THE MIGHTFILLED HAMSTER ARMY SUFFERS ANOTHER SET BACK

The Mighty Hamster Army has had another false start, which means we are all in peril, let me tell you. Bush gets an army, and I should get to have one too.... I hate the thought of him sending young boys to assault the elf, because I will have to release the hamsters; .as of yet, they have never learned to actually draw blood, but there will be some scratches, and bites, let me tell ya.. war is hell, after all... or at least it will be, when I can find some way to keep a hamster army without them mysteriously disappearing....


Anyways, I once more had to go out and purchase some more hamsters, three to be exact (and thank you, I write sarcastically, you elf shits, for sending me all those hamsters... NOT!! When you come begging for protection at my door, it will be too late!). I named the little fuzzy killers Napoleon, Alexander the Great, and Attila the Hun.

They were something else, really coming along. I was having great success training them to crawl around on my shoulders, which is the first step in getting them to rip out the enemies jugulars with the needles I have sticking out of their little black boots.Yes, I had them nearly ready to lead a savage army of squealing hellions fighting for justice and a steady supply of weed. They were squealing marching songs (M. doesn't believe this, but then she doesn't think hamsters are dangerous, either, so you can see why I have to take her opinions with a grain of proverbial salt) and lining up quite nicely.

I did have to glue them to the Risk game board that I was using while showing them the most strategic manner to take over the world, because they do have a tendency, I am sad to say, toward desertion... This morning I woke up and played revelry on a kazoo (M. won't let me buy a trumpet because, get this, 'the damn things are loud enough to wake the dead--you can't do that at six in the morning!!' Yea, right, like all armies should stop playing revelry because of the 'neighbors.' Do you think our human soldiers in Iraq are worried about 'waking up the neighbors?').

I then went in to check on the troops. I knew something was amiss when I found their abandoned uniforms in their open cage. I went to great lengths to tailor their camouflage uniforms and tiny black boots with needles sticking out ... and to see them just laying there... well, I was ready to court martial somebody, let me tell you. But, once again, they had disappeared without a trace.Ruby the husky and my two cats, Buk and Yeats, refused to answer my repeated questions about the disappearance, maintained their cagey, old con silence... and I guess I got a little loud, because M. came running into the room trying to get me to be quiet. When I told her that the Hamsters were missing again, she actually just laughed and said; "I told you that hamsters were too tempting of a treat for the cats, not to mention that Ruby lived in the wild for a year and looks at them as lunch. Remember how she licked her lips when you brought them in? And the cats, they were mewing like they were asking for a treat. I told you to be careful with the lock on the cage, but I knew you'd get too stoned sometime and leave it open... "

She laughed all through this tirate. I don't know why I can't get through her thick skull the simple truth that we need a personal army to first protect us, and then to take over the helm of running the world and save the planet from the mindless industrialists. I guess she just doesn't have my intellect?Well, once more I am going to plead with you, dear elf shits, to send me hamsters. And let me also reiterate that I dead hamsters will do me no good. Whoever sent all those dead hamsters to me must have known that I would feed them to my pets, thus making them look at my army as food. My dog, I just thought of this!!! I guess I was asking for trouble when I revealed my plans on this website. .. More than likely, the CIA is worried about my having an army and sending me dead hamsters....I just went and told M. about the CIA sending me dead hamsters.

She was reading and just kind of went, "Yea, uh, huh..."

I sensed, with my highly advance people skills, that she wasn't interested when she told me,

"I am trying to read here."

I tried to get her away from her reading with a true fact I just figured out -- The CIA is not only sending me dead, stinky rodents in the mail, they are probably using one or more of the animals to sabotage my efforts to build a murderous army of mighty hamsters. She still feigned disinterest and ignored me... When I told her that torture is the only way to get the cats and dog to talk, she once again reiterated her stifling 'no torture' policy. I tried to explain to her that I would just be using the same techniques our government uses at Guatamano Prison and such, how the precedent had been set and... Well, she just read on... completely ignoring me, going on living in her little dream world where we are all safe without personal armies... what will it take to wake her up to reality? I don't know.Send me hamsters or the industrialists will kill this planet. It really is that simple, and absurd... and, maybe,futile... the world will die, just because you were too stoned and lazy to send hamsters .. you are almost as pathetic as me...

pPRESIDENT PREVIOUSLY KNOWN AS BUSH CHANGES NAME TO 'THE ROCK STAR W."

SECRET service agents interrupted the Conan O'Brian show last night, stopping a derogatory skit about the president in mid-stream. The W could be heard off stage egging the secret service agents on as they first cuffed, and then beat Conan O'brian to death with repeated punches to the stomach, doing permanent damage to the popular hosts' trademark red pompdour.

The W, as the president now requires by law that he is referred to in all press articles, then ordered the agents to, "Mace all their asses up good, and if they cry, you just go all ape shit on them alright? Cowards.... I won't have em', not in my country."

The W. then took a seat at Conan's Desk and addressed the late night talk show demographic wearing what has become his trademark look -- impenetrable black sun glasses and all black leather from his ankle length coat, shirt, pants, and steel toed boots. Sporting a new diamond ear ring, a blonde die job, and a tattoo, still bloody, of a cross on his forearm, the president then announced to a stunned world, "From here on in, the w is all about the music. Yea, the w is getting a band and the w is living hard, man... a new town, a new chick every night, man... like the w used to dream of.... before, you know, the w found out that he wasn't cool. Back then. He's cool now, of course. Hell I'm cool. AIn't I boys? See them secret service boys think the w is cool. SOrry guys about trying to get ya to eat those microphones last week. I was playing quarters with the girls before I came out for that speech. Tonight, the w sticking to the weed and beer and wine -- no hard stuff. Oh, yea, weed's federally legal now, blah, blah, blah... Just try and bust the w, man. The w got all his body guards smoking a doobie every two hours, man, and they are paranoid, more keyed up than ever. Don't let those red eyes fool ya. Unless your thinking they're crazy mad killers, and then you would be right. Now, the w is still gonna be president, I mean what the hell? But from this day forward, the w will basically be living for tunes, man. Just playing music, recording, touring.... the w has been told he can be a rock star. Man, ain't that the shits? The w means, president is cool, but.... shit, rock star's a lot cooler. My daughters are gonna sing back up. I guess this started as their idea... maybe? You know Clinton really thought he'd be able to jump from the presidency into playing in a band, and man, he wasn't happy when he couldn't pull it off and had to go back to lawyering (We have a secret tape of him lamenting all the 'pussy' he lost by never touring with a band).Anyways, see all the schools and libraries and shit will have to buy my record, because I'm prez., so we got a built in audience. The w got a cool band, too. . Ozzie of course is singing back up, with eninem and slash base and shit... whatever they do... for the lead singer, we're gonna have that guy who did Alvin and The Chimpmunks come in... that shits funny, and it touches me, man, like Elvis..... Weird Al is writing all the lyrics. The w made him poet loreaute of america today, too, which can only help the band. As far as running the office, it's always been a family business, and will continue to be. Dad will be around answering phones, and mom and other folks, you know, that I trust. Hell, whatever they say is fine. The w will come in one day a week, and whatever normal work falls on that day, the w will do it. No more, though -- the w don't want shit piled up on my desk when he comes in, remember that, or more will die mother fuckers. Rock on."

Bush then abruptly left the studio.

O'brian's signature pompodour survived the attack that took the late night hosts life, and was able to finish out the show. NBC was so happy with 'little reds' performance that the puffy locks was offered a full time gig as the new host of the late show.

Brian Tannedtocancer, the nbc executive in charge of late night programming, announced the new host at a brunch this morning that started out as a wake for Conan but quickly turned into a photo op for the irrespressible 'lil red.' The pompodour impressed the executives ast night by taking the reigns of the Conan show, after host had just been beaten to death by a surprisingly legal presidential decree, and taking up right where Conan left off -- despite the handicap of haveing to get the audience laughing and run the show, from the top of the head of the dead body of his predeccesser.

W. uses presidential Imminent Domain Laws To take over Golf Course

The W used Public Domain laws to take over a golf course last night, where three hundred of what the w called his 'closest party buddies and their chickies' could play 'strip golf.'


The golf course was returned the next morning and damage was said, by a government source, to be 'minimal.'


This assesment, however, was disputed by the courses owner, Donny Donofrio, who told reporters, "They were pretty wasted when they came in here. You could hear them miles off, all of them had their guns out shooting them off as they came up the road... Bush was hanging on to the side of one of those new presidential humvees he has, the red ones with detailing by R. Crumb. He was buck naked and howling like a coyote. They drove like that for... well, miles... I guess they were at a bar and when they tried to close, the president invited them all out for some 'Strip Golf.' They shot their way into my house, for christ's sake. Without even trying to knock. I would have anwered. I mean, they didn't have to take my family hostage until they were 'safely off the property' or whatever the hell that Justice department guy said. They didn't have to kill my pets to show me how serious they were, either. . . . I mean, I would have just given them the golf course for the night..."

Bushes' family attempt at Intervention Ends In Gunfire

An attempt by the Bush Family, and various friends of the president, to force the recently constantly drunk W into a treatment program, ended in gunfire today when the W called in troops and had the entire facility placed under arrest.


After a breif gun battle between the ex-presidents body guards and 300 national guard troops, the Bush family formally surrendered and asked that they be treated with the accords of the Geneva Convention, which caused the thinking world to collectively snicker and mutter, "oh, yea right... "

The W left the treatment center smiling today, saw the gathered press and looked distressed."Hey, this wasn't about me, man? I'm cool. Uh, they were planning a coup. Sadly enough, we have pictures of that therapist in there with Bin Laden, and the others... well, I'm going to have to have their asses kicked, but they're family, so .... Hell, I'll banish em. I can banish people, right? Thank god. "

When asked about his inability to draw a sober breath, W first looked embarrassed, then angry, and finally kind of sad as he answered, "MAn, I drink to think, okay? Thinking hurts, but man, if that's what Bono says it takes to make my band work, well... rock n roll ain't all babes and doobies, you know? Not that I'm saying it shouldn't be... I'll probably pass a law about this? You know, get that thinking shit out of music. Somebody take a goddamn note and remind me about this later." s

SHE.... short story made into little movie.

SHE
Always dressed in faded black jeans with the knees torn out and sleeveless T-shirts emblazoned across the chest with the logos of famous rock bands (who inevitably, mother said, seemed to have the word ‘death’ in their names). Basically, She was a good girl, who did all of the things that good little girls in her land did. Like worrying about problem-things.

Indeed, on the day that our story takes place, She was very embroiled in a problem-thing. She had just come from a lecture about a problem-thing that was altogether new to her and was having quite a struggle wrapping her thoughts around it. New words were all floating around in her mind like a bunch of little problem things that she could not make into the very big problem thing that the lecture had actually been about. It was all very confusing, but she was sure that if she concentrated real, real hard, she eventually would understand. And concentrate real hard, she did!

Why, she was concentrating so very hard on the problem-thing that when she got home she ran in the front door and right through the living room, moving so fast and thinking so hard that she didn't even notice her family waving at her from their very favorite spots in front of the television. She just ran into her bedroom, slammed the door shut, put on her favorite CD, The Dead Lovers In Potato Crates, pulled out a cigarette, lit up with her unicorn lighter and started smoking furiously--like she always did when things needed thinking about.

Now, though She did not notice her family when She passed through the living room, they most certainly had noticed her. And when She turned up the CD as loud as it would go, they noticed her even more. The strange music pounded out of She's bedroom right in the middle of Father's very most favorite part of the whole game -- the important half-time talk, where famous sportscaster’s express views of interest to sports fans everywhere. Father was none-too-pleased with the development.

He cast a stern look down the hall when a creepy, screechy voice screamed, "Death is a cool old fool, a kinda’, sorta’ thing, baby. Baby, baby, baby, my little baby thing."

This was not the first time that She had turned the stereo up so loud that weird noises drowned out the television. Normally, father would just cluck his tongue a few times and use his bemused voice to tell little Skipper-Do that he should go into his sister’s room and tell her that ‘She better turn that music down if she knows what’s good for her;’ but not that day. That day Father was very, very angry and he jerked his very favorite hat off his head -- the one with his very favorite team written across the brim -- and just threw that prized possession right down into the middle of the living room floor.

Mother looked down at father's favorite hat laying on the mint-green shag carpeting and said, "I guess that it's time to teach that little girl some respect for other people's feeling." Then she reached down into the bottom of her knitting bag and pulled out a long, nasty, old, gray chain.

‘Yes,’ father nodded, as he pulled a lasso of scratchy looking twine out of his pants pocket and said through gritted teeth in a hissing voice, "I'd say its well past time."

Mother got up from her chair, straightened the lace doilies on the armrests, then looked down at where little Skipper was laying in front of the television with his face just inches from the screen.
"Come on, little Skipper-doo. "
"Oh, all right," Skipper said, but as he got up from the floor and followed his Mother and Father down the hall, a dour expression showed his continued displeasure. As they came up on She's door, the creepy voice fell silent.
Suddenly from the living room, they could hear a sportscaster's excited voice saying, "Now, Herb, that is the craziest thing that I have seen in my twenty fond years of being associated with this wonderful, wonderful game. Let me send this back over to you, Herb, as I ask, in your four years of proud association with this game, isn't that the craziest thing that you have ever seen?"

At the sound of sportscasters, Father smiled and turned around and started walking back toward the living room . . . but then, before the sportscaster Herb could even answer the important half-time question, the weird music started up all over again! This time it was louder than ever and sounded like metal rods crashing and screeching against each other in some terrible, industrial machine. Father stopped in mid-step and grew all still, his face and neck became fire engine red and his eyebrows shot way, way up on his forehead.

Skipper watched father closely, because he thought steam was going to shoot of Father's ears like in all the cartoons, but it didn't

Father pushed mother and Skipper away from the door, grabbed the handle and said, “I’ll take care of that little missy!"

When he threw that door open, right then and there, three jaws dropped to the ground! She was waving around a cancer-causing cigarette and bouncing up and down like a satanic pogo stick. She had her eyes closed, so she just kept bouncing around, even though everyone else was mortified by her aberrant behavior.

Mother covered her eyes with one arm, threw the other hand behind her head and stumbled backwards in a near faint. Skipper jumped behind Mother to stop her from falling, but mother was so very much bigger that he was knocked back against the wall, where head bumped into Father's most very favorite painting in the whole world; the one that he bought at the Starving Artists sale at the Ramada Inn, after going to all of the trouble of scrapping a chip of paint off of the hallway to compare to the browns in all the various landscapes. The painting swung this way and that, this way and that . . . then came crashing to the floor! They all three watched aghast as the corner of the Genuine Maple Frame hit the shag carpet and broke into two pieces. Father looked down at that sad sight and said, "You know, and this is a fact, mind you-it's cheaper to buy a whole new painting at the Starving Artists sale than it is to go to Sears and buy a Genuine Maple Frame."

All the while, She had no idea that she was causing any mayhem, let alone that her very fate was being decided as she danced around, smoked and listened to The Dead Lovers in Potato Crates.

When Mother pulled herself back together, the first thing she did was pat little Skipper on the head, then she turned to her enraged husband and offered him a perky smile as she said, "Tie her up, boys! Go on and get to it."

Father rushed into the bedroom and reached for his bouncing daughter just as she shot up, impaling her throat on his long, sharp nails and tearing bright, red gashes in her pale, white flesh.

"Ouch," She cried.

Father used the scratchy twine to tie her hands behind her back, and then he forced her down onto her knees. Mother came into the bedroom happily strutting like she did just before her and father went to bed early for noisy intercourse, pulled that CD out of the stereo, got a grip on each side of it, and start smashing the disc over her daughter’s spiky orange hair. And she kept up that smashing until The D.L.I.P.C. ‘s second album, Monkey Vomit on a Leper’s Little Toe, broke into pieces that flew all over the room! Skipper could not believe how cool things were going! All he could say as he watched his mother was, "Cool. This is so cool."

When Mother was done pummeling, she threw what was left of the CD into the wall,
crossed her forearms over her pert breasts, threw back her head and laughed like a Jackal,
for a long, long time. Skipper was more than a little creeped by the time Mother stopped,
put her index fingers on her daughter's temple and said, "Let us all silently pray."

She had just stayed quiet up until then, because everyone in her family was acting so weird, but things seemed to be calming down, so she said in her nicest, politest little girl voice, "Hey, I'm sorry about the cigarettes, alright? I've been meaning to bring it up with you, but you're all so weird about everything. I mean, it would be like the tattoos and weed all over again, and I don't need it, alright? When you guys quit trying to drag me back in time, then we can talk, okay? Aren't you guys about done praying? And why can’t you just see it’s a waste of time, for god’s own sake."

No one paid any mind to She, as they were all deeply embroiled in their own individual discussions with the Lord. Skipper felt particularly driven to seek the comfort of a deity, because he wanted to be forgiven for the sin of breaking father’s very favorite piece of art as soon as possible, so that if something happened like a meteor hitting their house and he died, he could still get into heaven without any serious hassles.

When Mother was done praying for the lord and all his grace to fill the vessel of her child, she cleared her throat to signal everyone that they should finish up, or, in father’s case, quit pretending, then she looked down at her daughter, smiled and said, "This hair! Lord help us, but that is the first problem we are going to have to sort out." Mother spit into the palms of her hands and began rubbing them down the sides of the spiky orange head.

Now, She liked her hair just like it was, so she started tossing her head from side to side and going all crazy. Mother tried to keep straightening the spiky hair into something more flat and normal, but it was darn near impossible with She squirming and trying to fling her head from side to side. After a few moments of struggling with her daughter and heavily moussed spikes, Mother finally stepped away from the struggling She, put her hands on her hips and said in a very, very angry voice, "You will have normal hair."

Mother looked at Skipper and Father, put a smile back on her face and said in a much, much nicer voice, "Keep a firm grip on her, boys. I'll be right back."

As soon as mother was gone, She tried pleading with father and Skipper, but they both just held her tight and stared straight ahead, acting like nothing she said mattered at all. No matter what she said, they just kept staring straight ahead at the wall and pretending like she wasn't even there. It seemed like Father and Skipper had been replaced by people She didn't even know and that made her very, very scared.

Mother returned to the room carrying the re-chargeable curling iron that Father had bought her for Mother's Day, reached down and grabbed a handful of the orange spikes, jerked back She’s head to expose her throat, then clamped a thin fold of flesh with the searing, red hot metal.

"Ouch," She cried.

The skin in the curling iron sizzled and sputtered. She was struggling very hard indeed but Father and Skipper held her tight. They could see by the look on Mother's face that she was bound and determined to keep burning that neck until she was darn good and ready to stop.

"This hurts me more than it hurts you," Mother told her.

After what seemed like forever to She, Mother finally had enough of that curling iron, but when she tried to pull it away the red metal stuck to the black skin. Mother had to jerk and pull and twist and jerk some more, until finally, with a look of sheer determination on her face that warmed Father's heart, she gave a very strong tug that ripped the curling iron right off. A big patch of flesh tore free, as well. Before mother could do anything about it, the bloody flap of flesh dripped red gunk on the white shag carpet. Mother looked down at the mess and said in her frustrated voice, "Oh, now look what you made me do."

"Ouch," She cried again.

"Are you going to mind me, young lady?"

She had not liked being scarred for life one little bit, so she tried to say just what she thought Mother wanted to hear, "Oh, yes, Mother. Now, please, can I get up?"

"Well, first we have to do something about these bumps of hair on your head, then we'll see." Mother began clamping orange spikes of hair into the curling iron and twisting and jerking, until one after another they became perfect curls. When She's entire head was transformed, Mother stepped back and got a smug look on her face and she said in her tough-gal voice, "Well, at least I managed to get a little bit of that orange mess under control." Then her voice became very, very nice as she looked her daughter right in the eye and said, "Oh, really, that's so much better, dear. You'll like this new look. Especially once you get used to it. I'll bet the boys are going to like you a lot better, too. Why, we have two boys right here, so we can ask them what they think? Say, boys, is this some juicy trim, or what?"

Father made a show of looking into She's face and smiling, then he gave her a peck on the cheek and said, "I forgot how pretty you are."

Mother turned to Skipper, "And what about you, Mr. Skipper-doo, don't you have something that you want to say to your sister?"

Without even looking, Skipper just kind of muttered, "Okay, yeah, it looks better. You're some juicy trim, Sis."

That wasn't good enough for Mother. She looked down at Skipper and shook her finger right in his face, "Now, Skipper, you go on and take a really good look at your sister."

Skipper was not about to disobey Mother when she was shaking her finger right in his face, so he looked at his sister, and when he did, boy was he surprised -- She really did look better. Skipper sounded all excited as he told her, "Gosh, you look great. Mom, she is some juicy trim! From now on you can come to all my games, okay? You and mom and dad! We’ll eat hot dogs."

She had never cared for the games and had been a vegetarian since her cat died in August, but everyone was just being so weird that She went ahead and told Skipper that she'd love to go to his game and eat hot dogs. Then She looked up at Mother and asked, "Can I get up, please?"

"After that little display?” Mother shook her head, ‘No.’ “I'm afraid that you've done nothing to show me that you know how to behave around your elders. You know, we do all this for your own good. So you'll be happy, dear. You're always moping around here, whining all the time about all these mopey things.”
“I am happy."

"Happy is as happy does, dear. Listening to songs about death is not a sign of happy. And protesting all this stuff, it just makes you so sad.”

Mother turned away and started walking out of the room; over her shoulder she called out in her tough-gal voice, "Boys, you go ahead and chain her to the bed, and bind that little thing down tight. She's not going to like it when we shove it in."

She thought about trying to fight as father and Skipper chained her to the bed, but the last time she had disobeyed her parents she had been scarred for life, so she didn't do anything. Even though the chains were so tight that they cut into her skin and made her fingers start to turn purple.

"Ouch, " She cried, “The chains are cutting me? Why must they be so tight?”

Father came out of his daze, or whatever, and answered in a voice that She had never heard before; it was a strange and breathy sound, "You just lay there and take it."

She couldn't believe that her Father was going to let chains cut her wrists. That day was so weird. Blood was seeping out around the nasty chain, bright red and glistening, flowing in thin tendrils down into the cracks between her fingers. She was ready to try to say something else, but just then a loud whirring sound blasted into the room and startled her to no end. The whirring came from the blades of the Cuisenart, as Mother placed things into the clear container and hit the Puree button.

Mother spread a white dishtowel on the kitchen table and began laying out on top of it all of the ingredients for a very special batter. There was a handy calorie counter, no bigger than the palm of your hand, just the right size for a purse, yellowed copies of Dear Abby columns that Mother had always thought were just so right, pictures of models cute enough to make her melt, and lots of other stuff -- even a few things that her own mother had given to her on a day that had been a lot like the day of our story, though a lot different.

After listening to the rise and fall of the whirring Cuisenart for a few minutes, Father got such a hankering to out into the kitchen to see what was going on, that he did just that. When Skipper saw Father get up and start silently creeping out into the kitchen, he just had to follow, because he liked to do everything that Father did. Mother had her back to the door when father entered, so he snuck up behind her and gave her a big hug. Mother snuggled back into Father, rubbing her ample buttocks back and forth over his bulging crotch, before turning around so that they could embrace properly.

Father reached around behind her back and tried to slip something into the Cusinart, and though Mother did not even look like she knew what was happening, just as father's hand neared the batter, her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. She pulled his hand out into the open and they all looked down into his palm at the little blue and white Madonna from the dashboard of the Buick. When mother saw that little blessed virgin, she just broke out laughing, let go of Father’s hand, pointed at the batter, and gave father the old ‘thumbs up!’

Skipper watched the Madonna fall down onto the chopping blades and get pureed, and he wanted to put something in that batter so bad that it felt like he might pee. He grabbed the closest thing, which happened to be a big mop with a wooden handle that was a good two feet taller than Skipper. He held that mop up in front of his parents and asked them, "Can I put this in? Please, can I? Please?"

Mother looked at the size of that mop and she just had to laugh, and that laugh was still in her voice as she said, " I think it would be pretty hard to get that in the Cusinart, honey."

"I can make it fit, Mom. Remember, the puppy, mom? He was bigger than this mop."

Father had to say something about then, because someone had to change the subject. “You know, honey, I think you're underestimating the men in this family. Skipper, you go ahead and give it a try." Then with a wink to Mother, he added, "I might have something else for you to do before you have time to finish the job, though. Go ahead, Skipper, show your Mom that you can get that thing in there."

Skipper climbed up on top of the counter, put his feet on either side of the Cusinart, shoved the gray, swirly mop head down into the batter and used the toe of his sneaker to hit the ON button. The silver blades began slamming into the wooden handle, hitting so hard that it was all Skipper could do to hold on. Twice he lost his grip and the mop went all crazy, banging into his thighs and the cabinet (but not his peter, which is what Skipper was kind of worried might happen).

As Mother and Father watched Skipper struggle with the mop, they exchanged proud and amused smiles, but it was obvious to both of them that the job was too much for the little boy, so finally father stepped up to Skipper and gave him a friendly punch on the arm as he said,
"Son, I have something more important for you to do.”

Skipper knew that Father didn't think that he could get the mop into the batter, but he was determined to do just that. He used his most confident voice to tell Father, "No, I'm big enough! I am! I am!"
"I know you are," Father told Skipper, "but I have something more important. Go out into the garage and get the funnel that I use to put transmission fluid in the Buick, then take it out in the back yard and rinse it out real good with the hose, okay? This is important, every speck of oil has to be gone - we don’t want rogue lubricants getting into the batter, by god no. Rinse it out real good, alright?"
"Dad, first I want to do this. I can do it!"
Father's voice became sad, "Oh, I know that you can, son . . . it's just that, well, I guess that I can try to get that funnel clean . . . I don't know if I can, not with these eyes of mine. Getting that mop in there is a lot easier than cleaning a funnel, so I guess you should just do the little boy work."

Skipper thought that Father was being honest. He jumped down off the counter and started running for the garage. "You go ahead and take care of that stupid mop. I'll make that funnel so clean it'll look just like new."

"Son, I know you will." Father called out after the disappearing Skipper.
Mother turned to father and said, "He's going to grow up to be just like you.” Father's face just beamed when he heard that.

By the time Skipper came back in and proudly displayed a clean, red, plastic funnel, the batter was done. Skipper had meant to tell his parents about getting tangled up in the hose and how the wet spot on his pants wasn't what it looked like, but when he saw the batter he forgot everything and his face filled with a look of wonder. "It's like green snot, but it smells great! Like a fish stick shake, or something! Can I have a taste?"

Mother picked up the bowl and held it out to him, "Go ahead and take a little dab on your finger." Then she turned to Father, saying, "I know you're just dying for a little taste."

And Father was.

Both put the green slime between their lips at the same time and then let out long moans of satisfaction. Skipper liked the batter so much that he even stuck the tip of his tongue under his fingernail to get at a tiny green glob.

"Oh, that's good, dear," Father told mother.

"I could eat this stuff everyday!" Skipper added.
SHE THE END (edit - delete)

Mother blushed warm at the compliments. She took a certain pride in her cooking and commenting on it was a sure fire way to just make her melt. She looked down right delighted as she picked up the bowl of batter, held it over her head and began a little dance out of the kitchen and down the hall. Skipper and father joined in the little dance, though Skipper quit pretty quick, because he was sure that he looked nerdy.

While her family was in the kitchen, She had been laying in her bed, her wrists and neck wracked with agony from the cutting chains. She had no idea what was really going on, but she had seen lots of movies about weirdo’s doing really sick things and could imagine all sorts of stuff that she didn't want to happen to her. She was so scared that she started shaking like she was cold and making a sound like a mouse, "Errrrk, errrrrk."

When She heard her family come back into the room, she opened her eyes and started to ask to be let up. But before she could talk Skipper and Father jumped on the bed, grabbed her by her hair and twisted her head until her ear was pointing up toward the ceiling. Then Father pulled the funnel out of the waist of his pants, took a firm grip on the red plastic with both hands, and, with all his might, slammed the thin nozzle down into her ear. Red and yellow gunk squirted out, covering father’s arms all the way up to the elbows. She’s eyes shot wide open and her mouth started opening and closing real fast, her lips making a circle that grew big and small, big and small--like a goldfish gasping for air in a filthy bowl. Mother poured the lime green batter into the bright red funnel, and it flowed inside She’s head.

The green gunk seeped through her brain dissolving all of the problem things that she had fretted over, and sometimes even cried about; suddenly they didn’t seem so important, like they had lost some obscure power over her. They were almost gross. Like they were bad things to even think about. She could finally see them for what they were -- buzz killers, to be avoided by looking at pretty things and being pretty and making things pretty.
The old gray chains somehow melted into thin air, and the bloody wounds on her wrists and neck were all gone. Why, even her clothes were changed! She was suddenly wearing an outfit that She was pretty sure came from the Gap or their bastard child Old Navy, but right then she didn’t even want think about child labor. What did it matter where her clothes came from, anyways?

Laughing and carefree, she jumped up from the bed, bounced her head from side to side in a parakeet manner that everyone recognized as mothers, then turned from one face to another, and offered one and all as cheery a smile as they had ever seen. Then to father, She said, "Gosh, I guess it's time to dye this crazy hair back to brown. Will you take a chip of paint off the wall in my room, so that I can make sure that I match?" After She explained that she explained that this was a joke, they all laughed, and there were big old bear hugs all around, too.

They bridged the generation gaps and all that stuff, and then they all lived happily ever after.

Not so President Bush pushes through what the Dem.'s and radicals are calling the "I AM NOT A WIMP" law

NOT-SO-PRESIDENT PUSHED A NEW LAWTHROUGH CONGRESS LATE FRIDAY with unprecedented speed, so quickly that evidently no one voted on the bill except for Dick Cheney, who is claiming he can't speak about anything anymore because of what he tells reporters is, 'the power of plausible denial."
Democrats were out partying when the vote was taken and are feeling none too kind this morning as they line up, despite their holiday hangovers, to drink bloody mary's and roundly criticize the new law which they dubbed the, I AM NOT A WIMP, EITHER law.
At the signing in ceremony last night, reporters asked the not-so-pres. what the new law entailed.The president took on his trademark smug smirk, leaned forward on the podium and answered in a voice filled with conviction and even joy." I will from now on order the new head of all the fucking spies, okay, to have all the intelligence services and the armed forces at my command, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, to just kick whoever's ass I want them too. It's gonna be frigging cool."
An anonymous source in the administration had quite a bit to say why Bush put the law through:
"He really just wants to get revenge on anyone who ever did anything to him that he didn't like. And I do mean anything. And he kept these fucking lists, okay? His mom helped him, I guess. She did the same. He has a team of ex Navy Seals working around the clock getting even with people his mom hates alone, I guess... He doesn't always have good reasons, you know... There are people he hates for things like acting like characters he doesn't like -- and yes, more actors than you would guess die from just this right now.... You gotta remember, as a politician, he's had to suck everyone's ass all his life -- and this is what kept him going, this dream of his to become a second term president and then just fucking wreak revenge. He starts sweating and shaking when he talks about this and... well, humm, he becomes visably aroused -- you know, the little tent? I guess, he doesn't, you know, since the love making accident he had, slipping out and taking a nasty fall off some silk sheets... he refuses to allow anyone to speak of it. That's a capital offense at the moment, in fact. He snuck that one right by the press. Now, on this new campaign of his, he has teachers on there from his second grade in school on -- anyone who gave him a ‘C’ or less.... the list is just.... well, long, okay... He gets drunk once in awhile and lets other people add names, too. He's holding strategy meetings now with top co's from accross the country, generals, think tanks... has them all targeting his first waves of objectives -- anyone who picked on him when they were kids. I mean, we're talking about older men and women who don't even remember these incidents, and he has these agents just driving a fucking tank into their houses in the middle of the night, dragging them out in front of their neighbors and beating them to piss and trembles, you know? In fact, he is so serious that Bush is hiring private contracters, because he is afraid that government workers will 'slack off a lot ' and 'barely put anything into the punches.' When someone in the cabinet was foolish enough to point out to w. that he's a government worker, too, Bush at first tried to make it out like he knew that, then like he didn't give a shit about the dig, saying, "Hell, I do slack off a lot... if that's what you mean and of course that is what you mean... You know what, I don't need to throw any of my own goddamned punches, though, because I can afford fucking help. Like to meet the help?' Then he sicked these secret service guys on the cabinet member ... In fact, he ranted for awhile on how from now on, the government worked for him. Wasn't pretty. This is about when he started in on the malt liquor spiked with tequila, too; something he said was 'his daughters favorite waker upper.' That night, in some kind of midnite ceremony which Bush says is based on skull and bones, he made everyone do shots and beat off to really old porno with seventies disco tracks in the back ground. . . you would not believe how much of nasa's budget has been diverted to making masterbatory devices for this man... anyways, then we all went out into this tent set up on the white house lawn, where he had the guy who pissed him off at the meeting drawn and quartered by these four Budweiser horses. Guy squirted straight up for a change. To keep everything quite, we may or may not have been involved in all those tourists dying in washington that day. I mean, they all died, every single tourist that day... a sad coincidence... but... well, I got to save something for my fucking book, right? I mean, how else is a politician supposed to support his family when he goes to prison? Yea, and you can bet, if we had to kill everyone who was on vacation in washington that day. . . . that was a job. Jeez, the ones we might shoot in my book were really, just like the president said at the time, getting the better of the deal. See what I mean?"
Bush was later again confronted by reporters, this time outside of a well known DC barbecue eatery, where he walked out with his belt undone and the top button of his pants open, his shirt tail half out and covered in the same dark purple sauce that covered his face and suit and white shirt and tie. When asked by reporters, 'Isn’t this law immoral and just plain a bad precedence? By the way, should one of your stature look so . . . common?"The not-so president responded, "Somebody say something? Because if somebody was to say something, I brought some ass kickers here with me today for emergency jobs? Somebody say something about this sauce? I am the fucking president!!! Yea, doggie!!! Look at ya stink weasel liberals to the bone... You know what, send your fastest fucking secret service agent back to that place and get me a me a bottle of that barbacue sauce and have every man here spread it on their faces, and if anyone fucking gives you a look, just one damn disrepectful look, you cap their asses... What is that? Silence? I guess the so called free press doesn't have shit to say to that, huh? Yea, I fucking didn't think so. That's right, you just better keep your damn French and other languages speaking pie holes shut. Now, where the fuck is that sauce, goddamn it ? That guy you sent is too fucking slow -- kill him when he gets back. And you better hope the next one runs faster when I need sauce like this, by god."
Bush was then seen going into a fast food restaurant, where he angrily stopped in the entryway and tore down a sign in the window saying, "No Public Restroom.' The enraged w .startled the teenage girls at the counter by waving the tattered sign in their faces and screaming, "You know, punks, I can take a goddamn shit on your head if I want to!!"When the teens started crying loudly, Bush reoportedly was reminded of his own daughters, and ordered a near by cabinet member to apologize to the kids.W then told the young women,"Hell, kids, I'll tell you what. I'll buy you some fucking beers, okay? In fact, close this place fucking down. In fact, tear this shit down. Yes, right fucking now. Light it up. Call in the goddamned national guard if you want, I don't give a damn. Disobey me and die, motherfuckers!!! Now, get that limo over here and me and these young lassses are going to drink some brewskis.... then we'll stop over at my kids place, do some bongs, whatever . . . I'm the most powerful mother fucker on the planet!!! Whhoooo, doggie, yeaaaaa!!!"
The teenager were seen being thrown out of the limo's window just a block away. While waiting for an ambulance, the one who could speak told reporters," He was only being nice, he said, because thought we had weed... when we didn't, he told this guy, 'toss em, just toss their asses."
Penguins on the scene refused to comment, despite questioning by curious reporters trying to get to the bottom of the appearance of thousands of penguins in washington, dc. Ignoring even the most doggedly badgerous, the penguins merely stood around in shadowed doorways displaying bad posture, smoking, and looking bitter . . . very, very bitter...
Puffins were more forth coming with their views, but when they tried to talk to reporters secret service agents were sent in to stomp them to death.

Nassah Jackoffyourson chooses Parrot fo Counsel

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

Jackoffyourson, 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 Terrrible Plight OF Disposable Butt Monkeys

The plight of disposable Butt monkeys should be a call to arms for anyone who likes animals. Why I am the only one who seems to be objecting to this trend? Could larger forces be at work? Surely, but that is not my concern. What is my concern is my solemn vow to help you elf shits make sound purchases on anal related products.

Unless you have been living in a cave on pcp for the last two years, you have heard of or seen or read about the highly successful commercials with one of those rich old looking actor dudes from law and order asking a group of gorgeous looking rich people, "Isn't it time someone else wiped your ass?"

The scene then switches to a friendly, perfumed, luxuriouslyconditioned but monkey, shown switching through the various pastel colors that they come in, sliding up and down on a fake plastic butt, and then drowning itself in the bidet and flushing itself down with it's last breath. The voice over sounds cognac smooth and cigar rough, has the weight of years and grandparents. "The latest trend among the trendy wealthy following trends? Using specially trained disposable but monkeys, so they can have their pampered bums safely wiped without having to touch their own shit, like a peasent. These monkeys clean your rectum until it actually shines. And lord knows, in your hectic, fast paced day, you can use the smile you'll get when your but monkey's flush themselves down and drown in an altogether comical manner."

The camera then shows a boardroom with all the employees sitting around a table introducing each other. One of the employees has shit all over his hand and everyone is disgusted as they shake with him and get feces all over themselves. Finally, this shitty hands guy tries to get the boss to slap palms, but the boss, who is portrayed as a bright leader, refuses the shitty hand and says, " If you are still wiping your own ass, don't shake my hand.... in fact, get the hell out of here, you are fired." Then all the other employees pull boxes of but monkeys out of their pockets and start laughing ... and the boss, who has remained serious during the whole commercial, takes out his own box of but monkeys and joins in the laughter, too. This is very effective advertising, there is no denying that.

I mean, I am criticizing them now, but when I first saw the commercial, I too wanted to order some but monkeys. I was impressed with all the colors they came in, and they are cute. Like everyone, I know that the present method of wiping off our bums with dry paper is hardly sufficient, and as a result, diseases are spread... I too hope that one-day science will come up with something like but monkeys, but this is not the one. No, this is not the savior all our asses are practically calling for, though I have to admit, the commercial certainly makes them look like they are, and the special holiday edition but monkeys in Santa and elf outfits are pretty damn cool looking, I know, I know...Now, you will probably call me a crazy protestor for taking this stance. I 'm not, though. I mean, if I came across monkey meat at the supermarket, I’d take it home and deep-fry a few of their hands, or however you eat them.... The but monkey craze, however, involves a lot more jading of the mind than I have. I mean, it's one thing to buy a dead, nicely packaged monkey paw... but once you've seen them all alive and acting all friendly, how can you then deal with the thought that their life has been reduced, through conditioning, to the point that these simians think their whole existence should be spent being the perfect employee, even if it does involve having one short, shitty life?

Okay, maybe I am going out on a limb here for coming out against but monkeys. I know the trend is too big for me to ever have any effect on ... and, you know, I might just be missing something? They do have one that is a shade of red that would great in our bathroom. And they do save the trees, like the commercial said, so they are like half eco-friendly, and half evil. . . I guess they come out of the box all friendly and smelling of nice colognes that are supposed to be, according to the commercial, 'Stronger than your most powerful blast of gas.’ You know what? I guess I should try one before I write anything else. I am always doing that you know, having an opinion on things that are based on how I think and what I know, rather than any actual experience. I think I'm going to get the one done up like Rudolph, with the nose painted all red and the little plush, absorbent horns?


NOTE FROM J, PAIN.... I laughed over this one as I wrote. Yes, laughed maniacally I did, then I hopped around the apartment naked, trying to pee on the startled, running and dodging cats, and the next thing that I knew I was running through the halls of our apt building with my freed weeny a wagging, screaming at the top of my lungs, 'Chaw! Chaw! Chaw!' over and over again. My Barton Fink-ish moment of celebrating the successful birth of the butt monkey's died when M. decided that she had to once more get out that damn tranquilizer gun... While I was immobile though still awake and able to feel pain, she put a bar of lavender soap in one of my few tube socks and beat my stomach and thighs relentleesly... I feared I was going to die, believed I had only one chance of getting better, so when my lips could move again, I began mouthing, "Boo boo kisses, boo boo kisses?" Like Kit Carson used to tell the tin horns after regaling them with a tale of being chased by hundreds of Indians that ended with him stranded in a tree, ". . . and then . . . I died."

"You better put down that religion right now!"

Well, maybe I am delusional to tell this kind of thing to a dog, but only time will tell. I just don’t want animals to make the same mistakes that lead humans to become such hypocritical clouds of shit specks.

Though M., with her tendency to JUMP TO CONCLUSIONS, thinks I am ‘wasting time that I should be spent working on that ‘damned book’ and painting more salable landscapes and what not. Oh, how cold my soul grows at the thought of painting hotel room landscapes.. that is probably her plan for me in the end though, I might as well admit it. This explains a lot, because I can’t figure out why she would keep a darko like me around.

Of late she has gone from naysayer to censor, by the way. She won’t let me tell other people about the security checks we went through when I became, foolishly enough, convinced she had connections to osama bin laden. Hey, I had some evidence, that has been since lost, but… yea, not supposed to be writing about that. M. can be very mean about this shit. I hope she is comfortable wearing the cloak of a censor, that is all I can say….

LATER: M IS MAKING ME ADD THAT SHE IS NOT PRO CENSORSHIP IN ANYWAY AND … I … WELL, OKAY…. AND I AM A BUTT BREATHED BUTTERFLY WHO SUCKS WORSE THAN ,M. SHE MADE ME SAY THAT TOO.)

(now M. is making me come back and say that she really didn’t call me names, and also didn’t say anything at all except that she wasn’t sure she liked being used a censor).


I’m not letting her read this anymore. A strategical error, for sure.

I painted one sorta traditional landscape of the moon over the lake, and now she thinks I am going to continue the style, just because people ‘like it so much.’ This alone would be enough for me to never, ever paint a traditional landscape again, but that M., she is a materialist and gets all weird when the electricity goes out and stuff. At times like this I have a tendency to tell her, “Hey, deal with it whine-ass,” since I always forget that it is beyond her, or something, because of instead of the expected laugh, she gets all pissed. There is no logic to her moods!!!

Ruby dog is the only one who listens to my lectures now that the hamsters are gone. Of course, no matter how weighty and important my words, Ruby mistakes any and all attempts at communication as a hint that we are going for a walk. I have tried in no less than four languages to tell her how to kill, still won’t listen, just starts bounding about and chasing the cats and all sorts of other somewhat baffling signs of perfect happiness that she experiences at the merest thought of a walk. No dark side at all. With the possible exception of hamster eating, though the verdict is still out on that one and probably will be until M. backs off this stiffling ‘No Torture’ policy.

I have to talk to them. I don’t care if the neighbors bitch. Sometimes my lectures get heated. What can I say. You try reasoning with these three all day, as they contemptuously keep their silence, letting you go on and on. They talk amongst themselves, I am convinced of this (even though I faked tapes that I tried to tell M. was the cats and the dogs talking, and now there seems no way to even approach this topic with her…. Like I say, just no logic to that woman’s moods

MASSAH JACK-OFF-YOUR-SON STILL IN COURT!!!!

SQUEALING FOR ALL WHO WILL STILL LISTEN TO THE RANCID RUNNY SHIT POURING OUT BETWEEN HIS FREAKISH LIPS, THAT HE IS INNOCENT OF keeping a kid as a drunken prisoner and forcing this kid to make a tape saying that he was not indeed doing shots and playing rubba.

Jackson actually told some kids in the crowd of any old asshole licking well wishers outside the court that they could come to Never Never Land whenever they want to... and something about peter pan teaching them to how to really fly with forty ouncers.

Proving once again that celebrity dancing and singing and flashing your tit at little kids on tv has nothing to do with intelligence or morality, VARIOUS OF MASSAH JACKOFFYOURSON'S DUM AS HAMSTER SHIT SIBLINGS ACTUALLY DRESSED IN WHITE AND WALKED THAT SHIT INTO COURT CLAIMING HE IS, GET THIS, INNOCENT!!!

FOR THAT ALONE THE WHOLE CLAN SHOULD BE IMPRISIONED AND RAPED WITH A BROOM ON A TRI-HOURLY BASIS FOR, OH, THE REST OF THEIR UN-NATURAL, FREAKISH LIVES-- AND I DO NOT MEAN THE END OF THE BROOM WITH A HANDLE!! Unless, as in Massah Jackoffson's case, this is something they enjoy... he will have to be slow roasted over charcoal for a couple days, and then, when his vocal cords are shredded from screaming, he should be dropped into the flames and burned alive -- at the very fucking least.


I know I write about this a lot, but I am amazed each and every time I see this pervert is still interacting with children and people are not just fucking converging on him and ripping him to shreds with their bare hands.... If this isn't proof that we should be replaced by cockroaches, I sure as hell don't know what is?

hansters are too, killers... so there.

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., because these babies got Murder written all over them.

When I told her this, she asked me if that was why I shaved them, to write on their skin? She doesn’t understand anything about aerodynamics (that hair would have slowed them down, dammit, and I won’t have it!). But that is a good idea about writing Murder all over the Hamsters… might blow their cover, though? Hmmm… I can already tell there will be notes scribbled about this quandary… lots and lots of scribbled notes….

I am trying to face the possibility that the hamsters may only turn out to be good practice for my humans. I don’t really need them. When I told M. about this she just laughed like I was joking and responded in her usual nay-sayer way, “Oh, big surprise, you couldn’t train hamsters to kill. You think I would let you have them if you could… wait a minute, you’re not taking this shit seriously, right?”

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.”

“Are you sure?”

“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.

GENERAL ONCE CALLED SNIGGLY POO NOW WILL ANSWER ONLY TO hAMSTER KILLER, ESQUIRE (HE MAKES YOU PRONOUNCE IT ALL, TOO, AT THE THREAT OF DEATH BY DOG)

FLUFFY ONE WHO KILLS.


Sources close to the Pantopia Empire are said to be worried about the rising power of one of their herioc, charasmatic leaders. The General formerly known as Sniggly-Poo has run afoal of the government before by making radical statements like, "Soldiers should be able to decide where to fight." Now he is defying God himself by changing his name, a move that the government is afraid could spread to other hamsters, and cause them to lose their cover stories of being slavishly loving and controllable.

A source close to Pain is quoted as saying, "If that hamster gets in the way of Johnny's plan, the dog will be happy, that's all I can say."

Ruby dog and the kitty bum have been promised a special treat today, but still no word if this is related to the possibly treasonous behavior of Generaol Fluffy One Who Kills, or merely a can of tuna.

Another damn pumpkin pit got me busted...

This tale occured three days before halloweed, though I could only write about the events once the court proceedings were over. Even now, I am under orders not to 'promote man vegetable love.' Like I would, jeez... All because I happened to stop at a road side farmer's market, and like I told the judge, had the misfortune of accidently running into a vegetable pimp.

He was there in court and I pointed at him as I told the judge, "He was keeping those vegetables on the street all day, and all night, forcing them to keep servicing clients by the usual brutal, horrifying methods of pimpery... "

That damned judge just told me to shut up and my attorney started looking all embarrassed for what seemed like the hundredth time (I assumed this constant uncomfortablness on my attorney's part was caused by some psychological damage that had been done to him by a sarcastic clergyman at an all male secondary school in England, and when I indeed asked him as much to prove my speculation, he answered, "You do think that, don't you?" Which I could only take as an affirmation, of course).

I only stopped at the stand to buy a pumpkin for halloweed related stuff. It was nothing like that veg. pimp said when he testified. The creaky old bastard had the nerve to wear the usual outfit of a vegetable pimp into court-- overalls and a truckers cap, but when I pointed this out to the judge, he had me gagged.

I'll never forget that old fart telling the shocked courtroom, "Now, he came up looking sorta normal... but then he kept rubbing all the squash and moaning. Hell, I thought he was sick to the stomach... Me and Ma didn't even know freaks like this existed. She is still in shock,you know? Can't even get her to cook any vegetable at this point. No, not a one."

Now, none of this happened ... No, I remember this quite different. I went up to the stand and this 'player' was all like, "We got some real hotties here. These bitches been out in the sun all day, geting hot and ready for you."

When he said this, I didn't even know what he was talking about. He could see I was confused, so he started suggestively rubbing the nubile yet rough and ready exterior of a dwarf pumpkin. When I realized what he meant, I was a little insulted that he assumed that I only needed a dwarf pumpkin.... This is also when his wife happened be coming up from the house while on the phone with her daughter, the local mayor, and they both heard me say, "Now, a dwarf pumpkin would barely hold the head of my monstrously large genitilia."

I mean, I never would have said this, let alone loud enough that those neighbors down the way would hear, if I was a vegetable rapist. No, I would keep everthing hushy-hush. On the other hand, when your penis has been declared tiny by someone who has no chance of ever being able to see if you are lying or not, one has to declare their manhood massive, if not outright freakishly large. Everybody knows this... except that damm judge and the jury and of course my lawyer.

I had to lie about everything to M.... I told her that I was going to court for punching out this senior citizen because his walker was taking up too much of the sidewalk, again... She didn't like this one bit, but it was believable, because there have been incidences... and this is a hell of a lot better than trying to explain to her why my pet name for her is Squashy.

Thank dog M. had to work on the court date. I came home from court and told her I had been found innocent, because I payed off a nurses aide to give the complaning party enough kaopectate that he wouldn't be leavingthe toilet this week. I knew if I said something criminal, she would respond with her usual wariness about being charged as an accesory and tell me not to tell her.... and yes, it worked.

The real trick will be convincing her that my campaign to stop the greenhouse effect from being the latest sin of the 'wealthy don't give a fucks' (a campaign I will keep up, until it involves more than spouting a few words) is now evolving into a plan of action, with me going out and picking up garbage along county roads. I added that I should wear a bright color, maybe even orange, and that if I could get enough people to go with me, we might even qualify for a police escort?. SHe seemed to buy all this... we'll see.

Knowing M., she'll do something sneaky like read the paper tommorrow and see that damn mug shot of me -- where I have one eye closed, one half open, toungue half out, long hair inexplicably standing straight up on the sides and top.... they even have some kind of special camera that was able to show my six hours worth of stubble!!! The cop who took the mug show was like a reverse artist -- he had to take like eight pictures before he had one ugly enough to be a mug shot. And of course under tha vile photo will read... GUILTY... CHARGED WITH... VEGETABLE MOLESTATION... TEN HOURS OF COMMUNITY SERVICE IN A VEGETABLE FREE ENVIRONMENT....

They'll probably quote the judge making his asssanine remark after the trial, "Hell, if I could, I would keep this freak out of every vegetable aisle in this country. I sure as hell hope he runs from a cop or something on his way home. You hear me sherriff? I said I sure as hell hope...."

What the judge didn't know about the sherriff was that he shook my hand once when no one was around and told me, almost in tears, about the love he had during his teen years, for a small summer squash named ethel, who he had to horrifyingly enough watch rot away....

ADVICE FOR YOUNR SERIAL KILLERS

If you are a child who loves torturing hamsters, let me just say that while fun and fullfilling in weird ways usually not sated in this 'Law Infested' society, this is not geek behavior, as one of my ill-begotten readers wrote in. This is 'young serial killer in the makings logic' , or good training for living through the cruelty of doing scientific research on animals. I say go with the science choice, because while this one gets you laid a lot less, at least the people are alive.

I BOUGHT NINETY HAMSTERS.

You would think this would be a good thing.... but like so much of my life, things have gone horribly, horribly wrong.

This sad tale began when M. had to go to Indiana for a week to spend time with what I can't help imagining is an ailing, snively, elephant with an elaborately moussed display of gray hair between her ears. . . . and indeed she is visitng what has to be the closest human equivalent, M.'s porked out, whiny mother. Now, normally she keeps all the cash from me, because . . . well, just never you mind why... well, might as well be honest now... okay, truth be told, she keeps the cash away from exactly because of episodes like this.Regardless . . . this time, she left me the rent.

810 dollars cash in the hand. Green and hot. Now, M., she will just spend money without even thinking about investing, but me? I'm all about the occasional investment opportunity (someday I will make money off one of them, too, M.). So I started thinking immediately about ways to take the rent and make more money out of it, then spend that money and still have money for the rent... I figured the best bet way was to have a marauding army that I can send out on a crusade to gather gold and cash with their usual ruthless, blood splattered methods...

Then it came to me, the most logical thing that one can do with 815.00 bucks -- so I went out and bought ninety hamsters, a veritable living field from which I can grow a profitable and yet cuddly army (though knowing M., with her known tendency to second guess me, will probably find some tiny, meaningless reason to nit-pick this decision, too . . . I expect she will keep up the bitching right up until she is made queen). The guy at the pet store said that these horny little, fuzzy faced killers would wham bam at such a prodigious pace that within a month my troop strength would be up to over a thousand... and from that thousand, the tens, and then hundreds of thousands I need just to take over this neighborhood.

First thing I did when I got home was go to the bedroom and remove everything, put up a Bruce Lee poster and a series of little sayings that I think will help them be better soldiers, stuff like -- HUMANS LOVE CATS, and KILL ALL OF THE HUMANS OR THEY WILL LET CATS EAT YOU, DESERTERS WILL BE EATEN BY A CATS, etc.. Painted the walls dark green, and wrote KILL, KILL, KILL all over the place--ceiling, walls, floor... I set up these little cots that I made out of toothpicks and some green jean jacket of M.'s that she almost never wears. I even cut up some junior mints and put them on each of their pillows... since I myself always find 'welcome mints' the perfect touch for a guest room.. That bedroom really shaped up into a nice barracks, if I do say so myself. And I'm sure that M. will adjust to sleeping in the dining room, as long as I can convince her that this is temporary, and that within a couple years she will have the entire wing of a palace? I can only hope her intellect is up to the task of taking in my sweeping, Napoleonic vision...

Once the troops were bedded down for the night, I got to thinking about how I had said too much to that geeky dude at the pet store who smelled, ever so vaguely, of dog feces. . . This underpaid tool of the puppy mills more than likely called some terrorist hotline and reported a dark shadow is about to fall on america... So, I kind of got all paranoid, you know, with the weed and all, and then just. . Well, I got completely carried away; there is no real way to deny that... I mean, you can barely move through the apartment because of all the barbed wire -- I kept open only little passages for cooking and bathing purposes... not to mention all the booby traps on all the doors and windows. I may even be responsible for the squirrels that have been exploding all morning out on the balcony... Regardless, the next day I turned my often adequate mind to the task of breeding killers. I started by moving a cd player into the barracks and putting on a tape I made of Foghat playing Slow Ride over and over, then I lit some spicy, scented candles -- for both their wonderful, fresh scent and that warm, comforting glow. When I checked back a few minutes later, only three of the hamsters were humping. They get off fast, their little furry pelvises a blur for less than a minute... Then they were going right to the next lass, and the next... with only occasional breaks for laying about gasping for air and twitching. I figured the rest of them were still adjusting to the hell of war, and that in a few hours they would get their mojo back.The next day I went in to bring them breakfast and found those three same hamsters were still going away at it. They were skinnier, and humping significantly slower, but none were showing any signs of quitting their marathon boffing.


The next day I went in to bring them breakfast and found those three same hamsters were still going away at it. They were skinnier, and humping significantly slower, but none were showing any signs of quitting their marathon boffing. This went on all day, and all night...


On their third day, during a nine-hour indoctrination lecture, the three were still mounting one after another of the females. . . They were moving very, very slowly by then and wobbling from side to side as they walked... their ribs showing. They looked like they were not long for this world, which they weren't... one after another, first one during my lecture and then the other two in the night that followed, fell off their host hamsters and gasped and twitched again, but instead of kind of catching their breath and recovering enough to slowly crawl over to the next female, they keeled over dead and grew stiff one last time...

After the three fuckers were gone, the hamsters ceased having any kind of sex. The other hamster armies had always been so sexed up that when I put my hand in their cage to feed them one of them was always hopping on and trying to get off a hump.... Two days passed like this... then the mystery of why they were all suddenly acting like up tight, fundamentalist wombats was solved.... when I came walking in after taking Ruby down to the beach to find that they had taken down my 'kill-kill-kill slogans' and put up instead a poster of K. D. Lang. They were singing along with a Melissa Etheridge tape, one of those late, stupid ones... which they turned off a few minutes later, just long enough to watch Ellen.

I stood there looking at them and then it hit me...I had bought three males, and eighty seven females, and the shock of going without sex, and having no foreseeable sex in the future, had turned all the females into lap happy lesbos . . . that was kind of disturbing, because my breeding plans were just fucked by that shit... I thought it couldn't get much worse, but I'm no fortuneteller, that's for damn sure.

Next, they read me a list of demands, in these high pitched, superior sounding voices, that said they were becoming Lesbian Separatists and as such were banning me, and all males and cats of any sex, from the barracks.

Then, believe it or not, it got even worse....How could this get worse, you wonder? Well, they decided that as part of their discussion with what they called a 'mystical mother' during their 'Wicca sessions' that they had become . . . PACIFISTS!!!! . . And further, they were leaving the army to, 'find the spirit of the great mother within.' They claimed that they could never be forced to fight, but you can bet that they changed their fuzzy little minds when I got so pissed that I let Ruby-dog and the kitty bums into the barracks for an all day hamster feast.

THE SICKOS NEED TO BE ON THE OTHER END OF THE GUN.

From the comfort of home, one can point a real, loaded gun at an animal and click that deer or wild boar or rabbit or mole into meat. For an extra fee, you can get the head mounted and the meat delivered -- presumably butchered and packaged to appear like any other old herbivore.


The below article is about people being able to hunt and kill animals over the net. The creeps want you to think this will good for the disabled. Well, if they are mentally disabled, maybe, you know? Most people in wheelchairs probably do have the occasional, normal urge to kill (it is too normal and so are all those lists that I make), but they should, like the rest of us, rise above.

We have to be reasoning beings. Not hunters. The deer's overpopulation is kind of the half thinking man's excuse for getting that close to being a butchure, which could easily be solved with birth control (which I am sure the pope is against probably). Others cite some ancient need to be hiking around in the woods trying to kill stuff-- I say, grow as a culture and give it up; admit you are an often idiotic monkey and try to rise above your base impulses (at least until one is in a sanctioned zone consisting of consenting adults, of course).


I mean, we are trying to develop a society here, create a human geography of like thinking, like loving, like working, like living next to each other people. The goal would be the whole world, but you can really only do it around your freinds and family, strangers you meet in the day to day. One thing I do not want my wheel chair bound neighbor doing is clicking onto a site and killing a couple deers. The creep factor is too high to imagine without naseua.

And don't forget that this blog, and your every action, is developing your human geography, which then creates the culture that begets the society that you live within. An echo really is there, bouncing from one of these huge, sweeping issues to the next.



I make fun of the act of killing all the time, because this is part of reality, this death stuff, and better to have a bitter laugh than a tear.... yet animals actually dying, and especially at my hand, is an entirely different matter. This is too god like for me, no matter how much meat I hypocritically eat. I had my childhood experience with killing a bird with a bee bee gun. My best buddy shot a turtle dove and we cried afterwards as we slowly watched the panting, frantic bird die. I thought I was the only person who this ever happened too, having grown up around hunting uncles and neighbors and farmers who did all sorts of killing, until I was in college and a dr lindsay at university of toledo surprised me by saying, "Like the first time you shoot a bird, see it die, and decide that you are not going to be a hunter." He just kind of assumed that no one is his four hundred level, secular class on transcendence was weird enough to enjoy killing. English majors are not exactly known for being serial killers, of course; we get inside so many heads through the reading to think we are god like enough to snuff out the kinds of personalites that we discover.

This sicko article below is also being pasted into the scrapbook of mental pictures that are slowly driving us to become vegetarians. What they do to farm animals is too appalling to even contemplate/you will never see a calendar showing normal rockwell paintings of your favorite foods being slaughtered.


This time, even some idiotic advocates for the disabled get on the wrong band wagon.... There, now, if you can stomach the article, it is below....







QUOTE:
A new form of hunting which allows participants to shoot wild boar and antelope by a simple click of the mouse is stirring up great controversy in the United States.
Online hunting has outraged animal rights activists, gun advocates and politicians from 14 states, all trying to get the sport banned.

Participants control a video camera and a gun by remote control, carefully monitoring animals on a remote shooting range via the internet.

News: Last tally-ho for legal hunts
Latest: Today's top news
A click of the mouse from the comfort of your own armchair can discharge a round of bullets. For extra money, the meat or animal's head can be shipped to your home.
Founders and members of Live-Shot.com insist the practice is ethical, and in particular allows the disabled to experience the thrill of the sport.

Pay-per-view slaughter

But the concept raises several ethical issues and critics have branded it "pay-per-view slaughter".

The first paid-for live shoot is scheduled to take place on Saturday on a Texas ranch, the only online hunting facility in existence. But activists and politicians are racing to get it banned before it can begin.

The website warns participants this is not a video game. "This is real," it says.

"What you see on your screen thru (sic) the camera is what is there. When you activate the fire control, you are sending a signal to the firing mechanism which discharges a round."

The website's founder, John Lockwood, admits the concept would not appeal to everyone.

"The idea of hunting this way doesn't appeal to me," he told the Christian Science Monitor (CSM).

"Most of us love getting into the field. But there are many that cannot."

He said the idea was born from working with disabled hunters but he lists a soldier in Spain among supporters who wants to send meat to his family and a soldier in Iraq who simply misses the sport.

Mr Lockwood claims opponents simply do not understand how the system works and quite how many safety procedures are in place.

"I am in full agreement that there needs to be legislation and regulation controlling it," he said. "But people are under the impression that this is a slaughtering machine and that's not what it is."

Calls for ban

Groups joining forces to ban the practice are as diverse as the Humane Society of the United States, trophy hunting organisation Safari Club International and the National Rifle Association.

Michael Markarian from the Humane Society told the CSM: "Nobody ever said the wilderness had to be ADA (Americans with Disabilities Act) compliant.

"That is no justification for this practice, and it doesn't give (disabled) people a true hunting experience anyway. It's pay-per-view slaughter."

Virginia became the first state to ban internet hunting and Texas has proposed a ban for killing animals native to the state.

A Bill to outlaw online hunting for any species will be heard in the Texas House of Representatives next Tuesday.

M DOESN'T THINK I SHOULD USE A GUN IN MY ACT.

I was thinking that I should shoot off some shells form a double barreled shotgun, to emphasis certain important points that I think you sill people really NEED TO UNDERSTAND!!! BOOM!!! BOOOM !!! CHAW!!!

I will shoot off both fucking barrels into lamps, blow the shit out of a table... I suppose it will have to be an empty table. Who the hell came up with this idea that killing should be illegal anyways? I would like to shoot that fuck first. Damn them, damn them I say for making killing illegal!!!

M. even criticised this change in my act for, quote, "Bullet holes. did you even think that someone might not want you to shoot up their cafe?"

Well, yes, there would be bullet holes in the walls of the Big Star. Now that is what I call CHARACTER, man. I mean, bullet holes in the walls? I'd even be willing to paint some fake blood around the holes -- which the kids would love, dammit!!! Who wouldn't want to have coffee in such a cool atmosphere!! I mean, whiles this just came to me,... it is, uh, truee.. the whole shotgun things is an anti-war statement with shades of nation building... I can't expect people to get this, because most are too stupid or just plain old more interested in what is going on in their head than the other people in the room-- like me.

M. also pointed out that she thinks Cheryl, the much loved owner of the Big Star, would, quote, "Have your ass goddaqmn well arrested, and with good reason, mind you."

I tried to tell her that it's not like I would be shooting an animal or anything serious, for dog's sake.

I mean, we have an overpopulation promblem, but try to tell M. that this is reason enough to randomly kill and you will get only objections fromt hat little fantasy world in her head.

She will probably not buy me a gun for the show on Friday. I'll keep trying to convince her mind you, but... Well, as we all know, M. has a well documented tendency to be stubborn and I've already wasted three days trying to get her to see my side. Thank Dog I have all these other plans to arm myself (no less than three spiral bpades of scribbled notes... but to be hones, I was so stoned when I wrote them that mostly I described the fantasy world of this fly that was buzzing around the room -- I named him buster).

I'm pretty sure that the only way I can get my hands on a double barreled shotgun will be to convince the cats to finally tell me where they keep their arsenal. I know they are armed for bear and ready for some serious shit. They have to be, because they have a horrible, trembling fear of the Great Mouse, who they believe will one day come up from hell and hassle them about sleeping less and getting more done. Unfortunatly,, so far, all of my questions have been greeted with their usual insolent silence.

M. now says this oh so fucking stifling NO TORTURE policy of hers is permanent, so I am trying another tact, winning over the kitty bums by giving them all kinds of treats. Even the chickent that we were supposed to have for dinner... unfortunatly, even that was not enough for those greedy bastards... I hit them with question after question when they were done gorging but all they did was just return to their ceaseless napping. They napped through today's lecture, too...

Have a day where your mom comes over to being a scrumptious, warm cherry pie that is think and juicy with a flaky, sugary crust... and then just as you raise the first bite to your lips, two guiys burst through the door with bats and guns, screaming at you, calling you a nigger or white trash. You can see in their eyes how much they hate the color of your skin. These religiously crazed murderers drag your momma out, laughingly cut off her tits and play catch with them, before slicing open her throught. They then rape you to death. This kind of thing and worse is going on in the sudan right now.

You know, on second thought, about that torture thing, have a day in which you are mentally tortured by a voice shouting, "Kill yourself and others!!" Over and over until after three weeks without sleep, you crash so hard that you forget to feed your pets, and they process to eat you. You wake up in the middle of this too weak to move and witness your cats fighting over your liver.

the new elves attic.

I am hoping to put the funniest stuff from my other blogs in here.