My story is not for the religious or the atheistic or the agnostic... it is for everyone interested in the truth. This blog contains first drafts of poetry and prose for my series of books on Christ, the first of which, Waking Up Jesus, is being greeted kindly by critics. Thank you... John Scott Ridgway
WAKING UP JESUS...
We come into this life expecting too much and leave expecting too little
Sunday, April 24, 2005
VARIIOUS ENTRIES ON AN APRIL MORN
ENTRY 1
JUST WHERE THE HELL HAVE I BEEN?
Twilight Of The Gods blasts through the apartment. Buk the gray tiger is rolled up into a ball on the back of the black leather couch, a sunbeam on his back warming him and making his fur glow white. The temperature outside the window is staying around a loathsome 50 degrees, belying the sunny looking neighborhood filled with tulips and other early flowerers. The wind is tunneling through the alley beside our apartment, blasting a wind chill below zero into spring wardrobes.
A virus knocked me off line last weekend – or so someone at the sbc phone company told me for 60.00 last Monday. He couldn’t fix anything, even if he knew how – they only work on their equipment. I won’t even speculate much about what is wrong… if anyone knows how to lower my CPU’s, which are supposed to be around 6% but are now jumping up to 80 or whatever? Please let me know. I am probably going to have to take it in and get it fixed. I don’t have the money to dothis, or to go buy some protection software for my pc. So, if you emailed me and think me rude, well, despite your being correct, this is not why I did not return your much pleeeeeasing missives.
ENTRY TWO
THINK POSITIVE? YEAH, RIGHT…. YOU FUCKING MARK!!!
PUT DOWN THAT DAMN SELF HELP BOOK, all it will give you is WORDS TO EXTEND YOUR WHINING WITH. GET A LOVER, A CLEAN APARTMENT, ENOUGH MONEY TO LIVE ON, A COUPLE PETS AND A FEW FRIENDS AND YOU WILL BE FUCKING FINE….. even one or two of these things would probably be an improvement for some of us, me included of course, because I really, really…. Suck.
ENTRY THREE
I NEED THREE CATS AND TWO DOGS AND LIKE EVERYONE AROUND ME SEEMS TO THINK, THIS DOES NOT IN ITSELF MAKE ME INSANE.
I dreamt last night that I had become a criminal and was carrying a gun. I was driving and thinking about how now I was free of all of societies rules and could just rob to get my money, that I was leaving all my family and friends behind to travel from town to town just doing whatever the fuck I wanted. I won’t bore you with any more details than this, but suffice to say the point of someone feeling alone is the THESIS STATEMENT that I am going to meander around for a while.
Being alone, PBS’s Nature told me this morning, is the worst thing for a wolf. I live with a dog that is about as near to a wolf as you can get, a Siberian Husky with clear blues that tend to scare some people, and know just how much she has to be a part of any goings on in the apartment. If we have guests over, she has guests over. If we are eating, she is sitting at our feet expecting to be treated. Most of the time she stays in the same room as us, curled up sleepily on the floor, or chewing on something or coming up to us with a tennis ball in her mouth that she wants to fetch for awhile.
Aloneness is unnatural with Humans, as well
DIGRESSION: By the way, if this non-hamster prose is boring you, don’t worry, this writing will be all about you in the end, not me, the writer, and we all know that you specifically are the center of the cosmos.
Return to Thesis Generated Prose.
I have been thinking a lot about this since one of my cats died, leaving behind his brother who he has been with since he was born. Science convinced me that I should raise them together so they had someone around to ‘talk cat’ with. So they would not be lonely, like a kitten who cries at the door whenever you have to leave them alone.
The dog has created the same concern in me since the day she came in the door and licked me and M.’s hands to say hello, then promptly chased the cats into the dining room. Dominance in another trait she gets from being a near wolf. If someone does not dominate her, she will assume that she is the dominant one. I seldom pull rank on her, of course.
We used to take her to a friends house to play with her two huskies three or four times a week. Whenever we even started going the way toward the house, Ruby became a pulling machine, her every muscle straining against the leash, jerking your arm out of socket… making you grab the leash with two hands, like they say to do with Huskies, because they are stubborn and wild enough that sometimes if they don’t agree with your opinion, they will go with their own. And getting to her Huskies buddies to play as fast as possible consumed her… When she sees another dog while she is out walking, she always tries to go play with them. As much as possible, I let her. But since her breed just runs off in front of cars and shit if you let them off their leash, the dogs leashes get all tangled sometimes. And you never know if the other dog owner will get all freaked out by this – like the dogs, I could care less whether I have to untangle the leashes of a couple dogs, but some people I have run into here act like they are going coronary on me over this.
I have come to the conclusion that we need another dog, as well as two kittens (two because a kitten will have too much energy for Buk, who will be 12 years older and more mellowed -- though I usually prescribe to the philosophy that anything over two cats is a form of madness). M. Won’t let me get them, of course… though she in reality wants more animals bad enough that I think if I come home with a couple kittens some afternoon that she will take one look at them and hold them dear forever more, even though she insists that she will throw me and the kittens out into the street.
The modern dilemmas of this life are endless. Still, better to be subtly trying to work ones way through one situation at a time then impose a black and white world over all the pretty, pretty colors. If I was a black and whiter, I am pretty sure I would be white, and this would have cost me over a hundred women and countless fun and crazy times… as well as headaches, drunken embarrassments, O.D.’s, etc…
So I guess I will have to conform enough to leave both of my animals a bit lonely. The thought is terrible to me. A gut wrencher. Like the other night when I was watching the news, and a light hearted report came on about cows getting released on the highway after a semi accident. They showed all these images of beautiful animals lounging in the grass serenely chewing their cud and what not. Laughing, the reporter ended his spiel with, “The cows were on their way to the slaughterhouse.”
My love of animals makes me, as I wrote recently, a reluctant carnivore. This report made me envision the half-pound of hamburger in my refrigerator as one of the gorgeous beasts. I guess I could look at the positive side and say, “Well, Mr. Pain, perhaps your animals – both of whom you rescued from being ‘put to sleep,’ are a hell of a lot better off than those cows.”
Jesus H. Cross!!!! This is why I hate people who are ‘positive thinkers.’ That is so intellectually lazy and socially irresponsible that I won’t even consider positive thinking anymore. Pumping oneself up with a mental sales pitch, or trying to give some nice mental spin to something like lowering the quality of life of some very beloved animals, is vacuous cheerleading in my way of thinking. To ignore the pain in the world and try to be the Prince who never feels his people’s wounds, would make you a potential Buddha who would never end up under experiencing ‘nirvana.’
Well, the thesis statement may have seemed to have gotten away from me in this entry… let me just add then, as way of summing up this atrocious pudding of words, that loneliness is at the heart of this work, mine, yours, the dogs and the cats…. So there, you fucking English teacher in my head with a knuckle busting ruler, I got back to the thesis at the end…
ENTRY 4
I AM DROPPING MY COMPUTER
OFF AT THE QUEST INTERNET CAFÉ
To be repaired today. FUCKING VIRUS GENERATING GEEKS ARE AS BAD AS THE CHILD SEEKING CYBER-PERV.’S!!!!! So, I will have to write by hand for the next four days, and obviously will not be on the net. They are going to charge me 65.00 to remove a Trojan horse virus from my computer. C:\WINNT\ISRVS\SYSUPD.DCL….
I hope to dog I can one day CHOKE THE LIFE OUT of the fucking geek who came up with this one. Only a supremely malicious coward would send a virus out into the public domains of the internet to just fuck with people. OR WHATEVER GODDAMNED REASON THEY CAME UP WITH IN THEIR DELUSIONAL LITTLE BRAINS….
Though I must admit, it is the opinion of the leader of the Mighty Hamster army, General Sniggly-Poo, that we are under cyber attack and should send out the troops… I am hesitant yet to release that storm on humanity, though I am close… very, very close. Really.
JUST WHERE THE HELL HAVE I BEEN?
Twilight Of The Gods blasts through the apartment. Buk the gray tiger is rolled up into a ball on the back of the black leather couch, a sunbeam on his back warming him and making his fur glow white. The temperature outside the window is staying around a loathsome 50 degrees, belying the sunny looking neighborhood filled with tulips and other early flowerers. The wind is tunneling through the alley beside our apartment, blasting a wind chill below zero into spring wardrobes.
A virus knocked me off line last weekend – or so someone at the sbc phone company told me for 60.00 last Monday. He couldn’t fix anything, even if he knew how – they only work on their equipment. I won’t even speculate much about what is wrong… if anyone knows how to lower my CPU’s, which are supposed to be around 6% but are now jumping up to 80 or whatever? Please let me know. I am probably going to have to take it in and get it fixed. I don’t have the money to dothis, or to go buy some protection software for my pc. So, if you emailed me and think me rude, well, despite your being correct, this is not why I did not return your much pleeeeeasing missives.
ENTRY TWO
THINK POSITIVE? YEAH, RIGHT…. YOU FUCKING MARK!!!
PUT DOWN THAT DAMN SELF HELP BOOK, all it will give you is WORDS TO EXTEND YOUR WHINING WITH. GET A LOVER, A CLEAN APARTMENT, ENOUGH MONEY TO LIVE ON, A COUPLE PETS AND A FEW FRIENDS AND YOU WILL BE FUCKING FINE….. even one or two of these things would probably be an improvement for some of us, me included of course, because I really, really…. Suck.
ENTRY THREE
I NEED THREE CATS AND TWO DOGS AND LIKE EVERYONE AROUND ME SEEMS TO THINK, THIS DOES NOT IN ITSELF MAKE ME INSANE.
I dreamt last night that I had become a criminal and was carrying a gun. I was driving and thinking about how now I was free of all of societies rules and could just rob to get my money, that I was leaving all my family and friends behind to travel from town to town just doing whatever the fuck I wanted. I won’t bore you with any more details than this, but suffice to say the point of someone feeling alone is the THESIS STATEMENT that I am going to meander around for a while.
Being alone, PBS’s Nature told me this morning, is the worst thing for a wolf. I live with a dog that is about as near to a wolf as you can get, a Siberian Husky with clear blues that tend to scare some people, and know just how much she has to be a part of any goings on in the apartment. If we have guests over, she has guests over. If we are eating, she is sitting at our feet expecting to be treated. Most of the time she stays in the same room as us, curled up sleepily on the floor, or chewing on something or coming up to us with a tennis ball in her mouth that she wants to fetch for awhile.
Aloneness is unnatural with Humans, as well
DIGRESSION: By the way, if this non-hamster prose is boring you, don’t worry, this writing will be all about you in the end, not me, the writer, and we all know that you specifically are the center of the cosmos.
Return to Thesis Generated Prose.
I have been thinking a lot about this since one of my cats died, leaving behind his brother who he has been with since he was born. Science convinced me that I should raise them together so they had someone around to ‘talk cat’ with. So they would not be lonely, like a kitten who cries at the door whenever you have to leave them alone.
The dog has created the same concern in me since the day she came in the door and licked me and M.’s hands to say hello, then promptly chased the cats into the dining room. Dominance in another trait she gets from being a near wolf. If someone does not dominate her, she will assume that she is the dominant one. I seldom pull rank on her, of course.
We used to take her to a friends house to play with her two huskies three or four times a week. Whenever we even started going the way toward the house, Ruby became a pulling machine, her every muscle straining against the leash, jerking your arm out of socket… making you grab the leash with two hands, like they say to do with Huskies, because they are stubborn and wild enough that sometimes if they don’t agree with your opinion, they will go with their own. And getting to her Huskies buddies to play as fast as possible consumed her… When she sees another dog while she is out walking, she always tries to go play with them. As much as possible, I let her. But since her breed just runs off in front of cars and shit if you let them off their leash, the dogs leashes get all tangled sometimes. And you never know if the other dog owner will get all freaked out by this – like the dogs, I could care less whether I have to untangle the leashes of a couple dogs, but some people I have run into here act like they are going coronary on me over this.
I have come to the conclusion that we need another dog, as well as two kittens (two because a kitten will have too much energy for Buk, who will be 12 years older and more mellowed -- though I usually prescribe to the philosophy that anything over two cats is a form of madness). M. Won’t let me get them, of course… though she in reality wants more animals bad enough that I think if I come home with a couple kittens some afternoon that she will take one look at them and hold them dear forever more, even though she insists that she will throw me and the kittens out into the street.
The modern dilemmas of this life are endless. Still, better to be subtly trying to work ones way through one situation at a time then impose a black and white world over all the pretty, pretty colors. If I was a black and whiter, I am pretty sure I would be white, and this would have cost me over a hundred women and countless fun and crazy times… as well as headaches, drunken embarrassments, O.D.’s, etc…
So I guess I will have to conform enough to leave both of my animals a bit lonely. The thought is terrible to me. A gut wrencher. Like the other night when I was watching the news, and a light hearted report came on about cows getting released on the highway after a semi accident. They showed all these images of beautiful animals lounging in the grass serenely chewing their cud and what not. Laughing, the reporter ended his spiel with, “The cows were on their way to the slaughterhouse.”
My love of animals makes me, as I wrote recently, a reluctant carnivore. This report made me envision the half-pound of hamburger in my refrigerator as one of the gorgeous beasts. I guess I could look at the positive side and say, “Well, Mr. Pain, perhaps your animals – both of whom you rescued from being ‘put to sleep,’ are a hell of a lot better off than those cows.”
Jesus H. Cross!!!! This is why I hate people who are ‘positive thinkers.’ That is so intellectually lazy and socially irresponsible that I won’t even consider positive thinking anymore. Pumping oneself up with a mental sales pitch, or trying to give some nice mental spin to something like lowering the quality of life of some very beloved animals, is vacuous cheerleading in my way of thinking. To ignore the pain in the world and try to be the Prince who never feels his people’s wounds, would make you a potential Buddha who would never end up under experiencing ‘nirvana.’
Well, the thesis statement may have seemed to have gotten away from me in this entry… let me just add then, as way of summing up this atrocious pudding of words, that loneliness is at the heart of this work, mine, yours, the dogs and the cats…. So there, you fucking English teacher in my head with a knuckle busting ruler, I got back to the thesis at the end…
ENTRY 4
I AM DROPPING MY COMPUTER
OFF AT THE QUEST INTERNET CAFÉ
To be repaired today. FUCKING VIRUS GENERATING GEEKS ARE AS BAD AS THE CHILD SEEKING CYBER-PERV.’S!!!!! So, I will have to write by hand for the next four days, and obviously will not be on the net. They are going to charge me 65.00 to remove a Trojan horse virus from my computer. C:\WINNT\ISRVS\SYSUPD.DCL….
I hope to dog I can one day CHOKE THE LIFE OUT of the fucking geek who came up with this one. Only a supremely malicious coward would send a virus out into the public domains of the internet to just fuck with people. OR WHATEVER GODDAMNED REASON THEY CAME UP WITH IN THEIR DELUSIONAL LITTLE BRAINS….
Though I must admit, it is the opinion of the leader of the Mighty Hamster army, General Sniggly-Poo, that we are under cyber attack and should send out the troops… I am hesitant yet to release that storm on humanity, though I am close… very, very close. Really.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
PUFFINS REFUSE TO SHOW THEIR SMILING FACES TO THE PASSING CROWDS. THE QUEEN IS NOT AMUSED!!
For days now, zookeepers at the Lincoln park zoo have been having trouble with the rather notorious puffins in the main birdhouse. There have been rumbles with other birds in the past, photographs of the bouyant waterfowl flashing gang signs, and whispers that only their well-documented excessive use of drugs keeps them constantly smiling all day -- yet, in spite of all their personal problems, and what numerous puffins have described as 'really, really killer hang overs,' the puffins have always somehow gathered the gumption to show their smiling faces to the crowd. Not today, though. No, on this dark excuse for day, the puffins have turned their backs on the adoring crowds and are spewing white runny feces out their asses out right onto their once faithful well-wishers... Yes, this is hard to remove from the hair and lips, feces; this fount of puffin shit indeed does sting in the eyes, and taste terrible in the mouth. For journalistic purposes, I did have to have a taste…The Queen is not amused!!!
The bejewled old leach called a special session of parliament today, immediantly after news of the Puffins unruly, anti-market behavior hit the shocked and sadden shores of great BrittanyThe queen addressed parliament for thrity seven minutes, screaming over and over into the microphone, "The queen is not amused."
Landed Gentry in the parlaiment then began singing, in gregorian chants, over and over, rising and sitting as they intoned, "Theeeeee Queen . . . is . . . not . . . a.. mused."
One of the princes flounced up and smacked the old queenie to stop her from screaming that she was not amused, and the bejeweled wrinkle then went on to urge the puffins to ‘do their part,’ by 'smiling through the bars of their cages.'
Seemingly unimpressed, the puffins responded by continuing to spew white gook from their anuses at the passing crowds.
In related news, the penguins are still spinning around in circles as fast as they can and screaming, “Oh, the shits with you,” over and over again with no sign of stopping.
When their publicist was asked just what the heck those waterfowl are up to, she mysteriously answered this reporters stern, probing question by smiling and looking out at the horizon, then saying in a breathless, excited voice, "“They are ushering in the new time!!”
The bejewled old leach called a special session of parliament today, immediantly after news of the Puffins unruly, anti-market behavior hit the shocked and sadden shores of great BrittanyThe queen addressed parliament for thrity seven minutes, screaming over and over into the microphone, "The queen is not amused."
Landed Gentry in the parlaiment then began singing, in gregorian chants, over and over, rising and sitting as they intoned, "Theeeeee Queen . . . is . . . not . . . a.. mused."
One of the princes flounced up and smacked the old queenie to stop her from screaming that she was not amused, and the bejeweled wrinkle then went on to urge the puffins to ‘do their part,’ by 'smiling through the bars of their cages.'
Seemingly unimpressed, the puffins responded by continuing to spew white gook from their anuses at the passing crowds.
In related news, the penguins are still spinning around in circles as fast as they can and screaming, “Oh, the shits with you,” over and over again with no sign of stopping.
When their publicist was asked just what the heck those waterfowl are up to, she mysteriously answered this reporters stern, probing question by smiling and looking out at the horizon, then saying in a breathless, excited voice, "“They are ushering in the new time!!”
Welcome to the Post Environmental Era.
I hereby declare, with the help of my republican enemies, that we have entered THE POST ENVIRONMENTAL ERA. Yes, it has gone that far. From now on, please associated my name with this phrase (I am so sick of the current one, ''but weave')
Below is a link to a new animal, just discovered. Better look quick because the poor, ugly little thing isn't exactly pet material, so you can expect its extinction soon.
http://theelvesattic.ebloggy.com
We think that keeping these animals in zoos will preserve them for the future, like the pyramids... leave it to mystically addled humans to make every other creature on the planet evolve until large, hair less beings that look like curds of cottage chesse. What else could they look like after evolving to live in a cage for thousands of years being fed for nothing. They will get bored of pacing, and one day just sit there and gawk back at us... I mean, you can't even give animals treats at the zoos anymore, and let me tell you, in the opinion of my dear husky girl Ruby, and the remaining Kitty Bum Buk, this just ain't right.
Funny, I came in here this morning to pretend like I could start a trend, be the first one to declare this the post environmental era, and wrote this really sad essay filled with jesus juice jokes and other disgusting, Johnny Pain at his painwracked meanest.... then, between trying to get the picture to come up on my blog and moving the type around, I lost the essay. What can I say, the world needs less whining, right?
However, since my thesis here is how to mourn the world of nature (what the fuck else can we do, huh?), which is important to me no matter how much you are laughing right now, and how silly this will sound to me on after the surgery, when I expect to be on at least a few less pills. Still I am going to move one with my THESIS STATEMENT RELATED MATERIAL.
I am a reluctant carnivore. Embarrassed by my meat addiction everytime I see a cow or a pig or a chicken. The futility of what one man can do in this world and my poverty kind of combine to keep me on the edge of the idea. Eating right cost money, that is why all the poor folk are getting fat. I mean, know that if we could do away with the entire meat industry in one fell swoop, the world be better off.Well, I would like people showing up at emergency wards with lies about how they got light bulbs stuck up their but to go be passe' as well, but like war, taxes, and urine smells at the Jarvis El stop.... the dead romantic in me lives on as this zombie who knows better.
The dying off of all the forests that we are seeing now is a storm that has settled over the world and nothing is ever going to stop those lightening strikes... Fire, destruction, wave after wave of third world people being swept away from their cultures and ending up in tents.... Humans will live, somehow, because of innate selfishness more than likely. We will shuffle through zoo's and see the large curds of cottage cheese that once leapt from branch to branch, high about man's bafoonery.... and we will read histories of this time and hate early humans, like we do the rascists and the sacrificers and the childmolesters and all sorts of other weirdo mystically addled and genetically rattled sort of behavior.
sorry to be so sad. I have been in extreme pain all day and you know me, it just feels better to share it...
One day the critics will say of me that this pain caused a lot of my work..... (boof I am, about the best I can hope for is that when they hold my funeral in the cafeteria of the old folks home, not too many of the other residents will spit in my face as they file by my cold, painted face-- I hate the way I look with runny mascara...).
Hey, maybe all those statistics showing a rise in apocalyptic thinking are really people, in some garbled way, reading the thoughts of all of the animals on the planet, other than our beloved pets.... No, there I go again, over estimating the humans.
So, please, snatch children away from abuse parents and raise them in paramilitary camps -- but be sure that they are taught to take orders from hamsters, or there may just be no hope at all....
Below is a link to a new animal, just discovered. Better look quick because the poor, ugly little thing isn't exactly pet material, so you can expect its extinction soon.
http://theelvesattic.ebloggy.com
We think that keeping these animals in zoos will preserve them for the future, like the pyramids... leave it to mystically addled humans to make every other creature on the planet evolve until large, hair less beings that look like curds of cottage chesse. What else could they look like after evolving to live in a cage for thousands of years being fed for nothing. They will get bored of pacing, and one day just sit there and gawk back at us... I mean, you can't even give animals treats at the zoos anymore, and let me tell you, in the opinion of my dear husky girl Ruby, and the remaining Kitty Bum Buk, this just ain't right.
Funny, I came in here this morning to pretend like I could start a trend, be the first one to declare this the post environmental era, and wrote this really sad essay filled with jesus juice jokes and other disgusting, Johnny Pain at his painwracked meanest.... then, between trying to get the picture to come up on my blog and moving the type around, I lost the essay. What can I say, the world needs less whining, right?
However, since my thesis here is how to mourn the world of nature (what the fuck else can we do, huh?), which is important to me no matter how much you are laughing right now, and how silly this will sound to me on after the surgery, when I expect to be on at least a few less pills. Still I am going to move one with my THESIS STATEMENT RELATED MATERIAL.
I am a reluctant carnivore. Embarrassed by my meat addiction everytime I see a cow or a pig or a chicken. The futility of what one man can do in this world and my poverty kind of combine to keep me on the edge of the idea. Eating right cost money, that is why all the poor folk are getting fat. I mean, know that if we could do away with the entire meat industry in one fell swoop, the world be better off.Well, I would like people showing up at emergency wards with lies about how they got light bulbs stuck up their but to go be passe' as well, but like war, taxes, and urine smells at the Jarvis El stop.... the dead romantic in me lives on as this zombie who knows better.
The dying off of all the forests that we are seeing now is a storm that has settled over the world and nothing is ever going to stop those lightening strikes... Fire, destruction, wave after wave of third world people being swept away from their cultures and ending up in tents.... Humans will live, somehow, because of innate selfishness more than likely. We will shuffle through zoo's and see the large curds of cottage cheese that once leapt from branch to branch, high about man's bafoonery.... and we will read histories of this time and hate early humans, like we do the rascists and the sacrificers and the childmolesters and all sorts of other weirdo mystically addled and genetically rattled sort of behavior.
sorry to be so sad. I have been in extreme pain all day and you know me, it just feels better to share it...
One day the critics will say of me that this pain caused a lot of my work..... (boof I am, about the best I can hope for is that when they hold my funeral in the cafeteria of the old folks home, not too many of the other residents will spit in my face as they file by my cold, painted face-- I hate the way I look with runny mascara...).
Hey, maybe all those statistics showing a rise in apocalyptic thinking are really people, in some garbled way, reading the thoughts of all of the animals on the planet, other than our beloved pets.... No, there I go again, over estimating the humans.
So, please, snatch children away from abuse parents and raise them in paramilitary camps -- but be sure that they are taught to take orders from hamsters, or there may just be no hope at all....
Below is a link to a new animal, just discovered. Better look quick because the poor, ugly little thing isn't exactly pet material so you expect its extinction soon.
http://story.news.yahoo.com/news?tmpl=story&u=/050414/481/lon11904142236
Saturday, April 16, 2005
present state of the new novel
after writing the below, I am ready to now chop up all the things I say will happen into little scenes. I think the story should be dramatic and if I can keep the website in as a character, even funny and satirical....
Yes, these are more of those half ass novel notes that cause people to skip on to the next title that mentions of hamsters and related dark mayhem.
Today, I am going to be putting the finishing touches on my synopsis, trying to decipher the scenes that are most telling about the themes of the novel, and just in general jotting down all the zillions of notes I have taken for the last year into a cohesive package.
The story goes like this, now.... Smegs, Crypt, and Johnathon are three painters who live in wicker park chicago, almost under the el train, and a block away from the most filmed scene in chicago -- a gritty looking, paint peeling off metal el track with a weedy alley running underneath. They have been couch surfing bachelors of sorts after they met and became roomates in college. They spend their twenties driving cab, working in a game store and tending bar as they continue to write and paint. They barely believe in each other, actually.... as they reach forty, they all begin to think of themselves as perhaps too weird for marriage, as if the very traits they swore to in blood to themselves when they were young artists--that they were going to spend their lives giving into the compulsion to do art as much as humanly possible.
They all sell weed, from uncle sal's supply, and work odd jobs... sometimes one or the other is homeless. During this time, Johnathon, who works at the bookstore with matt, notices that he is crashing on the couch al the time. Matt, who likes to mostly talk in jokes, and can't help playing rough to delight certain dogs and cats,has a difficult time admitting it, but then finally tells them that his mom is into herion and was busted; caught three times and sent away for six months. She is a graduate of the best art school in the world, but no longer paints... (this is half based on truth, or I would not have the art school part in there... sounds too fake, eh?). Johnathon then let's Matt crash on the couch in the back room, and they also let him smoke weed a couple years later, when he decides to try it. They have something of an old time, pre massah jackoffyourson charge, who started working at the game store when Sal was still alive, at the age of ten, because he knew the games better than anyone else Sal interviewed, and by fifteen he was probably one of the best gamers in the world at everything drom board games to the latest slash and kill playstation.
During one of their worst periods, when they are all shuffling from apartment to apartment, and keeping their electricity on by keeping a mean pitbull down in the basement so the workers can't get in to shut them off. The landlord kind of vouches for them (he thinks that all the young men coming and going from the apartment are Smegs gay lovers, which the others play up to a few laughs in the scene I have in my notes).
Everything changes when Uncle Sal dies and they find out that he has left them, collectively, ownership of the game store, which has a bar and a little smoke shop attatched. The property they have is in a zone recently yuppified and the rent Sal pays for these places is crazy. The three artists only find this out after he has died, in a private letter that he leaves them about how to continue his weed business, and to launder the money through the other businesses. They of course go along with this. Only thing they change is the smoke shop, which they turn into a gallery for their work, as well as working studio where people can come in and hang out and play games (there is always weed for the cool in the back room, so the crew there is a little older--they card because of the bar to make sure no kids are smoking or drinking on the premises (though no one bitches when they go outside and come back in all beedy eyed, of course).
They also try to sell their art and writing on a website. They have the money to self publish their own books, so they do these elaborate things with hand made covers, etc.... as well as selling cheap prints of their paintings signed (like I am soon going to be doing on this site, so if you want to buy a print of any of my stuff without giving me a dime for the effort (mom, bro's, folk broke as broker than me, especially, though I will always cut a deal if something really speaks to someone of course, because there is no finer payment to me as a painter of OUTSIDER ART which some people think of as 'untrained art' that has not been quite so infected with the mainstream and effected so much that I look like everyone else (I'm telling ya, you don't know how close M. is to forcing me to paint yellow mountain majesties for holiday inn's... or even worse, turn me into one of those bad jackson pollack imitator's who oddly enough have no idea why we laugh behind their backs (Pollack I love, mind you... but I loved Raymond Carver too and he unfortunatly set off waves if imitators who just someone did not have his wizardy with words). Hey, if you pay me to review your book? I will say you are a wizard with words, okay? Just reminding everyone I am a broken whore with a habit.
Okay, Now the lives of these individuals take a sharp turn into the realities of life when a new character enters their life. He is an old friend of Smegs, an art buddy from where he grew up, in the small town of Joliet, Illinois (where he was there the night john wayne gacy died, and the celebration effected them both a lot -- johnathon does a painting). Ranger X is the name I am using for this character, for now... He has just got out of prison, where he has been reading the artistic manifesto's and general philosophical essays that are a large part of their website.
The website is a central character, as well. In it, the character that the writer among them, Johnathon, creates has a bit of the jefforsonian about him, though he is dark as the writing that Mark Twain refused to let them publish until he was dead a hundred years (good stuff). He also boxed, works out, and grew up fighting in the small hillbilly town of Garrett Indiana. He studied writing and painting and philosophy and military intelligence, once thinking about maybe becoming an fbi agent just to write about the experience, and then he found out that they were often on the opposite sides of how certain issues should be handled. Of course, this is the character most like me, but it is not me.... he will be better than me, because I am just that much of a liar... no, he shouldn't be. I have just done some heroic things and they are embarrassing to write about unless someone else does them. Not to mention, my heriocs is occasionally another man's madness.
All of this back story leads to scenes because X is violent in a way that the others have only written about and seen in movies. They catch their first glimpse of theses when he beats up two shop lifters, then takes off before the cops can come. He lies to them about prison, and the scar on his neck, too. He has a super hatred for gang bangers... but, they take him in when he puts a chair out front and starts drawing people for fifteen bucks a crack and gives them ten... not to mention, his first night there he gave them a pound of incredible green bud to pay them for all the times he read their web site. He's clean, handsome, and they have an extra room... so they let him stay there on a temporary basis.
That night, x comes back and they all get drunk and he tells them the truth about himself, why he has come to the city. Matt is a vegetarian by the way, and their stores are full of animals, and they're writing is all about loving animals, though with the exception of mattt, they all guiltily eat meat. Their love for animals and constant jokes about killing people like massah jackoffyourson have convinced X that they will help him do something. He starts by telling about being thrown in prison. His first night there, a gang grabbed him... he says he fought the guy off and the next day, another guy, out of no where, slashed his throat. After that he spent his next 16 months either working in the library or in isolation. Which was a blessing in disguise for him, because he was able to get on the internet and remain feeling like he was in touch with the world. When he found the site of the artists, he was sure that he had found kindred souls.
Then he tells them why he has come to chicago -- to shoot up a dog fight. He tells them that he is going to do it, knows where and when one is going to be. This is a lie, and he actually goes out later and cuts the eye out of a gang banger and then kills him to get this information).
They go back and forth on this, and one night, two gang bangers come into the bar and recognize ranger x and say something about, "Hey bitch, you still got that pussy tattooed on your ass?" X waits until they leave and then attacks them with a baseball bat.
This leads to the gang deciding to get revenge, of course. Ranger x is glad to have the war out in the open, almost. Someone then steals a car, and smashes it into their car, sideswiping it. The next night, they do it again, getting the other side.
X see's one of the bangers stopped at a cross walk and throws hot cofee on him. There is a cop across the street who can't see what he is done. The guy tells him, You are fucking underground.
The gang bangers won't talk to the cops, of course.
Two nights later, someone drives by the game store and shoots out the windows. Smegs is hit, but okay.
The next day is the dog fight, so they loud up on ammunition and go out to a farm where it is being held. They stop a car coming down the road with three older, fat looking half drunk mexican guys. X thows them out of the car, asks who speaks english, and when only one does he the other two of them with his homemade silencer. He then tells the third one to act like we are friends of his from work, like we have a lot of money to spend. They end up on this stinky pig farm, actually.... there are a zillion cars and no one even questions them at all.... they wait around until the first dogs are brought out.
They are standing toward the back of the crowd with a crossfire set up betweeen tehm for maximum killing. They try to figure out who is a gang banger and who is just someone with a habit from the old country and kill them first. Especially matt and smegs, who are aiming at two guys, guards they assume, standing at the entrance way with shotguns. When they see two dogs being led into the ring, they open fire...
X and Johnathon both die, the writer who tried to use the pen to stop the madness, and the warrior with his gun, both kind of fail and kind win.... when the two remaining boys make sure everyone there is dead, they gather up the bodies of their freinds, load up a truck with dogs and drive it to a no kill shelter. Then they hop in Matt's car and drive off up into wisconsin to bury thier friends.
ALL WRITING IN HERE IS THE PROPERTY OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY, AND YOU CAN GET MY PERMISSION TO PERFORM AND REPRINT WITH AN EMAIL. Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.
Yes, these are more of those half ass novel notes that cause people to skip on to the next title that mentions of hamsters and related dark mayhem.
Today, I am going to be putting the finishing touches on my synopsis, trying to decipher the scenes that are most telling about the themes of the novel, and just in general jotting down all the zillions of notes I have taken for the last year into a cohesive package.
The story goes like this, now.... Smegs, Crypt, and Johnathon are three painters who live in wicker park chicago, almost under the el train, and a block away from the most filmed scene in chicago -- a gritty looking, paint peeling off metal el track with a weedy alley running underneath. They have been couch surfing bachelors of sorts after they met and became roomates in college. They spend their twenties driving cab, working in a game store and tending bar as they continue to write and paint. They barely believe in each other, actually.... as they reach forty, they all begin to think of themselves as perhaps too weird for marriage, as if the very traits they swore to in blood to themselves when they were young artists--that they were going to spend their lives giving into the compulsion to do art as much as humanly possible.
They all sell weed, from uncle sal's supply, and work odd jobs... sometimes one or the other is homeless. During this time, Johnathon, who works at the bookstore with matt, notices that he is crashing on the couch al the time. Matt, who likes to mostly talk in jokes, and can't help playing rough to delight certain dogs and cats,has a difficult time admitting it, but then finally tells them that his mom is into herion and was busted; caught three times and sent away for six months. She is a graduate of the best art school in the world, but no longer paints... (this is half based on truth, or I would not have the art school part in there... sounds too fake, eh?). Johnathon then let's Matt crash on the couch in the back room, and they also let him smoke weed a couple years later, when he decides to try it. They have something of an old time, pre massah jackoffyourson charge, who started working at the game store when Sal was still alive, at the age of ten, because he knew the games better than anyone else Sal interviewed, and by fifteen he was probably one of the best gamers in the world at everything drom board games to the latest slash and kill playstation.
During one of their worst periods, when they are all shuffling from apartment to apartment, and keeping their electricity on by keeping a mean pitbull down in the basement so the workers can't get in to shut them off. The landlord kind of vouches for them (he thinks that all the young men coming and going from the apartment are Smegs gay lovers, which the others play up to a few laughs in the scene I have in my notes).
Everything changes when Uncle Sal dies and they find out that he has left them, collectively, ownership of the game store, which has a bar and a little smoke shop attatched. The property they have is in a zone recently yuppified and the rent Sal pays for these places is crazy. The three artists only find this out after he has died, in a private letter that he leaves them about how to continue his weed business, and to launder the money through the other businesses. They of course go along with this. Only thing they change is the smoke shop, which they turn into a gallery for their work, as well as working studio where people can come in and hang out and play games (there is always weed for the cool in the back room, so the crew there is a little older--they card because of the bar to make sure no kids are smoking or drinking on the premises (though no one bitches when they go outside and come back in all beedy eyed, of course).
They also try to sell their art and writing on a website. They have the money to self publish their own books, so they do these elaborate things with hand made covers, etc.... as well as selling cheap prints of their paintings signed (like I am soon going to be doing on this site, so if you want to buy a print of any of my stuff without giving me a dime for the effort (mom, bro's, folk broke as broker than me, especially, though I will always cut a deal if something really speaks to someone of course, because there is no finer payment to me as a painter of OUTSIDER ART which some people think of as 'untrained art' that has not been quite so infected with the mainstream and effected so much that I look like everyone else (I'm telling ya, you don't know how close M. is to forcing me to paint yellow mountain majesties for holiday inn's... or even worse, turn me into one of those bad jackson pollack imitator's who oddly enough have no idea why we laugh behind their backs (Pollack I love, mind you... but I loved Raymond Carver too and he unfortunatly set off waves if imitators who just someone did not have his wizardy with words). Hey, if you pay me to review your book? I will say you are a wizard with words, okay? Just reminding everyone I am a broken whore with a habit.
Okay, Now the lives of these individuals take a sharp turn into the realities of life when a new character enters their life. He is an old friend of Smegs, an art buddy from where he grew up, in the small town of Joliet, Illinois (where he was there the night john wayne gacy died, and the celebration effected them both a lot -- johnathon does a painting). Ranger X is the name I am using for this character, for now... He has just got out of prison, where he has been reading the artistic manifesto's and general philosophical essays that are a large part of their website.
The website is a central character, as well. In it, the character that the writer among them, Johnathon, creates has a bit of the jefforsonian about him, though he is dark as the writing that Mark Twain refused to let them publish until he was dead a hundred years (good stuff). He also boxed, works out, and grew up fighting in the small hillbilly town of Garrett Indiana. He studied writing and painting and philosophy and military intelligence, once thinking about maybe becoming an fbi agent just to write about the experience, and then he found out that they were often on the opposite sides of how certain issues should be handled. Of course, this is the character most like me, but it is not me.... he will be better than me, because I am just that much of a liar... no, he shouldn't be. I have just done some heroic things and they are embarrassing to write about unless someone else does them. Not to mention, my heriocs is occasionally another man's madness.
All of this back story leads to scenes because X is violent in a way that the others have only written about and seen in movies. They catch their first glimpse of theses when he beats up two shop lifters, then takes off before the cops can come. He lies to them about prison, and the scar on his neck, too. He has a super hatred for gang bangers... but, they take him in when he puts a chair out front and starts drawing people for fifteen bucks a crack and gives them ten... not to mention, his first night there he gave them a pound of incredible green bud to pay them for all the times he read their web site. He's clean, handsome, and they have an extra room... so they let him stay there on a temporary basis.
That night, x comes back and they all get drunk and he tells them the truth about himself, why he has come to the city. Matt is a vegetarian by the way, and their stores are full of animals, and they're writing is all about loving animals, though with the exception of mattt, they all guiltily eat meat. Their love for animals and constant jokes about killing people like massah jackoffyourson have convinced X that they will help him do something. He starts by telling about being thrown in prison. His first night there, a gang grabbed him... he says he fought the guy off and the next day, another guy, out of no where, slashed his throat. After that he spent his next 16 months either working in the library or in isolation. Which was a blessing in disguise for him, because he was able to get on the internet and remain feeling like he was in touch with the world. When he found the site of the artists, he was sure that he had found kindred souls.
Then he tells them why he has come to chicago -- to shoot up a dog fight. He tells them that he is going to do it, knows where and when one is going to be. This is a lie, and he actually goes out later and cuts the eye out of a gang banger and then kills him to get this information).
They go back and forth on this, and one night, two gang bangers come into the bar and recognize ranger x and say something about, "Hey bitch, you still got that pussy tattooed on your ass?" X waits until they leave and then attacks them with a baseball bat.
This leads to the gang deciding to get revenge, of course. Ranger x is glad to have the war out in the open, almost. Someone then steals a car, and smashes it into their car, sideswiping it. The next night, they do it again, getting the other side.
X see's one of the bangers stopped at a cross walk and throws hot cofee on him. There is a cop across the street who can't see what he is done. The guy tells him, You are fucking underground.
The gang bangers won't talk to the cops, of course.
Two nights later, someone drives by the game store and shoots out the windows. Smegs is hit, but okay.
The next day is the dog fight, so they loud up on ammunition and go out to a farm where it is being held. They stop a car coming down the road with three older, fat looking half drunk mexican guys. X thows them out of the car, asks who speaks english, and when only one does he the other two of them with his homemade silencer. He then tells the third one to act like we are friends of his from work, like we have a lot of money to spend. They end up on this stinky pig farm, actually.... there are a zillion cars and no one even questions them at all.... they wait around until the first dogs are brought out.
They are standing toward the back of the crowd with a crossfire set up betweeen tehm for maximum killing. They try to figure out who is a gang banger and who is just someone with a habit from the old country and kill them first. Especially matt and smegs, who are aiming at two guys, guards they assume, standing at the entrance way with shotguns. When they see two dogs being led into the ring, they open fire...
X and Johnathon both die, the writer who tried to use the pen to stop the madness, and the warrior with his gun, both kind of fail and kind win.... when the two remaining boys make sure everyone there is dead, they gather up the bodies of their freinds, load up a truck with dogs and drive it to a no kill shelter. Then they hop in Matt's car and drive off up into wisconsin to bury thier friends.
ALL WRITING IN HERE IS THE PROPERTY OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY, AND YOU CAN GET MY PERMISSION TO PERFORM AND REPRINT WITH AN EMAIL. Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.
Friday, April 15, 2005
Sure, I too wish I was a serial killer....
I often wish I was a psycho, of course. There is a part of me that would like to have no compunction about killing -- hopefully, I would be some sort of righteous batman. Unfortunately, I am more Charlie Brown than Charles Bronson, and the only Death Wish I have is pretty much spent on worthless moping and whining around my blog.
But no... I am too lazy to kill massah jackoffyourson or any of his helpers.... the money worshipers who circled the wagon around this freak deserve burning arrows in their eyes, too...
But, like Socrates before me, I abide by the laws of my society... Because, sadly enough, I am not a religious psycho killer. I'm not sure what my parents did right (we never talked about that in therapy, because of that thing where the therapist gets you to dislike your parents so you will bond with them, something they have all too scarily in common with cults).
Does this mean that for some reason I like killing? No. Never could stomach faces of death, howl like a monkey until I can change the channel when some horrible parental beasts crimes are blathered out on the nightly news bulletins. Still, I am Johnny Pain, no denying it. A guy who loves the idea of kicking ass, a fifteen year cab driver with muscles and boxing and lots of street fighting behind my punch first policy (which has held me in good steed over the years, though I recognize the stupidity of it and consider it a side of me best repressed).
Funny thing, is the novel I am writing, the violence is anything but funny. It is the true grotesquery of the book -- as it is in my first, One War, which some brilliant person is going to buy one day and get the privilege of selling all my other work. Or, not.... poverty may just be something that helps my work for all I know, though I have my doubts.
so there, to anyone who thinks this is the psycho killer shit list, and that I will be killing all who I name... well, if you are one of those people, I hope the thought makes your life a living hell, actually, but you ain't worth the prison time of anyone (with the exception of religious psycho killers, who actually often get married while in prison... to chicks who write in, other inmates... you know what ever god tells you to do.... I'm just saying)
I was once actually thrown out of school for inciting a riot. I painted this sign, like fifty feet by five feet, in all these cool colors and different types, reading,
PENTA COUNTRY STONERS NEVER LOSE THEIR BUZZ. Penta County was a school I mistakenly went to for a year or so before my back surgeries started.
But no... I am too lazy to kill massah jackoffyourson or any of his helpers.... the money worshipers who circled the wagon around this freak deserve burning arrows in their eyes, too...
But, like Socrates before me, I abide by the laws of my society... Because, sadly enough, I am not a religious psycho killer. I'm not sure what my parents did right (we never talked about that in therapy, because of that thing where the therapist gets you to dislike your parents so you will bond with them, something they have all too scarily in common with cults).
Does this mean that for some reason I like killing? No. Never could stomach faces of death, howl like a monkey until I can change the channel when some horrible parental beasts crimes are blathered out on the nightly news bulletins. Still, I am Johnny Pain, no denying it. A guy who loves the idea of kicking ass, a fifteen year cab driver with muscles and boxing and lots of street fighting behind my punch first policy (which has held me in good steed over the years, though I recognize the stupidity of it and consider it a side of me best repressed).
Funny thing, is the novel I am writing, the violence is anything but funny. It is the true grotesquery of the book -- as it is in my first, One War, which some brilliant person is going to buy one day and get the privilege of selling all my other work. Or, not.... poverty may just be something that helps my work for all I know, though I have my doubts.
so there, to anyone who thinks this is the psycho killer shit list, and that I will be killing all who I name... well, if you are one of those people, I hope the thought makes your life a living hell, actually, but you ain't worth the prison time of anyone (with the exception of religious psycho killers, who actually often get married while in prison... to chicks who write in, other inmates... you know what ever god tells you to do.... I'm just saying)
I was once actually thrown out of school for inciting a riot. I painted this sign, like fifty feet by five feet, in all these cool colors and different types, reading,
PENTA COUNTRY STONERS NEVER LOSE THEIR BUZZ. Penta County was a school I mistakenly went to for a year or so before my back surgeries started.
another link to a slide show.
buy them framed, have them put on t shirts, etc....
http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/johnsridgway/album?.dir=/b43b&.src=ph&.tok=phl6e1CBY_dUH7ib
http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/johnsridgway/album?.dir=/b43b&.src=ph&.tok=phl6e1CBY_dUH7ib
Thursday, April 14, 2005
interview with johnny pain for Zine This Fucking Life
Well, elf shits… here is an interview that is coming out in the Chicago zine scene, in This Fucking Life. . . sorry to say that I didn’t know about the existence of such a thing as This Fucking Life (dog, I love writing that) until I was contacted by Serena Six for an interview. She reads my blog and said yea to all that… So, here is a reprint of an Interview with Johnny Pain from the Zine This Fucking Life. And yes, I have permission!!!! You better get it too when you publish other peoples stuff, or I will have to kick your ass, or put you on a list… depending on how big and tough you are. I mean, should I one day have to wipe out all humanity to keep prescientifica-head-in-the-assica from infecting the next animals that learn to talk, the young and the weak and elderly will have to die first, I am afraid… plain and simply because they are easier and I am lazy. Any how, here is Selena Six’s interview with the asshole, as I call myself……
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Since first reading about the bloody hell of the hamster wars, I knew I would sooner or later interview this other Chicagoan, Mr. Johnny Pain. Now, I was finally meeting him, going up three flights of stairs to the Elves Attic. I see him first standing at the top, framed by a dark wooden doorway wearing a torn black shirt with red, blood-dripping letters saying, KILL EVERYONE. His jeans are black, too, and his boots are once black, though now faded gray. He is slim, average height, cute… Long brown curls fall out from beneath a South Park hat with Stan barfing green over the maroon brim. As I reach the top of the stairs, he steps back to let me in and offers his hand with a scowl on his face, like he is being forced to shake hands with someone he feels is repugnant
“Nice shirt.” I step into the attic and notice the cats that Johnny Pain writes about in his blog, first accusing them of killing his first mighty hamster army, and then deriding the no torture policy that his girlfriend M. has instigate as the reason he can’t verify that the cats ate the hamsters. The gray tabby, Charlie Brown Bukowski, is lying at the top of the keyboards and looking up at me curiously. Mr.Yeats is curled up into a puffy ball, an orange, lionish looking cat sleeping on the back of a black leather love seat,
Johnny waves me toward a red wing chair, “ You agree with the sentiment of the shirt, I take it, or you wouldn’t be here. It’s easy to agree with a shirt like this. . “ He speaks in a surprisingly soft voice, sets me up to be startled when he suddenly yells, “are you willing to back that up with a few rounds?”
I jump, he chuckles and strokes his chin.
I laughed then and had an odd feeling that I had just entered a funny and disturbing Johnny Pain story. “ No, but your feelings on the matter are exactly why I wanted to interview you for my zine.”
“You have a zine, too? “ Johnny asked.
“Yes, This Fucking Life… I told M. all this on the phone.”
“Yes, well, she’s always telling me something she wants me to remember when I am too stoned to remember, but don’t try to tell her that’s a valid excuse for forgetting things… she can’t face a lot of realities, because she is just like everyone else.” He points at my handheld recorder and asks, “ You already have that thing recording, right?”
“Yes, from the stairs.”
“You want to do some bongs?” He asks as he pulls a knee high red bong out from behind his desk.
“Cool.”
“I’ll pack one, or however many ya need, got weed, got weed… yea, I don’t get interviewed nearly enough, and I think about how cool it would be all the time, know all the right questions to ask me… sometimes this is all I do for months at a time.” He looks puzzled, stokes his thin Vincent Price beard, a slim line of dark hair running down his jaw lines and ending in a graying goatee like beard. “ :Fucking eh, this is probably something I should just talk about with a professional… “ He laughs like he has been joking all along, hands me the bong and points at a lighter on a coffee table-- which he has painted with skyscrapers rising into a black city night filled with stars. The room is filled with his paintings, bright, colorful canvases that range from cubist to Van Gogh -ish landscapes.
“I love your paintings.”
“People buy this shit. I don’t notice them until someone points them out, actually. Painting them is the only part I like – selling them kind of sucks, makes me feel lost… like parting with a good friend forever… We are here to talk hamsters, though. That orange cat, his nickname is butboy, because he spends every night curled up on one of our Asses. He comes right in when you go to bed. Soft, warm… who knows why he does it? You ever kill anyone?”
“No, I would never kill anyone.” I tell him with a laugh.
“Never say never on that one, Bub . . . think a minute and you’ll realize there are all kinds of reasons one might have to kill. This is not some psychosis… Damn that fucking … oh, never mind that… No, you have to be ready to kill, like me, tough you know? I never meant to learn how to fight, it just happens when you live in a neighborhood full of bullies and hot heads. There was a fight at almost every game… Now, I know there are reasons to know how to fight, and justifiable reasons to kill, though dog knows, I’m probably not lucky enough to ever get a chance. Dammit!!!”
I smoke another bong and feel like my head has emptied out, look at my list of questions and then remember one Johnny Pain’s essays and come up with a new question.
“On your web sit, you wrote that you have,’ fuck your mother, kill your father,’ tattooed on your forehead, but I don’t see . . . ”
He takes off his hat and pulls back his long light brown hair, showing me a thin line of tiny blue letters right at his hairline, reading, yes, ‘FUCK YOUR MOTHER, KILL YOUR FATHER.’
“How drunk were you?” I ask him.
“Hard to tell… I can’t remember. My theory is, someone drugged me… besides me, I mean. I think it is obvious that the dog, Ruby-doo the husky, is behind this. She is ridiculously happy all the time, and I think that is because she finds this tattoo so damn amusing… I could find out, but you know M. and this anti-torture policy?”.
“ Did you ever discover who ate the first mighty hamster army?”
“Again, there is no shit-shrub not so president here to order M. to let me torture. The CIA gets to torture… bouncing crucified Christ’s, even those weekend soldiers get to torture!! I swear to god, I’d vote for a damned republican if that not-so-president would just call M. and tell her that this anti-terrorist effort requires hard, bloody decisions -- like torture… I’ve called the white house repeatedly and left messages, but no….
That fucker Clinton always called me back. All I had to do with him was say I had some juicy ‘pussy talk.’ Once he sent air force one to pick me up – that time I had memorized some penthouse forums, which it turned out he had already read, and then I had to convince him that the adventures indeed were mine and that I had sent in the letters… He’d buy anything to keep a good pussy talk going.”
M. comes into the room, her long red hair and big brown eyes make for a very cute
Face, and her body, to quote Johnny Pain, ‘could raise a woody on the dead.’ She looks at Johnny like she is a little annoyed with him, “Don’t lie to this young lady. You’re damn lucky to have someone around who takes you seriously for a few minutes. You better enjoy it while it lasts.”
Johnny laughs, though I am not entirely sure she is being facetious. M. sets down a cup of coffee for Johnny and asks me if I want anything; when I don’t, she bids us farewell..
“You can see the hamster room, if you dare… Just don’t say anything anti-rodent, or pro-cat in there, or I can’t be held responsible for your well being.”
The hamster ‘room’ is actually a closet, with the walls lined with empty cages.
“Come on in.”
“There isn’t room.
“I’ve had three people in here, maybe four?”
I suspect he is lying, though I go in any ways, enter a small space which smells of cedar chips and stand uncomfortably close to the interviewee. He doesn’t seem to know I am there as he looks from cage to cage with a contemplative look on his face.
Johnny turns on the light bulb hanging down from the ceiling, closes the door and tells me in a whisper, “Security,”
“Are there any hamsters?” I ask?
He taps his forehead and says, “They’re all in here, practicing on a purely mental dimension, for now…so, yea, there are a hell of a lot of hamsters. I spend my time now, preparing to train the other hamsters, the ones on… well, this dimension, you know… though in other dimensions, the ones I can only access up here." He taps himself on the forehead again, “the hamster army is making them tremble and shake… and when I bring them out of here, into here…” He points at his head and then the cages, “You will see Paintopia rise up and become the world government, or you will be killed as a resister. That will be up to you and how you act, unless I am really moody, and then I might have you killed for just being around and being human. Who can tell what’s going to happen, right?”
“Can we leave this room?”
“Sure. I know, coming in here reminds you that war is hell, and hamster war is even worse… it’s a. . . Hellish hell, I guess… Yea, let’s get out of here. And Don’t say anything about this to anyone, or you will hear the hamster’s squeal of death!!”
“This is an interview for a publication and…”
“I mean government people.”
“They don’t read my zine.”
“Well, I guess you get to live . . . for now.”
We go back into the living area of the attic-- half is filled with boxes, most of the rest is Johnny’s office. He sits in a red leather swivel chair in front of the computer and I lean back into the black leather loveseat, petting the orange Mr. Yeats as Johnny leans over the tray on the coffee table, takes out a bowl and begins stuffing in a bud. .
I ask him, “You know, wait, if I heard the hamster’s squeal of death, wouldn’t that mean that the rodents are dying? And why would that be frightening to me?”
He shakes his head no and looks up at the ceiling, “In the battle to kill you, there would be fatalities on the hamster side. Practically a suicide mission, really, since a human can probably kill like twenty of them before succumbing – well, that is assuming that the cloak of passive pet that the hamster now hide behind is lifted and they are known as the killers they are. Until that happens, subterfuge is best…a slow, cute, cuddly little killer that can get into the jugular kill zone . . . you probably would be able to kill the little trooper that tears open your throat, so a hamsters death scream would be the last thing you ever heard. Now that is frightening… you better wake up from your little dream world girl… Really and truly, now, you never killed anyone?”
“No.”
“Ah, you’re just being cagey, probably . . . Yea, that’s the way you got to be…. Never confess. Seriously, between us, you know, who did you kill, or should I say, how many?”
“I’ve never killed anyone, and I have no plans to.”
“M. said that you were a mercenary who was in charge of a special operations unit working clandestinely for the CIA, training and delivering killer gerbils to our enemies who enjoy rodents as pets?
“I thought you would find that a funny joke.”
“You fucking humans!!!! Why the hell would you think I would take that as a joke? This is war, girl, and you had better understand that right now.” Then Johnny started jumping around like a pogo stick and squealing like an angry rodent… this went on for perhaps a minute, then he began spinning around in circles while mumbling, “Oh, the shits with ya!!! Oh, the shits with ya!!! Oh the….”
M. came in. “I heard the jumping and squealing. He told me that was how he was going to end the interview…. Come on…. You know, he has some crack pot theory about finding nirvana by pretending he is a penguin spinning around saying, ‘Oh, the shits with you.’ He can keep this up for hours. No, seriously, of course you know he’s just doing this for your benefit? Like, he wanted the interview to be different. Though honestly, I don’t think he could be normal if he wanted to be, and he doesn’t. You know he was playing with you, right?”
“Well, yes… sure, I did…”
“He told me interviews are mostly boring, no matter how much you like the people … and something about how interviews don’t have the power of journalism or fiction? You know, he gets so excited and talks so much that you have to kind of stop listening to him sometimes….”
As she walks me out to the door, I can still hear him up there, spinning around and yelling his way into nirvana…
“He is one damn funny guy,” I tell her as we hug and part.
“Yea, if only some of it were intentional, you know?”
Despite what M. said about Johnny Pain acting his way through the interview, I am still entertaining the question of whether he is doing an Andy Kaufman, or is simply mad? I also look at hamsters now as the cut-throat cold ass killer’s they are… yea cats!!! May you and Ruby eat them all!!! Just kidding, Johnny; and Johnny, while I am at it, let me also write that you better remember how nice I was when you are the supreme commander of Paintopia, because I really want to live…. please let me live…please?).
note from Johnny Pain: I had to make up a much cooler journalist than has ever interviewed me... I lied for your interest, to amuse you... making you at least partially responsible for the ease with which I accepted satan into my life.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Since first reading about the bloody hell of the hamster wars, I knew I would sooner or later interview this other Chicagoan, Mr. Johnny Pain. Now, I was finally meeting him, going up three flights of stairs to the Elves Attic. I see him first standing at the top, framed by a dark wooden doorway wearing a torn black shirt with red, blood-dripping letters saying, KILL EVERYONE. His jeans are black, too, and his boots are once black, though now faded gray. He is slim, average height, cute… Long brown curls fall out from beneath a South Park hat with Stan barfing green over the maroon brim. As I reach the top of the stairs, he steps back to let me in and offers his hand with a scowl on his face, like he is being forced to shake hands with someone he feels is repugnant
“Nice shirt.” I step into the attic and notice the cats that Johnny Pain writes about in his blog, first accusing them of killing his first mighty hamster army, and then deriding the no torture policy that his girlfriend M. has instigate as the reason he can’t verify that the cats ate the hamsters. The gray tabby, Charlie Brown Bukowski, is lying at the top of the keyboards and looking up at me curiously. Mr.Yeats is curled up into a puffy ball, an orange, lionish looking cat sleeping on the back of a black leather love seat,
Johnny waves me toward a red wing chair, “ You agree with the sentiment of the shirt, I take it, or you wouldn’t be here. It’s easy to agree with a shirt like this. . “ He speaks in a surprisingly soft voice, sets me up to be startled when he suddenly yells, “are you willing to back that up with a few rounds?”
I jump, he chuckles and strokes his chin.
I laughed then and had an odd feeling that I had just entered a funny and disturbing Johnny Pain story. “ No, but your feelings on the matter are exactly why I wanted to interview you for my zine.”
“You have a zine, too? “ Johnny asked.
“Yes, This Fucking Life… I told M. all this on the phone.”
“Yes, well, she’s always telling me something she wants me to remember when I am too stoned to remember, but don’t try to tell her that’s a valid excuse for forgetting things… she can’t face a lot of realities, because she is just like everyone else.” He points at my handheld recorder and asks, “ You already have that thing recording, right?”
“Yes, from the stairs.”
“You want to do some bongs?” He asks as he pulls a knee high red bong out from behind his desk.
“Cool.”
“I’ll pack one, or however many ya need, got weed, got weed… yea, I don’t get interviewed nearly enough, and I think about how cool it would be all the time, know all the right questions to ask me… sometimes this is all I do for months at a time.” He looks puzzled, stokes his thin Vincent Price beard, a slim line of dark hair running down his jaw lines and ending in a graying goatee like beard. “ :Fucking eh, this is probably something I should just talk about with a professional… “ He laughs like he has been joking all along, hands me the bong and points at a lighter on a coffee table-- which he has painted with skyscrapers rising into a black city night filled with stars. The room is filled with his paintings, bright, colorful canvases that range from cubist to Van Gogh -ish landscapes.
“I love your paintings.”
“People buy this shit. I don’t notice them until someone points them out, actually. Painting them is the only part I like – selling them kind of sucks, makes me feel lost… like parting with a good friend forever… We are here to talk hamsters, though. That orange cat, his nickname is butboy, because he spends every night curled up on one of our Asses. He comes right in when you go to bed. Soft, warm… who knows why he does it? You ever kill anyone?”
“No, I would never kill anyone.” I tell him with a laugh.
“Never say never on that one, Bub . . . think a minute and you’ll realize there are all kinds of reasons one might have to kill. This is not some psychosis… Damn that fucking … oh, never mind that… No, you have to be ready to kill, like me, tough you know? I never meant to learn how to fight, it just happens when you live in a neighborhood full of bullies and hot heads. There was a fight at almost every game… Now, I know there are reasons to know how to fight, and justifiable reasons to kill, though dog knows, I’m probably not lucky enough to ever get a chance. Dammit!!!”
I smoke another bong and feel like my head has emptied out, look at my list of questions and then remember one Johnny Pain’s essays and come up with a new question.
“On your web sit, you wrote that you have,’ fuck your mother, kill your father,’ tattooed on your forehead, but I don’t see . . . ”
He takes off his hat and pulls back his long light brown hair, showing me a thin line of tiny blue letters right at his hairline, reading, yes, ‘FUCK YOUR MOTHER, KILL YOUR FATHER.’
“How drunk were you?” I ask him.
“Hard to tell… I can’t remember. My theory is, someone drugged me… besides me, I mean. I think it is obvious that the dog, Ruby-doo the husky, is behind this. She is ridiculously happy all the time, and I think that is because she finds this tattoo so damn amusing… I could find out, but you know M. and this anti-torture policy?”.
“ Did you ever discover who ate the first mighty hamster army?”
“Again, there is no shit-shrub not so president here to order M. to let me torture. The CIA gets to torture… bouncing crucified Christ’s, even those weekend soldiers get to torture!! I swear to god, I’d vote for a damned republican if that not-so-president would just call M. and tell her that this anti-terrorist effort requires hard, bloody decisions -- like torture… I’ve called the white house repeatedly and left messages, but no….
That fucker Clinton always called me back. All I had to do with him was say I had some juicy ‘pussy talk.’ Once he sent air force one to pick me up – that time I had memorized some penthouse forums, which it turned out he had already read, and then I had to convince him that the adventures indeed were mine and that I had sent in the letters… He’d buy anything to keep a good pussy talk going.”
M. comes into the room, her long red hair and big brown eyes make for a very cute
Face, and her body, to quote Johnny Pain, ‘could raise a woody on the dead.’ She looks at Johnny like she is a little annoyed with him, “Don’t lie to this young lady. You’re damn lucky to have someone around who takes you seriously for a few minutes. You better enjoy it while it lasts.”
Johnny laughs, though I am not entirely sure she is being facetious. M. sets down a cup of coffee for Johnny and asks me if I want anything; when I don’t, she bids us farewell..
“You can see the hamster room, if you dare… Just don’t say anything anti-rodent, or pro-cat in there, or I can’t be held responsible for your well being.”
The hamster ‘room’ is actually a closet, with the walls lined with empty cages.
“Come on in.”
“There isn’t room.
“I’ve had three people in here, maybe four?”
I suspect he is lying, though I go in any ways, enter a small space which smells of cedar chips and stand uncomfortably close to the interviewee. He doesn’t seem to know I am there as he looks from cage to cage with a contemplative look on his face.
Johnny turns on the light bulb hanging down from the ceiling, closes the door and tells me in a whisper, “Security,”
“Are there any hamsters?” I ask?
He taps his forehead and says, “They’re all in here, practicing on a purely mental dimension, for now…so, yea, there are a hell of a lot of hamsters. I spend my time now, preparing to train the other hamsters, the ones on… well, this dimension, you know… though in other dimensions, the ones I can only access up here." He taps himself on the forehead again, “the hamster army is making them tremble and shake… and when I bring them out of here, into here…” He points at his head and then the cages, “You will see Paintopia rise up and become the world government, or you will be killed as a resister. That will be up to you and how you act, unless I am really moody, and then I might have you killed for just being around and being human. Who can tell what’s going to happen, right?”
“Can we leave this room?”
“Sure. I know, coming in here reminds you that war is hell, and hamster war is even worse… it’s a. . . Hellish hell, I guess… Yea, let’s get out of here. And Don’t say anything about this to anyone, or you will hear the hamster’s squeal of death!!”
“This is an interview for a publication and…”
“I mean government people.”
“They don’t read my zine.”
“Well, I guess you get to live . . . for now.”
We go back into the living area of the attic-- half is filled with boxes, most of the rest is Johnny’s office. He sits in a red leather swivel chair in front of the computer and I lean back into the black leather loveseat, petting the orange Mr. Yeats as Johnny leans over the tray on the coffee table, takes out a bowl and begins stuffing in a bud. .
I ask him, “You know, wait, if I heard the hamster’s squeal of death, wouldn’t that mean that the rodents are dying? And why would that be frightening to me?”
He shakes his head no and looks up at the ceiling, “In the battle to kill you, there would be fatalities on the hamster side. Practically a suicide mission, really, since a human can probably kill like twenty of them before succumbing – well, that is assuming that the cloak of passive pet that the hamster now hide behind is lifted and they are known as the killers they are. Until that happens, subterfuge is best…a slow, cute, cuddly little killer that can get into the jugular kill zone . . . you probably would be able to kill the little trooper that tears open your throat, so a hamsters death scream would be the last thing you ever heard. Now that is frightening… you better wake up from your little dream world girl… Really and truly, now, you never killed anyone?”
“No.”
“Ah, you’re just being cagey, probably . . . Yea, that’s the way you got to be…. Never confess. Seriously, between us, you know, who did you kill, or should I say, how many?”
“I’ve never killed anyone, and I have no plans to.”
“M. said that you were a mercenary who was in charge of a special operations unit working clandestinely for the CIA, training and delivering killer gerbils to our enemies who enjoy rodents as pets?
“I thought you would find that a funny joke.”
“You fucking humans!!!! Why the hell would you think I would take that as a joke? This is war, girl, and you had better understand that right now.” Then Johnny started jumping around like a pogo stick and squealing like an angry rodent… this went on for perhaps a minute, then he began spinning around in circles while mumbling, “Oh, the shits with ya!!! Oh, the shits with ya!!! Oh the….”
M. came in. “I heard the jumping and squealing. He told me that was how he was going to end the interview…. Come on…. You know, he has some crack pot theory about finding nirvana by pretending he is a penguin spinning around saying, ‘Oh, the shits with you.’ He can keep this up for hours. No, seriously, of course you know he’s just doing this for your benefit? Like, he wanted the interview to be different. Though honestly, I don’t think he could be normal if he wanted to be, and he doesn’t. You know he was playing with you, right?”
“Well, yes… sure, I did…”
“He told me interviews are mostly boring, no matter how much you like the people … and something about how interviews don’t have the power of journalism or fiction? You know, he gets so excited and talks so much that you have to kind of stop listening to him sometimes….”
As she walks me out to the door, I can still hear him up there, spinning around and yelling his way into nirvana…
“He is one damn funny guy,” I tell her as we hug and part.
“Yea, if only some of it were intentional, you know?”
Despite what M. said about Johnny Pain acting his way through the interview, I am still entertaining the question of whether he is doing an Andy Kaufman, or is simply mad? I also look at hamsters now as the cut-throat cold ass killer’s they are… yea cats!!! May you and Ruby eat them all!!! Just kidding, Johnny; and Johnny, while I am at it, let me also write that you better remember how nice I was when you are the supreme commander of Paintopia, because I really want to live…. please let me live…please?).
note from Johnny Pain: I had to make up a much cooler journalist than has ever interviewed me... I lied for your interest, to amuse you... making you at least partially responsible for the ease with which I accepted satan into my life.
hamsters are to killers
hamsters are too killers
I am thinking of taking in students and becoming a home schooling teacher. I will do this not out of any concern for kids or anything, of course, it’s all part of my plan to become supreme commander, which is written out in no less than twenty seven spiral notebooks of 350 sheets of lined paper apiece. Changes will be swift and deadly on that day…. You know me, I don’t care who I kill, but some folks do deserve it more than others and my sense of justice demands that they be shot first. For example, Massa jackoffyourson. There are thousands of people who would show up to shoot him, if someone with balls would pass a law that you could kill child fucking freaks. This is exactly the kind of creative solution I will bring to bear on societies problems from the lofty seat of supreme commanderdom. I already have an army…. well, I have some presently unruly and slightly traitorous hamsters, but they are coming along. They …. Ummm….already eat on command. And they take after their supreme commander in many, many ways… I am proud to say that they have picked up some of Johnny Pain’s smooth moves too, because these little fuzz faced fucks are humping any damn thing that’s close. I may have even taught them too well. I can’t even stick my hand in the cage without one of them trying to violate me. I was sure I knew what I was doing, too, but these damn hamsters won’t follow most of my rules. I don’t where I went wrong? I started out by decimating them (killing every tenth soldier to instill discipline – an oldie but a goody, when it comes to military training). I only could afford seven of them, though, so I had to pretend like I was in the other room killing a hamster… let me tell you, buster, I am pretty sure that I could see the fear in their eyes when I came back into the room…
I have yet to identify a special little Rambo to be one of my generals. You would think something as important as the number two spot in a scheme for world domination would be more interesting than pellets of grass, but no… I read them all my notes and they just sit there and act like they are not even listening. Still, you just better watch it, like I told M.m because I am growing stronger and mightier everyday, with each whisker that is added to my battle hardened troops.
Due to the somewhat disgusted look on her face when she said this, there was no way in hell I was going to tell her about how serious I am, or how many notes I’m taking, or how the hamsters will lead the kids…. No, I just said, “It’s just a joke.”
“Don’t make me beat you down.”
“They are hamsters, for dogs sake…. “
“Will you quit saying for dogs sake?”
“With my last breath.”
“What?”
“Nothing. You know, I am teaching the hamsters to act all lovey-dovey. You saw them with the blow up doll?.”
“Until they can get close enough to rip open jugulars, that was the plan, right? You are a really pathetic liar. I better not come home and find you spent the whole day messing with those hamsters. The cats are going to get them if you aren’t more careful… By the way, why did you call my mom and ask her to sew some tiny green jackets?”
“Wasn’t me.”
“Yea, right.”
“I think I would remember something like that.”
“Really?”
“What does that mean?”
“You forget stuff, that is one of the side effects of your beloved herb. Tell me that you are not going to waste time with those hamsters today. Say it.”
“Well, I could spend the day thinking about penguins spinning around real fast screaming, ‘Oh, the shits with you!!”
“You know what, you could, couldn’t you?”
She seemed surprised by this for some fucked up reason that I can’t fathom?
“I can’t stop these penguins…” I made it out like it was a joke, but I really can’t.
“If you have to mess around with the hamsters, clean the cage, but don’t take them to the beach anymore… they are not concerned about their tans, no matter how convinced you are, silly.”
Everything is a joke to her, I swear. Would you want shaved, pale as hell assed hamsters around? I didn’t think so. The tans really help.
“I have to go to work. Be good today.”
“I can’t face a day without hamsters.”
“Stop it.”
After she left, I of course got right to work, pulling out the little cardboard minefields that I made and placing the plump hamsters in various strategic positions…
I didn’t even have a chance to tell her about training little kids into a deadly fighting force, who the hamsters will lead out into battle for both justice and whimsy.… M. will probably find some reason to nit-pick at that plan, too.
Consider me taking on students from this day forward, call and I’ll see if I can use you … if a woman answers though, just hang up real quick and call back later.
I am thinking of taking in students and becoming a home schooling teacher. I will do this not out of any concern for kids or anything, of course, it’s all part of my plan to become supreme commander, which is written out in no less than twenty seven spiral notebooks of 350 sheets of lined paper apiece. Changes will be swift and deadly on that day…. You know me, I don’t care who I kill, but some folks do deserve it more than others and my sense of justice demands that they be shot first. For example, Massa jackoffyourson. There are thousands of people who would show up to shoot him, if someone with balls would pass a law that you could kill child fucking freaks. This is exactly the kind of creative solution I will bring to bear on societies problems from the lofty seat of supreme commanderdom. I already have an army…. well, I have some presently unruly and slightly traitorous hamsters, but they are coming along. They …. Ummm….already eat on command. And they take after their supreme commander in many, many ways… I am proud to say that they have picked up some of Johnny Pain’s smooth moves too, because these little fuzz faced fucks are humping any damn thing that’s close. I may have even taught them too well. I can’t even stick my hand in the cage without one of them trying to violate me. I was sure I knew what I was doing, too, but these damn hamsters won’t follow most of my rules. I don’t where I went wrong? I started out by decimating them (killing every tenth soldier to instill discipline – an oldie but a goody, when it comes to military training). I only could afford seven of them, though, so I had to pretend like I was in the other room killing a hamster… let me tell you, buster, I am pretty sure that I could see the fear in their eyes when I came back into the room…
I have yet to identify a special little Rambo to be one of my generals. You would think something as important as the number two spot in a scheme for world domination would be more interesting than pellets of grass, but no… I read them all my notes and they just sit there and act like they are not even listening. Still, you just better watch it, like I told M.m because I am growing stronger and mightier everyday, with each whisker that is added to my battle hardened troops.
Due to the somewhat disgusted look on her face when she said this, there was no way in hell I was going to tell her about how serious I am, or how many notes I’m taking, or how the hamsters will lead the kids…. No, I just said, “It’s just a joke.”
“Don’t make me beat you down.”
“They are hamsters, for dogs sake…. “
“Will you quit saying for dogs sake?”
“With my last breath.”
“What?”
“Nothing. You know, I am teaching the hamsters to act all lovey-dovey. You saw them with the blow up doll?.”
“Until they can get close enough to rip open jugulars, that was the plan, right? You are a really pathetic liar. I better not come home and find you spent the whole day messing with those hamsters. The cats are going to get them if you aren’t more careful… By the way, why did you call my mom and ask her to sew some tiny green jackets?”
“Wasn’t me.”
“Yea, right.”
“I think I would remember something like that.”
“Really?”
“What does that mean?”
“You forget stuff, that is one of the side effects of your beloved herb. Tell me that you are not going to waste time with those hamsters today. Say it.”
“Well, I could spend the day thinking about penguins spinning around real fast screaming, ‘Oh, the shits with you!!”
“You know what, you could, couldn’t you?”
She seemed surprised by this for some fucked up reason that I can’t fathom?
“I can’t stop these penguins…” I made it out like it was a joke, but I really can’t.
“If you have to mess around with the hamsters, clean the cage, but don’t take them to the beach anymore… they are not concerned about their tans, no matter how convinced you are, silly.”
Everything is a joke to her, I swear. Would you want shaved, pale as hell assed hamsters around? I didn’t think so. The tans really help.
“I have to go to work. Be good today.”
“I can’t face a day without hamsters.”
“Stop it.”
After she left, I of course got right to work, pulling out the little cardboard minefields that I made and placing the plump hamsters in various strategic positions…
I didn’t even have a chance to tell her about training little kids into a deadly fighting force, who the hamsters will lead out into battle for both justice and whimsy.… M. will probably find some reason to nit-pick at that plan, too.
Consider me taking on students from this day forward, call and I’ll see if I can use you … if a woman answers though, just hang up real quick and call back later.
more pictures of pain
http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/johnsridgway/album?.dir=/b43b&.src=ph&.tok=ph5zW1CBw8ltH7ib
http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/johnsridgway/album?.dir=/b43b&.src=ph&.tok=phjwX1CBqDcqH7ib
http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/johnsridgway/album?.dir=/b43b&.src=ph&.tok=phjwX1CBqDcqH7ib
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
JOHNNY COCKISRUNNING IS DEAD!!!!
The world is tooting the horn of an fbi informer who sold out the blacks just as much as any plantation owner -- and with the same motives, money and power. He was an FBI informant against the Black Panthers, and then went on to 'defend' them. Obviously, the Panthers got screwed up and down in court. Check out Geronimo's story if you don't believe me (though you should, since, as you will see, this is a well researched diatribe if there ever was one).
Every time I see cockisrunning (by the way, his cock is running yellow, snot consistency seepige, if you must know, and you know you must...) I feel the horror of having my throat sliced, being molested as a child... He let Jackoffyourson continue to play Peter Panderer for money. How much would they have to pay you to let a child molestor continue?
If this was the worst he had done.... he would be no more worthy of a bullet than any of the shit speckled lawyers who take on obviously guilty clients and try to convince a jury of a lie, rather than attain justice.
I know more about this gruesome shit in a suit than most people... . . . being more informed than the yokels in this realm of beer-sports addled idiots trapped in that whole us against them mentality which breeds the western selfishness that blooms into our docility in the face of political reeming after reeming... is hardly something to brag on.
I have known a few ex-black panthers, and once took a class on the FBI that dealt primarily with original source material taken from the FBI's conintellignece program, Garden Plot, which was put into place by tricky dick, who was also lauded over like he was more than a scum predator. Most of the documents dealt with the Black Panthers. They were a bunch of activists who were pushed into becoming urban gureillas (the FBi actually sold them guns, as well as planted guns in their office; though he was wanted for no crime, here in Chicago, they kicked the leaders door down and shot him dead, after having one of their informants drug him).
"If the glove don't fit, acquit."
We heard this boof saying ithis n court when he helped OJ Simpson get away with murdering his ex and a hapless cat who returned her forgotten sunglasses. The use of slogans to make someone's thoughts effected by the slogan is a technique used to manipulate other people. He was a southern preacher who sold out his soul, used his oratory gifts for the denizens of the dark prince.
We didn't hear how he got the famalies of the molested children to let someone else's child get molested? That western selfishness that is so entwined with how much we love our money... I wonder what he said to them. Probably, "Look, I let him fuck my kids all the time for this kind of money, okay? You got to let him play, before he gonna pay! Yoy got to... let... him.. play, before he gonna pay!"
The man is responsible for jackoffyourson getting to play with more little children, for OJ getting to golf instead of go to prison... and we all know this. But, I never see much about his days as an FBI informant, back in the sixties. He represented some of the Black Panthers while working for the FBI, completly fucking them in court, as you can imagine. But, like the intelligence agencies want us to, we forget this...
They could have black mailed him with this for his whole career for all I know. He was a lackey to the worst criminals in the world. The FBI under edgar hoover who ran Garden Plot (the largest domestic assault on american citizens yet by an intelligence agency).
He should have been in front of the firing squad with oj, massah jack-off-yourson, and everyone else who makes their way in the world by destroying other people.
I am sure that there will be some sort of racial split on him, too, with the blacks deciding they have another saint and the whites kind of shaking their heads like, "What the fuck are those blacks thinking?"
I am glad my black friends are a little more enlightened than this. Not that whites are any better. My brother sent me an article about how the christians are running candidates, which they should not be able to do and keep their tax free status, but.... we live in a world full of scoundrels talking smooth words and wearing fine threads, while the ones like me, who are not afraid of the truth and have not one damn thing to hide, are shunned because we don't stick our noses up any old asshole.
Please spread the word about Johnny COckisrunning working for the FBI when his brothers were being killed just for trying to have soup kitchens and what not...what the FBI did to the Black Panthers is horrible, you know? They even made up coloring book pages showing a kid stabbing a cop and saying 'off the pigs' and put them in Panther coloring books to drive off their mainstream supporters.
Johnny Cockisrunning makes me wish there was a heaven and a hell just so I could chuckle over the thought of his fat ass frying!!!!
There is no suddenly becoming a good guy after betraying all of your friends, ideals, and loved ones. The guy was scum and the world is better off without him.... I may just have to wait a few weeks, then go spray paint something about his fbi connections of his grave stone.... well, that is if my balls grow quite a bit lareger between now and then. How big are your balls, by the way?
Every time I see cockisrunning (by the way, his cock is running yellow, snot consistency seepige, if you must know, and you know you must...) I feel the horror of having my throat sliced, being molested as a child... He let Jackoffyourson continue to play Peter Panderer for money. How much would they have to pay you to let a child molestor continue?
If this was the worst he had done.... he would be no more worthy of a bullet than any of the shit speckled lawyers who take on obviously guilty clients and try to convince a jury of a lie, rather than attain justice.
I know more about this gruesome shit in a suit than most people... . . . being more informed than the yokels in this realm of beer-sports addled idiots trapped in that whole us against them mentality which breeds the western selfishness that blooms into our docility in the face of political reeming after reeming... is hardly something to brag on.
I have known a few ex-black panthers, and once took a class on the FBI that dealt primarily with original source material taken from the FBI's conintellignece program, Garden Plot, which was put into place by tricky dick, who was also lauded over like he was more than a scum predator. Most of the documents dealt with the Black Panthers. They were a bunch of activists who were pushed into becoming urban gureillas (the FBi actually sold them guns, as well as planted guns in their office; though he was wanted for no crime, here in Chicago, they kicked the leaders door down and shot him dead, after having one of their informants drug him).
"If the glove don't fit, acquit."
We heard this boof saying ithis n court when he helped OJ Simpson get away with murdering his ex and a hapless cat who returned her forgotten sunglasses. The use of slogans to make someone's thoughts effected by the slogan is a technique used to manipulate other people. He was a southern preacher who sold out his soul, used his oratory gifts for the denizens of the dark prince.
We didn't hear how he got the famalies of the molested children to let someone else's child get molested? That western selfishness that is so entwined with how much we love our money... I wonder what he said to them. Probably, "Look, I let him fuck my kids all the time for this kind of money, okay? You got to let him play, before he gonna pay! Yoy got to... let... him.. play, before he gonna pay!"
The man is responsible for jackoffyourson getting to play with more little children, for OJ getting to golf instead of go to prison... and we all know this. But, I never see much about his days as an FBI informant, back in the sixties. He represented some of the Black Panthers while working for the FBI, completly fucking them in court, as you can imagine. But, like the intelligence agencies want us to, we forget this...
They could have black mailed him with this for his whole career for all I know. He was a lackey to the worst criminals in the world. The FBI under edgar hoover who ran Garden Plot (the largest domestic assault on american citizens yet by an intelligence agency).
He should have been in front of the firing squad with oj, massah jack-off-yourson, and everyone else who makes their way in the world by destroying other people.
I am sure that there will be some sort of racial split on him, too, with the blacks deciding they have another saint and the whites kind of shaking their heads like, "What the fuck are those blacks thinking?"
I am glad my black friends are a little more enlightened than this. Not that whites are any better. My brother sent me an article about how the christians are running candidates, which they should not be able to do and keep their tax free status, but.... we live in a world full of scoundrels talking smooth words and wearing fine threads, while the ones like me, who are not afraid of the truth and have not one damn thing to hide, are shunned because we don't stick our noses up any old asshole.
Please spread the word about Johnny COckisrunning working for the FBI when his brothers were being killed just for trying to have soup kitchens and what not...what the FBI did to the Black Panthers is horrible, you know? They even made up coloring book pages showing a kid stabbing a cop and saying 'off the pigs' and put them in Panther coloring books to drive off their mainstream supporters.
Johnny Cockisrunning makes me wish there was a heaven and a hell just so I could chuckle over the thought of his fat ass frying!!!!
There is no suddenly becoming a good guy after betraying all of your friends, ideals, and loved ones. The guy was scum and the world is better off without him.... I may just have to wait a few weeks, then go spray paint something about his fbi connections of his grave stone.... well, that is if my balls grow quite a bit lareger between now and then. How big are your balls, by the way?
PUFFINS REFUSE TO SHOW THEIR SMILING FACES TO THE CROWDS! THE QUEEN IS NOT AMUSED!
For days now, zookeepers at the Lincoln park zoo have been having trouble with the rather notorious puffins in the main birdhouse. There have been rumbles with other birds in the past, photographs of the bouyant waterfowl flashing gang signs, and whispers that only their well-documented excessive use of drugs keeps them constantly smiling all day -- yet, in spite of all their personal problems, and what numerous puffins have described as 'really, really killer hang overs,' the puffins have always somehow gathered the gumption to show their smiling faces to the crowd. Not today, though. No, on this dark excuse for day, the puffins have turned their backs on the adoring crowds and are spewing white runny feces out their asses out right onto their once faithful well-wishers... Yes, this is hard to remove from the hair and lips, feces; this fount of puffin shit indeed does sting in the eyes, and taste terrible in the mouth. For journalistic purposes, I did have to have a taste…The Queen is not amused!!!
The bejewled old leach called a special session of parliament today, immediantly after news of the Puffins unruly, anti-market behavior hit the shocked and sadden shores of great BrittanyThe queen addressed parliament for thrity seven minutes, screaming over and over into the microphone, "The queen is not amused."
Landed Gentry in the parlaiment then began singing, in gregorian chants, over and over, rising and sitting as they intoned, "Theeeeee Queen . . . is . . . not . . . a.. mused."
One of the princes flounced up and smacked the old queenie to stop her from screaming that she was not amused, and the bejeweled wrinkle then went on to urge the puffins to ‘do their part,’ by 'smiling through the bars of their cages.'
Seemingly unimpressed, the puffins responded by continuing to spew white gook from their anuses at the passing crowds.
In related news, the penguins are still spinning around in circles as fast as they can and screaming, “Oh, the shits with you,” over and over again with no sign of stopping.
When their publicist was asked just what the heck those waterfowl are up to, she mysteriously answered this reporters stern, probing question by smiling and looking out at the horizon, then saying in a breathless, excited voice, "“They are ushering in the new time!!”
The bejewled old leach called a special session of parliament today, immediantly after news of the Puffins unruly, anti-market behavior hit the shocked and sadden shores of great BrittanyThe queen addressed parliament for thrity seven minutes, screaming over and over into the microphone, "The queen is not amused."
Landed Gentry in the parlaiment then began singing, in gregorian chants, over and over, rising and sitting as they intoned, "Theeeeee Queen . . . is . . . not . . . a.. mused."
One of the princes flounced up and smacked the old queenie to stop her from screaming that she was not amused, and the bejeweled wrinkle then went on to urge the puffins to ‘do their part,’ by 'smiling through the bars of their cages.'
Seemingly unimpressed, the puffins responded by continuing to spew white gook from their anuses at the passing crowds.
In related news, the penguins are still spinning around in circles as fast as they can and screaming, “Oh, the shits with you,” over and over again with no sign of stopping.
When their publicist was asked just what the heck those waterfowl are up to, she mysteriously answered this reporters stern, probing question by smiling and looking out at the horizon, then saying in a breathless, excited voice, "“They are ushering in the new time!!”
I JUST DON'T KNOW WHAT THE HELL TO THINKS SOMETIMES?
Data compiled by the Family Research Institute: "Scientific studies confirm a strong pedophilic predisposition among homosexuals."
The institute, after reviewing more than 19 studies and peer-reviewed reports in a 1985 "Psychological Reports" article, found that homosexuals account for between 25 and 40 percent of all child molestation.
"But this number is low," Baldwin says, "due to the fact that many reporters will not report if a child molester is a homosexual, even if he knows that to be the case."
Related story:
Pedophile lawsuit goes class action?
I assume it has something to do with youth worship, and following around a drunken, horny chimp.... There is also the possibility that this research being quoted by the Family Research Institute is faulty. I always heard the opposite was true, but honestly, I hear a hell of a lot more about male homosexuals practicing sexual abuse. Lesbians I have seldom if ever heard of, so the use of homosexuals is a little misleading here.
I feel like that south park episode about the gay teacher faulting his dad for not molesting him into a good pansy boy -- specifically, i feel like stan, who kept walking by saying he was not going to get involved. I still wonder what percentege of homosexual males are molestor's though, because if it amounts to some minute percent of the population, than the research is basically meaningless too.
I hate all the lying voices out there trying to obscure the world. There really area hell of a lot more people devoted to propping up lies than there are who are commetted to the truth. I hope you think about which side of the line of the sand you stand on in this one.
Let me know, if you can speak on this topic without your own prejudices getting in the way (like I do when I write about massah jack-off-your-son and have to put aside my hatred of the creep who touched me where he shouldn't have when he shouldn't have).
The institute, after reviewing more than 19 studies and peer-reviewed reports in a 1985 "Psychological Reports" article, found that homosexuals account for between 25 and 40 percent of all child molestation.
"But this number is low," Baldwin says, "due to the fact that many reporters will not report if a child molester is a homosexual, even if he knows that to be the case."
Related story:
Pedophile lawsuit goes class action?
I assume it has something to do with youth worship, and following around a drunken, horny chimp.... There is also the possibility that this research being quoted by the Family Research Institute is faulty. I always heard the opposite was true, but honestly, I hear a hell of a lot more about male homosexuals practicing sexual abuse. Lesbians I have seldom if ever heard of, so the use of homosexuals is a little misleading here.
I feel like that south park episode about the gay teacher faulting his dad for not molesting him into a good pansy boy -- specifically, i feel like stan, who kept walking by saying he was not going to get involved. I still wonder what percentege of homosexual males are molestor's though, because if it amounts to some minute percent of the population, than the research is basically meaningless too.
I hate all the lying voices out there trying to obscure the world. There really area hell of a lot more people devoted to propping up lies than there are who are commetted to the truth. I hope you think about which side of the line of the sand you stand on in this one.
Let me know, if you can speak on this topic without your own prejudices getting in the way (like I do when I write about massah jack-off-your-son and have to put aside my hatred of the creep who touched me where he shouldn't have when he shouldn't have).
KAMIKAZE HAMSTERS TO REPLACE STAR WARS
The mighty hamster army is almost ready to replace the failed star wars program with kamikaze hamsters, who will fly up into any nuclear bombs headed toward the elves attic, and blow them up safely out over the Lake.
The hamsters up here, as I say, in what you humans seem to perceive of as a purely mental dimension that is quite possibly chemically inflated.. Thousands of them are alert and ready to fly off at the first sign me or m or the pup or the kitty bum are in the least bit of danger of being bombed.
On the physical dimension that I share with the smelly humans, the results of my work have not been quite so stunning. Oh yes, like Star Wars, there have been problems
Today I set up four pilots and told them that bombs actually were headed for the elf. I expected them to rush off to save me. I mean, I have been filling them up on the idea of a heaven, drilling them on how I am next to god and they better do what I tell them, and all sorts of other crap that is required to properly brain wash an army into doing anything -- including the ultimate sacrifice... They should have responded like speed freaking japs in ww 2.
Instead of flying off for the bombs, though,
they decided to sacrifice themselves rather than save me.
I could not believe it when I saw them developing velocity in the last few feet and literally exploding on contact into red balls of unraveling intestines and other related blood and gore. .
I can only assume that they were all plants from some dark power that is creeping over the land, as sauron out of mordor.... probably from someone either in government or industry who stands to lose power or money if star wars is ever just scrapped for something crazy -- like peace.
M. just came home... Oh, great, she walked in the door, came up to the computer and is now glaring at me and the words coming up on the screen.
So let me add, I may or may not be responsible for the hamsters splattered about in the courtyard of our apartment building.
Oh, here it comes...
M: "Why are there bloody, crushed hamsters glued to paper airplanes all over the courtyard?"
"Those are not my hamsters."
"Oh, yea, and where are those hamsters you got?"
"My great storm of a fighting force is training in the ... I can't divulge that information. A lot of stuff to do with my army has to remain top secret, M., I mean, you're not exactly the type to stand up to torture, you know?"
"I won't listen to one more word of your babbling until you clean up the courtyard."
Luckily, I was prepared for this contingency. I held off feeding the mighty red ruby dog both breakfast and dinner. She has really developed quite a taste for hamster due to the often-rebellious nature of the mighty hamster army (I really need a better, more heavily adjectived name). Hamsters are not easy to train, believe me. I lecture and lecture, of course, doing my best. Because, like they say to the kids, if you do your best, everything will work out just like you want it to (and yes that is my own personal jesus; silly looking boy, ain't he?)..
The hamsters up here, as I say, in what you humans seem to perceive of as a purely mental dimension that is quite possibly chemically inflated.. Thousands of them are alert and ready to fly off at the first sign me or m or the pup or the kitty bum are in the least bit of danger of being bombed.
On the physical dimension that I share with the smelly humans, the results of my work have not been quite so stunning. Oh yes, like Star Wars, there have been problems
Today I set up four pilots and told them that bombs actually were headed for the elf. I expected them to rush off to save me. I mean, I have been filling them up on the idea of a heaven, drilling them on how I am next to god and they better do what I tell them, and all sorts of other crap that is required to properly brain wash an army into doing anything -- including the ultimate sacrifice... They should have responded like speed freaking japs in ww 2.
Instead of flying off for the bombs, though,
they decided to sacrifice themselves rather than save me.
I could not believe it when I saw them developing velocity in the last few feet and literally exploding on contact into red balls of unraveling intestines and other related blood and gore. .
I can only assume that they were all plants from some dark power that is creeping over the land, as sauron out of mordor.... probably from someone either in government or industry who stands to lose power or money if star wars is ever just scrapped for something crazy -- like peace.
M. just came home... Oh, great, she walked in the door, came up to the computer and is now glaring at me and the words coming up on the screen.
So let me add, I may or may not be responsible for the hamsters splattered about in the courtyard of our apartment building.
Oh, here it comes...
M: "Why are there bloody, crushed hamsters glued to paper airplanes all over the courtyard?"
"Those are not my hamsters."
"Oh, yea, and where are those hamsters you got?"
"My great storm of a fighting force is training in the ... I can't divulge that information. A lot of stuff to do with my army has to remain top secret, M., I mean, you're not exactly the type to stand up to torture, you know?"
"I won't listen to one more word of your babbling until you clean up the courtyard."
Luckily, I was prepared for this contingency. I held off feeding the mighty red ruby dog both breakfast and dinner. She has really developed quite a taste for hamster due to the often-rebellious nature of the mighty hamster army (I really need a better, more heavily adjectived name). Hamsters are not easy to train, believe me. I lecture and lecture, of course, doing my best. Because, like they say to the kids, if you do your best, everything will work out just like you want it to (and yes that is my own personal jesus; silly looking boy, ain't he?)..
MASSAH JACKOFFYOURSON WOWS COPS BY BLOWING LLAMA!!!
Massah jackoffyourson allegedly staved off a child molestation accusation in 1990 with a $2 million payment to the son of an employee at his Neverland Ranch, according to a television report, which went on to say he also paid out another fifty three dollars to the family of a neighborhood pig, who refuses to be identified because he is afraid he will be labeled, quote, 'another one of massah jackoffyourson's washed up, ex-celebrity, rubba bubbas... like one of them corey's.'
The television news magazine, Grapevine on JPC, which reported the payment in a segment to be broadcast Friday night, did not disclose its source of information, though it is suspected they merely went to a jackoffyourson fan sight and checked out the section where the kids took polls on things like, "Did you enjoy massah jackoffyourson's mouth on your anus?"
The poll was taken by over three hundred children, and seemingly not one was into anal ligulas.In the segment, a retired Santa Barbara County Sheriff, said his office investigated Jackson in 1993 in connection with one boy's claim and came upon the second accusation. The ex sheriff spit repeatedly on the ground as emphasis of his disgust as he told reporters, "Yea, we knew he was a chicken chaser from way back, just couldn't get none of the parents to let them kids talk, not after getting to be millionaire's all sudden and signing away their rights. These are poor people who he victimizes, ones he can actually impress with all his fancy surgeries and highly advanced oral sex techniques on llama's and chimps. You think he can sing? You should see how he blows llama! You gotta respect something like that a little, but the kids? Now, if I had arrested him, I'd of shoved his sick, pus dripping ass out of my squad car when I was doing about ninety, and then turned around and run him over a couple times, then shot the hell out of whatever was left for trying to flee from a police officer.
"The first boy reportedly was paid $15 million to $20 million by massah Jackoffyourson to avoid what the jaskoffyourson's attorney's claim was an 'allegation' that would damage massah jackoffyourson's career even if proven untrue. Which is of course just another lie from their putrid lips, because, as all people not on the jaskoffyourson's payroll will now admit, it could only be good for massah jackoffyourson's career to just once be proven not guilty of molesting children, which is of course, impossible....Reporters laughed in the beak of jackoffyourson's press agent when the talking parrot dressed in leather chaps told them, "Massah Jackoffyourson denies, ark . . . ever harming any child. . . . and is… Rubba, let's all do shots and play rubba... ark, cracker... is currently fighting charges he molested a boy in 2003. He says he can, lie and buy his way out … ark... he owes me a lot of crackers... ark... for shitting in his mouth, like he demands... ark, crackers."Jackoffyourson is reported to have stated repeatedly that he was going to, quote, 'bitch slap that damn charge,' though his attorney has tried to explain to jackoffyourson that this is impossible, his efforts to get jackoffyourson to understand the nature of the rule of law was purely in vain. “He’s obviously… ark… a lot dummer than me, a goddamn parrot… ark… do shot! Rubba!!! Crackers….”
His attorney, the Scum Sucker, as his closest call him, went on to say, "My theory is, he thinks these kids are baby llamas. Arck... doesn't matter to me though, win or lose, I get paid a fucking barrel of money!!!! I'll say or do anything!!! Hell, if I hadn't shirked legal responsibility for all of my kids, ..ark... he could rubba them for this kind of money!! Ark!"The retired sheriff interviewed on the newsmagazine, Grapevine’s JPC, told reporters, `We always believed there were eight to 10 other children out there.'' ``
The sheriff also said that the employee's son did not file charges and didn't want to testify, saying, " He was afraid his friends would think he was a homosexual, or even worse -- a pig fucker or a llama blower or a chimp eater outer, or a parrot but lickerm or ... Well, quite frankly the kid went on and on -- two officers vomited half way through... Let me tell you, buddy, it is just pitiful what that freak does to those animals. He has leather costumes for those damn llamas... hell, the pigs, too. One pig he dresses up like Elvis all the time, even has a black pompadour he pastes on it’s head. He claims that he has captured Elvis’s soul in the pig, by some ritual he made up with peanut butter and banana sandwiches -- which were indeed the king’s favorite, so we are also investigating the possibility that the king lives, and may have, god forbid, been sodomized."The retired sheriff has previously discussed the boy's claim, but said he wasn't sure until the GRAPVINE report that massah Jackoffyourson had paid the boy $2 million.``GRAPEVINE'' said the settlement contained a clause barring it from being discussed publicly.The sheriff said the 12-year-old accused Jackson of ``fondling him through his clothes,'' which could be the basis of misdemeanor charges. No charges were ever filed because officers on the scene were too busy eating the free donuts and pizza and watching jackoffyourson perform amazing oral feats on both a lusty llama and a bi-sexual yak.J
ackson, 45, has pleaded not guilty to committing a lewd act upon a child, administering an intoxicating agent and conspiring to commit child abduction, false imprisonment and extortion -- as well as a series of sodomy charges on a list of animals that would make the Los Angeles Zoo green with envy. His trial is set to start Jan. 31, 2005. Not so president, when he heard that jackoffyourson would still be in possession of his children, went on telvevision with an impassioned speech calling for any al queda sleeper agents to never, ever blow up massah jackoffyourson. Democratic candidate, Mr. 'I don’t have an RV… oh those seven, well, the wife owns those….' Responded by saying, "Oh, his asinine attempt at reverse psychology is not going to work."Not so president responded to democratic charges by saying, "How the hell did they find out about reverse psychology? Find me that damn press leak... now!!! Have the cia kill them with paper clips, a slow death from a thousand points of paper clips... Yea, I like that there sound of words there... A thousand points of paper clips... Might work for torturing them camel riding yahoos, too. Now, tell me again, just what the hell were we talking about.
Massah Jackoffyourson recently renamed his never, never land ranch to simply, “No I Never, Never Played No Rubba With their Cute Little Asses Ranch.’
When asked by reporters what the fuck is up with the new name, jackoffyourson responded, “My attorney thingy, he says I mean don keys… What, oh… No, donkeys. They have cute asses… you ever stick your head in a donkey’s ass? It’s all warm and juicy, like Jiz Taylor’s pee pee thingy.”At that point Jackoffyourson was led away by a parrot, who could be heard by reporters saying, over and over as he lured the reluctant jackoffyourson away from the spotlight and into an awaiting limo filled with children, “The children in the limo are getting cold. Ark…The Children in the limo are getting cold….”
The television news magazine, Grapevine on JPC, which reported the payment in a segment to be broadcast Friday night, did not disclose its source of information, though it is suspected they merely went to a jackoffyourson fan sight and checked out the section where the kids took polls on things like, "Did you enjoy massah jackoffyourson's mouth on your anus?"
The poll was taken by over three hundred children, and seemingly not one was into anal ligulas.In the segment, a retired Santa Barbara County Sheriff, said his office investigated Jackson in 1993 in connection with one boy's claim and came upon the second accusation. The ex sheriff spit repeatedly on the ground as emphasis of his disgust as he told reporters, "Yea, we knew he was a chicken chaser from way back, just couldn't get none of the parents to let them kids talk, not after getting to be millionaire's all sudden and signing away their rights. These are poor people who he victimizes, ones he can actually impress with all his fancy surgeries and highly advanced oral sex techniques on llama's and chimps. You think he can sing? You should see how he blows llama! You gotta respect something like that a little, but the kids? Now, if I had arrested him, I'd of shoved his sick, pus dripping ass out of my squad car when I was doing about ninety, and then turned around and run him over a couple times, then shot the hell out of whatever was left for trying to flee from a police officer.
"The first boy reportedly was paid $15 million to $20 million by massah Jackoffyourson to avoid what the jaskoffyourson's attorney's claim was an 'allegation' that would damage massah jackoffyourson's career even if proven untrue. Which is of course just another lie from their putrid lips, because, as all people not on the jaskoffyourson's payroll will now admit, it could only be good for massah jackoffyourson's career to just once be proven not guilty of molesting children, which is of course, impossible....Reporters laughed in the beak of jackoffyourson's press agent when the talking parrot dressed in leather chaps told them, "Massah Jackoffyourson denies, ark . . . ever harming any child. . . . and is… Rubba, let's all do shots and play rubba... ark, cracker... is currently fighting charges he molested a boy in 2003. He says he can, lie and buy his way out … ark... he owes me a lot of crackers... ark... for shitting in his mouth, like he demands... ark, crackers."Jackoffyourson is reported to have stated repeatedly that he was going to, quote, 'bitch slap that damn charge,' though his attorney has tried to explain to jackoffyourson that this is impossible, his efforts to get jackoffyourson to understand the nature of the rule of law was purely in vain. “He’s obviously… ark… a lot dummer than me, a goddamn parrot… ark… do shot! Rubba!!! Crackers….”
His attorney, the Scum Sucker, as his closest call him, went on to say, "My theory is, he thinks these kids are baby llamas. Arck... doesn't matter to me though, win or lose, I get paid a fucking barrel of money!!!! I'll say or do anything!!! Hell, if I hadn't shirked legal responsibility for all of my kids, ..ark... he could rubba them for this kind of money!! Ark!"The retired sheriff interviewed on the newsmagazine, Grapevine’s JPC, told reporters, `We always believed there were eight to 10 other children out there.'' ``
The sheriff also said that the employee's son did not file charges and didn't want to testify, saying, " He was afraid his friends would think he was a homosexual, or even worse -- a pig fucker or a llama blower or a chimp eater outer, or a parrot but lickerm or ... Well, quite frankly the kid went on and on -- two officers vomited half way through... Let me tell you, buddy, it is just pitiful what that freak does to those animals. He has leather costumes for those damn llamas... hell, the pigs, too. One pig he dresses up like Elvis all the time, even has a black pompadour he pastes on it’s head. He claims that he has captured Elvis’s soul in the pig, by some ritual he made up with peanut butter and banana sandwiches -- which were indeed the king’s favorite, so we are also investigating the possibility that the king lives, and may have, god forbid, been sodomized."The retired sheriff has previously discussed the boy's claim, but said he wasn't sure until the GRAPVINE report that massah Jackoffyourson had paid the boy $2 million.``GRAPEVINE'' said the settlement contained a clause barring it from being discussed publicly.The sheriff said the 12-year-old accused Jackson of ``fondling him through his clothes,'' which could be the basis of misdemeanor charges. No charges were ever filed because officers on the scene were too busy eating the free donuts and pizza and watching jackoffyourson perform amazing oral feats on both a lusty llama and a bi-sexual yak.J
ackson, 45, has pleaded not guilty to committing a lewd act upon a child, administering an intoxicating agent and conspiring to commit child abduction, false imprisonment and extortion -- as well as a series of sodomy charges on a list of animals that would make the Los Angeles Zoo green with envy. His trial is set to start Jan. 31, 2005. Not so president, when he heard that jackoffyourson would still be in possession of his children, went on telvevision with an impassioned speech calling for any al queda sleeper agents to never, ever blow up massah jackoffyourson. Democratic candidate, Mr. 'I don’t have an RV… oh those seven, well, the wife owns those….' Responded by saying, "Oh, his asinine attempt at reverse psychology is not going to work."Not so president responded to democratic charges by saying, "How the hell did they find out about reverse psychology? Find me that damn press leak... now!!! Have the cia kill them with paper clips, a slow death from a thousand points of paper clips... Yea, I like that there sound of words there... A thousand points of paper clips... Might work for torturing them camel riding yahoos, too. Now, tell me again, just what the hell were we talking about.
Massah Jackoffyourson recently renamed his never, never land ranch to simply, “No I Never, Never Played No Rubba With their Cute Little Asses Ranch.’
When asked by reporters what the fuck is up with the new name, jackoffyourson responded, “My attorney thingy, he says I mean don keys… What, oh… No, donkeys. They have cute asses… you ever stick your head in a donkey’s ass? It’s all warm and juicy, like Jiz Taylor’s pee pee thingy.”At that point Jackoffyourson was led away by a parrot, who could be heard by reporters saying, over and over as he lured the reluctant jackoffyourson away from the spotlight and into an awaiting limo filled with children, “The children in the limo are getting cold. Ark…The Children in the limo are getting cold….”
Monday, April 11, 2005
guest columnist, Rupert Gilford Tuttle
Jesus is Buff and has a blond crew cut
Hello readers of the Elves Attic, and welcome to my new weekly column, where I hope to spread em wide for Christ!! I am very proud to introduce myself as Gilford Tuttle, white Christian warrior, savior of all white fetuses and follower of the one and true, well muscled and white, short, blonde haired Jesus H. Christ.
I am known throughout the greater Fort Wayne area as the first lay minister to object to the long haired, hippyed out versions of our Teutonic Deity, Jesus H. Christ. I am proud to say that I have in the works a t-shirt, which will show Our Son Of God as he was, is, and always shall be – with a short, blonde crew cut and a strong, manly physic. God is on our side, so we will destroy all the false images of Christ that show Him looking skinny and weak with the long, curling hair of a harlot.
A prophet at my church had a vision that Satan himself designed this demeaning view or Our lord and savior, and then inserted this blasphemous seed into homosexual artists by acts of sodomy. Yes, that prophet was me, too, though I don’t like to say because this is bragging; I was not top of my class, but like they said at the mail order seminary school where I paid 87.45, my handwriting is legible (don’t be afraid to look this word ‘legible’ up – I had to, and I am blessed by god, as my minister said, ‘with the ability to say words to other people’).
I wanted to use my first column here to make you aware of the Blonde, Buff Christ Almighty, who is said to have balls as big as mountains in heaven. In the course of the next few weeks, I am going to convert you. God has told me as much in my prayers, so this is written in stone. Let’s start by me repeating something that really woke them up in the pews on the day when I said this during open testimonials. “My Jesus is not a satanic, hippy, Jewish homosexual! No, not my Jesus.” This should be enough, I am told, to convert even the most devil riddled heathen, and that it does no speaks of the immense powers of the dark, skinny, long haired Satan!!!
Let me end this with the message that I had put on buttons to hand out to my Sunday school classes, and I urge you to do the same at your church (Jesus just told me that he will be very pissed if you don’t): GOD WANTS YOU TO SAY NO TO HIPPY SATANIC JEWISH HOMOSEXUAL JESUS OR HE IS GOING TO LET SATAN PAINFULLY ASS FUCK YOU FOR ALL ETERNITY.
Please go in peace,
GILFORD TUTTLE, WHITE, CHRISTIAN, COLUMNIST.
Hello readers of the Elves Attic, and welcome to my new weekly column, where I hope to spread em wide for Christ!! I am very proud to introduce myself as Gilford Tuttle, white Christian warrior, savior of all white fetuses and follower of the one and true, well muscled and white, short, blonde haired Jesus H. Christ.
I am known throughout the greater Fort Wayne area as the first lay minister to object to the long haired, hippyed out versions of our Teutonic Deity, Jesus H. Christ. I am proud to say that I have in the works a t-shirt, which will show Our Son Of God as he was, is, and always shall be – with a short, blonde crew cut and a strong, manly physic. God is on our side, so we will destroy all the false images of Christ that show Him looking skinny and weak with the long, curling hair of a harlot.
A prophet at my church had a vision that Satan himself designed this demeaning view or Our lord and savior, and then inserted this blasphemous seed into homosexual artists by acts of sodomy. Yes, that prophet was me, too, though I don’t like to say because this is bragging; I was not top of my class, but like they said at the mail order seminary school where I paid 87.45, my handwriting is legible (don’t be afraid to look this word ‘legible’ up – I had to, and I am blessed by god, as my minister said, ‘with the ability to say words to other people’).
I wanted to use my first column here to make you aware of the Blonde, Buff Christ Almighty, who is said to have balls as big as mountains in heaven. In the course of the next few weeks, I am going to convert you. God has told me as much in my prayers, so this is written in stone. Let’s start by me repeating something that really woke them up in the pews on the day when I said this during open testimonials. “My Jesus is not a satanic, hippy, Jewish homosexual! No, not my Jesus.” This should be enough, I am told, to convert even the most devil riddled heathen, and that it does no speaks of the immense powers of the dark, skinny, long haired Satan!!!
Let me end this with the message that I had put on buttons to hand out to my Sunday school classes, and I urge you to do the same at your church (Jesus just told me that he will be very pissed if you don’t): GOD WANTS YOU TO SAY NO TO HIPPY SATANIC JEWISH HOMOSEXUAL JESUS OR HE IS GOING TO LET SATAN PAINFULLY ASS FUCK YOU FOR ALL ETERNITY.
Please go in peace,
GILFORD TUTTLE, WHITE, CHRISTIAN, COLUMNIST.
PENGUINS KICKED OUT OF HEAVEN.
Penguins left earth last week in the Rapture, leaving behind despondent, whining humans.
This week, inexpicablly, the birds are back.
When asked to explain, the penguins merely shrugged and continued smoking incessently and staring off into space.
This week, inexpicablly, the birds are back.
When asked to explain, the penguins merely shrugged and continued smoking incessently and staring off into space.
I PRETENDED I WAS SICKING THE DOG ON SOMEONE AND THEY DIED.
Does this make me bad? According to the judgemental one, M., of coures....
How could I resist this opportunity, though? You will understand better as I desctribe the hardly fateful affair. From a block downt eh sidewalk. I could see this woman's fingers start shaking a half block away from the Ruby, her eyes widening as she came closer to my wolf looking dog -- who was smiling and thus showing a lot of teeth... I practically had to step off the sidewalk, wait until she got her motorized wheel chair up right beside me, and then release Ruby, who is always anxious to run up and kiss and strangers and was indeed pulling at her leash toward the lady, as I screamed, "Kill her boy, kill!!!"
There was this high pitched sceam and blue hair bouncing as she tried to speed off on the ice and lost control, fell over in front a guy on a bike and got run over . . . and then her damn coat got all splashed with blood when the bicyclist's nose was scrapped off on the sidewalk. This is not my fault, and I don't think I should have to pay to clean her damn coat. I mean, I was merely trying to give her a little thrill, you know? Like a roller coaster ride or something like that. She should be thanking me. Tell that to the cops and M..
I had no idea all of this mayhem would occur, and as such, no matter what M. says, I am keeping the video footage that I made... so what if it does make me laugh like 'an evil hyena?' I mean, like I told that damn skeptic, M., -- I only laugh to hide my tears..... Really.You should see this footage.
Did I mention the guy lost his nose? It was laying there on the sidewalk. I walked up and picked it up and told the guy, "I have your nose."M. says I was being thoughtless, but hey -- the guy needed a laugh. By the way, I didn't know he was dead yet, or I wouldn't have wasted the energy kicking him when he didn't laugh at the nose joke.You know, much to my surprise, I just realized that there is actually a lesson to this meandering, memoirish mourning...You see, the bicyclist died and couldn't call M. and get her all upset, or threaten to sue us, or convince that cop that she wasn't senile and had not attacked Ruby while screaming that she was spike the vampire, like I told him... That sorrily deluded officer got so mad that he asked me If I was insane, or just needed an ass kicking. M. did not come to my defense, of course... in fact, she told the cop, "He is insane, but that doesn't mean he doesn't need his ass kicked."
Well, you are probably waiting for the moral of this story.. that would be, if I had it do all over again, I would have saved myself a hell of a lot of hassles by stomping on the old ladies head until her brains squirted out her wrinkly little ears. M. thinks this is would be 'just horrifying.'
When she said this, I was like, "Well, yea, so?"
Turns out, she explained to me, in M speak, 'horrifying' is somehow bad.
"Tell that to George Romero," I told her...
She refused to see the light, just stubbornly held onto her ignorance and still thinks I would be do something 'bad,' by saving us hassles, which is so achingly obviously good....
How could I resist this opportunity, though? You will understand better as I desctribe the hardly fateful affair. From a block downt eh sidewalk. I could see this woman's fingers start shaking a half block away from the Ruby, her eyes widening as she came closer to my wolf looking dog -- who was smiling and thus showing a lot of teeth... I practically had to step off the sidewalk, wait until she got her motorized wheel chair up right beside me, and then release Ruby, who is always anxious to run up and kiss and strangers and was indeed pulling at her leash toward the lady, as I screamed, "Kill her boy, kill!!!"
There was this high pitched sceam and blue hair bouncing as she tried to speed off on the ice and lost control, fell over in front a guy on a bike and got run over . . . and then her damn coat got all splashed with blood when the bicyclist's nose was scrapped off on the sidewalk. This is not my fault, and I don't think I should have to pay to clean her damn coat. I mean, I was merely trying to give her a little thrill, you know? Like a roller coaster ride or something like that. She should be thanking me. Tell that to the cops and M..
I had no idea all of this mayhem would occur, and as such, no matter what M. says, I am keeping the video footage that I made... so what if it does make me laugh like 'an evil hyena?' I mean, like I told that damn skeptic, M., -- I only laugh to hide my tears..... Really.You should see this footage.
Did I mention the guy lost his nose? It was laying there on the sidewalk. I walked up and picked it up and told the guy, "I have your nose."M. says I was being thoughtless, but hey -- the guy needed a laugh. By the way, I didn't know he was dead yet, or I wouldn't have wasted the energy kicking him when he didn't laugh at the nose joke.You know, much to my surprise, I just realized that there is actually a lesson to this meandering, memoirish mourning...You see, the bicyclist died and couldn't call M. and get her all upset, or threaten to sue us, or convince that cop that she wasn't senile and had not attacked Ruby while screaming that she was spike the vampire, like I told him... That sorrily deluded officer got so mad that he asked me If I was insane, or just needed an ass kicking. M. did not come to my defense, of course... in fact, she told the cop, "He is insane, but that doesn't mean he doesn't need his ass kicked."
Well, you are probably waiting for the moral of this story.. that would be, if I had it do all over again, I would have saved myself a hell of a lot of hassles by stomping on the old ladies head until her brains squirted out her wrinkly little ears. M. thinks this is would be 'just horrifying.'
When she said this, I was like, "Well, yea, so?"
Turns out, she explained to me, in M speak, 'horrifying' is somehow bad.
"Tell that to George Romero," I told her...
She refused to see the light, just stubbornly held onto her ignorance and still thinks I would be do something 'bad,' by saving us hassles, which is so achingly obviously good....
PENGUINS TAKEN TO RAPTURE.... despondent humans left behind.
Seemingly only penguins, a few adjadcent aquatic birds, and various winos who were sleeping on benches in zoos across the world were taken up into the heavens this morning when a supreme deity finally kept its promise to save the worthy from the hell of the world.
As the deity scooped up the penguins in his hands, thousands of screaming human voices were raised to protest the supreme deity's decision, representing every type of whining known to man. The deity shushed the humans, then pointed at the amusing antics of various penguins who were doing an elaborate ice-scapade version of a tale that they explained, in a short introduction, was too complex for human understanding. . .
Before leaving, the deity told the humans,"Hey, ectoplasm, get over yourself. I didn't even try to make another species that comes close to a penguin. Let alone, Man... Yea, right -- come on, you don't even really believe that do you? Every dog you have ever met is a better being than you. . . I mean, name a dog that isn't a better being than you? ... Let alone a penguin -- they're fucking nature's clowns, man! You put your robin williams and conans on stage with an emporer penguin, not only will it kick their asses, it will make you laugh harder than you ever have before in your life while it does so. You are a component in an echosphere, and if anything, you should be punished, if not just weeded out. You're probably very lucky that I don't bother thinking about you very much."After finding out their species is well down on the animal totem pole that god uses to judge specks of the echosphere, humans around the world were reported to be, 'thinking about other stuff,' and 'keeping busy.'
NOTE FROM JOHNNY PAIN: Well, I'd say YOU HUMANS have a bit of egg on the old face, today, huh? I am so glad I married into another species, marsupial. I mean, we might go after dogs or something, but man? Like the deity said when asked about when the humans would go, "Not on my fucking watch, that is for sure."
As the deity scooped up the penguins in his hands, thousands of screaming human voices were raised to protest the supreme deity's decision, representing every type of whining known to man. The deity shushed the humans, then pointed at the amusing antics of various penguins who were doing an elaborate ice-scapade version of a tale that they explained, in a short introduction, was too complex for human understanding. . .
Before leaving, the deity told the humans,"Hey, ectoplasm, get over yourself. I didn't even try to make another species that comes close to a penguin. Let alone, Man... Yea, right -- come on, you don't even really believe that do you? Every dog you have ever met is a better being than you. . . I mean, name a dog that isn't a better being than you? ... Let alone a penguin -- they're fucking nature's clowns, man! You put your robin williams and conans on stage with an emporer penguin, not only will it kick their asses, it will make you laugh harder than you ever have before in your life while it does so. You are a component in an echosphere, and if anything, you should be punished, if not just weeded out. You're probably very lucky that I don't bother thinking about you very much."After finding out their species is well down on the animal totem pole that god uses to judge specks of the echosphere, humans around the world were reported to be, 'thinking about other stuff,' and 'keeping busy.'
NOTE FROM JOHNNY PAIN: Well, I'd say YOU HUMANS have a bit of egg on the old face, today, huh? I am so glad I married into another species, marsupial. I mean, we might go after dogs or something, but man? Like the deity said when asked about when the humans would go, "Not on my fucking watch, that is for sure."
Penguins Causing More Trouble
Penguins all over the world are spinning in circles so fast that they appear like black and white blurs as they scream again and again, "Oh, the shits with you!' Visitors to zoos across the world responded differently to the odd behavior on the part of the notoriously unruly aquatic waterfowl.
At New York zoo, the cursing penguins were pelted with empty cans of coke and admonished to "put up some amusing antics, or get the hell out." Surprisingly enough, the normally unarmed penguins returned fire with doubled barreled shotguns, taking out large swathes of the crowds gathered in front of their stage, and making for a few tense moments with a swat team before the police force surrendered to the penguins and joined them in their cages spinning around in circles screaming, "Oh, the shits wit ya!!"
When President Bush heard about the mass exodus of new York’s finest to the penguins, he told white house reporters, "You know what we have here? We have an animal terrorist event!!! You know, chickens, for some reason, all had it out for my father. Fuck em, and all the birds. We don't need em, not if they're terrorists. And they are -- terrorist animals!!! I won't have this, not on my watch!!!"
The increasingly unstable W., who aides and pundits alike are calling, "Maybe too full of himself," is said to now be traveling with three nuclear bombs in his briefcase in case 'God tells me to blow stuff up and kill everybody again."The president is canvassing the senate and congress today trying to drum up support for his plan to, quote, ” . . . take out all the other animals, once and fucking for all. "
Speaking to a shocked group of parents at the unveiling of a new wing of Ted's Library devoted to the presidents, W told the crowd of half quickly crying children, "I've been thinking about getting bit by this squirrel when I was a kid, or at least I'm thinking about it now. Who the hell can tell? And this bird... that fucking bird that messed up the grill on one of the very first cars dad bought me. Well, I wrote in a paper for some damn class about how men had been at war with wild animals since leaving Eden . . . maybe it was a sermon I heard somewhere, a readers digest or some damn thing . . . don't knock me about my memory, for god's sake, not after you cows voted for reagan, who couldn't -- I swear to god -- remember to wipe his ass by his second year in office. Reagen said it best one day when some guy fed him a speech as a joke on him, which they did a lot at the end, just to break the tension from the cold war and all...I ain't paid to know, I am paid to make you fuckers tremble until I get my goddamn way."
Still no comment from the penguins. Other puffins have yet to emerge, and all are still presumed dead.
At New York zoo, the cursing penguins were pelted with empty cans of coke and admonished to "put up some amusing antics, or get the hell out." Surprisingly enough, the normally unarmed penguins returned fire with doubled barreled shotguns, taking out large swathes of the crowds gathered in front of their stage, and making for a few tense moments with a swat team before the police force surrendered to the penguins and joined them in their cages spinning around in circles screaming, "Oh, the shits wit ya!!"
When President Bush heard about the mass exodus of new York’s finest to the penguins, he told white house reporters, "You know what we have here? We have an animal terrorist event!!! You know, chickens, for some reason, all had it out for my father. Fuck em, and all the birds. We don't need em, not if they're terrorists. And they are -- terrorist animals!!! I won't have this, not on my watch!!!"
The increasingly unstable W., who aides and pundits alike are calling, "Maybe too full of himself," is said to now be traveling with three nuclear bombs in his briefcase in case 'God tells me to blow stuff up and kill everybody again."The president is canvassing the senate and congress today trying to drum up support for his plan to, quote, ” . . . take out all the other animals, once and fucking for all. "
Speaking to a shocked group of parents at the unveiling of a new wing of Ted's Library devoted to the presidents, W told the crowd of half quickly crying children, "I've been thinking about getting bit by this squirrel when I was a kid, or at least I'm thinking about it now. Who the hell can tell? And this bird... that fucking bird that messed up the grill on one of the very first cars dad bought me. Well, I wrote in a paper for some damn class about how men had been at war with wild animals since leaving Eden . . . maybe it was a sermon I heard somewhere, a readers digest or some damn thing . . . don't knock me about my memory, for god's sake, not after you cows voted for reagan, who couldn't -- I swear to god -- remember to wipe his ass by his second year in office. Reagen said it best one day when some guy fed him a speech as a joke on him, which they did a lot at the end, just to break the tension from the cold war and all...I ain't paid to know, I am paid to make you fuckers tremble until I get my goddamn way."
Still no comment from the penguins. Other puffins have yet to emerge, and all are still presumed dead.
More Trouble With The Lincoln Park Penguins
Penguins all over the world are spinning in circles so fast that they appear like black and white blurs as they scream again and again, "Oh, the shits with you!' Visitors to zoos across the world responded differently to the odd behavior on the part of the notoriously unruly aquatic waterfowl.
At New York zoo, the cursing penguins were pelted with empty cans of coke and admonished to "put up some amusing antics, or get the hell out." Surprisingly enough, the normally unarmed penguins returned fire with doubled barreled shotguns, taking out large swathes of the crowds gathered in front of their stage, and making for a few tense moments with a swat team before the police force surrendered to the penguins and joined them in their cages spinning around in circles screaming, "Oh, the shits wit ya!!"
When President Bush heard about the mass exodus of new York’s finest to the penguins, he told white house reporters, "You know what we have here? We have an animal terrorist event!!! You know, chickens, for some reason, all had it out for my father. Fuck em, and all the birds. We don't need em, not if they're terrorists. And they are -- terrorist animals!!! I won't have this, not on my watch!!!"
The increasingly unstable W., who aides and pundits alike are calling, "Maybe too full of himself," is said to now be traveling with three nuclear bombs in his briefcase in case 'God tells me to blow stuff up and kill everybody again."The president is canvassing the senate and congress today trying to drum up support for his plan to, quote, ” . . . take out all the other animals, once and fucking for all. "
Speaking to a shocked group of parents at the unveiling of a new wing of Ted's Library devoted to the presidents, W told the crowd of half quickly crying children, "I've been thinking about getting bit by this squirrel when I was a kid, or at least I'm thinking about it now. Who the hell can tell? And this bird... that fucking bird that messed up the grill on one of the very first cars dad bought me. Well, I wrote in a paper for some damn class about how men had been at war with wild animals since leaving Eden . . . maybe it was a sermon I heard somewhere, a readers digest or some damn thing . . . don't knock me about my memory, for god's sake, not after you cows voted for reagan, who couldn't -- I swear to god -- remember to wipe his ass by his second year in office. Reagen said it best one day when some guy fed him a speech as a joke on him, which they did a lot at the end, just to break the tension from the cold war and all...I ain't paid to know, I am paid to make you fuckers tremble until I get my goddamn way."
Still no comment from the penguins. Other puffins have yet to emerge, and all are still presumed dead.
At New York zoo, the cursing penguins were pelted with empty cans of coke and admonished to "put up some amusing antics, or get the hell out." Surprisingly enough, the normally unarmed penguins returned fire with doubled barreled shotguns, taking out large swathes of the crowds gathered in front of their stage, and making for a few tense moments with a swat team before the police force surrendered to the penguins and joined them in their cages spinning around in circles screaming, "Oh, the shits wit ya!!"
When President Bush heard about the mass exodus of new York’s finest to the penguins, he told white house reporters, "You know what we have here? We have an animal terrorist event!!! You know, chickens, for some reason, all had it out for my father. Fuck em, and all the birds. We don't need em, not if they're terrorists. And they are -- terrorist animals!!! I won't have this, not on my watch!!!"
The increasingly unstable W., who aides and pundits alike are calling, "Maybe too full of himself," is said to now be traveling with three nuclear bombs in his briefcase in case 'God tells me to blow stuff up and kill everybody again."The president is canvassing the senate and congress today trying to drum up support for his plan to, quote, ” . . . take out all the other animals, once and fucking for all. "
Speaking to a shocked group of parents at the unveiling of a new wing of Ted's Library devoted to the presidents, W told the crowd of half quickly crying children, "I've been thinking about getting bit by this squirrel when I was a kid, or at least I'm thinking about it now. Who the hell can tell? And this bird... that fucking bird that messed up the grill on one of the very first cars dad bought me. Well, I wrote in a paper for some damn class about how men had been at war with wild animals since leaving Eden . . . maybe it was a sermon I heard somewhere, a readers digest or some damn thing . . . don't knock me about my memory, for god's sake, not after you cows voted for reagan, who couldn't -- I swear to god -- remember to wipe his ass by his second year in office. Reagen said it best one day when some guy fed him a speech as a joke on him, which they did a lot at the end, just to break the tension from the cold war and all...I ain't paid to know, I am paid to make you fuckers tremble until I get my goddamn way."
Still no comment from the penguins. Other puffins have yet to emerge, and all are still presumed dead.
MY INTERVIEW WITH THE ZINE _this fucking life___________
Well, elf shits… here is an interview that is coming out in the Chicago zine scene, in This Fucking Life. . . sorry to say that I didn’t know about the existence of such a thing as This Fucking Life (dog, I love writing that) until I was contacted by Serena Six for an interview. She reads my blog and said yea to all that… So, here is a reprint of an Interview with Johnny Pain from the Zine This Fucking Life. And yes, I have permission!!!! You better get it too when you publish other peoples stuff, or I will have to kick your ass, or put you on a list… depending on how big and tough you are. I mean, should I one day have to wipe out all humanity to keep prescientifica-head-in-the-assica from infecting the next animals that learn to talk, the young and the weak and elderly will have to die first, I am afraid… plain and simply because they are easier and I am lazy. Any how, here is Selena Six’s interview with the asshole, as I call myself……
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Since first reading about the bloody hell of the hamster wars, I knew I would sooner or later interview this other Chicagoan, Mr. Johnny Pain. Now, I was finally meeting him, going up three flights of stairs to the Elves Attic. I see him first standing at the top, framed by a dark wooden doorway wearing a torn black shirt with red, blood-dripping letters saying, KILL EVERYONE. His jeans are black, too, and his boots are once black, though now faded gray. He is slim, average height, cute… Long brown curls fall out from beneath a South Park hat with Stan barfing green over the maroon brim. As I reach the top of the stairs, he steps back to let me in and offers his hand with a scowl on his face, like he is being forced to shake hands with someone he feels is repugnant
“Nice shirt.” I step into the attic and notice the cats that Johnny Pain writes about in his blog, first accusing them of killing his first mighty hamster army, and then deriding the no torture policy that his girlfriend M. has instigate as the reason he can’t verify that the cats ate the hamsters. The gray tabby, Charlie Brown Bukowski, is lying at the top of the keyboards and looking up at me curiously. Mr.Yeats is curled up into a puffy ball, an orange, lionish looking cat sleeping on the back of a black leather love seat,
Johnny waves me toward a red wing chair, “ You agree with the sentiment of the shirt, I take it, or you wouldn’t be here. It’s easy to agree with a shirt like this. . “ He speaks in a surprisingly soft voice, sets me up to be startled when he suddenly yells, “are you willing to back that up with a few rounds?”
I jump, he chuckles and strokes his chin.
I laughed then and had an odd feeling that I had just entered a funny and disturbing Johnny Pain story. “ No, but your feelings on the matter are exactly why I wanted to interview you for my zine.”
“You have a zine, too? “ Johnny asked.
“Yes, This Fucking Life… I told M. all this on the phone.”
“Yes, well, she’s always telling me something she wants me to remember when I am too stoned to remember, but don’t try to tell her that’s a valid excuse for forgetting things… she can’t face a lot of realities, because she is just like everyone else.” He points at my handheld recorder and asks, “ You already have that thing recording, right?”
“Yes, from the stairs.”
“You want to do some bongs?” He asks as he pulls a knee high red bong out from behind his desk.
“Cool.”
“I’ll pack one, or however many ya need, got weed, got weed… yea, I don’t get interviewed nearly enough, and I think about how cool it would be all the time, know all the right questions to ask me… sometimes this is all I do for months at a time.” He looks puzzled, stokes his thin Vincent Price beard, a slim line of dark hair running down his jaw lines and ending in a graying goatee like beard. “ :Fucking eh, this is probably something I should just talk about with a professional… “ He laughs like he has been joking all along, hands me the bong and points at a lighter on a coffee table-- which he has painted with skyscrapers rising into a black city night filled with stars. The room is filled with his paintings, bright, colorful canvases that range from cubist to Van Gogh -ish landscapes.
“I love your paintings.”
“People buy this shit. I don’t notice them until someone points them out, actually. Painting them is the only part I like – selling them kind of sucks, makes me feel lost… like parting with a good friend forever… We are here to talk hamsters, though. That orange cat, his nickname is butboy, because he spends every night curled up on one of our Asses. He comes right in when you go to bed. Soft, warm… who knows why he does it? You ever kill anyone?”
“No, I would never kill anyone.” I tell him with a laugh.
“Never say never on that one, Bub . . . think a minute and you’ll realize there are all kinds of reasons one might have to kill. This is not some psychosis… Damn that fucking … oh, never mind that… No, you have to be ready to kill, like me, tough you know? I never meant to learn how to fight, it just happens when you live in a neighborhood full of bullies and hot heads. There was a fight at almost every game… Now, I know there are reasons to know how to fight, and justifiable reasons to kill, though dog knows, I’m probably not lucky enough to ever get a chance. Dammit!!!”
I smoke another bong and feel like my head has emptied out, look at my list of questions and then remember one Johnny Pain’s essays and come up with a new question.
“On your web sit, you wrote that you have,’ fuck your mother, kill your father,’ tattooed on your forehead, but I don’t see . . . ”
He takes off his hat and pulls back his long light brown hair, showing me a thin line of tiny blue letters right at his hairline, reading, yes, ‘FUCK YOUR MOTHER, KILL YOUR FATHER.’
“How drunk were you?” I ask him.
“Hard to tell… I can’t remember. My theory is, someone drugged me… besides me, I mean. I think it is obvious that the dog, Ruby-doo the husky, is behind this. She is ridiculously happy all the time, and I think that is because she finds this tattoo so damn amusing… I could find out, but you know M. and this anti-torture policy?”.
“ Did you ever discover who ate the first mighty hamster army?”
“Again, there is no shit-shrub not so president here to order M. to let me torture. The CIA gets to torture… bouncing crucified Christ’s, even those weekend soldiers get to torture!! I swear to god, I’d vote for a damned republican if that not-so-president would just call M. and tell her that this anti-terrorist effort requires hard, bloody decisions -- like torture… I’ve called the white house repeatedly and left messages, but no….
That fucker Clinton always called me back. All I had to do with him was say I had some juicy ‘pussy talk.’ Once he sent air force one to pick me up – that time I had memorized some penthouse forums, which it turned out he had already read, and then I had to convince him that the adventures indeed were mine and that I had sent in the letters… He’d buy anything to keep a good pussy talk going.”
M. comes into the room, her long red hair and big brown eyes make for a very cute
Face, and her body, to quote Johnny Pain, ‘could raise a woody on the dead.’ She looks at Johnny like she is a little annoyed with him, “Don’t lie to this young lady. You’re damn lucky to have someone around who takes you seriously for a few minutes. You better enjoy it while it lasts.”
Johnny laughs, though I am not entirely sure she is being facetious. M. sets down a cup of coffee for Johnny and asks me if I want anything; when I don’t, she bids us farewell..
“You can see the hamster room, if you dare… Just don’t say anything anti-rodent, or pro-cat in there, or I can’t be held responsible for your well being.”
The hamster ‘room’ is actually a closet, with the walls lined with empty cages.
“Come on in.”
“There isn’t room.
“I’ve had three people in here, maybe four?”
I suspect he is lying, though I go in any ways, enter a small space which smells of cedar chips and stand uncomfortably close to the interviewee. He doesn’t seem to know I am there as he looks from cage to cage with a contemplative look on his face.
Johnny turns on the light bulb hanging down from the ceiling, closes the door and tells me in a whisper, “Security,”
“Are there any hamsters?” I ask?
He taps his forehead and says, “They’re all in here, practicing on a purely mental dimension, for now…so, yea, there are a hell of a lot of hamsters. I spend my time now, preparing to train the other hamsters, the ones on… well, this dimension, you know… though in other dimensions, the ones I can only access up here." He taps himself on the forehead again, “the hamster army is making them tremble and shake… and when I bring them out of here, into here…” He points at his head and then the cages, “You will see Paintopia rise up and become the world government, or you will be killed as a resister. That will be up to you and how you act, unless I am really moody, and then I might have you killed for just being around and being human. Who can tell what’s going to happen, right?”
“Can we leave this room?”
“Sure. I know, coming in here reminds you that war is hell, and hamster war is even worse… it’s a. . . Hellish hell, I guess… Yea, let’s get out of here. And Don’t say anything about this to anyone, or you will hear the hamster’s squeal of death!!”
“This is an interview for a publication and…”
“I mean government people.”
“They don’t read my zine.”
“Well, I guess you get to live . . . for now.”
We go back into the living area of the attic-- half is filled with boxes, most of the rest is Johnny’s office. He sits in a red leather swivel chair in front of the computer and I lean back into the black leather loveseat, petting the orange Mr. Yeats as Johnny leans over the tray on the coffee table, takes out a bowl and begins stuffing in a bud. .
I ask him, “You know, wait, if I heard the hamster’s squeal of death, wouldn’t that mean that the rodents are dying? And why would that be frightening to me?”
He shakes his head no and looks up at the ceiling, “In the battle to kill you, there would be fatalities on the hamster side. Practically a suicide mission, really, since a human can probably kill like twenty of them before succumbing – well, that is assuming that the cloak of passive pet that the hamster now hide behind is lifted and they are known as the killers they are. Until that happens, subterfuge is best…a slow, cute, cuddly little killer that can get into the jugular kill zone . . . you probably would be able to kill the little trooper that tears open your throat, so a hamsters death scream would be the last thing you ever heard. Now that is frightening… you better wake up from your little dream world girl… Really and truly, now, you never killed anyone?”
“No.”
“Ah, you’re just being cagey, probably . . . Yea, that’s the way you got to be…. Never confess. Seriously, between us, you know, who did you kill, or should I say, how many?”
“I’ve never killed anyone, and I have no plans to.”
“M. said that you were a mercenary who was in charge of a special operations unit working clandestinely for the CIA, training and delivering killer gerbils to our enemies who enjoy rodents as pets?
“I thought you would find that a funny joke.”
“You fucking humans!!!! Why the hell would you think I would take that as a joke? This is war, girl, and you had better understand that right now.” Then Johnny started jumping around like a pogo stick and squealing like an angry rodent… this went on for perhaps a minute, then he began spinning around in circles while mumbling, “Oh, the shits with ya!!! Oh, the shits with ya!!! Oh the….”
M. came in. “I heard the jumping and squealing. He told me that was how he was going to end the interview…. Come on…. You know, he has some crack pot theory about finding nirvana by pretending he is a penguin spinning around saying, ‘Oh, the shits with you.’ He can keep this up for hours. No, seriously, of course you know he’s just doing this for your benefit? Like, he wanted the interview to be different. Though honestly, I don’t think he could be normal if he wanted to be, and he doesn’t. You know he was playing with you, right?”
“Well, yes… sure, I did…”
“He told me interviews are mostly boring, no matter how much you like the people … and something about how interviews don’t have the power of journalism or fiction? You know, he gets so excited and talks so much that you have to kind of stop listening to him sometimes….”
As she walks me out to the door, I can still hear him up there, spinning around and yelling his way into nirvana…
“He is one damn funny guy,” I tell her as we hug and part.
“Yea, if only some of it were intentional, you know?”
Despite what M. said about Johnny Pain acting his way through the interview, I am still entertaining the question of whether he is doing an Andy Kaufman, or is simply mad? I also look at hamsters now as the cut-throat cold ass killer’s they are… yea cats!!! May you and Ruby eat them all!!! Just kidding, Johnny; and Johnny, while I am at it, let me also write that you better remember how nice I was when you are the supreme commander of Paintopia, because I really want to live…. please let me live…please?).
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Since first reading about the bloody hell of the hamster wars, I knew I would sooner or later interview this other Chicagoan, Mr. Johnny Pain. Now, I was finally meeting him, going up three flights of stairs to the Elves Attic. I see him first standing at the top, framed by a dark wooden doorway wearing a torn black shirt with red, blood-dripping letters saying, KILL EVERYONE. His jeans are black, too, and his boots are once black, though now faded gray. He is slim, average height, cute… Long brown curls fall out from beneath a South Park hat with Stan barfing green over the maroon brim. As I reach the top of the stairs, he steps back to let me in and offers his hand with a scowl on his face, like he is being forced to shake hands with someone he feels is repugnant
“Nice shirt.” I step into the attic and notice the cats that Johnny Pain writes about in his blog, first accusing them of killing his first mighty hamster army, and then deriding the no torture policy that his girlfriend M. has instigate as the reason he can’t verify that the cats ate the hamsters. The gray tabby, Charlie Brown Bukowski, is lying at the top of the keyboards and looking up at me curiously. Mr.Yeats is curled up into a puffy ball, an orange, lionish looking cat sleeping on the back of a black leather love seat,
Johnny waves me toward a red wing chair, “ You agree with the sentiment of the shirt, I take it, or you wouldn’t be here. It’s easy to agree with a shirt like this. . “ He speaks in a surprisingly soft voice, sets me up to be startled when he suddenly yells, “are you willing to back that up with a few rounds?”
I jump, he chuckles and strokes his chin.
I laughed then and had an odd feeling that I had just entered a funny and disturbing Johnny Pain story. “ No, but your feelings on the matter are exactly why I wanted to interview you for my zine.”
“You have a zine, too? “ Johnny asked.
“Yes, This Fucking Life… I told M. all this on the phone.”
“Yes, well, she’s always telling me something she wants me to remember when I am too stoned to remember, but don’t try to tell her that’s a valid excuse for forgetting things… she can’t face a lot of realities, because she is just like everyone else.” He points at my handheld recorder and asks, “ You already have that thing recording, right?”
“Yes, from the stairs.”
“You want to do some bongs?” He asks as he pulls a knee high red bong out from behind his desk.
“Cool.”
“I’ll pack one, or however many ya need, got weed, got weed… yea, I don’t get interviewed nearly enough, and I think about how cool it would be all the time, know all the right questions to ask me… sometimes this is all I do for months at a time.” He looks puzzled, stokes his thin Vincent Price beard, a slim line of dark hair running down his jaw lines and ending in a graying goatee like beard. “ :Fucking eh, this is probably something I should just talk about with a professional… “ He laughs like he has been joking all along, hands me the bong and points at a lighter on a coffee table-- which he has painted with skyscrapers rising into a black city night filled with stars. The room is filled with his paintings, bright, colorful canvases that range from cubist to Van Gogh -ish landscapes.
“I love your paintings.”
“People buy this shit. I don’t notice them until someone points them out, actually. Painting them is the only part I like – selling them kind of sucks, makes me feel lost… like parting with a good friend forever… We are here to talk hamsters, though. That orange cat, his nickname is butboy, because he spends every night curled up on one of our Asses. He comes right in when you go to bed. Soft, warm… who knows why he does it? You ever kill anyone?”
“No, I would never kill anyone.” I tell him with a laugh.
“Never say never on that one, Bub . . . think a minute and you’ll realize there are all kinds of reasons one might have to kill. This is not some psychosis… Damn that fucking … oh, never mind that… No, you have to be ready to kill, like me, tough you know? I never meant to learn how to fight, it just happens when you live in a neighborhood full of bullies and hot heads. There was a fight at almost every game… Now, I know there are reasons to know how to fight, and justifiable reasons to kill, though dog knows, I’m probably not lucky enough to ever get a chance. Dammit!!!”
I smoke another bong and feel like my head has emptied out, look at my list of questions and then remember one Johnny Pain’s essays and come up with a new question.
“On your web sit, you wrote that you have,’ fuck your mother, kill your father,’ tattooed on your forehead, but I don’t see . . . ”
He takes off his hat and pulls back his long light brown hair, showing me a thin line of tiny blue letters right at his hairline, reading, yes, ‘FUCK YOUR MOTHER, KILL YOUR FATHER.’
“How drunk were you?” I ask him.
“Hard to tell… I can’t remember. My theory is, someone drugged me… besides me, I mean. I think it is obvious that the dog, Ruby-doo the husky, is behind this. She is ridiculously happy all the time, and I think that is because she finds this tattoo so damn amusing… I could find out, but you know M. and this anti-torture policy?”.
“ Did you ever discover who ate the first mighty hamster army?”
“Again, there is no shit-shrub not so president here to order M. to let me torture. The CIA gets to torture… bouncing crucified Christ’s, even those weekend soldiers get to torture!! I swear to god, I’d vote for a damned republican if that not-so-president would just call M. and tell her that this anti-terrorist effort requires hard, bloody decisions -- like torture… I’ve called the white house repeatedly and left messages, but no….
That fucker Clinton always called me back. All I had to do with him was say I had some juicy ‘pussy talk.’ Once he sent air force one to pick me up – that time I had memorized some penthouse forums, which it turned out he had already read, and then I had to convince him that the adventures indeed were mine and that I had sent in the letters… He’d buy anything to keep a good pussy talk going.”
M. comes into the room, her long red hair and big brown eyes make for a very cute
Face, and her body, to quote Johnny Pain, ‘could raise a woody on the dead.’ She looks at Johnny like she is a little annoyed with him, “Don’t lie to this young lady. You’re damn lucky to have someone around who takes you seriously for a few minutes. You better enjoy it while it lasts.”
Johnny laughs, though I am not entirely sure she is being facetious. M. sets down a cup of coffee for Johnny and asks me if I want anything; when I don’t, she bids us farewell..
“You can see the hamster room, if you dare… Just don’t say anything anti-rodent, or pro-cat in there, or I can’t be held responsible for your well being.”
The hamster ‘room’ is actually a closet, with the walls lined with empty cages.
“Come on in.”
“There isn’t room.
“I’ve had three people in here, maybe four?”
I suspect he is lying, though I go in any ways, enter a small space which smells of cedar chips and stand uncomfortably close to the interviewee. He doesn’t seem to know I am there as he looks from cage to cage with a contemplative look on his face.
Johnny turns on the light bulb hanging down from the ceiling, closes the door and tells me in a whisper, “Security,”
“Are there any hamsters?” I ask?
He taps his forehead and says, “They’re all in here, practicing on a purely mental dimension, for now…so, yea, there are a hell of a lot of hamsters. I spend my time now, preparing to train the other hamsters, the ones on… well, this dimension, you know… though in other dimensions, the ones I can only access up here." He taps himself on the forehead again, “the hamster army is making them tremble and shake… and when I bring them out of here, into here…” He points at his head and then the cages, “You will see Paintopia rise up and become the world government, or you will be killed as a resister. That will be up to you and how you act, unless I am really moody, and then I might have you killed for just being around and being human. Who can tell what’s going to happen, right?”
“Can we leave this room?”
“Sure. I know, coming in here reminds you that war is hell, and hamster war is even worse… it’s a. . . Hellish hell, I guess… Yea, let’s get out of here. And Don’t say anything about this to anyone, or you will hear the hamster’s squeal of death!!”
“This is an interview for a publication and…”
“I mean government people.”
“They don’t read my zine.”
“Well, I guess you get to live . . . for now.”
We go back into the living area of the attic-- half is filled with boxes, most of the rest is Johnny’s office. He sits in a red leather swivel chair in front of the computer and I lean back into the black leather loveseat, petting the orange Mr. Yeats as Johnny leans over the tray on the coffee table, takes out a bowl and begins stuffing in a bud. .
I ask him, “You know, wait, if I heard the hamster’s squeal of death, wouldn’t that mean that the rodents are dying? And why would that be frightening to me?”
He shakes his head no and looks up at the ceiling, “In the battle to kill you, there would be fatalities on the hamster side. Practically a suicide mission, really, since a human can probably kill like twenty of them before succumbing – well, that is assuming that the cloak of passive pet that the hamster now hide behind is lifted and they are known as the killers they are. Until that happens, subterfuge is best…a slow, cute, cuddly little killer that can get into the jugular kill zone . . . you probably would be able to kill the little trooper that tears open your throat, so a hamsters death scream would be the last thing you ever heard. Now that is frightening… you better wake up from your little dream world girl… Really and truly, now, you never killed anyone?”
“No.”
“Ah, you’re just being cagey, probably . . . Yea, that’s the way you got to be…. Never confess. Seriously, between us, you know, who did you kill, or should I say, how many?”
“I’ve never killed anyone, and I have no plans to.”
“M. said that you were a mercenary who was in charge of a special operations unit working clandestinely for the CIA, training and delivering killer gerbils to our enemies who enjoy rodents as pets?
“I thought you would find that a funny joke.”
“You fucking humans!!!! Why the hell would you think I would take that as a joke? This is war, girl, and you had better understand that right now.” Then Johnny started jumping around like a pogo stick and squealing like an angry rodent… this went on for perhaps a minute, then he began spinning around in circles while mumbling, “Oh, the shits with ya!!! Oh, the shits with ya!!! Oh the….”
M. came in. “I heard the jumping and squealing. He told me that was how he was going to end the interview…. Come on…. You know, he has some crack pot theory about finding nirvana by pretending he is a penguin spinning around saying, ‘Oh, the shits with you.’ He can keep this up for hours. No, seriously, of course you know he’s just doing this for your benefit? Like, he wanted the interview to be different. Though honestly, I don’t think he could be normal if he wanted to be, and he doesn’t. You know he was playing with you, right?”
“Well, yes… sure, I did…”
“He told me interviews are mostly boring, no matter how much you like the people … and something about how interviews don’t have the power of journalism or fiction? You know, he gets so excited and talks so much that you have to kind of stop listening to him sometimes….”
As she walks me out to the door, I can still hear him up there, spinning around and yelling his way into nirvana…
“He is one damn funny guy,” I tell her as we hug and part.
“Yea, if only some of it were intentional, you know?”
Despite what M. said about Johnny Pain acting his way through the interview, I am still entertaining the question of whether he is doing an Andy Kaufman, or is simply mad? I also look at hamsters now as the cut-throat cold ass killer’s they are… yea cats!!! May you and Ruby eat them all!!! Just kidding, Johnny; and Johnny, while I am at it, let me also write that you better remember how nice I was when you are the supreme commander of Paintopia, because I really want to live…. please let me live…please?).
WHO ATE THE HAMSTERS?
This question has been put to both cats and ruby dog.
At this point, none of them will admit to anything.
They are cagey, like old cons, just look at me with cold expressions. I’m convinced that they are waiting to have a lawyer present. Try to explain that to an uppity lawyer, though… none of them would come to the apartment for the trial. By the way, if I have to say, ‘yes, I am serious,’ to one more person today, they are going on my lists… you’ve been warned.
M., like those fucking lawyers, just doesn’t seem to take this very seriously. She won’t even listen to my arguments for torture. I know I could make them talk, but M. doesn’t want to ‘entertain’ what she erroneously refers to as, ‘another reason’ I should be ‘taking my medication.
’Those hamsters were coming around, too. Unlike the cats and the dog, who will still have nothing to do with the idea of killing humans. I am puzzled, once again, by just what I did wrong while raising these animals?
At this point, none of them will admit to anything.
They are cagey, like old cons, just look at me with cold expressions. I’m convinced that they are waiting to have a lawyer present. Try to explain that to an uppity lawyer, though… none of them would come to the apartment for the trial. By the way, if I have to say, ‘yes, I am serious,’ to one more person today, they are going on my lists… you’ve been warned.
M., like those fucking lawyers, just doesn’t seem to take this very seriously. She won’t even listen to my arguments for torture. I know I could make them talk, but M. doesn’t want to ‘entertain’ what she erroneously refers to as, ‘another reason’ I should be ‘taking my medication.
’Those hamsters were coming around, too. Unlike the cats and the dog, who will still have nothing to do with the idea of killing humans. I am puzzled, once again, by just what I did wrong while raising these animals?
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