YOU WILL BE ABLE TO HEAR ME READ ALL THIS

IN A WEEK OR LESS... we record Friday, and might just start adding audio to my various sites... that day. I love reading these poems. They are my best work...... which compares them to no one except my own learning curve, which is the way life should and will be

the radio show I write for

Peace and Pipe Dreams - 02.22
Thursday, 22 February 2007

PEACE AND PIPE DREAMS
LIVE TONIGHT AND EVERY TUESDAY AND THURSDAY, 7-10 PM CENTRAL!

From the depths of insanity comes a show that defies all convention. Two troubled young men, on a quest to rid the world of stupid buttheads, have taken to the airwaves. They will be unleashing the truth serum, their MySpace girls and all manner of evils on their unsuspecting boss.

Tune in, or you just might explode!

jokesters unite

light up the doobies
reclaim yr rights

we are
NO LONGER VICTIMS
to the whims
of jackel$ and fool$




NO
not in this night


racing down from the stars
ready
screaming
itching for a fight

that's our eagle tonight



for Pauly SHore.... the once and future voice of his generation.

the radio show I write for starts in fifteen minutes

peace and pipedreams... listen for special guest pain... on fearless radio, hit the am station... should be cool

Picture yourself walking through the streets in 1775 Boston,

in the morning as you make your way to the pub for an eye opener and a bit of breakfest... you pay heavy taxes and don't even get a decent wooden sidewalk over the muddy streets... you've been sick of the world for sometime, but what could one person do... well, that fine moring, you see on the walls and poles and everywhere... someone has snuck in during the night and put up broadsides signed by (THOMAS) PAIN(E). You read the words and they stir you like a lover... you go home and get your gun; inspired finally to be free -- the free you have dreamed of... to finally fight off the oppressor's so your children can live in a truly free land.


posted on February 27, 2007 5:57 PM (Central America Standard Time)

soon i am finally going to get to fight

warren, you pass out at the keys already??? You bastard.**

YOU BASTARd!!!!.




YOU HELPED MAKE THIS POSSILE



SOON

we'll know WHO OUR BUDS ARE....

I NEED THEM
when it is resposible

want to join the tribe????

NO BETTER TIME....

I will take calls

when it is safe

WHEN

PEACE PEACE

PEACE PEACE PEACE
okay's....


**Drunken, drugged out thespian extrodinaire, Warren The Ape... of greg the bunny fame -- he hates when I say that so much that I use the phrase whenever possible,just to keep things interesting,....

i wake up

wake up

wake up


look around warily
for a weapon
realize there are no attackers
kneel down & thank the mother

i would like to see obama and hillary

in bed together
all greased up in red leathers and howling

better yet some kind of foursome

I am sure bill will agree with me on this
if he doesn't already have
an elaborate fantasy
or thirty some
to share
what with his reknown for 'pussy talk'
which seems to me like a way for two guys
to turn each other on
without having to actually get dick poked

he probably had a little dally in some oxford ho

they can admit inhaling, sure...
we all do that


but the poking??? the poking of but??????


in
my dream
of
peace

some will poke but

u are at the helm

u are at the helm


of a library of wisdom undreamable
by even the most asute ghosts of yore

we are now all CASTING OUR NETS for words
SURFING newspapers plays comics movies poems & Pain

words they great they
play us like instruments
they have inspired agendas of their own
the savage grace
doesn't tell us we're praying
at the keys
until it is too late
& we're hooked on gaming and gonzo


all words are song
we are all practicing poets
singing for the living
singing for the dead
the forgotten
raped and torn
we

sing for their forgiveness

then quietly wait

for them to sing for themselves

and
we
at last
can learn to CHERISH THEIR SONG

i share the same name as the most prolific serial killer in america,

ridgway. Our genes once ruled half of england, were the first invaders of ireland, a general in the field in korea who had to leave the army because he was so against the idea of vietnam (FIELD GENERALS FIGHT WITH THE TROOPS; i need lots more stories on Matthew Ridgway), gave the funding for west minster abbey... in 1938 a book came out detailing their crusades and castles and stuff... once I get it updated, I'll put it in here... tell the ridgway's you know...even those bastards who let ellis island add a fucking e... i tried to quit using them for awhile but everyone kept throwing sticks at me BEcause it's hard to understand most speach without e's .... i'll try again when the wounds heal, as always... wait until you hear how my mom and Peace worked themselves back to health. They are inspiring individuals.

My uncles are all vet's, and my dad was ww 2.

Don't nobody try to tell me I don't like the troops... there will be a hamster army on their ass. up their ass. and infesting their famalies.


I am liberal with blood under my nails

I watch my ma crying in fear
and watching news
of her brothers war in the jungles

No mother should have to... but they do. I studied military intelligence, went in a boof conspiracy nut speading accidental lies, and came out realizing there is good and bad everywhere.

And they did some great stuff the wrong way, the right way, and some crazy ass ways involving child soldiers, like in my books.... I'' lll gonzo out some books on those military intelligence classes, and my extensive studies into cults... get to use all those anthropology classes... i have studied and interviewed and stuff a huge, basically unknown cult based on totally brainwashing leftists and making them politically unactive.


Have to try and find the spy I based one war on, who was forced to rape women to death in vietnam after being drugged and brainwashed. Want to hear the true story of some of those navy seals???/ Those guys deserve our tears, and this man has had plenty of mine. Hope there is someday something I can do for him... he doesn't even know about my book. I'll let you know when and if he wants to rock a little.

Oh, my dad and grampa were .... toot, toot, toot... guys who loved to hang out with their family, friends, church members, theater groups, family... etc.

On the other side is my mom. She marched me with ceaser chavez when i was five, bought me all the books about him.. when i met him as an adult, i told him this and he teared up. There was a dear man. Those migrant workers are still fighting. They aren't killing them that often, here... I also once kicked birch bayh in the ass, when I was three... have to tell this one when I get back, and then listen to mom tell it again to get the facts past my buds. They are talking so much, aren't they.

Thank you genes seeping down the leg of history..... at least i am channeling our serial killing side into the radio and staying away from the green river.

PHLEGMY THE MIGHTY MITE

Phlegmy grew up ignorant of his station in life, as a mite on the ass of a fat maid who often smelled of inscense from a near by catholic church; all phlegmy knew was that he was young and the whole world seemed to be out there for him to take. Talky tv shows had convinced him, at a very young age, that he would become some sort of famous rock star, like all the mite's he admired on his favorite shows.

He knew this would happen because he could just feel it was so, and all the big stars said they always felt that way.

Unfortunatly for phlegmy, his dreams died with him when he realized, quite too late, that the short life of a mite had come and gone and all he had ever done really was sit around waiting for his ship to come in. As he died, his last thought was, 'someday they will be sorry they treated a great poet like me like a fucking lice...'

Of course no one ever did, because I mean who the fuck reads poetry, let alone poetry by mites? I don't think so... I mean have you ever seen any? No. That's exactly the kind of evidence that proves this story is 100 % Fucking True, man.

too bad.

they left me starving and in Pain

called it a financial game
I was just road kill under their wheels

i can barely forgive them
but i will

though I sure as hell don't feel like talking to them

yet

I HAVE ACCIDENTLY convinced a prophetic sect

I am john the baptist...

By Gilford Tuttle
Posted Tuesday, February 27, 2007 on THE CHURCH OF THE BLEEDING TOE
Discussion: Religion

I can understand why you might want to think that, but I need no name man can prounounce..
I thought this might happen, but it is such a big thought -- that my work could spawn a cult, that I thouht it mere ego to think it. Now, I could make these people support me like that. I won't. I say, it is okay for a writer to pray to thier readers, the problems start if they pray back...

Pray to your better self, to the wisest voice you can find in your head, give it the strength to win this TOTAL WAR FOR TOTAL PEACE..

picture yourels in the muddy streets of 1775 boston

and one morning you walk down to the pub for an eye opener and a bit of breakfest... and on the walls and poles and everywhere... someone has snuck in during the night and put up broadsides signed by (THOMAS) PAIN(E). You read the words and they stir you like a lover... you go home and get your gun; inspired finally to be free -- the free you have dreamed of... to finally fight off the oppressor's so your children can live in a truly free land.

the disgusting things I did to see conan obrian

After gettting the notice about the Chicago shows of CONAN O'BRIAN/ son of the letterman/ nerdy bud of us all/
secret barbarian warrior waiting/waiting/waiting
for the order to come down

..

i shot off an email hoping to get tickets to see him with the clownish prince dave chappel, george wendt and . . . that bad assssssss band (and wishing andy richter would show, as always).








CONAN AND CREW,

PLEASE OH PLEASE OH PLEASE LET ME COME TO THE SHOW.... I'VE BEEN SAVING SOME CLEAN UNDERWEAR FOR SOMETHING LIKE THIS. WELL, PRETTY CLEAN. THE CLEANEST. WHEN I WEAR THEM, SINCE THEY ARE MY FAVORITE UNDERWEAR IN THE WHOLE WORLD, BLACK SILK WITH LITTLE WHITE PLAYBOY BUNNY HEADS, I LIKE TO TUCK A BIT OF TOLIET PAPER IN THE OLD BUM TO MAKE SURE NO STINKY CRACK JUICES SEEP INTO ME SHORTS. YOU CAN BET I'LL BE PACKING THE NIGHT OF YOUR SHOW!!! I'll be so proud if I can get Conan to sign a wad of papery bummed juices!!!! I just know he'll honor me by sniffing the pen, afterwards -- as is the way of my people, as any Harvard grad would know!!!


PLEASE OH PLEASE CHOOSE ME...I WILL SLEEP WITH ANYONE I HAVE TO.





Of course, I was only kidding about sleeping with people, because I kick in my sleep and snore and scream out for various vegetibles and squeak like the Hamster Hermie (who for some reason I always dream I am, this hamster general leading this vast, sqeauking, gasious army of sadly short taled rodents). I guess they took me seriously though, because when I showed up for the show some guy had my name on a clip board and i was made to sign some kind of release and then taken down into a grungy bathroom in the basement of the Chicago Theater, where some rough, coach like guys shaved my entire body and bathed me in a cold vat of old spice and ben gay.... WELL, THIS IS A FAMILY SHOW AND the sodomy got a little rough from here on out... so let me save that for the memoir. ... Not that I am complaining, it was worth all the money they could charge up on my credit cards to keep the party going, worth even the blood and organs they made me sell to buy them hot dogs to throw at homeless people. And sure, that is one way of feeding them... and who am i, I Pain tainted well beyond media standards of electibility for even the lowly post of piss pot removal (yes, I ran and they savaged me in the press... said since i didn't have a pot of mine own to piss in, that my jelousy would lead to sloppy clean up.... yea, maybe they did have a point... damn them their peculiar genius) to judge Conan... I mean, on anything other than the ridiculously small size of his penis.

Below is the fun notice from the crew of the conan... great barbarian warrior and lover of liberal libations!!!



Late Night with Conan O'Brien










COMES TO CHICAGO!


















Congratulations! In response to your request for tickets, we are pleased to inform you that we are holding 2 tickets for you for Late Night with Conan O'Brien in Chicago! Please be aware ticket distribution is in excess of seating capacity; therefore, this reservation does not guarantee admittance. YOU MUST BRING THIS LETTER WITH YOU TO CLAIM YOUR TICKETS. There will be no exceptions.











The show you are scheduled to see will tape on WEDNESDAY, MAY 10, 2006. This letter may not be used for alternate dates.










The show will tape from 4:30 to 5:30 p.m. Your suggested arrival time is no later than 3:15, though be aware lines may form earlier. As stated above, ticket distribution is in excess of seating capacity; therefore, a ticket/reservation does not guarantee admittance. Lines will form outside The Chicago Theatre on the North East corner of State Street and Lake Street. Please be advised that the taping schedule is subject to change, possibly without notice.








Should you have any questions, please refer to our website at www.nbc.com/conan or the theater's website at www.thechicagotheatre.com.
















We look forward to seeing you there!

CAPTAIN FACTOR X

u sit at your computer
recently knighted
at the center of a vortex
of groceries, socialization, physicians, teachers
cops and cunt and cock and revolution and redemption
ready to poke your little head in all over

a reluctant revolutionary
aware the sewer system goes down and millions die


a buffalo soldier
in the war for america*


in your medicine bag:
as much tv as humanly possible
comics books concerts doobies dogs cd's dvd's dj's and cats mothers and fathers and lovers
they are your powers
make strings of beads
named for your parents statesmen children lovers passions
wear them proudly around your neck
explain them to all who are wise enough to listen


pray at the keyboard oblivous and intent
not caring/knowing they are for real/for real keys



stand and point
at the toxic dumps real and spiritual
in your neighborhoods
in yourselves
report the problems to a crusading warrior monk
we are now armed and ready and lusting
to serve and protect and party and get us all laid








"OUr mon Bob Marley. I claim ALL the RASTA'S for my CRUSADE OF PAIN; they gots the best weed, dude!!!. He will be a Poet General in the movie that will come from this memoir.... yea, we will be shooting a lot of movie from this blog!!!!

after all the years of freaking out about being didactic

can't be another hitler
in those dark shades
that bleed away all the color
reduce these visions to black and white

I post-modern man all wary
staying away from drawing lines in the sand
or declaring anything permanent
for any length of time

refusing
to be a judge
in a court
of impossible standards

I oblivous stoic going thru my mundane day
MONKED AWAY from the masses
telling no one what I do
learning to listen
fishing for words
unknowingly illumating pages of my most sacred text

winning a little
finally
some days

in the bitter bloody war with ennui

no longer suspecting
there is more than is dreamt of in our philosophy

i am walking quietly along the waterline at the beach
behind out of nowhere
where there is no one
A SUCKER PUNCH !!!
BAM!!
RIGHT TEMPLE!!

STAGGERING

ain't
NOTHING
i can do
but
CLOSE MY EYES
accept the swoon

GO WITH THE FALL

i just seem to know
i CAN'T LOOK at MY ATTACKER
without dying

the creature's standing in the center
of an awesome crash
of lightening bolts
thousands
zig-zagging crazily down
out of the blue sky
striking
the beach and exploding

inside the firestorm of lightening strikes

I sense a master traveler

looking out at me

A BEING FROM CREATION

a horrifying creature
of SAVAGE GRACE


KNOW
the rough beast's*
time has come round
at last at last
there was no slouch
this creature stood tall and proud



my body became as dead to those around me
my thoughts blown wondrously throughout time and space


My name disappears from my head

I sense
the creature
does this
to tell me
it too
is seeking a name



i sensed
i would
have died
had it wanted

from then on my Pain seemed carefully measured
as if the creature
were only hurting me enough to drive me
mad enough
for the undreamt mission



gone baby gone for days
lost from body and soul
a corpse never so alive
they great they called THE COSMIC STING a seizure

keep me strapped down and drugged out

takes days and days to fully identify the obviously fictional
in my charged and cautious and exuberant
dream of dreaming


crawling back up into myself
I find I am filled with sensations of the sacred
dreaming of cosmic order


I worry my cravings for peace
are the residuals of a bout with mad
something the new med.'s
will push out of my head in a few weeks

maybe some mentat* chain will break and I'll write
my happy sappy
got over the depression
post-treatment tract


fret what if I am going to crash
and wake up baffled
by how I was ever
stupid and deluded enough
to put my faith
back in this system

hope
is the last thing we expect
to find in a voting booth
we've been burned before
we're all scarred up
shot up and jailed and abused and wasted
and you name it baby


still
I sense
inside us
a mighty roar
that will make them shit themselves and run



call me crazy whatever

I have been preparing

for this moment

all of my life*


yr words
will never hurt me again

I'm ready
to fight you

stick for stick
stone for stone



or
just
forgive

you


with a kiss
on the cheek

and a

welcome to the show










*phil collins


*again, the sacred Dune, which I read over and over, all of them... though I have never had the time or scratch to buy the latest ones... sadly enough.


* this has to be the most quoted poem in the world. I love this poet, and he was out there. I named my dear now lost kitty bums Mr. Yeats after him. I want the time to read his elaborate theory of the universe, which Dr. Lindsay, the class clown extrodainaire/the liberal sceptic saintished one/ somewhat awe inspiringly told the class, "Well if you read it, it does seem to make sense." He seemed startled by his own words and moved on quickly.

Mostly He was so funny. I have notes. At UT I learned that no matter where a good student is, they will learn and the teachers will appear. Dr. lindsay liked to make it out like he lived in mortal fear of actually once and for all boring a student to death. Ho. English prof.'s... my dog, what better buds!!!

Boner Snorting Meth and Screwing Gilford Tuttle

Boner Snorting Meth and Screwing RADIO MINISTER Gilford Tuttle
Like anyone who was listening to Tuttle's program this afternoon, I have just learned that Boner has continued the Bitch ways that he learned in prison, and is once more out peddling his ass. Boner decided to expose this preacher after listening to this Tuttle's CB radio 'salvation station,' which he uses to harrass trucker's passing by on highway 6. We was a listening to the show, because a lot of the Trucker's are our customers... Well, Gilford was going on about the Mountanous Balls of Jock Jesus, and some trucker who was just passing through came back at him, saying something about how having a Jesus with big balls seemed a little gay to him. Hell, anyone can see this jock jesus thing is a little gay -- Boner is known to often touch himself during the Savation Station CB broadcastes, which often include graphic descriptions of a well-muscled Jesus working out.


Tuttle didn't seem to know this though, and he got all full of himself and started ranting about how homosexual marriages were going to cause a break down in the local sewer systems. He is always saying this, and most people have just come to accept it as true.
When Boner heard this stuff about the gay marriage would destroy the local sewer systems, again... and then Carl broke down and started crying over it... Well, Boner just went crazy, picked up that CB and jumped on, right in the middle of the show, and starting saying how he was bitching for Gilford Tuttle, doing crazy gay stuff on meth in some abondoned porta potty. But Bouncing, hip hopping, ankle flipping...


I guess Boner met his 'gay trick,' this preacher, when he was out selling that white trash meth that smelled like his but. Of course it has become all the damn rage in the underground gay scene here in town, which up until this I had pretty much believed was just Boner and his cat Carl.

Gays have been drawn by this but-smelling meth from as far away as a truck stop out on interstate 75!! Somebody carved our name into the wall out there, and we've been getting calls asking for White Ass all the time. That's what the street name for this stuff has become -- White Ass, which does not please me one bit... makes light of our trademark name, White Trash. I have been damned careful with my Branding, like I learned from reading part of an article about Martha Stewart during the year I was in prison... the third time, I think. We have tried so hard to keep White Trash in good graces with our sensitive customers, like the grade schoolers and their parents. I'm doing my best damage control, trying to get the kids to call this batch White Poo, or something more kid friendly...

I would also like to assure our customer's that our next batch is going to be kept the hell out of Boner's but!!! I don't care if my decision has made him cry. Lord, he did love farting out them bags, after keistering them down to the 7-11. Made him and his asshole the goddamned center of attention, and you know he likes that. Personally, I'd almost rather quit the meth than have to smoke his ass smell again... almost.

And as far as this thing with this Gilford Tuttle, he is denying everything, I guess. ... but Boner has tapes and proof and such that we will be releasing throughout the day, as he finds the stuff.



I GUESS A DENIAL HAS APPEARED ON THE TRAILER PARK EMPORIUMS' SITE FROM THIS TUTTLE... HERE IT IS.



What, Me, But Bounce? Oh, no...

I have been accused . . . I, Gilford Tuttle, most blessed on high among men, has been actually accused of having meth fueled gay sex with some hot stud from the disreputable, untrustworthy 'southside' of the trailer park. I have not now, nor have I ever, slid my dick into this guys hot ass. Nor has his hard, long, tall one slid up deep, deep inside my quivering bowels. In fact, I am so heterosexual that if I am not at church, I am usually testicles deep in the little lady. Can't get enough of the vagina, I always say in private and silently, as the lord commands. Yes, I am 'regular' with my wife.

I have recently heard that there are even some kind of 'fake tapes,' which has a voice that does sound like me. Oh, that Satan.... he is so damn clever. Of course the dark prince will do about anything to bring down the most blessed man on the planet, I who drink of the sweet, sweet sweat dripping from the Mountanous balls of Jock Jesus... On these tapes, there is much begging for meth and hot gay, sweaty meth sex. They are just so fake.. obviously the spewings of Satan's mighty wand!!

Leaders such as me are often attacked by gay men who claim we have been having hot, drug fueled sex all damn day and half the night. The time has come for all good men to ignore this hot, heathen Boner's blasphemy!!

I have just had a vision that Jesus will be very, very pissed at anyone who believes this slander against the one he has blessed the most.

To make this go away, new revelations in The Tuttle Scriptures And Family Budget, say that all I have to do is to think of the Jock Jesus With Balls Bigger Than Man Can Even Comprehend, and say three times -- GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN!!! GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN!!! GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN!!!

There, now we can all forget about this blasphemy, and go home and drink a long, cool glass of Pigmilk!!!

What? You still haven't obeyed the Lord and started drinking pig milk?

Why, "Got Pigmilk?" is what all the hip kids say -- and a wrathful god Demands.





This Tuttle is obviously very, very slick. A worthy adversary for me, Skeeter Skeeter Skeeter the seventh. He just doesn't understand that Boner has no reason to lie about this at all.



In fact, the fallout over Boner's decision to go public with his latest 'bitching,' has effected him something awful. Him and Carl are having problems over it, and I guess Boner has been banned from their litter box, which is causing some problems behind the couch that smell way too much like our meth.


He's in the bedroom crying and Carl will not comfort him this time.

New Development.. Boner has just come bouncing out of the back bedroom saying he is probably going to take it all back... I guess him and Tuttle agreed to hold a prayer meeting at some book store, Shemsties Frog Slapping Hole. He says they'll be 'a kneeling and a squeeling.' I guess that means prayng.




Later In The Night....



Strange shit. Boner come home from this meeting with the Gilford Tuttle and just went straight to the back yard, where he got out the back hoe and started digging up a bunch of the yard. I tried to get him to tell me what was going on, but he was all spaced out on the White Ass or something... I mean, the White Poo... When I tried to grab the keys out of the back hoe, he pulled a knife on me and you can bet I come in real quick....

So now a few hours has passed and it turns out he's making these huge, brown balls. They got to be like fifteen feet high. Then to make matters worse, he starts loudly praying to these things and lighting those mexican candles with the sayings about lotto winning and stuff. As the night has gone by, gay meth heads have been showing up and Boner is doing something to them, making them all kneel down and... well, pray. That's about the last thing Boner ever knelt down to do.

A bunch of gay truckers and their groupies praying to huge, brown balls in the back yard is not going to be good for the straight business.


When he finally came in, we asked him what the hell was going on, and he explained to me and an obviously miffed Carl.

"I've got religion, again."

Boner was always taking on the religion of whover he was 'bitching' in prison, so this was nothing new, but huge balls in the back yard is not going to be good for business... Well, actually, with the White Ass customer's it could pack them in... No, then we would lose that all important family trade -- our bread and butter.

This is what I was thinking anyways, when I tells Boner he has to get rid of them mud balls. Her got all weird and grabbed his shotgun and said he'd kill every heathen on the planet before he would touch one hair on them balls. He looked like he did that time the county worker said he had to get Carl fixed, and we all know they ain't never seen her again. He's sitting out there right now, on top of one of them fifteen foot high mud balls with that shotgun and a big old bag of White Ass, surrounded by all them gay trucker's in their pink little trucker caps and tube tops. One of them must have been hauling a load of white tube tops and pink trucker caps that say Peterbilt, because they are all wearing them. And nothing else. A disgusting site. Slappy is just sitting in the corner shivering and shaking and wetting and pooing on himself. Carl is in the back room throwing stuff around and chasing balls of wadded up paper, just a little swishing mess of a gay cat over this shit. When Boner comes down and sees how upset Carl is, he is going to feel bad, like he always does when he accidently starts one of his gay religions.

introducing myself on comments comment

I pain. I AM WAGING A TOTAL WAR FOR TOTAL PEACE. SORRY TO LEAVE A STOCK MESSAGE, BUT i NEED TO GET THE WORD OUT.

I also have other sites -- go to this one for the full scoop -- http://theelvesattic.ebloggy.com I have five.

ANways,
I am cruising around my space introducing myself. I trained to be a poet for years before switchwing to military ingelligence, and now I end up being a novelist and other stuff... funny how life works. You would like my story of a post modern conversion experience -- after all the years of freaking out about being didactic. i have like five sites, but the easiest one to get that at is http:theelvesattic.ebloggy.com I'm a novelist, dj, filmaker, etc...looking for short scripts or recoreded bits about a minute long... more importantly though..
I am an underground chicago artist, from the roger's park hood. I paint reluctantly sell oils, but mostly I write. I have worked in skit tv comedy, a chilren's show, wrote over 400 short stories, and three books. Also went to college full time for twelve years. Please come check out my funny, and read THE MIGHTY POEMS FOR PEACE that WE have been writing for you, and can now show that the CRUSADE OF PAIN is going above ground, with a new radio show on fearless radio, a movie contract, weekly live shows with a lot of stars coming in over our laptops. Peace and pipedreams

the crusade of pain ... opening of book/broadside, too

WARREN THE APE: "I think they are seriously afraid of my talent."

BEWARE

I' m starving, trapped in chronic paiin, enraged, backed into a corner. Ready to go out doing as much damage as the GOOD LORD allows... or forgive you with a ki$$ and a smile.

BLOOD IS BEING SPILLED N YOUR NAME!!!

The U.nited S.tates Of A.merica
IS AT WAR!
We MUST NOT FORGET

not for one gorgeous horrible second.

I answer to PEACE & PAIN ... period.

the great I inside us all
will emerge
become one creature
fighting through a universe
OF SAVAGE GRACE

II write FUNNY most the time. . . there is just too much blood in my eyes.



ADD YOUR NAME TO THE OTHER STARS
GATHERING OVER
THE COMING CHILD OF PEACE

I'm a salesman smiling all friendly
order taker and hand shaker
a rep from creation.


Mostly I write here but...

Just need a laugh, PAINTINGS, PICTURES!!
http://www.xanga.com/johnnyapain

You can get the crusade of pain in order at
http://thepsychokillershitlist.blogspot.com

For me pissingng off conservatives/ bloodless liberals -- the church of the bleeding toe

Or
http://blog.myspace.com/thepsychokillershitlist

Mother,
things just got weird.

I'm from a famous family, the first kings of england, crusaders and monks and priests since the dawn of recorded time... the bloodline of Arthur. Sounds like bragging to talk this crap, but this is the crest of the peacock going up like a flag. I have earned a soap box -- not by the name ridgway -- the most famous one is a serial killer... earned mine through twelve years of school in mil. intelli., writ, etc... taxi for fifteen years; learning to love me and you and forgive us all -- PERIOD.

I am harnassing my word to pursue PAX ROMANO. My plan is extensive and wild and wide... lot of famous friends are along for this ride, and they will show up as I start doing radio and live shows.


Help us rip the word out of the hands of the elite and humbly give it back to the weakest, sickest, smallest child in the village...they alone can lead us out of this forest of lies. Let them all have laptops!

I'm a writer for PEACE AND PIPE DREAMS


LIVE EVERY TUESDAY AND THURSDAY, 7pm CENTRAL on the net at fearless radio

Are you hungry enough to eat me?

I'm 44, 20 some years of serious writing, 12 university years schooled by the best in the world... done tv, magazines, newspapers, little films, paintings, hundreds of short stories, LOT OF NOVELLAs, novels... and I AM JUST GETTTING STARTED.

The words have some need of their own and I can no more claim them than take credit for the shape of my left gonad. And yes warren da ape, I know I did once try to take credit for the shape of said gonad and that you have a video but that ain't worth 80 bucks to me.



We are scribing a history of this transition,
THE CRUSADE OF PAIN, a memoir of a novelist getting a call to make radio shows and movies and stuff.... then getting HUMBLED by an awesome sucker punch from a creature of Savage Grace; true story in the tradition of hunter s thompson, mark twain,thomas PAIN and that guy who used to always protect his nerdy friends.

Welcome to one man's infectious delusion of
GONZOING UP A BRAND NEW WORLD.


THANK YOU SOLDIERS who have written to say they are inspired to the path by these words. Among all the dreams that have come true for me recently, this is the most important somehow. You are not forgotten. We are hurting from your PAIN.


Kurt Vonnegut Jr. put your uniform back on, Man, and March -- this time the end will be peace, not Dresdan.

general Matthew Ridgway GREAT Man ANd Spirit Warrior -- WE CLAIM YOUR SOUL FOR OUR TRIBE!

write it on the walls:

OBAMA FORGIVE OSAMA
LET ALL THE WARRIORS GO HOME.

PEACE is breaking out all over hell.

If you can't laugh at yourself, turn your ass around right now and click off.
Just click off!!!

Want to see the coolest puppet master this side of god????????????????

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greg_the_Bunny
"Scatchamagowza! It's My OFFICIAL MySpace Page!!"
greg the bunny


the funniest show ever????


Hunter S. Thompson said:

"Weed is like cigarettes. You smoke it all day, every day."

Not that I am ever going to cop to that.

I can help you get published, start your own blog, make a little movie, cartoons, etc, or whatever.... I am your instrument, so play me, baby... NO SHIT. I am filling my rolodex with people who will help us all.

There IS ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS room for YOU YOU YOU in this tribe...


THANK YOU FOR OVER 700,000... i AM humbled.

This is the major supossitory for the writings of John Scott Ridgway, a published and produced writer of short stories and TV sketch comedy,and novels. Toot.... toot, toot, toot... dog, don't you hate the sound of horns

nepotism is necrophylia...

todd stroger, you watching where you put that dick?

You can reprint anything of mine, steal it, whatever...

I AM a slap stick serial killer; Gilford Tuttle, a con-man-preacher-gay-meth addicted-pigmilk pusher; Skeeter- meth-mouth of Rabby's Trailer Park Emporium; scribe o the adventures of Our God Ralph. A Critic whom I respect accused me of putting 'booger's' in my writing; that I trick folk into falling into nice, normal prose, then zing something weird and disgusting. This is not always true...

WHO WANTS TO eat BLOODY BOOGERS!!!

This is how my new book, THE CRUSADE OF PAIN, opens... there is still some editing to do, but the book already has over 400 pages... the subtitle will be THE RELIGIOUS PSYCHO KILLER'S SHIT LIST VOLUME 2.... (though I am going to just slip volume one into two).



Please picture yourself in the muddy streets f 1775 Boston, and one morning you walk down to the pub for an eye opener and a bit of breakfest... and on the walls and poles and everywhere... someone has snuck in during the night and put up broadsides signed by (THOMAS) PAIN(E). You read the words and they stir you like a lover... you go home and get your gun; inspired finally to be free -- the free you have dreamed of... to finally fight off the oppressor's so your children can live in a truly free land.



I am inspired by savage grace -- my prayers are you will be to.

a general democratization of the means to do harm.

HAS COME

PEOPLE KEEP FORCING ME TO KILL THEM

PEOPLE KEEP FORCING ME TO KILL THEM.



I am getting sick of all the people who force me to kill them. You know what I mean. Last night I was on the el train coming home from scoring a little weed, sitting there buzzing and drawing. Around me was a very normal crowd of all colors. Then The But came on the train, loud talking into a headset phone. She is cursing like mad, everything is, "Fuck that Bitch." She sits down right by me of course.
I tell her, "Hey, there are little kids sitting here, so you gotta watch your language." She doesn't hear me, so I tap her shoulder with my drawing pad.

"You can't talk like the in front of little kids."
She scream-talks, as she has since coming on the train, "Oh, we got a white black thing going on. Crysop, I just . . ."
I don't know what else she was going to say. I pulled the Bowie knife out of my waist, stood up, and then used both hands to bury that sharp metal down deep in her skull. Her eyes shot wide open, as did her mouth. A fat, fat women, she slowly slid down off her seat... catching her blouse on her purse and pulling it up and revealing stretch marked bulges of brown fat.

A couple people clapped, so I took a bow; then I moved to the other end of the train, of course, because people shit when they die and that big woman let loose like two pounds of hamburger, eight chickens, pies.... god only knows? She looked like she could handle an Old Country Buffet all by herself.

A couple people kicked her on their way out. I caught the eye of one girl who kicked the loud thing and we shared a smile. I was glad she was black, that the sane recognize the sane no matter how they appear.


Later, I am out walking Ruby Dog, Mary Ann is with me, the cold winter has let up temporarily and we are loving being out in the neighborhood walking hand in hand. I remembered that we are getting low on milk, so I asked Mary Ann to hold onto the dog while I go into this carry out.

I go in and grab a half gallon. The guy who runs/owns/probably lives in the back with his three wives and four indentured slaves/ talks on his cell phone throughout our transaction. I get my change and turn to leave and the bag breaks.... the milk is fine, so I go back to the guy and he tries to give me ONE BAG again. I go, "Hey, it just broke with one, so it has to be double bagged."
"Now you are costing me three bags," he says.
I had my change and my double bagged milk and there was no reason anymore for me to pretend to be nice. AS I walk out I tell him, "You're a total asshole. You fuck your mother in the ass. You suck off your father, don't you?" Arab guys get really pissed off by this (learned that while driving cab, where actually I got along with the arabs perfectly well).


He followed me out the door screaming something about me being a bad customer. I just gave the fucker my back. He tried to sting me, so I had to sting him.


Since I was with M., I couldn't really do shit to the guy. She gets so pissed when she has to testify against me. I calmed down the best I could, and M. was proud of me for 'being an adult and walking away from violence.' She almost made me feel guilty, because all the while I knew that I would be going back to that guys store and basically try to destroy his life. Assholes. They have to be gotten out of the gene pool.

Around Midnight, when M. was deep in her sleep, I took an empty gallon of milk and went down to the gas station on the corner, filled it up for a buck fifty. I took the gasoline down into the basement, to our storage room, and hid it away for later -- when the gasoline attendent will have half forgotten that I came down and got gas.


Two weeks passed. I added this guy to my stalking list, which is pretty crowded at this point, so I had to let my survaillance go on certain people who are of interest to me for reasons I can't even begin to understand. His name turned out to be Halik Brlin, so I just called him Rab. A pompous fuck, he was cheating on his wife and his girlfriend, doing three women, and all of them fat, unattractive, and kind of loud mouthed; basically, white trash. He drank all day long, beat his kids, his wife. Over bearing isn't strong enough for the naZI EMPIRE that he created in his house.... He was also insured for quite a bit of money. I was happy to see all of this, as you can imagine...
because, of course, hatred for your enemies makes your balls grow bigger.

I decided to cook him in his car. He had a two door escort, so all I needed to do was put a chain around the doors, pour on the gas and listen to that rude motherfucker's death cries. I caught him that night as he was coming out of his store. Put my gun right into the side of his head and told him, "I want your money, and then I am I am going to tie you up to get a running start. I don't mind shooting your ass -- and I will if you give me the slightest fucking problem. I know you got a fucking gun, too, so hand it over." During the stalk, I had seen him trying to impress women with some fucking tiny little pearl derringer he carried -- the poodle of guns.
He handed over the gun, then a big wad of bills.
"Give me your car keys." I tell him. He hands them over, too.

Once he is inside, I take the chain and throw it over the roof of the car, then get down on my stomach and push one end under the car and lock the chains together tight.


When he sees me coming at the him with a jug of gasoline, he starts trying to break the windows. I slosh the stuff all over the escort, going front to back, getting some on the sides, even the tires.

He is using his bloody hands to try and smash out the drivers side window. He could probably do it if he layed down and used his feet, but of course there was no way in hell I was going to tell him that. I tossed a paper match and the Gasoline soaked, maroon escort went up in magniificent shards of red and orange and yellow.

Don't ask me why, but at the last second, I started thinking about all of this guy's kids. Wondering if they were better off without him? I had a baseball bat, in case he did break out, and could easily still save him... then I remembered all the insurance money they would get, and that no matter how many tears they cried, his kids were better off being rich and free of assholes. Not to mention, my mission is of course to cleanse the gene pool of assholes.

THE JOKE WAS ON ME

the world takes every dime you make
and screams at you for more

uncle sam even pimps the pimps
got us all raped down and whored


Hello folks, I am here today, obviously, with a message for the children. ... I can only hope that now since you also have the heavy burden of this sacred knowledge, that you will go down to the local elementary school, wait until classes let out, and then begin screaming at the deluded little whipper-snappers, "Uncle Sam Wants to Pimp You!!! Spread em' for your uncle Sam, buddies and lassies!!! Spread them wide for your nasty uncle and keep em' open cause he's a horny old goat who wants it all, every fucking day...."
'
The above is the opening for my new children's book, Rectal Wrecking Republican's and Other Dead Goat Fuckers. In it, I plan to just totally fucking lead people astray for the hell of it. . . then start a religion, do an el ron hubbard and just you know say whatever the hell once I got em' brainwashed. I also plan to end poverty and cat halitosis.
Watch for this and other children's texts soon on the step outside my house ... or on a rock at the park.... maybe the monthly, xeroxed bulliten of events at your psych hospital? Written on a rock in your window? Tattooed into the soft flesh under your throat?????

THE GOLDEN SHIV AWARDS..

Johnny Pain: Hey, I'm back. I want to thank all my readers for just assuming it was true that I died of unexplained rectal bleeding... had someone bothered to look, they would have found that a super glue accident -- the kind of thing that could happen to anyone whose vision was obscured by having hamsters glued to their face -- has had me stuck to a wall in the basement for the last ten weeks. I survived only by eating both of my legs and most of my left ear.... well, I fed the ear to the hamsters, actually. Then I had to eat them, too... the irony, huh?

Thank dog I was rescued just in time to announce the advent of THE GOLD SHIV AWARDS.



A lot of my readers are in prison, and I like to assume those who are not will end up there (for my young readers, just let me say that you just keep dissecting your neighborhood's pets and collected mom's used tampons and I am sure in no time you'll be 'living the dream' of digging up corpses for your own little private orgies and genital feasts). Since this kind of makes me a voice among serial killers, who are often the most feared prisoners... I decided to use this tiny scrap of power, like I do them all, for petty impulses... To this end, I here-by announce a new award, THE GOLDEN SHIV, which I have to decided to start GIVING AWAY TO THE PRISONER who shiv's the most digusting, child-fucking freak.

In this noble tradition, I will be nominating certain prisoners who I am sure if killed would win some lucky criminal THE GOLDEN SHIV . . . did I mention which comes with cigarettes and phone cards for an entire month . . . not to mention, massive appeal with those prison bitches?

Today, I am very happy to see that the FBI has taken in Warren Steed Jeffs, mormon child fucker extrodinaire... I mean, if there anything worse than being a religous childfucker, it is heading a cult of religious childfuckers... right? Hint, hint, hint... wink.


Seems now the evidence has cleared the other big media pervert, Karr... and I want to apologize to all the good criminals incarcerated in the Boulder, Colorado area, since I have had to lower the threat assessment of this Jon-benet nut (though when he said that our coolness, Johnny Depp, should play him in a movie I did picture him deheaded for a few seconds, for emotional balance).


GO OUT AND WIN THE GOLDEN SHIV AWARD and impress your cellmates, pick up more crazy women who send you letters that smell like your dead victims, and earn the respect of guards and parole boards and circus clowns...

This could be a whole new start for some loser. You could finally get the respect you almost deserve... so, do a couple shots of that home brew you made from last tuesday's fruit cocktail cup and sharpen up your shiv's!!!

THE HAPPY HAPPY POEM

the happy happy poem


slow trickle of tears down the side of a beer
no pain in their clear slide

once in awhile the gods get to dancing
love fills you with everything
you longed for
in the lonely nights

the trite and treacly
becomes fine and dandy
sometimes
when the mood is just right...

OUR GOD RALPH, CHAPTERS 1,2,3

The Cosmology of Ralph CHAPTER 1, 2, 3


Hundreds of thousands of years ago, a group of hunter gatherers stopped on a fertile plane of black dirt and decided to start planting some crops and raising cattle. In a near by grove of Cedar trees was a god, Ralph, and as was the way of people back then, they started worshiping him.

The world was filled with a lot of gods back then, and most of them were vying for the attention of humans, and then making them do stuff for their amusement... Most gods, being basically needy performers with, for lack of a better term, 'god complexes,' were always trying to one up one another by smitting this and that person, making someone else a saint, spoiling another's milk.... Ralph kind of stayed out of all of this tomfoolery, being one of the few gods who really didn't have much ambition.

As will happen when power is splashing around the ethereal plane, a few gods rose to the top of the heap, like Allah and Yahew and Morton Smeed (the latter who is now forgotten, though he was once worshiped all across the planet in complex call and response ceremonies that were made up entirely of 'burps,' which are known to historians to have been not only quite transcendent, but also cured warts on or about the left toes).

Ralph thought the gods who were scrambling around gathering worshipers' were wasting thie lives... in fact, he was kind of a slacker when it came to Godding. He really didn't care if he had a lot of followers or not. God's need only a few followers to exist on this plane as well as their own, and Ralph had enough for his purposes, and would have lived and let live if the other, nastier gods, would only let him.


He simply wasn't into all the blood and gore that the other god's seemed to get off on. In fact, he was the original pascifist god. Jesus took a lot of Ralph's drunken sermons and peiced together the Sermon on The Mount -- which is why they are so oddly peaceful when compared with the curses Jesus was known for throwing on people for the slightest of slights -- you did not want to serve him cold soup, oh no... that was leprosy, at least). No, Ralph did not care for domination at all, though his ideas on pacifism did change after the human population explosion. In fact, as more and moer species became extinct around the glone, the god Ralph grew more and more mysanthropic and partial towards killing for whims, like most gods.

Ralph was not big on speculation, either.. The other god's couldn't get enough of making up laws about this and that, and sometimes they even thought they were doing the right thing, but way more than half the time when a priest asked Ralph a question about the after life or whatever, he would just kind of shrug, and then make it out like 'man wasn't read to know,' though anyone who knew him well knew they were just being blown off because Ralph was bored with the conversation.



Ralph could see a bit of the future, of course, like all God's,
and he knew that he would be marginalized, that the small village he called his own with it's small populace of peaceful people, would be taken over by one of the blood thirsty armies of human's that the other, power-tripping gods were always putting together in their never ending need to enlarge their audiences, and thus feel more loved and worthwhile. Prayers are the ultimate applause, after all. He would have changed this if he could, and might have put forth the mighty effort needed if it were not too late by the time he realized as much.

Yes, Ralph's slacker ways were both a good and a bad traite in a god. Some years he would get behind on the harvest and the villager's would literally spend days in prayer getting him to come down and make their fields grow, yet on the hand he never asked for sacrifices or really much of anything beyond the occasional dinner invitaions and to be present at all parties. Hardly any of the villagers seriously even considered converting.

The day came when an army of men covered in steel rode stallions down into the village and began cutting down the men, raping the women, and stealing the children and wealth, as the christian and muslim god's had them doing a lot back then. Ralph did what he could, but he wasn't very powerful when compared to the other prayer inflated gods. He gathered up one family and took them into an astral plane, keeping them there until the maurader's had all passed, and then landing them in a safe village afterwards, where he was able to conjour up a job for the father.

Ralph followed that family then, all down the eons, to present day... part of their secrecy was to keep all knowledge of Ralph from the children, who were only told on their eighteenth birthday about their god, Ralph. Ralph tried to make a good impression at such times, usually would shave and tuck in his shirt and make himself smell like something pleasent, like sandalwood. He had a hard time keeping a straight face through all the mumbo jumbo that the various preists had built into the ceremony over the years, and this seemed to endear the new recruits to him. He would give them a few miracles to seal their faith.

Something of a guardian angel, and something of a smelly houseguest, the God Ralph has all the normal tenants and rules of any religion, but Ralph could seldom be bothered to remember them in the best of times, and in the last few hundred years he had been smoking weed hourly.

Ralph requires one person in the family to write down his exploits, as must be done for god's, so that when he gets bored he can read back on his accomplishments (god's do this a lot more than they ever admit). He chose Migully Foolip for no other reason than illiteration. Everyone told Migully that there was an honor that went with being the scribe of a god... But Migully was not so sure... there was the practicality's of bunking with Ralph, -- who could be meddlesome, and whose miracles back fired half the time. He also refused to pick up after himself or clean the bathroom -- and for a god him to do a task like cleaning required about as much effort as half a human thought. He could just think, 'make it clean.'


Migully bitched at him at first... but bitching at a god is a tricky thing. Ralph was known to lash out and give people an extra arm, or make one of their eyes explode. Migully learned his lesson the day he tried to get Ralph to clean up after his nine cats and was turned into a large turd for the day. It was not a mistake he made again. Like most human's, he just ignored his god when he could, and dealt with him when he had to... which was more than he liked, because of the scribe thing...


"Someone is at the door, Migully." Ralph didn't like the sound of the doorbell, and it was an annoyance that he blamed entirely on his scribe.
"Who is it?"
"Okay, I'll check... fucking Mormon."
"That's like the third this summer. Don't you think it's about time that you smite one of them? You zapped the Jehova Witnesses on their first trip here."
"Man, can't this wait until there's a commercial?"
"He's going to ring that doorbell again in a second."
"Okay, okay... there, I just made him spontaneously combust. His fellow missionary is on the lawn right now hysterically wetting himself. Shit, I deserve Nachos or something like that when I answer prayers."
"Really?"
"Yes, that is a tenant."
"It is not."
"Sure... something like, Verily bring unto my altars nachos slathered in near-cheese."
"I've been your scribe like less than a week, and already... well, your tempting my faith, Ralph. God's aren't supposed to lie."
"We don't lie, we change the truth. It's really all the difference in the world. Remember that day that I made you into a cat terd?"
"I still gag when I think about the inside of my mouth being cat terd."
"Unless I get some nachos, you are going to be terded out for like the next week. You can write that up in your scriptures and preach it, man."
"Really?"
"What did they tell you?"
"Anything you want me to write down, I write down."
"It's scripture now, baby."
"Are all the god's as... cavalier as you?"
"The ones who care, do only so because they like to cause you pain. I'm the exception, because of the kind of grove that I originally inhabited."
"Cedar, right?"
"No, we just put that in after that movie Reefer Madness came out. It was a grove of pot. Nice red, hairy buds."
"Really?"
"No. But that sure would help the taste of those nachos. Put that in there, too -- verily, nachos must... something like, come with holy weed and some sort of smoking device that is not a pop can and a bit of aluminum foil poked with holes."
"Look, I'm sorry about that, okay?"
"Tell you what, get the nachos, and I'll forgive you."
"Okay."
RALPH BRINGS DOWN THE WRATH OF THE MORMONS... ..AND THE SCIENTOLOGISTS AND MAD DONNA AND ASSFACE KURCHER ...



Thus Spoke the God Ralph: "I am sure that you have heard of De-proggraming, Muggily, where a cult member is taken to a hotel and fed big mac's and forced to watch soap operas and Jim Varney films until they are as normal as the rest of you humans? Well, why doesn't anyone do this with, say, the Mormon's? Or Seventh Day Adventist? I mean, you could even show these Catholic priests a little hetero porno and maybe save some little arse's from being sluiced with jesus juice? But no, being human's, you pick on the week ones, the wimpy moonies with their man dresses and shit. There is a psycho sexual side to that which would blow your human mind were I to explain it."
"Really?"
"No, but that sounds good, doesn't it? Use it somewhere else in my scriptures, okay?"
"I'll make a note."
"I'll need your help snatching enough people to make this effort worth my while."

This was the kind of moment Mugily dreaded... everyone had warned him to be careful when trying to dissuade the god from one of his nefarious whims, and he had already spent a day as a terd after complaining about the cat smell. "Uh, Ralph, I don't think that is a good idea. The Cult Awareness network got sued by the scientologist for shit like that... and wait a minute, isn't the mormon god a little stronger than you?"
"Man, you don't know shit, do you? That's one of those made up religions. That's why I can smite them."
"Like the Jehovoa Witnesses?"
"No, they have a god, he's just too into coke and vaigra to give much of a shit at this point. Like Buddha."
"I was an atheist until I turned 18 and we had the Shumbagogo. I never would have believed in any god, let alone you. The more I get to know you the better off I think I was."
"Careful, Mugily, as a god, I think of killing you as only slightly more serious than swatting a mosquito... slightly, ever so slightly. So, scribe, just listen to me... a couple days ago I decided that it was high time to start deproggramming some christians. I thought and thought and thought about things that can radically change someones life; something they could convert to instead of their silly myths; something that would hook them, like religion did... finally it came to me -- I'd make them crack addicts. I figured, once I got them addicted to crack they would have to steal and prostitute themselves to support their habits, which would cause their moral compasses to shift all over the place, eventually shattering their lying paradigms and breaking them out of their little 'Denny's Prayer Brunches Mania.'"
"Man, you really hate Brunches."
"Let no man say other.... they really are soul killers, those brunches. You throw in backgammon and you are on your way to the hell realms, boy. Here's my plan for deprogramming thee twirps, okay? I started with two mormon kids... they were riding along the street, so I took this van and ran them over, breaking enough bones to make them easy to push around and get in the van and all. I then drove them to a crack house, and had them shot up with herion, making their pains all go away. Now, I have them on a constant diet of porno and south park, and they seem to be responding well, going from having gag reflexes and shaking their heads to laughing maniacally and masterbating with impunity."

"What do you mean, you . . . started?"
"Yea, I went back in time and started this last tuesday. After their bones have healed in horribly mangled ways, they will be in pain for the rest of their lives and thus horribly messed up on pain drugs and as ready to hate god as some... I don't know, wombat, I guess... they are the real hardcore athiests of the animal kingdom, of course."
"Really?"
"Mugily, you really will believe anyting, won't you?"
"Where are these Mormon's you're experimenting on, exactly."
"Oh, I took them to this place I know across state, so you wouldn't get up your bretheren and start meddling, like you did when I was growing tha Mau Wai."
"You almost got us all arrested."
"Like I would let that happen."
"We never know with you, Ralph. Sometimes you are right there with what color to paint the car, and the next day you can't be bothered to save the dog's life."
"I have never let one of your dog's die un-naturally."
"Just the humans?"
"There are too many of you, Muguily, by the reports of your own damn scientists. Next I am going after a catholic preist. I will attempt to change his sexuality, and if that works, break their Bingo addictions."
"I think you should just go to a movie or something."
"Too late. Just write shit down and enjoy the ride that is Ralph, okay? Got the nachos and weed?"
"Is that all you ever consume?"
"Yes." "

Mugily sat down in the cat scratched black leather coach that had been so pristine when he bought it a year before and had been totally trashed after just six days with Raph's unruly, spoiled felines. The room was beginning to smell from the litter again. He was having to change it almost everyday to keep up the illusion that the place did not smell of cat, like he secretly suspected and was indeed correct about, though he would never know because his friends and relatives were just too damn polite to tell him -- not to mention, they all kind of felt for the scribe in Ralph's life.

Scribe's often came to bad ends, a miracle gone awry -- once only half of a scribe showed up in Puerto Rico for their annual Smiggly Soo Pen reunion... the other half of the poor man never was found. Some of the family knew a lot more about Ralph than Mugily, and they had more to fear for him than the others of course. Only a few in the religion were aware of it, but Ralph did indeed have a few enemies among the godly world, and if not for a few equally powerful gods who he partied with, the goodly god would have been banished from the earthly plane thousands of years before.

These enemies occasionally got a burr in their bonnets and decided to go after Ralph and cause him some trouble; none of them wanted out right war, so they were tricky about it... mostly pretendig like they were just playing practical jokes. Thing is, when god's play practical jokes on each other, people usually get killed. Like once when one of Ralph's more rambunction buddies put his cleric into an industrial size blender, then poured the bloody mix into a bucket and put it over his door so it dumped on Ralphs' head. They were not very inventive when it came to practical jokes, obviously.... justy bloody and gross, like all gods.

"Hey, I don't see you going out to the kitchen to make me an offering of Nachos?"
"Can't you just conjour these things up?"
"You know, I'll bet no one makes Jesus get his own nachos."
"Can you introduce me to some of these other gods?"
"What, you shopping around now?"
"No..."
"I was kidding, but you are only partically so... Sometimes reading your mind makes me fucking sick. Oh, don't go there even in your.... now your just thinking nachos, in cheese sauce, trying to throw me... oh, chili and cheese. I think you need to go down to the Tex Mex Chix and get some of those Beaver Meat Cheese Nacho Supremes and I'll ... bless you, or some damn thing. Verily, verily, I say -- goeth in search of Nachos... but first, get something to poke the resin out of my bong and change the beer in there. Verily, verily, I have spoken... whoo, whoo, whoo."
"That used to make your preist's shiver?"
"No, shit. It was funny, man, so... you are not scared enough of me, you know? That will probably lead to my accidently killing you. Well, half accidently killing you. Oh, I'll see it coming a few days before hand, and I'll think about changing time, tell myself I should... then, it'll be too late and I'll content myself with a new cleric."
"Uh, okay... really?"
"Sure."
"Did you reall get the munchies and turn a scribe into Taffy and eat him?"
"Now... I can change anything into Taffy, at any time... why the hell would I waste a scribe?"
"I just wondered."
"Is that in the scripture somewhere?"
"I don't think..."
"A lot of that shit, I was way too drunk to remember much... you know, how you get all serious and meloncholy sometimes... well, when you're a god, you get like this, then you get to exaggerating, as gods do... next thing you know, you've got the book of revelations. Yea, that was me. The christians pretty much took whatever they found, drew a smily jesus face on it and called it their own, you know?"


RALPH ON THE RUN...

Mugily's neighbors are just the normal, salt of the earth kind of folk that you find out here in the heartland of america... There is Ritlip, molester of plants and hater of noises from small children. He is haunted by his super power -- the ability to hear his neighbors tiniest doings.

In the apartment above him was Hiplo, who is obsessed with pouring tins of left over tuna water on panty displays at upscale boutiques (most of them have his picture up in the break room with a 'mace on sight' order, and he indeed gets maced all the time). In his spare time, he lives out a disability he got after taking some psych tests once when he was thinking about joining the army... or the navy... he couldn't remember after awhile and was known to occasionally get stoned on cough syrup and have one or the other branches of the armed services tattooed on his body. In his spare time, he likes to sexual stuffed animals.

First floor front apartment was Jakolp, a hot shot, celebrity janitor with a local cable show where he displays pictures of what clogged up various celebrity drains and toilets. Shocking and grotesque, his show is the highest rated in the public access market, with two or three letters a month pouring in from fans. He is a Yugoslavian immigrant who was a reknown heart surgeon in his own country, and resents like hell that he is treated by the stars as their 'toilet toy' (though he was not above copywriting the name, putting it on business cards, and all the other sound business practices that it took for him to take the celebrity janitorial world by storm).

In the basement apartment, which is even with the streets, lives a foot fetished out freak, Kiplo, who has paintings and busts of feet filling every space of wall in his place. Suspicious stains on the carpet in front of some of the paintings are explained away as 'glue spills,' though no evidence of actual use of glue has ever been discerned. He is the seeker among the dullards, a guy who thinks anyone who gets a job and has kids and lives a normal life of decorating the garage with power tools was part of a vast conspiracy that was vaguely related to a plot by Beavers to cut human water supplies and return their god to the throne of earth, which he was knocked off when man developed opposing thumbs. He is sure that one day he will find enlightenment, that it will come as a surprise in a box of cereal. This he eats all day and night, and weighs around four hundred pounds...
Kiplo covers his walls in tin foil so it looks cool with colored bulbs, and though no one can stand the cold, cerebrial yet ever so slightly trashy look of his apartment, his neighbors are too afraid of pissing of 'a crazy' to say anything more than the usual polite nicities.


Their lives were basically your normal one. They had allegeince with a local gang for protection, paid the cops off, kept up on our health insurance, cashed theirr govchecks and used their stamps. They hadn't even had a water abuse ticket for like three years, before Ralph.

Their tranquilty was shredded the day his eleven cats came ripping into the apartment... he even brought a dirty, disgustingly full litter box with him.


In less than a week, he had managed to bring the full wrath of the Mormon church down on their heads. The High, High Mormon, Morman council was convinced that all of the residents of the building were part of some 'Ralph Cult,' as the newspapers were calling them. There sort of was a cult, too, so this made defending themselves against this charge all the harder, of course (though the cult was actually a mind control experiment of Ralph's, where he was deproggramming mormons).

A lot changed when the Bush Monarchy took over the world and the rich moved to the moon (finally answering the question of why they didn't mind polluting it all those years -- they'd been planning on moving to the moon for hundreds of years, and considered the environmental destruction of earth 'a jolly good joke on the disgusting, smelly masses).' No more wars, no explotation, no working sewer systems, and few jobs... luckily, with the rich gone, the mechanical types easily created machines to do all the work so mankind could spend more time exploring such subjects as daytime telvision soap operas.


Some god's were so appalled by Bush that they tried to stop the family from taking over the world and putting a monarchy back in place. . .

Ralph was among them. They lost and as losers were kind of just left on earth forgotten. A lot of god's perished outright that day, as people faced down the environmental catastrophe and cursed them. Ralph was lucky in that he was the primary weed connection for one of the young members of his church, or he might have been cursed away as well. Cursed away entails
of course being sent to the nethers, where nothing is substantial unless the god's make it -- which is a lot more work than Ralph wants to do on any given day.

As per Ralph's rather slipshod godding, they had barely escaped from the Mormon's and were in a bus at a very high rate of speed, blowing through red lights and ignoring signs... at first, whenever a cop got on thier tale, Ralph was killing them in spectacular flame filled accidents, until Mugily protested that they were just doing their job. After some grumbling about how the human population was causing suffering to the penguin, who Ralph made clear were to be reverred as 'nature's goddamn clown, man!', he finally just started sending the cops across state.

Ralph was no great driver in the best of times, and as he flew down the highway at 120 he was also drinking a beer and rolling a joint and peeing into a cup. Mugily was gettig quite sick of crasing and having to be resurrected and healed, as were they all.

"Ralph, there is no need to go this fast. The Mormon's are never going to catch us."
"Oh, I'm not worried about them. I'm just kind of getting off on driving fast."
"You know, that is fine for someone who is impervious to pain, Ralph, but when us humans die, that shit hurts. I mean, you reattached my head three times today.... and I'm going to puke if I see my intestines splattered on another road. Seriously."

"Man, I should fucking smite you for pissing on my buzz. In fact get out ..."
"No, not the scripture..."
"Hey, you are the fucking scribe of a god, have some respect."
"Okay, don't give me a second asshole or something... "
"A second asshole, eh?"
A shout of surprise from Kibo in the back made clear to Mugily that the temptation of surprising someone with a second asshole had been too much for the god.
"Oh, let their asses be, dear lord, Ralph."
"Don't get sarcastic with me. Uh, oh... looks like a gas truck up ahead. Get ready to fry boy... "
"Noooo.... ahhhh... ugh, ugh... huh..."

Once Ralph resurrected and healed everyone, including the truck (which took him mere seconds), Mugily was once more sitting in the front seat, staring down at the road pouring into the windsheild, dreading his next death... when Ralph suddenly spied a sign for strawberry pie and changed the truck into a helicopter which kind of zig zagged over farm houses and fields before smashing into the parking lot of a small country restaurant. After resurrecting and healing everyone, they all sat down to some scruptious pie, and none could help but thank Ralph for the particularly tasty strawberry's, and while he was quick to accept their praise, he had nothing to do with it...

TO BE CONTINUED

spike the dealer assaults dr phil

Spike Assaults Dr. Phil
As you know or don't, Spike the dealer is a mean, nasty, petty oaf, who somehow, during his cab days, made a connect with a big dealer who gives him the most wicked weed in town for cheap as hell, which he in turn smokes a little of and then sells the rest. Mostly to me but also to this gay, bald, drunken computer nerd, Freddy, who I am introducing to you now, because in good time, he will be a part of this tale.


Spike has a bit of a gambling problem. When he drove cab he was always down at the off track betting, and when he retired and his wife bought a computer, he naturally turned to internet gambling.

Now, Spike is a good card player -- not out of any natural talent or developed craft, mind you, no, he learned the hard way, by losing a house, cars, a couple wives, etc... and he blames 'bad luck' for all of this mind you, not himself. Well, at least he did until the day he somehow became mentally entangled with the doctor Phil show... and started doing what he calls, 'Living the Phil.' This is appalling to me of course, being an intellectual who is doing his best to partake in the shit specking job of tugging heads out of asses.

For all of Spike's faults, you should know that I, Johnny Pain, have grown fond of this old fart. I can't help but respect someone who can hate all of humanity more than me. In this respect his years of cab driving truly helped him along the path toward seeing humanity as the disease it can be. His college of hard knocks included teachers who shot him -- once during a robbery, and once just for being what the shooter said was, "Just too fucking annoying to live." This odious fodness propels me to occasionally try to help him out, when I can. And seeing a human being become irrational by worshiping another's views to the exclusion of their own galls me any time, let alone someone who sells me wicked weed cheap who is in danger of getting so 'well' that he quits selling me said wicked weed cheap....

So, as you can imagine, with my best connect ever in danger of going over to the mind mushy ones who can't handle the world, let alone drugs, I have been thinking for days and days of ways to get him free from the grips of PHILLING. All of my mental mastication (thought I was going to write your favorite word, 'masterbation,' didn't you, dear readers -- jesus, you, you don't even remember what a sex life is like, do you?) were for naughtm because as it turned out, Dr. Phil would do the de-programming for me.

You see, Spike called their producer and said that he had kicked a 'serious gambling habit' by watching this ego maniacal looking boof, Doc Phil the human pill... And since they had no idea what they were getting into, the producer invited Spike, his wife, and a 'close friend who knows about the changes in him,' to come on the show.

Spike has no close friends, and doesn't want any either. He told me why once, saying, "Look, kid, I smell bad enough, without bringing in another human to stink the place up. You know what I mean?" There is only me and this other guy who buys weed from him, Freddy the gay computer nerd, who has huge black, factory like glasses that were hip once long ago, is on the piggo side, and though I like him I have to say, can appear kind of creepy. He kind of hunches over all the time and cocks his head about like a parrot. And his eyes, which are already on the bulgy side, go pure red when he smokes weed.

Spike asked me first, since I at least appear normal to the eye, and I of course told him, "Spike, man, you know where I am on this -- there isn't enough weed in the world to get me on the doctor phil show (which isn't true, I guess... I meant that spike doesn't have enough weed to get me on Dr Phil)."

Then he hit up Frank, who is unemployed at the moment and thus, as is his way when he is not at work, staying piss drunk on budweiser, promising Frank a case of beer and a half ounce -- which is more sticky bud than he's seen since he got fired after getting so drunk one day at work that he decided, for reasons that make perfect sense to me, to take a piss on his bitchy bosses desk...

The three of them drove down to the show, waited until their turn, and went on. Now, unbeknowst to Spike, his wife had also talked to the producers, and she had told them enough about Spike that Dr Phil had decided he would confront the old fart on his 'bad attitude,' and general hostility toward the world. They then called Freddy, who often spends time talking to Spike's wife, and had indeed decided to take her part (she doesn't like me -- for reasons best forgotten by all concerned . . . or at least until a few statues of limitations run out...).

Basically, Spike was bushwacked by all three of them telling him that his 'bitterness' came from 'post tramatic stress syndrome' from driving on the -- and yes, they actually said this, though it is hardly true -- 'mean, dirty streets of Chicago.'

Spike had been expecting this to be a show about how great he was for not gambling, and he was pissed off royal. He sat there for a few minutes quietly looking from one to the other with a murderous look on his face, stood up with a cup in his hand full of hot coffee, and then threw the scalding liquid right into Dr.Phil's face, burning him badly enough that he started crying and had to go to the hospital. They totally cancelled the show then...

Spike and Freddy and his wife were all hauled off to jail for a few hours. The producers of the show finally decided that pressing charges would be bad publicity, so they let them all go... I guess Spike drove to the nearest off track betting facility and lost a couple hundred (money he had, absurdly enough, taken along to the show hoping to take Dr. Phil to dinner and discuss how wonderful he was now that he was no longer gambling).

Now Freddy is banned from buying weed over there, and his wife is staying at her sisters for the weekend. Spike is happily drinking vodka, smoking weed and marlboros, and playing texas hold em when awake.

Dog, love him, I am glad he untied his chimp again. ... I mean, what the hell, he's happier in the subliminal thrill...

I've seen your kind before

you are not the center of the universe
though every angry thought in your head tells you so

you are not even the center of that lover's life
unless they are sick and weak and in need of helping hands

we are all merciless microcosms
joining together to grow
into one creature
under god
the morphing
is well under way
a secret no one knew
is being shouted now

the secret secret agent is cautious as all hell
keeps all the shades drawn on the windows
he comes in out of the cold
they are going to be afraid
he will say too much
too soon

he's beem ordered
to bring
down a target
for less

just have to have faith

now

that

the order

has come
down

ADLER AND INTRINSIC WORTH.. ANOTHER REASON TO FORGIVE

adler and intrinsic worth



I have been thinking a lot about Adler lately. He is a psychiatrist who puts forth a mode of thinking that brought him(and a lot of his patients) to a place from which he wrote a book titled, How To Be Happy No Matter What The Fuck Is Happening In Your Life (it actually may be slightly different, should look it up). He used the word Fuck a lot in a recent show I saw on him. An old man with a dirty mouth is my kind of bar buddy.

What I took from Adler was the notion that our behavior is seperate from ourselves. A person does certain actions and behavior, but that does mean anyone is worthless. Because they have good and bad actions. He was against judging, especially ourselves. He wanted his patients to label behavior as good and bad, but not the person behind the behavior. Looking at things like this can lead to changing negative life patterns without condemning ourselves as alcholics or some other negative label that is meant to describe a human.

He talked about how we often judge ourselves and others harshly. Like when there is a car accident and some people go off (I am amazingly calm, after being hit22 times no shit -- got so used to it after getting smashed into over fifteen years of cab driving; only two sent me off in ambulances, though over-all the seat belt and airbag kept me from any serious injuries). These people think the person is bad, so they yell at them. But what they should be confronting is just the bad behavior. What can be done about it? Call the cop and get them to write a ticket and blame the person at fault, call the insurance company...

When we look at a person as a sex object, or a horrible person who hit our car, or... we are not seeing the person anymore, obviously. We objectify them. Make them into something that is easily explained away in the most base of terms -- black and white has little place in this grey, grey world.

Orson Scott Card did something like this in his Ender Novels. At the funeral's in this ficitional future, an individual's behaviors were all read, both good and bad. This lead to a real acceptence of the person, instead of half thinking they are hero and half a villian, they know that despite the great things the person might have done, they made mistakes just like the rest of us.

This accepting of other people as having intrinsic worth is important in a selfish way -- by not judging others, our own judgements in our head will lessen. Instead of hating oneself for 'Slipping' in AA or something and killing oneself, one can see that this one behavior is not ones whole life.

THis kind of myopic view that one behavior defines our entire life leads to japanese businessmen killing themselves when they get layed off, as well as Playboy. Men need to look at woman as a much larger entity than their sexual behavior; as a collection of behaviors that include excelling in business and making the same amount of money, as well as letting them dress however they want without fear of being stoned by some religious nuts. This is easily said by me at 44 -- at nineteen, growing up on porn and having a lot of lovers and partying like kids do, I did look at women like this all the time, and I still do look at how they swing their buts as they walk, but those I meet and talk to are not objectified in my mind. I only let myself think about M. in this way.

So, maybe, next time you find yourself mad at yourself and feeling all pissy, you could try saying to yourself, "This is a behavior. I can be mad at the behavior, mad enough never to repeat it, if possible, but it does not effect my intrinsic worth."

Intrinsic worth, by the way, is best explained by a normal mother/child relationship. Mother's love their son's who commit heinous crimes because they love someone who has done a lot of other things besides a crime -- some good. The love the mother and son have for each other transends behavior, becomes intrinsic.

I think I have learned how to love all humanity and animals and plants for their intrinsic worth. Unfortunatly, on this blog, a lot of times my writing says the exact opposite of this. I would like to say this is intentional satire, but I suck too much to have thought of that. So, once in awhile I feel compelled to write a short essay like this to say that I love muslims and christians and satanists and even that fundamentalist preacher who was snorting coke and swallowing cock while preaching against gay marriage (would I be so kind had he spoke out against man/vegetable behavior is perhaps another story). They are all more than just those behaviors. To criticize these behaviors, I take certain liberties.. like pretending I am killing off the folk in an NRA office. I have uncles whom I love who are into guns a bit; one behavior does not make a human.

In this supposedly 'blue' and 'red' state split, it is probably more important than ever to find the core values that we can all agree on -- education, health care, the environment. Hopefully the Democratic majorities can work their way through the president's lies and clean up these damn Republican messes.

Clinton lowered the debt and kept the economy strong, which is traditionally what people think Republicans do.. Bush has done just the opposite, of course, though he was sure to take care of that 4% at the top whom he calls "MY PEOPLE." Yes, that is a direct Bush quote, by the way, from some dinner speaking to a bunch of rich republicans who are basically saying, 'lower my taxes, no matter how many old folks have to die in slums'; no matter how many disabled people are forced to live in poverty; no matter how many kids lack even the most basic academic skills due to the lack of teachers and the woefully low pay of perhaps the most important vocation in the county; all because, to quote Horatio Alger, "I like to use it to make more because those numbers in my bank account rise like the mightiest hard on of all." Uh, by the way, Horation Alger did not say this, but he would certainly agree with the spirit.

This would lead to me trying to love Bush for his intrinsic worth, rather than hate him for the behavior he has displayed. Perhaps if were at a dinner party, I wouldn't throw food at him and talk to him real slow like I am addressing a retarded toddler?

Nah... I would... I will never Do Adler well enough to keep me from tossing a few string beans at his smug little evil smile; after all, I do indeed suck, really, really badly.

ANOTHER REASON WE ARE IN HELL

i DON'T EAT THE ANIMALS ANYmore... since this little conversion experience, they have become gross. I won't pretend this makes me better than someone who eats meat -- I envy them, not condemn. I could care less about how someone lives a part of their life unconnected to me... unless they are doing this shit to farm animals -- we gotta get better than that, slowly, so the farmers, our heros who have stopped most starvation here in the states and all over the world, can evolve nicely into the new world. We all want it, we just need to know it is possible, then we can do ANYTHING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1













So who are you calling bird brain? Chatter of chickens proves they are brighter than we thought

By Roger Highfield, Science Editor












Last Updated: 1:29am GMT 16/11/2006



Hear the chick-chat

Watch the birds react

Why did the chicken cross the road? To impress scientists with its grasp of "representational signalling", according to research published today that suggests that hens are not bird brains after all.













A brighter view of the common chicken has emerged



A brighter view of the common chicken emerges in the journal Biology Letters, in which Dr Chris Evans and his wife Linda reveal that the birds have a far more sophisticated communication system than traditionally thought.



Communication is ubiquitous in the animal world but scientists usually write off these signals as reflecting the emotional state of a creature, whether fearful, angry or amorous. Previously, it was thought that the ability to denote things in the world — for example, food, hawk, fox — was unique to humans.



To investigate what the birds are capable of telling each other, the team played food calls to adult golden Sebright bantam hens, which were selected because of the similarities between their calls and those of the red jungle fowl (Gallus gallus) from which all hens have been domesticated.



Rather than simply celebrating the discovery of food, the equivalent of a "hooray", the scientists discovered that the high-pitched "tck, tck..." that the birds made actually means "here is some food" — marking out an example of representational signalling.





"Hens responding to food calls do so because these sounds encode information specifically about food," said Dr Evans.



Tests on 17 birds showed that the calls made fellow hens scratch around to look for feed, but only if they had not recently discovered food — that is, only when the signal provided new information.



Dr Evans said that monkeys and other primates were known to use specific calls when they discovered food but this was the first such demonstration for a nonprimate species.



The hens even have nuances for a given call, producing them at a higher rate if the food is highly preferred. "For example corn evokes calls that are clearly distinct from those given to their regular ration," Dr Evans said. "There is hence a strong parallel between the cognitive mechanism engaged by representational signals and the denotative function of words."



Sophisticated communication of this kind may be the product of common social factors "rather than an attribute of our own evolutionary lineage", he said. "To the extent that our attitudes toward animals are shaped by their perceived mental life, such findings should be thought-provoking."



The cleverness of chickens goes further than the 20 or more calls they can make, however. For instance they live in stable social groups and can recognise each other by their facial features.



Studies by other researchers have shown that the birds have the ability to understand that an object, when taken away and hidden, nevertheless continues to exist, a feat beyond the capacity of small children. They are also good at solving problems.



"As a trick at conferences I sometimes list these attributes without mentioning chickens," said Dr Evans. "People assume that I'm talking about monkeys."

NOTHING SAYS LOVE LIKE WARM HEARTS

That pile of hearts I chain-sawed out of them whores and boys scouts and made into a squishy, big heart shape was indeed an inspired gesture!!! The boy scouts represent loyalty and being prepared and cleanliness, while the whores represent getting really drunk and catching a disease -- the two sides of love if ever there were two ...

M., though... how can I ever expect her to understand true romance when I spell out her name and 'I love you' with severed fingers and she somehow - with her magical thinking, changes this tender, loving monument to our love into, quote, "A horrorible, horrible, demented thing to do." Where does she get this stuff? Sometimes I think she is sneaking off to church, or something really sick like that.

Geez, it's not like I did that to her mother... Oh, wait, yes I did... before cutting off her head and hanging and putting it on a pole that I hung on the venerable Michigan Avenue drawbidge, in the heart of downtown during rush hour, where the traffic back-ups would give drivers-by plenty of Gawk time. Probably shouldn't tell her that -- the whole leaving your family to make a new one metaphor is probably lost on her too.

She wants me to cut down on the killing, then she does something like this which will drive a spree killing that this city will never forget. Until the next one... some hours later. If I am lucky, and time the last kill just right, mine will fall during the newscycle before the next spree killer knocks me out of the evening news; amazing how much stuff I have to keep track of in this techno-world of ours. I long for the old spree killing days, when my being a white and sort-of lower, lower middle class citizen was enough to blame the poor and black even when I was covered in blood and wearing one of my severed head necklesses... these days, to get this kind of idiotic treatment, you have to go down to Florida to Jeb Bushville.

war whores

What could I ever say about Iraq and Afganistan that has not been said better elsewhere by people who know more?
After the zillions of blogs going this way and that as the slow trickle of knowledge about the real war came out and replaced the one Rumsfeld and Bush made up for the press, I am wary myself of reading anything more on the topic, let alone writing about it, but it is on my mind a lot, and I can do my best, one of the things blogs are truly about -- record being an educated writer from a working class background living in the culture of the city and writing about how the times and the present state of knowledge have are effecting me -- whether I am noticing or not.

Like most of the Citizens of what used to be called The Free World, when this horror story started, I was carried away on the same puffy white, dreamy lies that the media reported as true -- the lap dogs most of them have become. I believe in war in certain circumstances, and though Bush has been an Enemy of the People all his fucking life, I somehow decided that this time the snake would not be a snake and I wouldn't get bitten.
Now I of course bear a big, embarrassing scar and the poisen to this day sets my soul trembling.

Hindsight is 20 20. Admitting one has been fooled and acted wrongly is the human condition, the way we as a culture and an individual learn.

When the war was starting, in the emotional wake of the 9-11 catastophe, I held out hope for some Team America to swoop down and remove the evil dictator. I laughed off the part of the film where the Team nearly destroyed everything in the middle east to get one terrorist.

Bush and company lied their asses off, got us into a war.
Surprise, surprise, the guy who cuts the axes of the rich and fights a raise in the minimum wage gave the USA another reason to ignore the poor and dump all that money in the pocket of the oil companies and halliburton and all the little buddies from way back of conservative forces within the american intelligence community.

I thought they were going to get Sadam out and the people would rejoice. I've seen too many war movies where I rooted for my favorite movie star to live, like us all...
I guess the whole minority group holding onto power over the majority by force thing is never easy to change.
History tells us that usually civil wars have to force voting to change such a situation. They also tell us that these powerful minority groups are forces to be reckoned with, and better negoitiated with than fought.

Unfortunatly, now the USA has become a lightening rod for every kid across the world who is religiously addled enough and sick of their life enough to gain the respect and adulation of everyone they know by dying as a hero. Every adolescent boys fantasy is being offered by entire societies. Can you imagine if the catholics suddenly decided to start raising suicide bombers to take control from the Baptists? Then the Baptists starting doing so? How about all these countries that have schools where america is referred to as Demonic? Can you imagine giving those kids, no matter where they are in the world, a dream of dying a hero -- they don't have to imagine how people will behave at their funeral, either; they have seen the parades and the family checks and the respect that a suicide bomber brings to their family.

It took this war to wake america up to what is going on in the middle east. And it took this last election to tell their leaders that they know what is what, and expect them to act up the ideals that most of us generally live by.

I feel like my life is in split screen, and down in one corner the war is always playing... or at least, that is a movie I am thinking about doing. Just a guy going through the day to day ignoring the box in the corner with the war. I know, I know -- I am a poet of the obvious.