house right at that very moment and find her watching Jerry because 'nobody, in their hearts, can resist that show.' At the time I believe him.
I seem to have gotten off the topic again. Meth could possibly be adding to this, like Boner thinks, but I doubt it. He is filled with strange notions ever since being forced to watch Ophra, back last year when he was in jail and ended up some intellectual black guys bitch. I wish the hell he would take that guys picture down from the living room wall... keeps giving me an uncomfortable feeling way up in my but.
NOw, I guess I was about to explain why our new batch of White Trash meth smells like Boner's shit -- which is generally known around these parts to be surprisingly different than the smell of his ass.
Well, getting from our territory to the 7-11 is mighty tricky, of course. Any time we go out of our territory, we put ourselves in extreme danger of getting attacked by rival meth gangs, not to mention the Waterloo, Indiana Police Department. They won't actually come in the trailer park anymore. They claim it's cause of the smell and that they just don't plain give a shit about the people who live here. ... but when we leave, they are all over us the second we venture out of Shappy's Trailer Park Emporium.. And when you got the meth mouth, there ain't no hiding it from the cops. No matter how many times you tell 'em you just got out of treatment and are working a program now, they will search ya. Hell, most of them know our names by now.
So I figured I'd just use some of the education I got in the big house. Got Boner to stick a bunch of little bags of meth up his but. Keistering is we call it when we're in jail. Hell, when I was in Marion, I kept a contraband turkey up in my hershey hole for three days while it thawed enough for me to cook it up on my hot plate.
We figured we could go down to the alley back of the 7-11, and just let them cops search us. That way, they'd think we were clean and leave us alone.
Of course, two pigs came up to us the second we left the trailer park and threw us against their cars and searched us. One of em says, "Even these three aren't stupid enough to leave with meth. They can learn. Hmp."
Bastard. I told him that I read tv guide just for the articles, but he didn't seem to believe me.
After they left, the customers began slinking up. Once we had their cash, Boner would grunt and strain until he farted out a bag or two.
The idea, as you can tell, was perfect.
CONTINUE READING IN THE NEXT ENTRY... if ya got this far.
the elves attic
Rabby's Trailer Park Emporium's Great Meth Wars
home
by jsr
02/01/07
3:57 PM
This is part twoo....
There was a problem though... the Woodcocks were across the street in
their usual spot, trying to horn in on our business. Them Woodcocks are
an inbred tribe from the hotey-totey, stuck up south-side of the trailer
park. They think they're all fancy 'cause they got cousins to marry and
such, which keeps all the cars in the same family. We sure as hell wish
we had cousins, but after that lab we were running during the Anual
SKeeter Reunion And Pig Fucking blew all up... shot the house like twenty
feet into the air and killed all our relatives, including our most
favorite slutty cousins and a pig I had had my eye on for years...
Them Woodcocks send their eight and nine year olds out to do the delivery.
Marge the Momma told me she does it that way for two reasons-- said
when the kids were in jail was about the only time they got to schooling,
and of course being minors they usually got off with nothing little
sentences that the Woodcocks prided themselves in being able to handle
standing on their heads.
Anways... so people had a choice between our bags, which Boner was wet
farting out and they were kind of dripping brown stuff during the hand
off, or the Woodcocks nice clean bags. Well, at first... I have to say,
there for awhile, I thought we were in some real trouble. But then this
trucker come up, and when he got a bag of our stuff, he got on the CB and
started bragging on how he was doing some meth that smelled like a White
Ass. Next thing we knew, perverts from adult bookstores for miles around
and truck stops all over this side of the county were pulling up behind
the 7-11 asking for some White Ass.
Them Hoity-toity Woodcocks were fuming like a vat of grain alcohol filled
with decongestants!!
We were so happy with the results that we had Boner keister the money on
the way home, only he didn't have no more bags and the money got all
shitty . I guess it kind of looked like a brown dye pack had went off on
the money, like from a robbery, and when we tried to spend it on a bunch
of cough syryup and decongestants and such the Guy at the Jewels called
the cops on us.
The cops could tell it wasn't a dye pack, but they didn't want to come
close to the money. Told us were going to go out back and burn every bit
of it, or we were going to jail for doing perverted shit with money. I
tried to tell him that we did not put the money up our anuses for
satisfaction. Duder was having none of it. Got all pissed off and was
waving his baton around as he screamed, "Hey, when I get to putting money
up my ass, I burn it afterwards, because I live in a goddamn society!!!"
Then he proceeded to beat Boner, which turned him on... the big old woody
shoving out of his pants seemed to make the cop hit him harder, and
harder... Then those two knuckleheads made a date at some porta-potty
behind the Kroger's Market.
The world is such a messed up place. Sometimes i think we are the only
sane people in an insane world, man. I mean, if people would just let us
be, the world would be perfect. Well, except for meth-mouth, lack of
cousins, and the Boner-butt smell of this meth.
Boners' White Ass Meth Enemas!!
home
by jsr
11/01/07
6:37 PM
Carl came up with a solution to the problem of the fifteen foot tall Jesus mud balls and Boner's gay trucker religion. I'll tell ya, when Boner took that kitten and dipped it in a chemical vat and held it over them flames and used that eye dropper and meth and Crisco and all the other shit to turn Carl into some Super Gay Cat, I thought he was crazy. But he told me he learned the recipe from the most twisted prisoner that he ever bitched, and sure enough...
Carl told me and Shappy, "We have to offer him some way of getting his but attention. Right now, he's in butthole heaven. He won't give that up easy."
Carl then kind of fluttered about the room in that swishy way of his as he added, "Well, he does love his enemas... we could put the white ass in enemas and put Boner in charge of production! To get the smell that we all love so much, Boner could dip each of the enema's in his White Ass smell. We'll poke each and every one up his but before we sell it. That way, he would be selling his but juices. You know he's always dreamed of finding a way to market his sweet, sweet but juices."
And that's true, Boner's dream has always been to market his but juices. Or his 'sweet, sweet but juices,' as he always called them. I just thought that was crazy. Same as I did when Boner said he was going to make himself a Super Gay Cat that can talk.
Carl went out back, weaving between the half-naked truckers, their sagging white beer bellies and matted chest hair and flabby titties showing sadly through their tightlty stretched white tube tops... They were all involved in some kind of Daisy Chain that I tried not to look at.
Carl had in his mouth a big old red enema filled with White Ass and Crisco and Water, snuck up beside where Boner's fat ass was hanging off one of them big mud balls, shoved that red nozzle up deep into boner and and jumped up and down on it, splashing the meth deep up into that old boys bowels.
Boner's face lit right up, and his ears started flapping like they do... he looked like he couldn't have been happier with that white ass blasting through his bowel. Carl jumped up beside him and real quick explained to him about how we wanted to put him charge of putting his but juices on the new line of White Trash Enemas.
Boner was so happy that he jumped down off the balls with no regard to his anus having just been filled by a large enema. His feet hit the ground and he let loose with a brown blast that splattered the truckers and fag hags and their groupies.... This seemed to launch them all into some kind of sexual frenzy, which set off a new round of vomiting among the neighbors that was a watching and taping everything on their cell phones. Shappy had to run back inside.
I guess actually Boner was relieved that Carl was taking this latest gay religion of his with a grain of salt, instead of the usual week long hissy fits he's known for. By the time they got back up inside the trailer, Carl got Boner to agree to disband the religion in exchange for renewed litter box privilges -- Boner has been messing in the plants up under the windows and behind the couch ever since these two started having problems over Boner's Bitching...
Boner told all the trucker's to go home, and they reluctantly did. You would think they would learn after awhile that Boner doesn't really mean it when he starts these religions, but they fall for it everytime. Carl says it's cause Boner is so hot, but I happen to know Carl was conditioned to think this by Boner when he was a small kitten.
I'm letting him keep the mud balls and the little shrine, mostly because it will be easy for his gay trucker buddies to find our trailer, which should help the traffic problem that all these truckers have been causing as they cruise around the trailer park looking for some White Ass.
Boner's as happy as can be with his new product line -- him and Carl have been trying out different types of enemas all afternoon. They've still got like six crates to go and they're both already leaking something awful.
I'm going to have to hose out the whole trailer when they'e done. . . like I always have to when those two get to playing with enemas. Sure am glad things are back to normal around here.
Boner Says He's Bitching For God Now
home
by jsr
11/01/07
3:33 PM
Three awful days have passed since Boner first put the fifteen foot mud balls in the back yard. Things have kind of spun out of control ever since then, with all these huge semi-truck's sporting rainbow flags blocking every entryway into Rabby's Trailer Park Emporium. I guess by now the Legend of White Ass has been told across CB radios all over The six county area, and carved into the stalls of every truck stop from here to Fort Wayne.
There are now a couple hundred of them out there, gay truckers and their groupies -- various fag hags have been showing up today, too. All of them wearing just them pink trucker caps saying Peterbilt, and them damn white tube tops and nothing else. The sight is making the neighbors vomit, and that is not adding anything pleasent to the usual dog shit and urine scent of this trailer park.
The cops have been keeping watch on this from outside the trailer park, which is making me nervous as hell. I sent shappy up to see what they was doing and he says they're just drinking beers and whacking off. Shappy thinks this is all anyone ever does, so when he is supposed to be checking on cops or Buffalo Survaillance, or whatever... he always just comes back and says, "They're drinking beers and whacking off." Boner buys this story everytime, too.
I am now convinced that Boner started his gay trucker's church all because I told him that he couldn't keep putting the meth up his but.
By now you all should know that he keistered the latest batch of White Trash meth, turning it into the gay trucker phenomena White Ass... and that I told him we weren't a going to let him put anymore meth up his but. This was after Boner was all happy with having farted out all these bags, tricking the cops and getting to make his asshole the center of attention.
Boner was pretty sure this was the best thing that ever happened to him. A crying Carl told me this afterwards. Carl at least is avoiding the mud ball religion thing. He's just in the back room snorting white ass and playing with those crumpled up paper balls of his.
Anyways, I'm a thinking now that Boner Statrted this whole religion just to keep putting the meth up his butt. If I had told him that he could keister some of it, maybe... but no, I was so sick of smoking meth that smelled like his ass that I pretty much told him there was no way the white trash was getting anywhere near his asshole.
I guess I shouldn't have been so hard on him. Boner has had a difficult life, what with being abducted by a family of pigs, and raised out back of the house. He was a teenager before my parents realized anything was the amiss. Like daddy used to say, "If you'd a been raised by pigs, a rutting on your brothers and sisters all your life, then you'd fuck sheep and chickens and stray cats, too."
I hate to say it, but I am almost ready to join the enemy camp, which has turned out to be none other than the secretly gay meth snorting minister Gilford Tuttle. He is on the CB every day now, from when he wakes up until he passes out late at night, going on and on about the heathen activity taking place in Boner's church. His descriptions are pretty damn graphic, and not for the light hearted. Shappy is of course wetting himself whenever he hears the guys voice, and then the diarraeh starts and no place in this trailer is splatter free after a few days of this, believe me.
Boner took all the latest batch of white trash, and has spent the morning 'converting' it into white ass, by having his minions poke bags up into his but, which he then wet farts back out.
They've got some kind of religous chant going while he does it. Whenever another bag of white trash is poked in -- on the end of this large black dildo, Boner's yelling, "I'M BITCHING FOR GOD!!"
His followers then chant back, "He's god's bitch."
They've been doing this all morning.
"I'm bitching for god."
"He's god's bitch."
It gets to you after a few hours, believe me.
Boner Snorting Meth and Screwing Gilford Tuttle
home
by jsr
09/01/07
2:50 PM
Like anyone who was listening to Tuttle's program this afternoon, I have just learned that Boner has continued the Bitch ways that he learned in prison, and is once more out peddling his ass. Boner decided to expose this preacher after listening to this Tuttle's CB radio 'salvation station,' which he uses to harrass trucker's passing by on highway 6. We was a listening to the show, because a lot of the Trucker's are our customers... Well, Gilford was going on about the Mountanous Balls of Jock Jesus, and some trucker who was just passing through came back at him, saying something about how having a Jesus with big balls seemed a little gay to him. Hell, anyone can see this jock jesus thing is a little gay -- Boner is known to often touch himself during the Savation Station CB broadcastes, which often include graphic descriptions of a well-muscled Jesus working out.
Tuttle didn't seem to know this though, and he got all full of himself and started ranting about how homosexual marriages were going to cause a break down in the local sewer systems. He is always saying this, and most people have just come to accept it as true.
When Boner heard this stuff about the gay marriage would destroy the local sewer systems, again... and then Carl broke down and started crying over it... Well, Boner just went crazy, picked up that CB and jumped on, right in the middle of the show, and starting saying how he was bitching for Gilford Tuttle, doing crazy gay stuff on meth in some abondoned porta potty. But Bouncing, hip hopping, ankle flipping...
I guess Boner met his 'gay trick,' this preacher, when he was out selling that white trash meth that smelled like his but. Of course it has become all the damn rage in the underground gay scene here in town, which up until this I had pretty much believed was just Boner and his cat Carl.
Gays have been drawn by this but-smelling meth from as far away as a truck stop out on interstate 75!! Somebody carved our name into the wall out there, and we've been getting calls asking for White Ass all the time. That's what the street name for this stuff has become -- White Ass, which does not please me one bit... makes light of our trademark name, White Trash. I have been damned careful with my Branding, like I learned from reading part of an article about Martha Stewart during the year I was in prison... the third time, I think. We have tried so hard to keep White Trash in good graces with our sensitive customers, like the grade schoolers and their parents. I'm doing my best damage control, trying to get the kids to call this batch White Poo, or something more kid friendly...
I would also like to assure our customer's that our next batch is going to be kept the hell out of Boner's but!!! I don't care if my decision has made him cry. Lord, he did love farting out them bags, after keistering them down to the 7-11. Made him and his asshole the goddamned center of attention, and you know he likes that. Personally, I'd almost rather quit the meth than have to smoke his ass smell again... almost.
And as far as this thing with this Gilford Tuttle, he is denying everything, I guess. ... but Boner has tapes and proof and such that we will be releasing throughout the day, as he finds the stuff.
I GUESS A DENIAL HAS APPEARED ON THE TRAILER PARK EMPORIUMS' SITE FROM THIS TUTTLE... HERE IT IS.
What, Me, But Bounce? Oh, no...
I have been accused . . . I, Gilford Tuttle, most blessed on high among men, has been actually accused of having meth fueled gay sex with some hot stud from the disreputable, untrustworthy 'southside' of the trailer park. I have not now, nor have I ever, slid my dick into this guys hot ass. Nor has his hard, long, tall one slid up deep, deep inside my quivering bowels. In fact, I am so heterosexual that if I am not at church, I am usually testicles deep in the little lady. Can't get enough of the vagina, I always say in private and silently, as the lord commands. Yes, I am 'regular' with my wife.
I have recently heard that there are even some kind of 'fake tapes,' which has a voice that does sound like me. Oh, that Satan.... he is so damn clever. Of course the dark prince will do about anything to bring down the most blessed man on the planet, I who drink of the sweet, sweet sweat dripping from the Mountanous balls of Jock Jesus... On these tapes, there is much begging for meth and hot gay, sweaty meth sex. They are just so fake.. obviously the spewings of Satan's mighty wand!!
Leaders such as me are often attacked by gay men who claim we have been having hot, drug fueled sex all damn day and half the night. The time has come for all good men to ignore this hot, heathen Boner's blasphemy!!
I have just had a vision that Jesus will be very, very pissed at anyone who believes this slander against the one he has blessed the most.
To make this go away, new revelations in The Tuttle Scriptures And Family Budget, say that all I have to do is to think of the Jock Jesus With Balls Bigger Than Man Can Even Comprehend, and say three times -- GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN!!! GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN!!! GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN!!!
There, now we can all forget about this blasphemy, and go home and drink a long, cool glass of Pigmilk!!!
What? You still haven't obeyed the Lord and started drinking pig milk?
Why, "Got Pigmilk?" is what all the hip kids say -- and a wrathful god Demands.
This Tuttle is obviously very, very slick. A worthy adversary for me, Skeeter Skeeter Skeeter the seventh. He just doesn't understand that Boner has no reason to lie about this at all.
In fact, the fallout over Boner's decision to go public with his latest 'bitching,' has effected him something awful. Him and Carl are having problems over it, and I guess Boner has been banned from their litter box, which is causing some problems behind the couch that smell way too much like our meth.
He's in the bedroom crying and Carl will not comfort him this time.
New Development.. Boner has just come bouncing out of the back bedroom saying he is probably going to take it all back... I guess him and Tuttle agreed to hold a prayer meeting at some book store, Shemsties Frog Slapping Hole. He says they'll be 'a kneeling and a squeeling.' I guess that means prayng.
Later In The Night....
Strange shit. Boner come home from this meeting with the Gilford Tuttle and just went straight to the back yard, where he got out the back hoe and started digging up a bunch of the yard. I tried to get him to tell me what was going on, but he was all spaced out on the White Ass or something... I mean, the White Poo... When I tried to grab the keys out of the back hoe, he pulled a knife on me and you can bet I come in real quick....
So now a few hours has passed and it turns out he's making these huge, brown balls. They got to be like fifteen feet high. Then to make matters worse, he starts loudly praying to these things and lighting those mexican candles with the sayings about lotto winning and stuff. As the night has gone by, gay meth heads have been showing up and Boner is doing something to them, making them all kneel down and... well, pray. That's about the last thing Boner ever knelt down to do.
A bunch of gay truckers and their groupies praying to huge, brown balls in the back yard is not going to be good for the straight business.
When he finally came in, we asked him what the hell was going on, and he explained to me and an obviously miffed Carl.
"I've got religion, again."
Boner was always taking on the religion of whover he was 'bitching' in prison, so this was nothing new, but huge balls in the back yard is not going to be good for business... Well, actually, with the White Ass customer's it could pack them in... No, then we would lose that all important family trade -- our bread and butter.
This is what I was thinking anyways, when I tells Boner he has to get rid of them mud balls. Her got all weird and grabbed his shotgun and said he'd kill every heathen on the planet before he would touch one hair on them balls. He looked like he did that time the county worker said he had to get Carl fixed, and we all know they ain't never seen her again. He's sitting out there right now, on top of one of them fifteen foot high mud balls with that shotgun and a big old bag of White Ass, surrounded by all them gay trucker's in their pink little trucker caps and tube tops. One of them must have been hauling a load of white tube tops and pink trucker caps that say Peterbilt, because they are all wearing them. And nothing else. A disgusting site. Slappy is just sitting in the corner shivering and shaking and wetting and pooing on himself. Carl is in the back room throwing stuff around and chasing balls of wadded up paper, just a little swishing mess of a gay cat over this shit. When Boner comes down and sees how upset Carl is, he is going to feel bad, like he always does when he accidently starts one of his gay religions.
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00:copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Friday, April 04, 2008
today
I am once more working on the blogs... just got up a fw minutes ago and the dog needs to go out.... an excuse to walk by the lake in fifty degree whether and still I resent... I am such a boof. THat is what I need this blog for.... to show myself that I am an idiot. The other ones are getting very, very serious. I guess my violent comedy can be taken that way as well, but I mean it all tom and jerry and video game.... life is sacred. Only God has a right to judge man, in my opinionl... thought men can judge each others behavior without damning their intrinsic good. This is what I do. Ellision was the doctor who taught me this... though I think he took the feel positive all the time to extremes. I need the darkness to remind myself that I am on this earth to battle pain.
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Thursday, April 03, 2008
the new thrust of this blog
Basioucally, this site is for my comedy. I will be putting all of the short stories from theelvesattic.com up here in the next few weeks, as I compile them for a new edition of my book. I am also doing a new blog waking up jesus, for the new book, and then a sight where I can just write my comedy stories and political thoughts. I am going for a certain seperation of church and state, as much as that is possible.
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
the
hey, finally fully back on line and I have a lot of plans. I have decided to organize my disparate types of writing into various blogs, and then write from various perspectives.
I want to keep Johnny Pain's violent serial killer humor, and twisted sci fi stories in one place....
the poetry in another
a journal of sorts in another
and lastly, and most important.... my new blog waking up jesus, which coming out astoundingingly well for me. So far I have been publishing the poetry fragmantarily. I had no computer and had to write by hand.... and you know, basically worrying a
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
I want to keep Johnny Pain's violent serial killer humor, and twisted sci fi stories in one place....
the poetry in another
a journal of sorts in another
and lastly, and most important.... my new blog waking up jesus, which coming out astoundingingly well for me. So far I have been publishing the poetry fragmantarily. I had no computer and had to write by hand.... and you know, basically worrying a
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Thursday, March 13, 2008
steel words blog
Hey, kids.
I have been busy working on a show at fearlessradio.com and writing my new book, waking up jesus... which I will be putting up here on blogspot, in the next few weeks, as I put the finishing touches on the book before publishing it on lulu.... I have big love for you all,and really hope you will check out the work, in advance, in the roughest form you will ever see it, at steelwords.ebloggy.com .... though again, for the rss people, it will be here soon.
hEY JESON PETTUS needs to get laid, people.... go to his sites and read his blog, he is one of the best in the business. I had the pleasure of checkinghim out again after getting back on line after and a cia homeland security enforced absence. Yea, I am more radical than even I knew... some come read why the assasins have tried to kill me... my book, One War, is very relevent right now... go buy a copy or a thousand.... google John scott ridgway
I have been busy working on a show at fearlessradio.com and writing my new book, waking up jesus... which I will be putting up here on blogspot, in the next few weeks, as I put the finishing touches on the book before publishing it on lulu.... I have big love for you all,and really hope you will check out the work, in advance, in the roughest form you will ever see it, at steelwords.ebloggy.com .... though again, for the rss people, it will be here soon.
hEY JESON PETTUS needs to get laid, people.... go to his sites and read his blog, he is one of the best in the business. I had the pleasure of checkinghim out again after getting back on line after and a cia homeland security enforced absence. Yea, I am more radical than even I knew... some come read why the assasins have tried to kill me... my book, One War, is very relevent right now... go buy a copy or a thousand.... google John scott ridgway
Thursday, January 31, 2008
in this sacred revolt
in the fields we pray
the threat of blood
will keep the neo cons and religiously blinded
from trying to steal another election
the hidden cells of resistance
have no serpent's head to lop off and toss aside
You know no matter what you do
there will always b immense pain
they great they turn away
dissolve into ennui and excess
become satisfied
they are doing enough
tossing pennies to panhandlers
cocked & loaded & ain't afraid to die
the fun loving GNL in the forces of the free
sits surrounded by urban enemies
just beyond his barbed wire perimeter
He hits on a big red bong
& tells the spies in the van out front
"YOU NO LONGER RULE!"
The bibles Christ freaks out
from the crowds of lepers
the walls of arms reaching desperate
grabbing taking consuming
Knowing he will leave them
without a cure is his worst pain
God makes the son flesh
to be a man
so the eyes of god
may see as his subjects
stand point theory
God looking out through every photon
watching His infinite painting
come into creation
amazed as any artist
when the mechanical process
of a well plotted painting
becomes a creation unto itself
We WILL NO LONGER ALLOW
our futures to be raised in poverty
your excuses fall on deaf ears
We will forge your religions in the future
or watch them quietly die off
like countless other sects
that rose like a temporary madness
Protected by the cloak of intelligence
we have appeared in seemingly empty places
taken up silent sentinels in the minds
of all generations
the New Black Panthers & Operation PUSH
pirates & politicos & pot heads
the dreams of youths who deny
the false boundaries of boarders
a living Christ
Diving Forces Marching Secure in the mission
blessed to b alive now
in this storied time
We sooner or later
take up guns to save a species
join the National Park in Kenya
& kill a few poachers . . .
blow up a corporate corrupter
who's bought off the law...
see myself leading an underground army
relinquishing power back to my soldiers
telling them they know
the battles in their terrain
Trust My God
He will inspire me to lead them
to his promised peace
the threat of blood
will keep the neo cons and religiously blinded
from trying to steal another election
the hidden cells of resistance
have no serpent's head to lop off and toss aside
You know no matter what you do
there will always b immense pain
they great they turn away
dissolve into ennui and excess
become satisfied
they are doing enough
tossing pennies to panhandlers
cocked & loaded & ain't afraid to die
the fun loving GNL in the forces of the free
sits surrounded by urban enemies
just beyond his barbed wire perimeter
He hits on a big red bong
& tells the spies in the van out front
"YOU NO LONGER RULE!"
The bibles Christ freaks out
from the crowds of lepers
the walls of arms reaching desperate
grabbing taking consuming
Knowing he will leave them
without a cure is his worst pain
God makes the son flesh
to be a man
so the eyes of god
may see as his subjects
stand point theory
God looking out through every photon
watching His infinite painting
come into creation
amazed as any artist
when the mechanical process
of a well plotted painting
becomes a creation unto itself
We WILL NO LONGER ALLOW
our futures to be raised in poverty
your excuses fall on deaf ears
We will forge your religions in the future
or watch them quietly die off
like countless other sects
that rose like a temporary madness
Protected by the cloak of intelligence
we have appeared in seemingly empty places
taken up silent sentinels in the minds
of all generations
the New Black Panthers & Operation PUSH
pirates & politicos & pot heads
the dreams of youths who deny
the false boundaries of boarders
a living Christ
Diving Forces Marching Secure in the mission
blessed to b alive now
in this storied time
We sooner or later
take up guns to save a species
join the National Park in Kenya
& kill a few poachers . . .
blow up a corporate corrupter
who's bought off the law...
see myself leading an underground army
relinquishing power back to my soldiers
telling them they know
the battles in their terrain
Trust My God
He will inspire me to lead them
to his promised peace
crucified on the absurdity
Intelligence agencies and spin artists
scramble to figure out who I work for
the spy who came into your living room
and announced
You are sacrificing your children
to protect the oil interests of the elite
repressive kings
& myth addled misogynists
tiny holes in their cloak of lies
revels slivers of the sun
a Tutsi general refuses to give up his guns
until they know there won't be another
genocide
displays a cane with a silver eagle
like my belt buckle and our family crest
a button reading REBEL FOR CHRIST
Not on my watch
morphed into Not On Our Watch
Clooney raises millions for Dar fur
after I preached the issue
into your living rooms
once I spoke free and fierce
to the bugs in my apartment
now we spar from afar
my lips silenced by their constant intrusion
a self thinking activist in the free world
long ago awakened to the tactics
cops and spies use
to beat down the revolutionaries
before they can get to the revolt
I have shown you the
survailled world to come
why the laws must be just now
or we will jail ourselves
into a fascist state where straying
from your religion alone
will get you jailed
They put us in jail
tore out our hair
tortured their way threw a paranoid delusion
hurt the very people sent to save them
the unwitting ethicists
fighting the amoral masses
seeking Truth
in a universe of ever-shifting lies
meant to appease & manipulate
& play the masses like drunken puppets
an angry summer afternoon
feeling my family and freinds threatened
I stab a knife in my windowsill
the red handles a sign
my hand begins to bleed
a bridge at the mouth of the Mississippi collapses
exposes the dying infra-structure of america
the years of the wealthy
paying just enough
to the politicians
to keep from paying taxes
When I realized Bush was acting on my orders
tearing down the fence at the mexican boarder
then waited for my decision
I had to tell the world
"I would not presume to know."
I would not kill liberty!!
I would not destroy the democratic process
NO MAN OF GOD
denies the revelation
of personal choice
the sacred gift
of a loving father to a child
When I realized someone was acting in my name
usuing me as a diving right
to do their own will...
I had to trust man and god
the common sense
the ethics I heard everywhere
waiting for a movement
hungering for confirmation
of revelation
a self-perpetuating revival of the sp[irit
I play back in my mind the night
my non de plume
PAIN
was spoken all over the television
John Stewart yelling my name
Gwyneth Paltrow
...all the others...
I would sit at my computer feeling
the interest
a gray mist flowing in my forehead
coaxing a creature out of my unconscious
my body is now an ignored distraction
carting around my brain
I stand half in this material world
half in the exquisite mystery
I do not want to lead people into prison cells
graves
lives of desperate urban battles
that pit the converted against the converted
in pretend wars that keep the many
from joining forces against the few
I know in a part of me sickened by the thought
THIS MESSAGE CANNOT BE STOPPED
by blood or word or chain:
the will of the people is always won
never given
I see the peace that will come
our ethical circles will begin to enlarge
in this cynical world of hatred exploding
I fell in love with the human soul
I am an absurdity
as trapped in God's plan as everyone else
flesh embedded in a myth of omnipotence
MAN WOULD HAVE GOD B A REFLECTION
OF THEIR PARENTS...
what we know seems right
when we know no better
Jesus tried to warm you
everyone walks through the minute gate alone
leaving behind everything you have loved
trusting in a reward too great
for our simple dreams
I am now a hunted rebel held up
in the Emporer's Walled City
protected by soldiers
who view their lives
with less awe than their loyalty
a man faith lept into
a wrestler of angels
a defiant son fated to forge new paths
through the same old forests
Know I am hated where I would
there was love
loved where I expected hatred
my face on their posters are defaced
my claims buried and dissolved
in stolen tales
that try to make me a character
in their stories
without the slightest means
of ever walking in my shoes
I wish I could be like the dali lama
a smiling face in a dom room
representing the oppressed Tibetan's
& peace & harmony
No... I am a weapon
my allies and enemies
KNOW I WILL NOT play their spy games
my resistance is refusing
to insult the intelligence of the people
by pretending I should make decisions
for everyone
like what they should and should not know
about love and war
NOT EVEN GOD
tried to create and uncritical worshiping machine
only a man would sit in a room
filled with robots programmed to worship them
I have in mind a self=prepetuating plan
simple enough to enter any mind
"I let them use you
for their own ends."
The Killers
What am I to think of a world
that treats me like this?
The thoughtless torture of the us
came home to roost
as you treated the return of christ
like a circus of the profit
of the money lenders
You turned your head away from the blood
even as your own families bled
this naive Indiana boy got it in his head
he would be welcomed
until he realized he was something more
than a man writing up a game
a revolutionary without a revolution...
something mythic and storied
something he did not believe in...
and the entire world know...
i am a machine built and trained to write
driven by a being in my psych
that needs a coat of words
in a cold as hell world
where I crawl along naked and alone
the selfish will no longer
b tolerated as de-facto kings
living loathsome lives of largess
built on our bones
NOW IS THE TIME
for our black and white blinders
to fall useless at our feet
We must claim our battle
in the ancient war
against prejudice and ignorance
the thronging masses
will
TAKE WHAT WE NEED
better now than 20 years to come
when the population doubles
and the ranks
of the unwitting agents of chaos
become unstoppable, merciless mobs
raging across the land
slashing and burning
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
scramble to figure out who I work for
the spy who came into your living room
and announced
You are sacrificing your children
to protect the oil interests of the elite
repressive kings
& myth addled misogynists
tiny holes in their cloak of lies
revels slivers of the sun
a Tutsi general refuses to give up his guns
until they know there won't be another
genocide
displays a cane with a silver eagle
like my belt buckle and our family crest
a button reading REBEL FOR CHRIST
Not on my watch
morphed into Not On Our Watch
Clooney raises millions for Dar fur
after I preached the issue
into your living rooms
once I spoke free and fierce
to the bugs in my apartment
now we spar from afar
my lips silenced by their constant intrusion
a self thinking activist in the free world
long ago awakened to the tactics
cops and spies use
to beat down the revolutionaries
before they can get to the revolt
I have shown you the
survailled world to come
why the laws must be just now
or we will jail ourselves
into a fascist state where straying
from your religion alone
will get you jailed
They put us in jail
tore out our hair
tortured their way threw a paranoid delusion
hurt the very people sent to save them
the unwitting ethicists
fighting the amoral masses
seeking Truth
in a universe of ever-shifting lies
meant to appease & manipulate
& play the masses like drunken puppets
an angry summer afternoon
feeling my family and freinds threatened
I stab a knife in my windowsill
the red handles a sign
my hand begins to bleed
a bridge at the mouth of the Mississippi collapses
exposes the dying infra-structure of america
the years of the wealthy
paying just enough
to the politicians
to keep from paying taxes
When I realized Bush was acting on my orders
tearing down the fence at the mexican boarder
then waited for my decision
I had to tell the world
"I would not presume to know."
I would not kill liberty!!
I would not destroy the democratic process
NO MAN OF GOD
denies the revelation
of personal choice
the sacred gift
of a loving father to a child
When I realized someone was acting in my name
usuing me as a diving right
to do their own will...
I had to trust man and god
the common sense
the ethics I heard everywhere
waiting for a movement
hungering for confirmation
of revelation
a self-perpetuating revival of the sp[irit
I play back in my mind the night
my non de plume
PAIN
was spoken all over the television
John Stewart yelling my name
Gwyneth Paltrow
...all the others...
I would sit at my computer feeling
the interest
a gray mist flowing in my forehead
coaxing a creature out of my unconscious
my body is now an ignored distraction
carting around my brain
I stand half in this material world
half in the exquisite mystery
I do not want to lead people into prison cells
graves
lives of desperate urban battles
that pit the converted against the converted
in pretend wars that keep the many
from joining forces against the few
I know in a part of me sickened by the thought
THIS MESSAGE CANNOT BE STOPPED
by blood or word or chain:
the will of the people is always won
never given
I see the peace that will come
our ethical circles will begin to enlarge
in this cynical world of hatred exploding
I fell in love with the human soul
I am an absurdity
as trapped in God's plan as everyone else
flesh embedded in a myth of omnipotence
MAN WOULD HAVE GOD B A REFLECTION
OF THEIR PARENTS...
what we know seems right
when we know no better
Jesus tried to warm you
everyone walks through the minute gate alone
leaving behind everything you have loved
trusting in a reward too great
for our simple dreams
I am now a hunted rebel held up
in the Emporer's Walled City
protected by soldiers
who view their lives
with less awe than their loyalty
a man faith lept into
a wrestler of angels
a defiant son fated to forge new paths
through the same old forests
Know I am hated where I would
there was love
loved where I expected hatred
my face on their posters are defaced
my claims buried and dissolved
in stolen tales
that try to make me a character
in their stories
without the slightest means
of ever walking in my shoes
I wish I could be like the dali lama
a smiling face in a dom room
representing the oppressed Tibetan's
& peace & harmony
No... I am a weapon
my allies and enemies
KNOW I WILL NOT play their spy games
my resistance is refusing
to insult the intelligence of the people
by pretending I should make decisions
for everyone
like what they should and should not know
about love and war
NOT EVEN GOD
tried to create and uncritical worshiping machine
only a man would sit in a room
filled with robots programmed to worship them
I have in mind a self=prepetuating plan
simple enough to enter any mind
"I let them use you
for their own ends."
The Killers
What am I to think of a world
that treats me like this?
The thoughtless torture of the us
came home to roost
as you treated the return of christ
like a circus of the profit
of the money lenders
You turned your head away from the blood
even as your own families bled
this naive Indiana boy got it in his head
he would be welcomed
until he realized he was something more
than a man writing up a game
a revolutionary without a revolution...
something mythic and storied
something he did not believe in...
and the entire world know...
i am a machine built and trained to write
driven by a being in my psych
that needs a coat of words
in a cold as hell world
where I crawl along naked and alone
the selfish will no longer
b tolerated as de-facto kings
living loathsome lives of largess
built on our bones
NOW IS THE TIME
for our black and white blinders
to fall useless at our feet
We must claim our battle
in the ancient war
against prejudice and ignorance
the thronging masses
will
TAKE WHAT WE NEED
better now than 20 years to come
when the population doubles
and the ranks
of the unwitting agents of chaos
become unstoppable, merciless mobs
raging across the land
slashing and burning
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Saturday, August 12, 2006
boogers in the stew
Spike the caustic, half-drunk, sixty some year old retired cab driver -- who is now fat, bald, and my pot dealer, told me today, "All of your stories have boogers in them. You know what I mean ( there was no question mark in his sentence)."
I always think that I am done being irritated by Spike's cantankerousness, and then he comes out with something like this.
"Uh, Spike, I most certainly have no idea where the boogers are in my work."
"It's like, I'm reading along and the words are okay, or whatever... and then suddenly I'm staring down some Wombat's ass, or someone's being killed all bloody and ugly. Why you gotta do that?"
I will add more to this later... but it is true, there are boogers in my stories, when you put it like this...
Spike told me this after I told him that a couple people walked out on my show looking all offended by Celebrity Animals That Slept Their Way To The Top... in fact, his first response to this tale was, "Yea, sure, of course people walked out. I would of walked out. If I didn't know you. I just don't like boogers, and all of your stories have boogers in them. You know what I mean."
I am such a loser.... according to old Spike, who also said my writing was filled with 'farts,' and then went on to make extensive fart noises and such.. though, like I say in the comments section, there are no farts in my work, hardly.... I thought there were none, then I remembered the thing about Spike being my 'fart buddy.' He brought that 'fart business' up though, when he was trying to tell me that he knew me well enough to fart in front of me -- to which I responded that I do not know anyone well enough to be their 'fart buddy,' and hope that I never know anyone well enough to be a so-called 'fart buddy's.'
That old bastard!!! Criticising me for farts on my site, when he let the only farts in here... he is just he kid of guy to throw some boogers into the stew, then complain about the little chewy chunks!!!
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
I always think that I am done being irritated by Spike's cantankerousness, and then he comes out with something like this.
"Uh, Spike, I most certainly have no idea where the boogers are in my work."
"It's like, I'm reading along and the words are okay, or whatever... and then suddenly I'm staring down some Wombat's ass, or someone's being killed all bloody and ugly. Why you gotta do that?"
I will add more to this later... but it is true, there are boogers in my stories, when you put it like this...
Spike told me this after I told him that a couple people walked out on my show looking all offended by Celebrity Animals That Slept Their Way To The Top... in fact, his first response to this tale was, "Yea, sure, of course people walked out. I would of walked out. If I didn't know you. I just don't like boogers, and all of your stories have boogers in them. You know what I mean."
I am such a loser.... according to old Spike, who also said my writing was filled with 'farts,' and then went on to make extensive fart noises and such.. though, like I say in the comments section, there are no farts in my work, hardly.... I thought there were none, then I remembered the thing about Spike being my 'fart buddy.' He brought that 'fart business' up though, when he was trying to tell me that he knew me well enough to fart in front of me -- to which I responded that I do not know anyone well enough to be their 'fart buddy,' and hope that I never know anyone well enough to be a so-called 'fart buddy's.'
That old bastard!!! Criticising me for farts on my site, when he let the only farts in here... he is just he kid of guy to throw some boogers into the stew, then complain about the little chewy chunks!!!
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Friday, August 11, 2006
gagngsta
the kindred of the lost
you discuss yourselves
slowly into madness
out goes all the reasoned notions
in come
the drinks
and potions
predators creep about in the bushes
outside the school yard
why are you surprised to find yourself in the line up?
watch you from far on the other side of sanity
see the storms
that blew apart your dark life
shredded you down
stripped your humanity
to the bare animal core
left a cruel smile on your face
an ugliness nothing can hide
a settled look of disgust
becomes the mask of your last decades
your insides dry and brittle
emptied somewhere
accidently
along the way
pissed into a stained toilet
in a stream of cheap wine
coughed out in bloody plegm
and spit on the sidewalk
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
you discuss yourselves
slowly into madness
out goes all the reasoned notions
in come
the drinks
and potions
predators creep about in the bushes
outside the school yard
why are you surprised to find yourself in the line up?
watch you from far on the other side of sanity
see the storms
that blew apart your dark life
shredded you down
stripped your humanity
to the bare animal core
left a cruel smile on your face
an ugliness nothing can hide
a settled look of disgust
becomes the mask of your last decades
your insides dry and brittle
emptied somewhere
accidently
along the way
pissed into a stained toilet
in a stream of cheap wine
coughed out in bloody plegm
and spit on the sidewalk
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
This entry is an excerpt from what just may well be the longest literary effort of my life: STUPID SHIT I DID, Volume 234, Sect. 2964, line 89
Long ago, when I was a kid going to school and all full of myself, I told Spike that I liked criticism.
He had never heard of anyone who liked criticism.
This was before I knew much about Spike, back when we were both driving cab, me going to school and him just trying to get up enough money to get his wife to quit bitching so he could go home and drink (not that he didn't drink on the job -- he just kept his head about him as best he could and got lucky).
I was talking about writing to a few cab drivers gathered around a barrel fire and mentioned that I liked being criticised.
Spike hadn't spoke to me too much at that point. We were sitting outside a ratty old, abondened concrete gas station that our boss, Mike Paite, an ex-carny, was using to run his six almost undrivable cabs.
He looked up at me and kind of scrutinized me a bit."You got any beers in your cab?"
"No," I told him, kind of shocked... "Do you?"
"Not at the moment. You like criticism, huh? What are you one of those AA guys?"
Spike asked this, I later deciphered, because during his various court ordered stints in AA over the years, the only part of the program that he had anything to do with was criticizing other people -- confronting them, he called it, claiming he was breaking down their denail. Of course, Spike took it too far... as his wife tells it, one night Spike started criticising a still shaky new guy about how he was dressed. Being Spike, he of course did this in the crudest manner possible, "You dress like a fag. You a fag? Huh, like getting the old brown eye popped?"
When I responded to Spike's question about my liking criticism, I took it as an interest in my writing, which back then was my favorite topic of conversation, and I am sure that I was puffing up my proverbial chest, as I used to do way back when I was going to school and dreaming Hemingway dreams; all impressed with myself I was, after scoring with my english professor, who knew that if she stroked my ego, I would stroke hers, and stroke we did... puffing me up like a balloon that was sure to burst.
"Yes, Spike, as a writer, I have to be able to take criticism. Not to mention, I am sleeping with my editor, so I damn well better take her every word seriously. And I've found that applies in life, too -- getting the opinion of people with more experience, you know, helps me not to go down blind paths."
I had no idea at the time, of course, that I had just declared open season on myself.
Spike had been missing criticizing people in AA, his wife later told me.
Now, all these years later, he still brings up that day, . .
Then he goes on to tell me things like he did today, "Your hair looks like the mother of this kid I went to school with. You have woman hair."
The worst part is, he is the most honest man I know and usually is right, though of course he is often gloriously wrong... like in his assesment of me as a bum and that M. will sooner or later wise up and throw me and the cat's ass out. . .
Another thing he said today, kind of out the blue, after I was talking and he wasn't really even pretending to be interested, "That M. is still putting up with the stink coming off your ass is a fucking miracle."
Whenever I ask him what he means by this, he tells me, "Oh, you know what I am talking about."
"NO, I don't."
"Oh, this art scam of yours."
"Art scam?"
"Who makes the most money?"
"M."
"Sooner or later, she finds a guy with a job, and she is going to throw your ass out. You know this... if you don't, your head is further up your ass than I thought."
"Not everyone is as shallow as you, Spike. Plus, I do make some money, and I write all the time, paint... something might happen."
"Ever try to pay the cable bill with a fucking pipe dream?"
Spike has only a few concepts that he lives by, and they are subject to change, like when he became addicted to Dr. Phil, (until he was tricked into going on the show to be confronted about his drunken gambling and slapped Dr. Phil so hard that he bawled like a hungry bull calf calling for teat). Lately, he has been saying everyone is filled with pipe dreams. He got this after he read a fucking blurb on an advertisement for Eugene O' Neil's play, The Ice Man Cometh, that talked about the men having pipe dreams. The ad was sitting there on his desk as he said this....
"Every one of you fucking pot heads are full of pipe dreams. And bong dreams. Fucking bong dreams."
I am pretty sure that when Spike said 'everyone,' he means me. I am the only person he knows who is not ensconced in a crippled little lower middle class life shakily propped up by myths and drink and long, soothing lies propelled by prayer.
The only artist. The only one who is not afraid to stand alone, in a way.
He always asks me that hated question whenever I tell him that i am involvd in my blog..."Do you make any money?"
Then he proceeds to add, whenever I mention my blog to someone, "He works on that damn thing all the time, but he can't make a fucking dime on it. That sure as hell ain't working."
Certainly being an atheist makes me stand alone. Spike hates this, too; gives me that stupid arguement that if there is a god, then you will be happy you were religous, and if not you have wasted nothing...
Usually I try to just stay out of the arguements, but he is pretty damn good at baiting me. I responded to his gambler's odds view of god by telling him, "Oh, yea, you lose nothing except your freedom of thought . . . a clear view of the truths of the world
. . . the real tools that manipulate the world, rather than the mystic lies our monkey brain wants so so hard to believe. Who needs that shit, huh?"
"Yea, you'll be talking about fucking monkey lies on judgement day... to fucking Satan."
"Spike, you've done a lot of shit in your day. Buying stolen goods, for one.. lying all the time, drinking, beating up a cop, about ten customers... why would a god want you?"
"Oh, I prayed on all that and I'm forgiven. Did worst shit, too... that slate's all clean now, buddy. Unlike yours."
"I don't do anything immoral."
"Yeah, fucking, right. Say that with an illegal bag of weed in your fucking hand."
"This isn't immoral, though. I have a moral obligation to fight laws that I disagree with. As long as they are victimless crimes. Like pot would be if it were legalized and grown above ground."
"I started watching Dr. Phil again. He has a scar above his eye from where I hit him. I get the biggest kick out of that... You know, it's like I'm on tv. Unlike you, who has this pipe dream about doing tv again. What's it been, twenty years?"
"Spike, let's not argue... I'm not tryig to get into tv, either. I just send stuff off to a couple shows, kind of like playing the fucking lottery."
I really, really should know better than to ever enter an arguement with this man, because no matter what I say, he just looks at me for a few seconds, maybe grimaces, then goes on with his arguement entirely unaffected by what I have said... I hate that. Listening skills are totally under rated. Seriously. Start making a show of listening more than you talk, and really, really listen, and you will learn wondrous things all the fucking time... well, at least once in awhile, okay?
Not at Spike's of course. Or in crack houses, or whatever... listening skills have little good effect in such damaged places. One is better off being deaf. Is all of this ass achingly obvious. . If so, I am sorry.
Anyways, the most important thing about our visit went just fine...
I GOT WEED!!!!!!
&
THE RED BONG
IS HAPPILY
BUBBLING
LIKE A SMOKY LITTLE BROOK
WISH YOU WAS HERE
LOOKING ALL SQUINTY EYED
AND SLAP HAPPY
WE'D SHARE A FEW LAUGHS
BETWEEN BONGS
REMEBER HOW FINE IT IS TO BE ALIVE
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Long ago, when I was a kid going to school and all full of myself, I told Spike that I liked criticism.
He had never heard of anyone who liked criticism.
This was before I knew much about Spike, back when we were both driving cab, me going to school and him just trying to get up enough money to get his wife to quit bitching so he could go home and drink (not that he didn't drink on the job -- he just kept his head about him as best he could and got lucky).
I was talking about writing to a few cab drivers gathered around a barrel fire and mentioned that I liked being criticised.
Spike hadn't spoke to me too much at that point. We were sitting outside a ratty old, abondened concrete gas station that our boss, Mike Paite, an ex-carny, was using to run his six almost undrivable cabs.
He looked up at me and kind of scrutinized me a bit."You got any beers in your cab?"
"No," I told him, kind of shocked... "Do you?"
"Not at the moment. You like criticism, huh? What are you one of those AA guys?"
Spike asked this, I later deciphered, because during his various court ordered stints in AA over the years, the only part of the program that he had anything to do with was criticizing other people -- confronting them, he called it, claiming he was breaking down their denail. Of course, Spike took it too far... as his wife tells it, one night Spike started criticising a still shaky new guy about how he was dressed. Being Spike, he of course did this in the crudest manner possible, "You dress like a fag. You a fag? Huh, like getting the old brown eye popped?"
When I responded to Spike's question about my liking criticism, I took it as an interest in my writing, which back then was my favorite topic of conversation, and I am sure that I was puffing up my proverbial chest, as I used to do way back when I was going to school and dreaming Hemingway dreams; all impressed with myself I was, after scoring with my english professor, who knew that if she stroked my ego, I would stroke hers, and stroke we did... puffing me up like a balloon that was sure to burst.
"Yes, Spike, as a writer, I have to be able to take criticism. Not to mention, I am sleeping with my editor, so I damn well better take her every word seriously. And I've found that applies in life, too -- getting the opinion of people with more experience, you know, helps me not to go down blind paths."
I had no idea at the time, of course, that I had just declared open season on myself.
Spike had been missing criticizing people in AA, his wife later told me.
Now, all these years later, he still brings up that day, . .
Then he goes on to tell me things like he did today, "Your hair looks like the mother of this kid I went to school with. You have woman hair."
The worst part is, he is the most honest man I know and usually is right, though of course he is often gloriously wrong... like in his assesment of me as a bum and that M. will sooner or later wise up and throw me and the cat's ass out. . .
Another thing he said today, kind of out the blue, after I was talking and he wasn't really even pretending to be interested, "That M. is still putting up with the stink coming off your ass is a fucking miracle."
Whenever I ask him what he means by this, he tells me, "Oh, you know what I am talking about."
"NO, I don't."
"Oh, this art scam of yours."
"Art scam?"
"Who makes the most money?"
"M."
"Sooner or later, she finds a guy with a job, and she is going to throw your ass out. You know this... if you don't, your head is further up your ass than I thought."
"Not everyone is as shallow as you, Spike. Plus, I do make some money, and I write all the time, paint... something might happen."
"Ever try to pay the cable bill with a fucking pipe dream?"
Spike has only a few concepts that he lives by, and they are subject to change, like when he became addicted to Dr. Phil, (until he was tricked into going on the show to be confronted about his drunken gambling and slapped Dr. Phil so hard that he bawled like a hungry bull calf calling for teat). Lately, he has been saying everyone is filled with pipe dreams. He got this after he read a fucking blurb on an advertisement for Eugene O' Neil's play, The Ice Man Cometh, that talked about the men having pipe dreams. The ad was sitting there on his desk as he said this....
"Every one of you fucking pot heads are full of pipe dreams. And bong dreams. Fucking bong dreams."
I am pretty sure that when Spike said 'everyone,' he means me. I am the only person he knows who is not ensconced in a crippled little lower middle class life shakily propped up by myths and drink and long, soothing lies propelled by prayer.
The only artist. The only one who is not afraid to stand alone, in a way.
He always asks me that hated question whenever I tell him that i am involvd in my blog..."Do you make any money?"
Then he proceeds to add, whenever I mention my blog to someone, "He works on that damn thing all the time, but he can't make a fucking dime on it. That sure as hell ain't working."
Certainly being an atheist makes me stand alone. Spike hates this, too; gives me that stupid arguement that if there is a god, then you will be happy you were religous, and if not you have wasted nothing...
Usually I try to just stay out of the arguements, but he is pretty damn good at baiting me. I responded to his gambler's odds view of god by telling him, "Oh, yea, you lose nothing except your freedom of thought . . . a clear view of the truths of the world
. . . the real tools that manipulate the world, rather than the mystic lies our monkey brain wants so so hard to believe. Who needs that shit, huh?"
"Yea, you'll be talking about fucking monkey lies on judgement day... to fucking Satan."
"Spike, you've done a lot of shit in your day. Buying stolen goods, for one.. lying all the time, drinking, beating up a cop, about ten customers... why would a god want you?"
"Oh, I prayed on all that and I'm forgiven. Did worst shit, too... that slate's all clean now, buddy. Unlike yours."
"I don't do anything immoral."
"Yeah, fucking, right. Say that with an illegal bag of weed in your fucking hand."
"This isn't immoral, though. I have a moral obligation to fight laws that I disagree with. As long as they are victimless crimes. Like pot would be if it were legalized and grown above ground."
"I started watching Dr. Phil again. He has a scar above his eye from where I hit him. I get the biggest kick out of that... You know, it's like I'm on tv. Unlike you, who has this pipe dream about doing tv again. What's it been, twenty years?"
"Spike, let's not argue... I'm not tryig to get into tv, either. I just send stuff off to a couple shows, kind of like playing the fucking lottery."
I really, really should know better than to ever enter an arguement with this man, because no matter what I say, he just looks at me for a few seconds, maybe grimaces, then goes on with his arguement entirely unaffected by what I have said... I hate that. Listening skills are totally under rated. Seriously. Start making a show of listening more than you talk, and really, really listen, and you will learn wondrous things all the fucking time... well, at least once in awhile, okay?
Not at Spike's of course. Or in crack houses, or whatever... listening skills have little good effect in such damaged places. One is better off being deaf. Is all of this ass achingly obvious. . If so, I am sorry.
Anyways, the most important thing about our visit went just fine...
I GOT WEED!!!!!!
&
THE RED BONG
IS HAPPILY
BUBBLING
LIKE A SMOKY LITTLE BROOK
WISH YOU WAS HERE
LOOKING ALL SQUINTY EYED
AND SLAP HAPPY
WE'D SHARE A FEW LAUGHS
BETWEEN BONGS
REMEBER HOW FINE IT IS TO BE ALIVE
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
NAZI'S AND CRAZIES ON THE RED LINE
Coming back from Spike's, all smoked loose and limber, I sit back in my hard,plastic seat on the el train, look down to make sure that I am not putting my feet into anything sticky or gross, pull out the notebook with the writing I am working on, and prepare for a trip up north to the morse stop. A chinese woman sits down beside me, in a red dress with huge yellow flowers, rather barrel shaped, fifty some. We ride quietly for a few minutes, then a commotion in my periphery vision makes me look up from my notes and I see the woman jump up all excited and scared and run to the other end of the train.
A huge black guy had decided to sit down in the middle of the aisle, right beside her -- even though there were plenty of empty seats all around.
I kind of keep my eye on him, but I ain't moving just because some nut is sitting in the aisle. I once walked by four people fighting with knives to get through an el station -- just said 'excuse me' a lot and the combantants parted. Others who were waiting to get into the train station slowly followed down a path that the fighters made through their little battle. I was just that blaise when I drove cab... immortal.
The crazy acting guy gets up at the next stop and lumbers off.
Sitting in front of me is a very white woman in a blue dress with blue eyes and blonde hair and a slim, gym--tortured body, she turns to me and says all quiet and conspiratorially, "This is why I always take the metra."
I am sure that she looked around to make sure there were no minorities in ear shot -- and of course when I checked, there were none.
The guy behind me speaks up, "Yea, I won't take this thing at night. You run into them like that."
I interrupt and tell them, "When I used to drive cab, I fearlessly took the train at all hours of day and night, and I saw a lot of shit, but I never once had a problem."
They are silent a second, then the woman speaks to the guy behind me with the short hair and white white manner, "Yea, well, you won't see me on the train again."
Me the long haired guy with the scraggly beard scribbling notes who has called himself 'fearless,' is then ignored as they chat on throughout the rest of the train ride. I pretend that my notes have taken all of my attention, but inside I am kind of seething over their stupid ass rascist attitudes... If they would just read a fucking little bit, they would discover there is almost no crime on the train anymore -- it is safer than hell, but no, they live on little myths -- black guys are dangerous is one of them, and this one masks the truth that the trains are safe.... As I listened to them infer how much better they were for not taking a train, with their light talk of how they never would be there if their cars hadn't broke down... my rising blood pressure began to make my head pound with their every word. All the while I am thinking... I WISH I WAS BLACK SO I COULD KICK THESE HONKEY'S ASSES!!!
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
A huge black guy had decided to sit down in the middle of the aisle, right beside her -- even though there were plenty of empty seats all around.
I kind of keep my eye on him, but I ain't moving just because some nut is sitting in the aisle. I once walked by four people fighting with knives to get through an el station -- just said 'excuse me' a lot and the combantants parted. Others who were waiting to get into the train station slowly followed down a path that the fighters made through their little battle. I was just that blaise when I drove cab... immortal.
The crazy acting guy gets up at the next stop and lumbers off.
Sitting in front of me is a very white woman in a blue dress with blue eyes and blonde hair and a slim, gym--tortured body, she turns to me and says all quiet and conspiratorially, "This is why I always take the metra."
I am sure that she looked around to make sure there were no minorities in ear shot -- and of course when I checked, there were none.
The guy behind me speaks up, "Yea, I won't take this thing at night. You run into them like that."
I interrupt and tell them, "When I used to drive cab, I fearlessly took the train at all hours of day and night, and I saw a lot of shit, but I never once had a problem."
They are silent a second, then the woman speaks to the guy behind me with the short hair and white white manner, "Yea, well, you won't see me on the train again."
Me the long haired guy with the scraggly beard scribbling notes who has called himself 'fearless,' is then ignored as they chat on throughout the rest of the train ride. I pretend that my notes have taken all of my attention, but inside I am kind of seething over their stupid ass rascist attitudes... If they would just read a fucking little bit, they would discover there is almost no crime on the train anymore -- it is safer than hell, but no, they live on little myths -- black guys are dangerous is one of them, and this one masks the truth that the trains are safe.... As I listened to them infer how much better they were for not taking a train, with their light talk of how they never would be there if their cars hadn't broke down... my rising blood pressure began to make my head pound with their every word. All the while I am thinking... I WISH I WAS BLACK SO I COULD KICK THESE HONKEY'S ASSES!!!
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
COWS ARE NOT INTRINSICALLY EVIL???
All my life, I have believed that cows were intrinsically evil. I figured, why else would humans treat them so horribly? I picked this up most likely from my pops, who, quite frankly, talked down to beef related food products . . . Well, actually he taunted them. We'd be at McDonalds and pops would be screaming at his
big mac, "Die you hooved beast!! Die now on the shanks of my teeth!"
He went to the hospital more than once for getting drunk and attacking canned meat products -- who he held some sort of grave grudge against dating back to his days in the army (another spam related tragedy will hardly come as a surprise to the most astute among you, I dare say).
What was I to think, growing up with Dad constantly taking frozen pounds of hamburger out back for 'interrogation sesssions?' Why do you think he offered his services throughout the greater Fort Wayne, Indiana, area as an amatuer meat tenderizer? It was not, as he claimed on his business cards, 'for the children,' that he was willing to drive all over the county pounding meat all day (he would often call in sick from work to do this... on slow days, he would hang out across the street from the butcher, watching through his binoculars for women who bought cheap cuts of beef that he could then talk into some 'tenderizing'). No one ever invited him back, of course, and sooner or later everyone heard about how he would be hollaring and carrying on as he pounded the meat and his business just kind of dried up. He thought the hamburger meat in the freezer was behind the lack of business, which is what led to the interrogations I mentioned a few minutes ago.
And yet... he couldn't get enough pork, and was known to just hold large racks of raw pig ribs on his lap and pet them lovingly for days.
The cows, though... I don't like this at all... I am just confused, you know? I mean, I was raised to serial kill, like so many of my readers, and the rules are pretty hard and fast on who dies. You do not kill an entire tribe -- hell, in this case a species -- just because they feed us the milk from their tits. I mean, do we kill our mothers? Okay, I did... maybe, you know, depending on the evidence and what plea makes the most sense -- which in turn is dependent on how far the jail-house jesus thing is going to take me with the parole board (not to mention that I occasionally accidently become converted, like all those years I was in a cult worshiping a particularly intelligent white rat over in cellblock D ... we were trying to earn our way into this heaven where we were going to be given 72 experienced and eager divorcee's in their 40's. We tried to take the virgins, but the Muslim's started killing us for copying them. I liked this arrangement better, too... though like everything that had to do with that cult, it all really just came down toa bunch of talk surrounding a scam to get cigarettes for the leaders. Those bastards took a pure and innocent rat worshiping cult and turned it just republican, man... fucking republican...).
Call me a lot of things, but never say that I killed out of apathy, okay? When I find injustice, I kill. Why? They would do the same to me. I beat them to the draw. How hard is it to follow such logic? I mean, it is one thing to mow down a bunch of christians protesting outside an abortion clinic, but a bunch of cows?
This was easy when I believed they were evil, of course. Dad used to say that the republicans would be getting nowhere without help from the cows (he said the same thing about lamps, and I am just praying to dog he wasn't lying about that too). And when I believed him, I was fine with eating beef and supporting the whole institutionalised species murder thing, but now???
No...
I am going down to a meat packaging plant this afternoon, where I be will chopping up all of the employees, neatly packaging them, in weighed and priced containers of cellophane and plastic, and then donating their chunky red remains to a local soup kitchen. . . these bums will then carry my handiwork all throughout the city; sewers then will carry the bums handiwork to the oceans... where they will be swept up into the clouds and then, in the final phase of my elaboratly planned vengence, rained down on the backs of over-heated cows.
* while this little snippet of absurdity comes out on the side of vegetarinism, I suck too much to actually be a vegetarian, or even to be sure I can spell the damn word, to be honest. I do however hope future generations come to their senses before the cows finally learn to arm themselves.
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
big mac, "Die you hooved beast!! Die now on the shanks of my teeth!"
He went to the hospital more than once for getting drunk and attacking canned meat products -- who he held some sort of grave grudge against dating back to his days in the army (another spam related tragedy will hardly come as a surprise to the most astute among you, I dare say).
What was I to think, growing up with Dad constantly taking frozen pounds of hamburger out back for 'interrogation sesssions?' Why do you think he offered his services throughout the greater Fort Wayne, Indiana, area as an amatuer meat tenderizer? It was not, as he claimed on his business cards, 'for the children,' that he was willing to drive all over the county pounding meat all day (he would often call in sick from work to do this... on slow days, he would hang out across the street from the butcher, watching through his binoculars for women who bought cheap cuts of beef that he could then talk into some 'tenderizing'). No one ever invited him back, of course, and sooner or later everyone heard about how he would be hollaring and carrying on as he pounded the meat and his business just kind of dried up. He thought the hamburger meat in the freezer was behind the lack of business, which is what led to the interrogations I mentioned a few minutes ago.
And yet... he couldn't get enough pork, and was known to just hold large racks of raw pig ribs on his lap and pet them lovingly for days.
The cows, though... I don't like this at all... I am just confused, you know? I mean, I was raised to serial kill, like so many of my readers, and the rules are pretty hard and fast on who dies. You do not kill an entire tribe -- hell, in this case a species -- just because they feed us the milk from their tits. I mean, do we kill our mothers? Okay, I did... maybe, you know, depending on the evidence and what plea makes the most sense -- which in turn is dependent on how far the jail-house jesus thing is going to take me with the parole board (not to mention that I occasionally accidently become converted, like all those years I was in a cult worshiping a particularly intelligent white rat over in cellblock D ... we were trying to earn our way into this heaven where we were going to be given 72 experienced and eager divorcee's in their 40's. We tried to take the virgins, but the Muslim's started killing us for copying them. I liked this arrangement better, too... though like everything that had to do with that cult, it all really just came down toa bunch of talk surrounding a scam to get cigarettes for the leaders. Those bastards took a pure and innocent rat worshiping cult and turned it just republican, man... fucking republican...).
Call me a lot of things, but never say that I killed out of apathy, okay? When I find injustice, I kill. Why? They would do the same to me. I beat them to the draw. How hard is it to follow such logic? I mean, it is one thing to mow down a bunch of christians protesting outside an abortion clinic, but a bunch of cows?
This was easy when I believed they were evil, of course. Dad used to say that the republicans would be getting nowhere without help from the cows (he said the same thing about lamps, and I am just praying to dog he wasn't lying about that too). And when I believed him, I was fine with eating beef and supporting the whole institutionalised species murder thing, but now???
No...
I am going down to a meat packaging plant this afternoon, where I be will chopping up all of the employees, neatly packaging them, in weighed and priced containers of cellophane and plastic, and then donating their chunky red remains to a local soup kitchen. . . these bums will then carry my handiwork all throughout the city; sewers then will carry the bums handiwork to the oceans... where they will be swept up into the clouds and then, in the final phase of my elaboratly planned vengence, rained down on the backs of over-heated cows.
* while this little snippet of absurdity comes out on the side of vegetarinism, I suck too much to actually be a vegetarian, or even to be sure I can spell the damn word, to be honest. I do however hope future generations come to their senses before the cows finally learn to arm themselves.
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
POETRY FROM THE FUTURE
Arctic melted
New York went Atlantis
six headed fish rule
where once the three peice suited man
walked proud and confident
Polar Bears and penguins
huskies and innuit indians
iceland, norway, and on and on
all gone, baby, gone
in our sleep
without noticing
we nailed the animals to crosses
and burned them on our lawns
we flew like poisen spewing hawks
killing across the earth
spreading silent death with our vacations
our need to explore the wildnerness killing it
we laughed bitter over the cruel fucking ironies
the cults take us over in the end
hypno-words of an apocolypse
with the forgiveness of a god
brings us to ecstasy
we drink the laced kool aide
pull plastic bags over our heads
go out on dreams of a glorious mind
with a golden plan
too immense to fit
into our flesh
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
New York went Atlantis
six headed fish rule
where once the three peice suited man
walked proud and confident
Polar Bears and penguins
huskies and innuit indians
iceland, norway, and on and on
all gone, baby, gone
in our sleep
without noticing
we nailed the animals to crosses
and burned them on our lawns
we flew like poisen spewing hawks
killing across the earth
spreading silent death with our vacations
our need to explore the wildnerness killing it
we laughed bitter over the cruel fucking ironies
the cults take us over in the end
hypno-words of an apocolypse
with the forgiveness of a god
brings us to ecstasy
we drink the laced kool aide
pull plastic bags over our heads
go out on dreams of a glorious mind
with a golden plan
too immense to fit
into our flesh
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
SLOUCHING HEROS
you can spend a life shabbily bulding
a tower of mock ivory
let the most important issues of your time
become too cliched
for the literati crowd in your mind
the fuzz in my navel
needs no more new names
youngsters have too many
co-dependent porno shots
getting muddled in their minds with
for real for real girlies
the video games say more about violence
than a few words ever will
maybe I want to pretend
the bigger issues
within my words
make the words
themselves
somehow bigger
like a goddamned rock star
periennally proving all the puff and bluster
in the world
can't produce a hit song
do I take a cause
to show my moral side
keep the focus away
from my hunchback
on my truths
rather than my lies
words words words
flying crazy through the winds of context
controlled by the comings and goings
of the emotional storms
and what matter the gun that starts the race?
maybe some saints get there
making up for sins
go from gangsters
to quiet men in the prison library
talking about how crazy far down
those kid hormones
can take ya
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
a tower of mock ivory
let the most important issues of your time
become too cliched
for the literati crowd in your mind
the fuzz in my navel
needs no more new names
youngsters have too many
co-dependent porno shots
getting muddled in their minds with
for real for real girlies
the video games say more about violence
than a few words ever will
maybe I want to pretend
the bigger issues
within my words
make the words
themselves
somehow bigger
like a goddamned rock star
periennally proving all the puff and bluster
in the world
can't produce a hit song
do I take a cause
to show my moral side
keep the focus away
from my hunchback
on my truths
rather than my lies
words words words
flying crazy through the winds of context
controlled by the comings and goings
of the emotional storms
and what matter the gun that starts the race?
maybe some saints get there
making up for sins
go from gangsters
to quiet men in the prison library
talking about how crazy far down
those kid hormones
can take ya
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
MAD MAXY SAYS: QUIT CRUCIFYING ME YOU JEWS!!!
When folks are drunk and being arrested and are very, very desperate to get out of the consequences their actions are about to bring down, they can be mean to cops.... this is a manifestation of his alcholism. I for one hope this day goes from tragedy to something he celebrates as the end of his bottled madness.
I grew up on Mad Max Beyond The Thunderdome... always got a kick of Mel Gibson. Then came the whole Passion of Christ Thing, and reading about how his dad was a nazi. This isn't enough to condemn someone over, but my weirdo-thinking alarm definantly goes off when someone who's parent was a fanatic about a cause, becomes a fanatic about a cause. Unfortunatly, since my way of thinking is in the minority, my weirdo-thinking alarm is always going off.
ANYTIME A HUMAN decides there is a universal truth, their thinking becomes eskew. My weirdo-thinking alarm is then set off -- whether I am readinng their words, watching their play, whatever... I become suspect of the person's ability to think and learn.
However....
My dad was a fairly intelligent, balanced thinking person. He was certainly not a fanatic about anything, unless you can count his stubborn refusal to be depressed all the time regardless of the Bukowskian nightmares he conjoured. How would I have fared if he were a Nazi?
This is a post modern time, when our parent's beliefs do not necessarily end up being our own. . . right? I like to think so, but then again -- there were no jew-nigger-spic-fag-hating people in my family. They existed in my town, in my neighborhood, in conversations and the jokes I read in National Lampoon, but in my family that was just not the way we were. Now my freinds are people who don't use these words. Our brains are effected by such things
Literally, how we think is based on a couple things. One of them is how well we can make a dialectic in our mind.
How well we can think of an apple, then an orange, then a combination of the two fruits.
This dialectic helps me to look at things grey. My brain does not stop with the initial evidence and make a decision. No. Tell me that god is the creator of a seven day wonder, and this other thought slams into that one saying there is no proof of a god and the concept is being abused and used and whored out all around me... this A + B equals my present mindset, which is that god is relevant as a manifestation of a cloaking mechanism that people use to hide the real world from their eyes.
This equation of course then happens over and over all day in your brain, once it is activated... dialectics rise, merge, then have dialectics with other dialectics. You get the picture... this is how your personal cosmology comes into being. Takes place mostly beyond you, in grunted conversations between cave men dwelling deep in the dark tunnels of your psych...
On the other hand, if the easy answers were good enough for my parents, if they had decided to give into chimp-lies like nationalism, extreme religiousity, nazism, etc... would I have ever even developed the ability to create a dialectic? College should do this, but I have seen stubborn people push their way through an education without learning anything important, so it happens.
I don't know if Mel Gibson went to college or not, or much about him at all, to be honest.... I do know he has lived a worldy life, too worldy to not have had any initial prejudicial infection from his parents challanged again and again by dialectics that pretty much say jews are just people who follow a few religious rituals sometimes, like most the rest of us. . . (though not me, because I am thinking on a plane altogether superior to the god-weasled, of course).
Mel would have said anything to hurt this person. That he fell back on the stupid lies of his nazi father is almost to be expected.
I am more impressed that he is taking full blame for his actions. I mean, what the hell? Drinking too much is a fucked up, diseased way to live. If this gets him to stop, he'll be damn happy this shit happened.... if not, he'll just add it to his pile of regrets.
So, since I am still spending all of my time thinking about this new book instead of writing, here I am jumping on the bloggers opinion of the day!!!!
Man, I'm really blogging now!!!
QUIT CRUCIFYING ME, YOU JEWS!!! The handsome australian rougue told the earnest young officer.
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
I grew up on Mad Max Beyond The Thunderdome... always got a kick of Mel Gibson. Then came the whole Passion of Christ Thing, and reading about how his dad was a nazi. This isn't enough to condemn someone over, but my weirdo-thinking alarm definantly goes off when someone who's parent was a fanatic about a cause, becomes a fanatic about a cause. Unfortunatly, since my way of thinking is in the minority, my weirdo-thinking alarm is always going off.
ANYTIME A HUMAN decides there is a universal truth, their thinking becomes eskew. My weirdo-thinking alarm is then set off -- whether I am readinng their words, watching their play, whatever... I become suspect of the person's ability to think and learn.
However....
My dad was a fairly intelligent, balanced thinking person. He was certainly not a fanatic about anything, unless you can count his stubborn refusal to be depressed all the time regardless of the Bukowskian nightmares he conjoured. How would I have fared if he were a Nazi?
This is a post modern time, when our parent's beliefs do not necessarily end up being our own. . . right? I like to think so, but then again -- there were no jew-nigger-spic-fag-hating people in my family. They existed in my town, in my neighborhood, in conversations and the jokes I read in National Lampoon, but in my family that was just not the way we were. Now my freinds are people who don't use these words. Our brains are effected by such things
Literally, how we think is based on a couple things. One of them is how well we can make a dialectic in our mind.
How well we can think of an apple, then an orange, then a combination of the two fruits.
This dialectic helps me to look at things grey. My brain does not stop with the initial evidence and make a decision. No. Tell me that god is the creator of a seven day wonder, and this other thought slams into that one saying there is no proof of a god and the concept is being abused and used and whored out all around me... this A + B equals my present mindset, which is that god is relevant as a manifestation of a cloaking mechanism that people use to hide the real world from their eyes.
This equation of course then happens over and over all day in your brain, once it is activated... dialectics rise, merge, then have dialectics with other dialectics. You get the picture... this is how your personal cosmology comes into being. Takes place mostly beyond you, in grunted conversations between cave men dwelling deep in the dark tunnels of your psych...
On the other hand, if the easy answers were good enough for my parents, if they had decided to give into chimp-lies like nationalism, extreme religiousity, nazism, etc... would I have ever even developed the ability to create a dialectic? College should do this, but I have seen stubborn people push their way through an education without learning anything important, so it happens.
I don't know if Mel Gibson went to college or not, or much about him at all, to be honest.... I do know he has lived a worldy life, too worldy to not have had any initial prejudicial infection from his parents challanged again and again by dialectics that pretty much say jews are just people who follow a few religious rituals sometimes, like most the rest of us. . . (though not me, because I am thinking on a plane altogether superior to the god-weasled, of course).
Mel would have said anything to hurt this person. That he fell back on the stupid lies of his nazi father is almost to be expected.
I am more impressed that he is taking full blame for his actions. I mean, what the hell? Drinking too much is a fucked up, diseased way to live. If this gets him to stop, he'll be damn happy this shit happened.... if not, he'll just add it to his pile of regrets.
So, since I am still spending all of my time thinking about this new book instead of writing, here I am jumping on the bloggers opinion of the day!!!!
Man, I'm really blogging now!!!
QUIT CRUCIFYING ME, YOU JEWS!!! The handsome australian rougue told the earnest young officer.
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
GOD WEASLED, BY GILFORD TUTTLE, WHITE, MALE, CHRTISTIAN, WARRIOR.
Once more I have been called by the lord to preach among the heathens on this web site, because evidently there are a lot of readers who missed the earlier letters that I had in here -- otherwise you would stop coming in here and reading this vile, drug addled attempt at prose. I take comfort in the thought that I am so personally blessed by godly insight that you will be a completly different person after reading this prose. You will be.... GOD WEASLED!!!
Yeah, I say, today I am speaking about the blonde, buff, deity with balls as big as mountains, the manly fanny patter himself, Jock Jesus.
His almighty manhoodedness tells me to talk about god weasling.
God Weasling is one of the primary tenents of the religion that has formed here, in the bosom of the Tuttle Family, after we were blessedly thrown out of our old church when our two year old started talking in tounges and we insisted everyone shut up and listen during services. Fools are all going to hell for that one, unless they send me a tithing or two. The Tuttle Family Electric Bill Fund is in need of donators at this point. If not for the money I make forcing the kids to work paper routes all night, I do not know how Jock Jesus would support my ministry, but I am sure he would find a way. For I bring the wisdom of the God Weasled.
God Weasling is as old as religion itself. Basically it means you can trick people into becoming religious by any means possible, like abducting them and brainwashing for them for a few months (as long as you can get them to sign a release, which is easy once they are brain washed -- ask the scientologists, those litigenous bastards). To this end, I have started doing some experiments with brain washing on the kids. And praise the Blonde Buff One, I was able to make them into little machines that go to school all day, then deliver papers all night -- all the while being filled with religious esctasy by the combination of drugs and chanting that I keep them on.
Now that I know this works, I am going to start snatching kids, juvenile deliquent types, and brainwashing them for about eight weeks, after which they will find 'ecstasy' through sleep deprivation, chanting, and giving me all the money from their paper routes.
Thank god for Reverend Sung Young Moon, that conservative shark killing chink, he was a messenger of how to create a great religion, even though Satan obviously did take him over in the end, or he would have long ago turned his money and resources over to Jock Jesus, as all the rightous on earth have.
So, you whores, sodomites, celebrity poker watching hell bound boofs and others not associated with the Tuttle Church OF Jock Jesus, or one of my kids subsideries (I have created what I call mini-churches, refrigerator boxes painted with crosses and our symbol, a bicep flexing mightely, where I post them throughout the month to read our daily family newsletter, play tapes of our blessed two year old speaking in tounges, and other things that they damn well better get donations for or they have to stay out there until they do-- poor kids, they must be really sinning on the side for the blonde buff one to curse them like this, but what can I do in the face of god, eh?)..... you have two choices -- get rid of your hippy christ now and turn him in for Jock Jesus in a sleeveless shirt with balls as big as mountains (need I even add they are perfectyly shaped ovals?), or die and go to hell, where Satan will shove hot pokers up your ass for all eternity.... and you only like it when your mom is watching.
The Buff One Does work in mysterious ways. I can make this all clear to you in six to eight weeks. You can pay me back for my services afterwards with almost all the money you make for the rest of your lives.
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
Yeah, I say, today I am speaking about the blonde, buff, deity with balls as big as mountains, the manly fanny patter himself, Jock Jesus.
His almighty manhoodedness tells me to talk about god weasling.
God Weasling is one of the primary tenents of the religion that has formed here, in the bosom of the Tuttle Family, after we were blessedly thrown out of our old church when our two year old started talking in tounges and we insisted everyone shut up and listen during services. Fools are all going to hell for that one, unless they send me a tithing or two. The Tuttle Family Electric Bill Fund is in need of donators at this point. If not for the money I make forcing the kids to work paper routes all night, I do not know how Jock Jesus would support my ministry, but I am sure he would find a way. For I bring the wisdom of the God Weasled.
God Weasling is as old as religion itself. Basically it means you can trick people into becoming religious by any means possible, like abducting them and brainwashing for them for a few months (as long as you can get them to sign a release, which is easy once they are brain washed -- ask the scientologists, those litigenous bastards). To this end, I have started doing some experiments with brain washing on the kids. And praise the Blonde Buff One, I was able to make them into little machines that go to school all day, then deliver papers all night -- all the while being filled with religious esctasy by the combination of drugs and chanting that I keep them on.
Now that I know this works, I am going to start snatching kids, juvenile deliquent types, and brainwashing them for about eight weeks, after which they will find 'ecstasy' through sleep deprivation, chanting, and giving me all the money from their paper routes.
Thank god for Reverend Sung Young Moon, that conservative shark killing chink, he was a messenger of how to create a great religion, even though Satan obviously did take him over in the end, or he would have long ago turned his money and resources over to Jock Jesus, as all the rightous on earth have.
So, you whores, sodomites, celebrity poker watching hell bound boofs and others not associated with the Tuttle Church OF Jock Jesus, or one of my kids subsideries (I have created what I call mini-churches, refrigerator boxes painted with crosses and our symbol, a bicep flexing mightely, where I post them throughout the month to read our daily family newsletter, play tapes of our blessed two year old speaking in tounges, and other things that they damn well better get donations for or they have to stay out there until they do-- poor kids, they must be really sinning on the side for the blonde buff one to curse them like this, but what can I do in the face of god, eh?)..... you have two choices -- get rid of your hippy christ now and turn him in for Jock Jesus in a sleeveless shirt with balls as big as mountains (need I even add they are perfectyly shaped ovals?), or die and go to hell, where Satan will shove hot pokers up your ass for all eternity.... and you only like it when your mom is watching.
The Buff One Does work in mysterious ways. I can make this all clear to you in six to eight weeks. You can pay me back for my services afterwards with almost all the money you make for the rest of your lives.
copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway
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