A blood soaked Arthur IS RISING

Gonzo journalism and fiction is a tricky mix.... Welcome to my razor's edge.


I am an elf in the attic making mind toys with sharp edges; an educated writer who gets good reviews, who you can read for free in the rough form of first drafts on the web, or purchase in a book form.
The best soldier does not attack. The superior fighter succeeds without violence. The greatest conqueror wins without struggle. The most successful manager leads without dictating. This is intelligent non aggressiveness. This is called the mastery of men.


Welcome to you, I am John Scott Ridgway, Novelist, Poet, Blogger, Radio and TV writer and actor... five books, also paint in oils and acrylics. I am poet warrior of sorts, a non violent radical, personally, though understanding of those who choose other paths IN THE EIGHTY PLUS COUNTRIES AT LAST COUNT THAT came in this blog ...

The predicted revolutions in the USA and around the would are going to

be violent in the next twenty years, is what the CIA says. I want them to stay peaceful, which is the only way to win this struggle between haves and have nots. They have more guns, we have more people,, and they include the mothers and sisters and brothers of the people they will ask to fight us.... I think they underestimate the police.

NEVER ACCEPT APPEASEMENT OVER JUSTICE. By any means necessary is the reality. . . the USA can be spared stupid wars, but other countries. . . need different solutions. . .

The number of Countries that have come in to have a look at this blog humbles me. Thank you very much.



PROFESSIONALS, HOPEFULLY, like the police, military, etc...

understanding that violence is sometimes needed

does not mean I like anything about the sound

of fists hitting faces

Boxing is too much for me

make me feel like I am watching

dog fights with toothless pitbulls

"I am an artist first, and a politician second," as John Lennon said.

My intentions are to stop the violence from entering into

revolutionary wars

the CIA


will break out in the next twenty years all over the

world, including here...

But Ill tell ya,

if there is not some redistribution of

wealth here there and everywhere




My intentions is to keep these protests peaceful

so we can win

without bloodshed

Total War for Total Peace

Never incites violence

or destroys property

you should be able

to go to protests with strollers and babies

parents feeling as safe as the police

Now, poetry...

I am too far out into the battlefield to retreat. This CHARGE is win or die...


A blood soaked Arthur has risen

be aware

be very aware

total war
for total peace
is being fought

THERE will be many ways to die
and only one to live
give and give and give
until the worlds downtrodden and oppressed
can begin to forgive
before things get bloody and ruthless
My Peace sign shot full of holes
and my reason ignored
drowned out by the roar of machine guns

You cannot break the golden rule
all the time and not expect
consequences from nature

we will fight for our right to thrive as well
we do not accept your sentence
to poverty so you can earn more
by shipping the factory off to China

nothing this mindgame in america can do to us
can destroy this thing inside that yearns for freedom
enough to die in the name of JUSTICE
generation after generation
from time

No more hyper-reality FOR US. We have already spent too long in an oasis of belief where nothing is wrong, folks... Now, we must face this was all a mirage... and try like hell to get out of this desert... or resolve ourself to the fact that we will leave our children to starve in the barren sands.

There are better ways to defeat an enemy than an outright fight, especially if you are vastly outnumbered, like the Elite. MSM PSY-WAR allows them to control our actions through our thoughts, and basically stop our FORCE from activating. I am not saying we should fight just because we can win, I am just saying we should fight before we lose, if no other option is left us.... because a world is at stake.

  • You are a spark in dry timber, stopped from becoming a roaring flame
    They SET UP LAWS THAT ALLOW THEM TO STEAL. MURDER. BRAINWASH THEIR CRITICS. We must begin to feel challenged now to stop them. Or WE WILL LOSE EVERYTHING. PERIOD. THE SKY, OTHER SPECIES, OUR WATER... OUR MINDS. No more hyper-reality for us... too long in that oasis where nothing is wrong folks... we must face this is all a mirage.
    • OUR LACK OF RESOLVE TO CHANGE OUR WORLD MUST PUZZLE THE GODS THEMSELVES.... how can we be this collectively dum? And if we are....then the brains will be looked to as potential saviors.... when all too often they are just psocyo-paths and stooges and scared folks under the gun who are ALLOWED to CON EVERYONE... FOR THE GOOD OF A

A cruel slap woke me to the PAIN
at the moment of birth;
My first cry was NO
buried in unintelligible screams.
I am a man now.
Now I catch your hand and break all the fingers.

the promise

You must be whoever the enemy fears the least
or fears the most.

No other position is saf

da general

Welcome to the spark that inflames TOTAL WAR FOR TOTAL PEACE.

I am too far out into the battlefield to retreat. This CHARGE is win or die...

THE ELVES ATTIC is stories, poetry, essay's, peculiar events in my life . . . oil painting, articles.

Your patience for bearing with me on my first drafts is a much appreciated kindness. Your worldwide interest is my muse . . .Lately I have been writing a book called Gangsta General x, about a revolutionary in the USA, who is fighting to keep the revolt peaceful as things spin out of control in the states after a famine gets the populace hungry enough to change their society once and for all....

HOW TO USE THIS BLOG: There is a black and white jukebox in the right column that you can shut off, or find songs on.... To listen to the COMEDY SKITS FROM THE SHOW PEACE AND PIPEDREAMS... turn off the black jukebox, and turn on the Green one. I play Moon Bong Haze and Jesus...

I have five majors, five books, two tv shows, a radio show, 76 countries at last count on this site alone, and over a million online readers to my credit. I can't thank any of you enough for all of your help and encouragement over the years; the favors and aide that has been offered me, the trust in my leadership... you are all SACRED TO ME ... even you folks I tend to hate.


Thank you.


Johnny Pain is all pissed off... somebodies gonna die tonight

CAUTION..... PLEASE DO NOT EXPOSE YOURSELF TO THIS VILE BIT OF PROSE IF YOU HAVE ANY SENSITIVITY AT ALL. PERIOD. I MEAN, UNLESS YOU CANNOT FEEL MUCH FOR FELLOW HUMANS AT ALL, YOU SHOULD PROBABLY MOVE TO ANOTHER ENTRY... SERIOUSLY. I AM REALLY DISGUSTED WITH MYSELF OVER THIS ONE. remember, this is a fictional character, Johnny Pain (though there is a punk dude who also calls himself johnny pain, and he now adds 'the original,' since I started using it -- I did not know about him until years after a friend suggested this name,because I am in Chronic Pain... which is why this character came to be, to be a bastard who takes out all of his pain on society. So, please, crazy ass holes, do not take this as permission from Jesus to kill a bunch of people. Shunning them will do.

I just heard that Congress has put off national health care again. I am sick of politicians making promises they cannot keep, so I am going to be tracking down these fucking slouches and killing their pets, kids, wives, whatever it takes to make them vote for the rights of the many, over the priveleges of the few. I have tried to abide by my agreement with Obama, that I would hold off the killing until it was absolutly necessary to teach 'whitey' a lesson. I am not a whitey, by the way, but a reddish tan colored brother, with whitish tendencies. I try to suppress my need to dominate other races, but it is hard... so I sublimate this into hating right wing neo-cons, anyone who has ever searched out more than one story on this birther shit and still believes it, and of course anyone -- anyone -- who seriously is considering voting for Sarah -- just call me Adolf The Wolf Killer-- Palin.

The blue dog democrats are going to be red splattered blue bitches when I am done with them. They should just call themselves the sold out, bent over and reamed for cash crowd. They have been bought by higher interests in the insurance cabal, and are good little dogs on a leash. If they were real dogs, I would have some sympathy with them... as it is, this is going to require at least taking a few of their toes, to remind them that I out here ready to hunt their asses down for this shit. I got a license to kill from the CIA, and the government owes me too many favors to list, so I don't have to worry about your damn laws -- I work for higher laws than yours. I mean, I hang out with Jesus Christ you assholes, so I know a thing or two about what the Deity is into. Besides weed and pussy, he has few other interests, really. Just kidding. The dude is deeper than any ocean. And he is so liberal he is afraid he will cause heartattacks all across the Christian world if he told people just what a communist he really is, even though he recognizes that imposing his will on Capatalists is not his way -- he says he will just wait for something he see's in the future that he will only say involves a lot of fire and nooses and basic off with their heads shit. He says he could stop it if he wants, but the neo-cons are giving him no reason to. Not that he hates people just for being rich. Any fool can get rich, he says, and it all depends on what they do from there... and these Congressmen and Senators who are holding back on a basic human rights issue like insurance for the causalties in their fixed game, where the rich stock market asses get bonuses and make money off stock trading that is rigged to benefit Goldman Sachs, to the detremint of everyone else. Jesus says they are basically soulless, which is his way of telling me to take them out, and still appear like the pacifistic pussy he thinks some need to believe in.... he hates war,though... of course this is where we disagree. For a guy like me, being in a war zone is like a kid in a candy shop -- hell, I can kill anybody in a place like Iraq and Afganistan, where somebody driving too close to a road block is enough to light them up. It wasn't too hard to just go around shooting up anybody who looked shady to me (and they all do, you know... not that I have anything against muslims -- they can be good people of the book, but I will kill anyone of any religion, for kicks and profits. I can't help it, come from a family of serial killers.

Proud to say Mom took out her entire kindergarden class, to stop them from telling anyone that she had pee'd her pants. It is cute, now, and we laugh... but she killed more than one person she told about this who laughed for a few decades. Then after she had kids, she realized it was just funny.... especially if you saw a picture of her back then, she was a skinny little thing with big black glasses and buck teeth (she killed dozens over those buck teeth, too). Mom has had extensive plastic surgery since then, mostly because I shot her in the face (hey, my brother shot her first, then my sister, then me... so don't be hating on me), and she looks great now. She tends to date like sixteen year old boys, though she is in her sixties. Dad hates her for cheating, but he likes to watch so much that he hasn't killed her, though occasionally, in the sad let down after he has wacked to mom's little porno show (they make us watch, too, set up chairs and make popcorn... it's nice family fun), Pop will shoot the young guys. Or cut off their genitals, and throw them at mom, asking her if she like it better when it was attached, and shit like that. Mom knows I am a taxidermist, specializing in embryos and fetuses for the pro-life bunch, which they use to taunt women who are getting babies scrapped out (I am pro-abortion, mind you... it is not pro-choice, it is pro abortion. People should understand that yes, they are indeed murderers of babies. They can do it legally, and I cannot stop them, and that is their right, but call it what it is, for God's sake. At least I admit when I murder babies. In fact, I like to think of what I do as Late, Late Term Abortions. IF we could just raise the legal age of abortions to like 45, I think I could clear up this planet). So of course she has me stuff the bigger dicks for dildos. Like I say, she is one classy peice of ass, and deserves the best of everything, even quim dippers.
Ahh... that old leftest dream of killing off all the intellectuals and creating earth loving farmers out of everyone... I hate that fucking thing, but I still cling to the thought that I can kill rightously. Not mass slaughters. That gets messy, cruel, and you lose the respect and will of the common man. I mean, what is with these communists who destroy the common man by creating rich politicians and poor peasents that looks a hell of a lot like the worst of capatilism with fascism thrown in to make it really work good (like Bush said he wanted, to make it easier to shove legislation down our throats, up our assholes, whatever he chose... I guess he got his wish, because he made it legal for himself to anything, including torture and murder.... I must say, that is about the only thing he did that I respect; his choice of people, though... torturing a twelve year old kid for six years is kind of over-kill, you know... twelve year olds, in the laws in this country, get very special treatment, because we realize they are usually too young to realize the gravity of doing a crime, and most often can be easily placed back on the conveyor belt into te machine that stamps us into goody-goody citizens).

Guess I should add, so the FBI doesn't get their panties all in a bunch over my lack of plausible denial (they could give a shit about my kill count, since they basically look at it as practice for the guys and gals and chipmonks that I hunt down for them (the chipmunk bit the head of the FBI one morning as he was on his way into work, and they hunted that damn thing for a week, using plastic explosives, bazookas, and finally, surface to air missiles. The squirrel just proved smarter than them. They called me in and I used my magical ability to talk to animals (thank you again Jesus... I won this ability off of him in a Poker gamer, after he got too drunk to do anything miraculous and make it actually work out right... he gets wasted sometimes and makes changes in reality that he regrests afterwards. Like after he saw Brittany Spears quim on line, and decided, on a head full of a couple barrels of mushrooms, that two pussies would be better than one. That led to a lot of problems that he made most humans forget, but I can say that at least one of the quims was on the rag all of the time, and that grossed out a lot of guys... of course it didn't bother Jesus, he is one of those, Oh what the hell, it's better than beating off... kind of guys. A lot of us were bitching at him, too. The logistics of getting all four of those holes filled in wild orgies has caused a lot serious injuries. Twenty Seven porn stars have actually died. Not only were men breaking their necks, and suffering from serious sexual confusion from fucking around all those male dicks, but it turns out getting all that sperm shot into the different holes at once somehow shot the spunk directly into their brains, which is not supposed to happen, and basically drove them mad, because all the little sperms were gestating in their gray matter, growing little half-formed, baby lumps that destroyed who they were, and recreated them into constantly lactating lionesses types, who wore massive protective headgear, and, for some reason, covered their ears with small diapers. I do not know how they got soiled, but they sure did...

Anyways, that Jesus is something else. He also feels a lot guilt over the fact that God has sent him back to earth to set off the apocolypse. He is basically a bomb, that is going to be set off by the Big Guy, at a time, as Matthew said, that not even Jesus will know. He hates his father for this, says it is just him being all powermad and mysterious. Like he said, "Everyone is going to die. He sent me here to kill everyone. That is not good parenting."

I disagree with him of course, explain that he is going to be the greatest mass murderer in the history of mankind.... He gave me a second asshole for a few minutes after I said this, and of course it was blowing out a steady stream of thick, gravy like poo filled with chunks of glass. He prefers to think of himself as releasing souls, which makes him kind of like all those cult fucks. That is what Jim Jones said, man. I was afraid to say anything by then, except for, "Hey, Jesus, how about getting rid of this asshole and cleaning up this shit?" He got rid of the asshole and left the fart splatters and the brown rivers flow. He says he is all about forgiveness, after he smites you and he wants you to forgive him. Oh, well. He has to take me to heaven no matter what I do, because he lost a bet about who wrote most of the Rolling Stones Songs. He had met Brian Jones in heaven, and he was all about saying he was the stones, and really wrote all the songs, etc. Jesus, the sucker, just believed him. Mick came through for me with eternal life. I mean, I love that band so much... various lives have been saved in fact, when I found my targets wearing Rolling Stones T-shirts and shits.

Man, I am talking about Jesus a lot in this entry. Shit, that gives me something in commen with JIm Baker and I always said, if that ever happens, one of us is going to die... consider there one less prison bitch in this world (nothing against them prison bitches -- I love to hire them fresh out prison for threesomes, because they are usually passive enough to let my special near doctor sew them up into Siamese twins, like I have come to expect from good loving. And of course they are stretched out enough to handle Big John.... well, thats more than enough about my silly fetish. At least I am not some goddamn pervert who rapes little boys. I will kill them, sure, if I have to (the little fuckers are sometimes in the house when I get lazy and just blow their asses up with surface to air missiles).

Well, all this talk about killing has my blood lust up. There are still a lot of out of shape, slobbish women down at the beach wearing too little... way too little.... and they are messing with my damn bickini count. I mean, just when I am getting hard wood watching some dainty little ass... there they are. I understand women getting overweight, that is fine... but please, cover that shit up on the beach. No one wants to see it. Do they ever even wonder why their hubbies always turn the lights off, unless they happen to be blind drunk? Any women can turn into a fine peice of ass with a little work. I say why not? Well, and that means I am going to snipe a few of them. I will probably spread a little of their blood, by way of a head shot aimed just right, onto hotties who are setting around them, so they will jump around in those bikini's in ways that show me enough to pop a wad right there. This has become a yearly ritual by the way... hell, not yearly... I had to cull that herd of cows eight times last summer before they got it.

I sound like such an asshole, but ladies, really, I am a sensitve, intellectual killer with a very refined taste in who I kill (unless, admittedly, I am really annoyed and just feel like shooting whoever I come across first).

Oh, well... someone had to say it.

habeaus corpus

the right to challange abitrary action by the government
In the pretend world this happens

I have been attacked by the shadows of the government
the silent fucked heads who use the cowards tools
fearing to face this lion
knowing I Am the roar of the people

I will scream for the children
until they are old enough to shout you down
We will march on the ones who killed this planet
We will arm ourselves against their destruction
We will sacrifice them for the good of the universe
Take out their beating hearts and hold them up to God
Then throw them on the floor and stomp the life out of them

We will be the quiet silent spies
Chasing after their minds
I always win
They do not understand this yet...
They will... my prayer is that they do not sacrifice their immortal souls trying to stop me

KNOW -- they attacked me and judged me and sentenced me
With no evidence other than their own paranoia
I told them I would not sue them to save the fucking government
They were ready to KILL Bush at my command
After i wrote a few lines about how we would Burn The Bushes
In writing this means cut down/slam

The radicals following my words wanted confirmation
That I would never give
I believe in redemption for even the worst scum
Even for the Nazi Bushes
My prayer is he gets his redemption in the next life
And we grow up enough to jail his ass for destroying the soul of this country
Thank God for the Communists who came to my side
When I was drugged out I made statements about communism
That they should not comehere and try to take us over
Period... that votes have to decide what happens in this country
The masses are so much more intelligent than they are given credit for
The sheep think occasionally
The zombies can learn

The United States Government
came into my house with cameras
displayed me like an ape in a cage
made me dance to the drums of war
filled my body with drugs that drove me mad
play a mind game with me like they do not exist
my friends occasionally show me the cracks in the facade

John Stewart plays me a senator saying something
about how Iran is just a small country
then joked about Chicago is just a city in America

Obama and Clinton contacted me
so they know of the cage they have placed around me
know how my life was messed with
yet they do nothing....
Why is everyone waiting for more proof
that we have to fight them sooner or later
Unless we morph into one organism
the blood gonna flow

We took over this country
we did it because we had to
someone had to stand up and say NO YOU MOTHER FUCKERS
I don't care who the soldiers were
Their colors or beliefs
criminals or saints
communists or nazi's
for one glorious moment we won

We threw those mo fo's out of the white house
the only way they were going to leave
at the end of a bayonet

They KNOW now
they will never steal another election in this country
This time we will hunt them down

How do those conservatives collectively forget
They are killing our planet now

Not just the forests you remember from childhood

Their assinine ignorance
gave birth to our warriors
We are the ones who know
inside us
there is a mighty roar
that will make them shit themselves and run

We are the rage of grace
gone savage

we are the nightmare generation living in a dying world
left by the insular/selfish/blind

We are the lost ones finding our way home at last
Coming in the door with a shotgun
asking you why the hell we were left with this industrial decay

Why YOU let them control you enough
to kill everything you care about?
Why you stood by as they killed off the other species?

I want their blood
There is no trial for me
They are ashamed of what they did to me
Afraid of the jail cells
the nooses
the electric chairs

Bush and Cheney should be in chains

I will tear their names out of history and wipe my ass with them

they are lucky I did not drink their blood
and piss it into the gutter where it belongs

I once told a tale about drinking royal blood and pissing it in the gutter. I was trying to make a point that escapes me now... when I did do this, someone picked up the three bills I tossed down and pissed on. That afternoon, the head of COMED was on TV saying trying to defend their record. I wrote on my blog that they need to quote, Fuck With IT.... by this, obviously, I meant that they needed to go to electricity, rather than oil. This is happening now more than ever. The other thing I said had to stop was Credit. This drove them all a little crazy. They showed me Hillary Clinton in the senate trying to calm everyone down. So what happened... the credit situation brought down the entire economy. I was told to do these things by powerful ispirations, and they proved right on the mark. Very interesting, the mystical happenings in my life.

Check out all of my blogs by googling my name, John Scott Ridgway

The Great Meth Wars.... Rises Again

Hey... below you will find a character who comes from the great meth wars... which are in here somewhere. A disgusting story about a bunch of meth heads in a trailer park, one of whom is Boner, a gay prophet of sorts/and a big whore. He started a gay cult based on the teachings of Gilford Tuttle, who preaches often of the Huge Balls of Jock Jesus, who he wants to replace what he calls the 'long haired Jewish Jesus.' Boner also was the one who Keistered a batch of meth, which then got the smell of his ass, and became known as White Ass, and was quite popular with gay truckers, who were the first to follow Boner's religion. The writer is Skeeter, who relates what is happening with him and his two brothers. The third of which is Eugene, who is mentally handicapped and ends up whimpering a lot over the antics of his siblings.... our story takes place just after the brothers have been released from prison, after blowing up half of the trailer park while making meth. They have been in jail for five years. All of them have spent a lot of time in the slammer in their day, and found their own ways to deal. Boner of course just Bitched his way through. Skeeter played a lot of cards and kept to himself. Eugene rather reluctantly bitched occasionally, at first, then went into protective custody for the last two years, where while he could seldom leave his cell, he at least did not have to worry about having a leaky asshole, like Boner.

This is not a pretty story, by the way... of you are easily offended, please, go to my poetry where at least you can be offended by my ideas, rather than the gross depths I will go to for my own amusement... and those few eclectic souls who are demented enough to come along (thank you Bob).

Skeeter Skeeter Davis, once more writing about the Great Meth Wars. As most of my readers know -- thank you Aunt Elen and Uncle Roger and Billy Robbie, my target audience, we recently have been guests of the great state of Indiana, as you all know, after a small explosion blew up the Waterloo Trailer Park Emporium... at least the Northside, which made those damn southsiders feel all the more superior. The Insurance from the Trailer Park covered the damages, which surprised the hell out of me. I wished I'd a known I was insured, because I sure as hell would have bragged on that. Imagine, me insured? Well, I'm not anymore of course.

Speaking of Insurance, I of course never had me no health insurance, except in prison. I am going to keep my health up though, unlike most meth heads... and because I have a doctor so caring, he gives people free appointments. You only have to pay if you're sick. That's the way they do it in Mexico, where he has a license to practice medicene and all, but here in America, he is kind of an outlaw doctor. He basically does surgeries in his basement. It is all set up nice and shit. And he lets you lay on a couch, instead of those damn hard gurneys they have at regular hospitals -- he told me that is how much he cares, and I believe him. Hope he doesn't find anything else wrong when I go in for my next check up. He always seems to have some reason to do a surgery. It's crazy. Like I said, most Most meth heads won't even go near a doctor, so I am all proud of the fact that I have had eight surgeries. Hell, like the Doc said, having that many surgeries is like doing exercise and eating right all rolled into one.

So, we're here in our new trailer. No furniture or nothing. But it is nice and new. I know the cleanliness won't last, and the meth fumes will yellow the walls when we cook up the next batch, and all... still, it looks awful white and shiny. Me and Boner and Eugene been out all day going to stores buying the legal ass limits of allergy pills to cook us up a batch of White Ass. We gots to make some money, man. They sent us out of lock up with ten bucks apeice. Boner got five hundred from the guy he was bitching for, and like Boner said, if that ain't true love, he doesn't know what the hell is. I thought so too at first, until I heard that Boner was buying five hundred dollars worth of smokes to send to the guy -- they would be worth a lot more inside. They used to sell cigarettes inside, and Boner often keistered over fifty packs at a time for this dude. Still I ain't gonna say nothing to Boner, because he is telling everyone, "Hey, see this ass... it is worth five hundred bucks, even without no cigarettes in it." I think in his heart he knows.

Carl, the cat that Boner turned gay by using a recipe he learned from the most wicked, despicable character that he ever bitched for in prison, Crazy George Bush, they called him... because of his Texas accent and he was kinda slow, like the president. ... well, Carl he was none too happy to see Boner getting all excited about his Bitcher... though he knew it was going to happen when Boner went into lockup again. He had his usual hissy fit, but it was obvious that they were too happy to see each other for that to matter. Soon enough, Carl was in back howling and Boner was grunting and Eugene started having flashback to his bootie calls in prison and crying and hollering and pissing himself, as he does whenever he gets all stressed. Then came the spastic diarreah, which dripped all down his legs and got on the new carpet and all. We don't ever clean, so that is kind of permanent. I gotta get me some incense.

The diarreah smell is why I decided to come down to the trailer park's rec center, where they have the internet, and get back to my blogging. I should also add, that if any cops are reading this, I am writing fictional stories about guys who make meth and I in no way will ever do that again. I served my time, and learned my lesson well.

Now that this is clear, let me say that the new batch of White Ass will be coming out in the morning, because we will be cooking all night. So, bring the kids down tommorrow sfor a snorting good time. We guarantee, also, that we will not fall asleep again while making meth and blow up the trailer park again. I know we said this a few times before, but this time we mean it. If we are awake more than three weeks, we will not make meth... until we get some sleep. I promise this time.

I guess I should also address all the people in the trailer park who have been a talking us down. I mean you Woodcocks of course. I know you think you are so fancy on the Northside of the trailer Park, and perhaps you were raised on Jeopardy and we only got Jerry Springer, but still... well, yes, we know you are smarter and all. Still, we got our pride over here. And we do not need you fancy, smancy Woodcocks going around saying that Boner's but is filled with so many diseases that no one should snort meth that has been keistered by him. Keistering is perfectly safe. They have all been to prison and know this. Hell, Margie, their so called Mom, was known for the old double keister on her cell block, and Boner could still hold more smokes... so there. I mean it -- so there. Anyways, yes I cannot try to tell anyone that Boner does not have anal diseases. Everyone around here has seen his anus when he popped out a bag for them behind the 7-`11, and know he is diseased in certain ways, with numerous bleeding sores and such, at times... however, none of this is meth transferable. Now, I would not recommend putting your arm in Boner, as been done many, many times before, because I have seen men who fisted him with sores all up and down their arms (and I wish Boner would stop requesting this service but there is no stopping him from hopping on a fist).

Much Later...It is seven o clock in the morning. The White Ass is finished now and I am tweek tweek tweeking around the place. Figured I better come down here. Boner and Carl have been going at it all night and Eugene finally just started listening to a walk man all the time. That was much nicer than the spastic diarreah he developed at first. He has a very sensitve anus, as he tried to tell everyone in prison, and I think some guys got it all turned around, and Eugene sure learned a good lesson when that guy said that he had never seen a sensitive anus, and Eugene showed him and... well, you know the rest... the guy hopped on and popped a wad.

Check out all of my blogs by googling my name, John Scott Ridgway


The Life It Does Go On....

A word peddler approaches the market place
pulls a few sentences from his cart
sets up a sign out front reading
he specializes in porn written about and for children
sells their souls to make a few bucks
cares more about the car he drives than the minds

we raise the young on the heros and villians versions
of the mental dream
the judgement of the Powerful spewed out in comic books and puppet shows

Christ was a loser
An outlaw

he died for opening up another way of being
now they use him to reinforce the mental madness
the petty judgement of the many against the few
whatever is different is instinctually hated
sad fact of the ape that often destroys this thing we call man
sends 6 millions jews into the gas chamber
sent the Nigerian army into a mosque today to kill some Islamic Extremists

I sit spinning in the middle of a merry go round trying to watch all sides at once
vomiting from the effects
sickened unto death by the myriad of uses of God
ask myself questions like...
how can there be a soul in one animal
and not in another?
The Hindu answer that humans are there in the cows
The Egyptians filled the cats with Gods
In the middle ages witch hunts they killed millions of cats
thinking they were filled with demons who spoiled their fucking milk

We have the same brains they used
The same impulses
The same reliance on myths
The same inability to admit we are living within fictions

Stripped down and bare
exposed in all our inglorious despair
the nights our thoughts stop us from reaching sleep
strand us in our own nothingness
We want a God there with us
A being outside
Walt Whitman made up an other of his self
The astral projections showed me there is a soul inside this flesh
something that can leave
No illusion that... took me a year of practice to fly around my living room
I want to believe it leaves this planet
Want to believe I am a voyager
Stranded breifly in flesh

The animals must have souls too I tell myself
Why not?
It is all a dream MY DREAM
Why not dream what I WILL

I AM dammit
that much is true


unfinished scriptures

This poem started out for this site, then ended up being for Waking Up Jesus, which means that I am writing in the myth that I have laid out in that book.... Suffice to say, at this point Jesus is being held captive in Chicago, both because of his propensity to cause religious madness in people, and his own safety. He is being kept by a shadowy conspiracy of people who have watched him since he began growing wings at the age of five. Afraid of what a disruptive presence a political angel could cause to the worlds governments, and unsure of how exactly to respond to a young Jesus who had not yet been told by God who he really was, they raised him with no knowledge of who he was. Kept him hidden from world view in an obscure family, in a small town in Garrett, Indiana.

His conversion suspiciously enough co-incided with starting a liberal radio show under a Republican President, after writing very graphic, violent, comic prose about a war between the left and right, and studying under various radicals, communists and Puerto Rican Seperitists, which made the more right wing aspects of the intelligence agencies very nervous. After keeping him under wraps for 44 years, he began to show signs that the conservative government took to his backing them, such as being for a war with the muslim Taliban.

He is unsure of what to believe, even now. The religion he knew as Christianity, and remembers, as he does various past lives where he remained incognito to others, and often himself... is very different from what he feels to be the truth...

The most important thing to remember about this Jesus is that indeed, I did become convinced it was true, as did many,many other people, and there is an underground faction that very much believes this to this day. It blows my mind on a daily basis, but I cannot change what happened to me... and who am I to interpret what seems like the work of God?

Drunken angels dancing a divine dervish
on the edge of the universe

ravers feeling god in the touch of sweaty flesh on Ecstacy
Yaqui warriors eating peyote doorways into magical realms

sleeping saints
slumberously roused in the body of addicts
Burroughs and the Beats discovering the speedy quest
to use up life living On The Road
burning out their eyes staring into the sun

pinned up in a collector's display
by bloody hypodermics

Christ rises bewildered into the industrial decay
stunned by the conjourings of his Holy visions
morphed for 2,000 years into tales he doesn't recognize
a crippled deity
disgraced by associations
A spirit that has risen in generations of Holy wars
to fight for the rights of Grace
a slayer of errant priests
and rabbi's buying organs
from the poor
to sell to the rich
their myopic lust to be different and chosen
makes enemies of the weak
the Israeli's settlements disrupt the nuclear balance of power worldwide
Christ just sees them as just another religion that cannot be trusted with his powers
He looks at the people stranded in the spiritual drought
hopes God has sent him here for a reason
besides just giving up on man and burning all this shit down

The Holiest One watches the Sunday morning minsters
sees barkers at a carnival of faith
where sending in a few bucks mean they can spin the favor wheel and win everytime
all their prayers answered
for once... a dream that never dies
The Christ has seen man since he was not man
knows the beast that rises in the flesh
knows... God has his own ways
that man is evolving physically and spiritiually
a budding/a rising/a preperation for a cosmic journey

The geographically isolated asylums
where the words are held close and parced out sparringly
where the mad can preach up blood lust and suicide
a hardening that brings Holy men
to tying the mentally retarded to steering wheels
to suicide a few of their latest oppessors

the media addicting mysanthropes
traveling the country to hold up signs
at soldier's funerals saying they are going to hell
The Biker's who show up wanting to bash in their skulls
as they hide the mental breakdowns on display from the grieving famalies

the homophobic rhetoric everywhere
that pretends God damns over consensual sex
just because they can't face the facts that animal libidos don't respond to sermons
--they respond to the touch of the one who creates
they pretend like they know his will
as if god dropped us like mice in a carnival game
where the startled rodent makes a run for the first hole that offers sanctuary
from the unwittingly cruel, laughing crowds
intent on winning a cheap teddy bear
setting off those 'shopping' serotonins

Newscasters to presidents to preachers
spewing smooth voices in biblical cadences
the words themselves less important than the clues to clap and cheer
The ego soothing voice of Hitler's
assuring their dominions of the rightousness of enemy blood
as he turned an entire country into vampires
feeding on the wealth and blood of whoever they could enslave
as he ratched up the xenophobic apes until they danced into the bonfire
filled their heads with suites of shining gold armor
myths of soldiers whose lives were as gorgeous as their deeds
created whatever occult religions worked best

speed came out the sci-labs and rendered a generationseemingly invincible
flew the Kamakazi's minds
drove the Nazi's
Keeps Navy Seals hyped and ready for days
Hitler and his co-horts are no different
than the speed-headed guy who wanted to rape steven spielberg
when he was caught and came down
he had no fucking clue at all as to why he did that shit...

Greenhouse mayhem is starting to be craved
The Jehova Witnesses love that we live in the pre-apocolyptic age
part of the Dungeons and Dragon world they've created
the drama whore humans
who want their simple deaths to reverberate throughout known time
to be the Holy Fires Of The Hand Of God

the Christians expect to be vindicated by the last fires
live for the last day
waiting for that spiritual spaceship to the stars
the Greenhouse becomes a biblical prediction
instead of just another sin of the money-maddened

Christians are donating millios to send the Jews back to Israel to hasten the effect
Some say the Nazi's were part of a plan to bring me back into existence
to fullfill the prophecy of the return of the Jews at all costs

The blood of this thought . . .
Anything is possible when you are the Son of God . . . after accepting that one
everything that I thought true comes into question
I do not feel like I am here to end this planet
God's will is His own
I will do as he says
Use my torch to burn down whatever he commands
I will watch the innocent burn with the wicked
rejoicing in their spiritucal rebirths

I would never sacrifice lives to set up a prophecy
Lies about my life in the new testament can be traced to old myths
that were used to convince later followers of my divinity
Nothing more!
Now I will take no followers
the world has enough
Jesus asked people to think for themselves
this is why he was rejected by the Rabbi's

Humankind has struggled for freedom since
the first gestations of life
when the struggle merely meant fighting to get out of a bigger fishes mouth

A sign on the church lawn reading YOUR GUESS IS AS GOOD AS MINE
doesn't bring in the thirsty masses
in philosophy it doesn't attract students to classrooms

professor's try to fill in the cracks in our logic
that have to appear
different enough
to add something more
to the mysterious malaise
tenure required stories
told with the academic niceties
the arguements we have come to believe lead to truth
purely because of agreed upon logical structures
built into the language...

Sunday School teachers convert with their half believed rhetoric
we are programmed to suck up
rise in the heirarchy by listening to our elders
a way to endure long gone rigors of nature
meant mostly just to breed quick enough to adapt to the shifting face of the planet
to spread the seeds of our forefathers -- the plants

rock stars and preachers and prof's all with their own theories
belief is a psychic phenomena long torn away from the mere laws of physics
respects no fossils or rulers
defies quantification

the answers to the arguements themselves are spells
that convince when repeated long enough/needed long enough

sometimes we have to convert to avoid a mental breakdown
try out a new self-hope book or slant on Marx
that seem almost as right as any other
our need to believe
is a fiction writer hidden in our unconscious
where it parcels out our story second by second
we try to find the narrative that makes sense
the deeper into the paradigm lies of a cult
the more sense the world seems to make
another of God's endless ironies...

Judges in courts of impossible standards
meant merely to show, most of all, our ignorance
in the face of God

our myriad of religions are mere strings of light strung out into the darkness
we flutter from illumination to illumination
our souls mindless moths
caged in our rational minds

Our very souls must weep
as they see the flesh they inhabit
raping and killing and stealing

In the countless onslaught of prophecies
confusion is require
The stunning revelation
that there is no revelation
that can trump all others
habit becomes the holy
five kneelings a day prostrated before Allah
reinforces even the most backward conclusions
or releases the most humble being within

In the Staes we can leap from religion to religion
try them on like suits
begin to see how man uses the word of God
more than the word of God uses man

the body typing the words wants to explain
the world as a Christian dream
only now truly rising from the cavernous depths of the mystic
remembers the years feeling the spirit of God rising up in his flesh
an unwelcome possesser
commanded by God himself to accept this new found Royalty
the voice that came to me
after my government locked me up in a hospital
& filled my athiest writer mind with a rising deity
Brought the madness of revival across the world
confirmed that at least the bible had one thing right...

I returned...

They have awakened a deity who most will not believe in...
Who yet is listened to by the powerful and pious
those who wish to see how the mind that shaped all minds
perceives the experiences of this life
... those who wish to glimpse in the son
the ways of The Father

Telling my story now
seems like adding to the endless religious fires
that drive men to war

I have no choice in the matter.
My God has answered my unasked prayers by showing me
a path through an eternity that I did not know existed

I do not know what the father requires of me
I trust he made me into the proper tool for my job
He has shown me that I am the praxis for great shifts in human consciousness
gave me the words to lead a revolt against preditor of the poor
He on high has shown me that all humans are created equal
He gave me life in this land because the States must lead this world
One way or the other at this point....

I am humbled by limitations
knowledgable of how futile it is to attempt to hold God's plan in my mind

When I was being informed of who I am
messages began pouring in from the radio, tv, the computer
The powerful knowledge of being a Christ
when they were drugging me into psychosis to make the visions flow
forced me to wonder what my unconscious knew
to wonder what i was capable of...

the fear all around me
the lightening continually striking the trees in front of my house
on the lakeshore as I walked past the water...
the dream of endless fire and lightening flowing from my body

I was surprised that people thought I herealded the end of the world
The idea that Christ would return and fight an apocolyptic battle
had never entered my mind
My christian followers were looking in their bibles for the prophecy of my return

My presence seemed to confirm that the book was literally true to them
I wondered the same myself...
two years later and I am finally able to understand why God made me leave behind
the wealth and fame...
I failed to realize that this was my time in the desert
Wrestling with the demonic
trying to fight my out of the twentieth century secular mindset
and allow my past lives to teach me what man had mostly forgetten

They tell me that I am the king of kings
that I grew wings as a child

They tried to give me the world

At first they heard only when I said
I was a spaceman
as I am
in a technical sense
I came here on light
in a process as old as life itself
God told me a planet was awakening unto itself
and I was to protect the souls
that were coming into being there

Or so the visions seemed to show
So I will believe
if it helps me to be a person who never stops fighting
for the Ultimate Justice

I tell myself God cannot care whether I know who I am
as long as I ask no one to worship this son
can't even care if I am right or not

I will write nothing in stone that leads others
to my ambigous summit
Trust only a God who has revealed little to me
leave the bibles and their half-histories to those who God has not approached
He came after me in my dreams
gave me great predicitions that come true
showed me that his wrath is great against those who harm his son

You are chosen
everyone is chosen
I was chose to help you save yourself
you were chosen to be saved
not from death.... but from life
the endless cycles the eastern religions discovered thousands of years ago
then used as man will
to enslave

the newest preachers seem as right as any others
footnote their mutterings with ancient writings mired in disputes
charasmatic cultists gathering tribes seeking unique delusions
something 'truer' than a deity long dead on a cross

gang bangers learn an alterrnative military history of themselves
are given the Gods of war from the ancients
the slots in their young minds well oiled to accept lies
by this century of ours... the age of buyer beware

I see the suited ones out doing work for their Lord
holy robots roaming the neighborhoods
trained to stay on message
salesmen selling Good Lord Loving
cults of the latest mental snake oil of serotonin highs
discovered thousands of years ago in the east

Hear of how the scientologists are forbidden from reading any criticism of their sect
brain-washed into only noticing the reality that is a prop in their play

in a monastary a Tibeten Monk sits on cold stone and empties his mind
feels as if the molecules in his body are dispensing into space
knows the temporary flesh can barely house his spirit

a woman lights a candle in a Catholic Cathedral
A stained glass Christ hangs bloody on a Cross
She prays for forgiveness and for a moment is okay with being a human

sufi seances of preaching and singing and dancing
stoners doing bongs for jesus
southern baptist black call and response

silly releases of chemicals that give us waves of euphoria
mistaken as meaningful outside of our heads

playing god and godlings and worshipers
waking up in a book we are writing unwittingly
with every cynical cigarette
every curse/hatred/hell we inflict on another

immortal beings in flesh
we tell ourselves
to quell the mad fear of simply ending
not being
rotting out
into forgotten dust

raised to believe whatever is most convienant for the powers that be
weened on history books filled with hero stories
sermonized to hide ourselves behind a judgemental silence
to hate ourselves for behavior evolved over million of years

the fundamentalists mock the beast that their god created
tell themselves that they know better than the beasts who were not driven from the garden
the sex that is play and pleasure in nature becomes a cancer unto our souls
overpopulation or aids or infidelity...
ten commandments can't change
all those billions of years we've fucked about anything that moves...

buddhist aprentice monks used to sit with bodies as they decayed
to learn the imperminence of life
in Chicago we read about the kids killing each other
the soldiers dying -- as their names pass on the news we mutter, how young, how young...

madness coming at us from every wall
lies from every scene on the tv
in every tale we read
the deeper you look the less you know
we became surface skaters denying the ocean under our ice

we stare into the dark and give shape to shadows
see our satans and heathens and infidels and mongrols and selves

blessedly blind and deaf/the wisest man sits on the beach and feels the sun
tells himself the warmth is the very love of God
and this is all he needs to know of the universe
that man must need less and less
think less and less
that when he truly empties his life of the worldy
God will come to him
and He will be recognized by the wordless places in our minds
even as our thoughts rebuff Him...

Check out all of my blogs by googling my name, John Scott Ridgway



I met up with Johnny Pain last night to see what he has been up to, in the months since he went into hiding, after using a Stoner radio show to accidentally take over the world. Rumor had it that he was reinforcing his already formidable defense system around the two acre lot that housed his small domicile, and a garage -- the roofs of both of which were barely visible over the high fence around his house. Hand-painted on the white fence are variously worded warnings that the owner will shoot to kill anyone who enters his property. I personally had seen the effects of the landmines scattered throughout his yard one day when an unfortunate squirrel tried to run across his lawns. I guess this happens a few times a week, though of course his neighbors are too afraid of him to call the cops, who would only laugh anyways and ask for the films... Johnny hides cameras everywhere around his neighborhood, and his cautionary lifestyle has saved his ass more than once from various factions he is to this day vaguely waging war with... I cannot go into any that, of course, of he would kill me.

A lot of people credit Pain with getting Obama selected president, since his underground army was under strict orders to vote for him, and to do anything in their power to silence the Neo-con chatter.... up to and including, it is rumoured, selective assassination. A lot of conspiracies are afloat that Pain had something to do with the mysterious heart attack of Jerry Fallwell, who had insulted on of Pain's best friends, Jesus Christ. Christ and Pain go way back, and as the second coming was just beginning to be acknowledged, coming to the aide of the fledgling prophet put him on the good side of the Deity.

Arriving at Pain's house, you first push a buzzer at his outer gate. A large camera is trained on you, as well as suspicious red dots that hover over your forehead and heart. He recognized me from the screen in his monitoring room, ran a quick facial recognition code, then buzzed me in.
I knew the routine, had seem him do the same dozens of times since deciding to write a book about his life. A privilege that Pain, after getting me whisky drunk, made me commit to by cutting off two of my fingers and telling me he would freeze them, and then get them back to be sewn on after he okays the interview. As you can imagine, few people interview this man.
That's why they pay us investigative reporters the big bucks, I guess.

Pain's living room is all black. Walls, furniture, tv, chairs, candles, even the cats sneaking about in the shadows. The windows are covered in black plastic. A security detail that Pain had lived by since childhood. A nineteenth generation serial killer, the Pain family has been associated with a myriad of historical assassinations and wars over the centuries, and are said to work for a secret society of mystics and wizards, an off-shoot of a radical Catholic church that predated the known church, and believed themselves the only true church of Christ...... they were the same organization that traced the path of the soul of Christ as he reincarnated from life to life. They learned the trick from Eastern monks, and spent their lives finding the miraculous incarnations... God meant for them to be found, showed them to the initiated by giving wings to a child. In this way God kept the true church alive no matter what vagaries of belief cropped up into the minds of mind.

Pain's family had from time to time been called in to protect the Christ incarnations. So that is the lore.

In fact, when Pain ended up in Charge of the world, it was all Jesus doing, because the deity is not supposed to get too involved in politics, but he wanted mankind to revolt against the neocons and take the world in a direction that is not going to destroy the planet, and all other species...

After being buzzed in through the gates, I looked across the deceptively flower and plant covered yard -- he couldn't mow with the landmines, so he made everything look like an inviting garden... The smell of weed fills the air, tall plants are everywhere, lined up in a kind of second wall between the gate and the house. There is a small path. Looking through, I see Johnny Pain standing on his porch, his red Siberian husky by his side. He has an M-16 aimed at me, though he knows me damn well, actually. This is just target practice to him, keeping himself battle ready for the next wave of attackers to wage a frontal assault on his house.

From a metal shed on the edge of the weed field, Moon Bong Haze comes out to see who has 'breached the perimeter.' He looks like he usually does, long, unkempt hair down just below his ass, jeans with torn knees, eyes perpetually red, expression almost always somewhat puzzled or amused. I had heard he fell on hard times after the radio show we worked on together fell apart. He was living in the tiny, rusty shed, since being hired as the night watch men for Johnny's crop. Though I suspect something Pain told me could be just as true, "I am going to kill that fucking hippy one of these days, when my mood needs a boost or something, and this is easier than trying to hunt him down." And when he had the chance, after Moonbong struck it rich and had dogs surgically and genetically altered to have Paris Hilton heads, Johnny had ordered him tortured for a month (he also kept one of the dogs, who are specially designed for giving pleasure, though Johnny claims that his has been rehabilitated).

Johnny has a huge joint in the edge of his mouth as he waves me in. He has a short beard, gray in the front, brown like his shoulder length hair on the sides. He has always been considered handsome by the women, though he is obviously unkempt, and the only fashion statement he had ever tried to make was wearing only black, which he did to keep from having to think about matching colors, and camouflage purposes. The good looks that run through his family helped give them the kind of high kills that serial killer fame requires in this day and age. It doesn't hurt that your family existed in the intelligence community, where their skills were put to patriotic uses. What did the CIA care if their best soldiers occasionally went on a serial killing spree over getting cold soup at some Denny's?

Johnny's first memories were of family gathering, which almost always ending in gunfire. I asked him why his family still had them, if at least three of four of them were going to get killed at any given reunion, and he looked at me like I would never understand anything about life, "Now what the hell would be the fun in that? Think of everything your relatives have done to you throughout your life, man. A lot of people would love to get to kill some relative they hate. Hell, we all look forward to the reunions. Separates the men from the will's, you know? Sisters love that shit. Besides, Mom, she is the head of the family... and that old bitch will order a hit on anyone who misses a reunion. No one has dared do it since... well, forty years, I guess. We just call off the damn reunion and hunt them down. That's fun, too.... everybody all drugged up and drunk driving Rv's down the road. Using passing cars for target practice and shit. Hell, we don't exist, you know... whatever my family does, gets blamed on someone else. I didn't invent the system, man."

Johnny brings me out a cold Budweiser and a bong with fresh water. "You know, if this interview pisses me off, in any way, it is going to cost you those typing fingers that I have in the freezer?"
"Johnny, come on..."
"IF we weren't old friends, those would be your balls in that freezer."
"Oh, come on..."
"Remember that interview I gave with national enquirer?"
"I wondered why the hell you did that? All he asked about was your dog, and if you were single."
"I still got his balls. Want to see them? I am going to give them back to him, by the way. Just waiting a couple weeks longer than our agreement, to instill a little more fear of me in the press. You never can have those fuckers too afraid of you."
"Uh, yea." I forget sometimes that in Johnny's world, his secrecy as a double agent is barely held in place. He is hardly discrete about his occasional killing sprees. Most people in the Chicago area have just come to accept that this is the world they live in. The newspapers know better than to touch the story, after all the heads of all those journalists started showing up downtown on the posts of the Michigan Avenue Bridge, during rush hour. Johnny put them up himself, making a show of letting anyone who wanted to see who had done the ghastly deed. The point was well taken.

Under these kind of circumstances, you must be asking yourself why I would even go near this guy, right? Well, Johnny is also loyal. Once he is sure that you are going to be fair with him, and are not neo-cons or pacifists, he is a pretty good friend. He is oddly enough the first guy to send flowers to the hospital, but most of all he could get anything done in Chicago, because of his extensive connections, and he was always getting his weed buddies out of some jam. Once I was busted for a small bag and he simply walked into the jail, took the keys off the walls, waved to his cop buddies and said, "I'll vouch for this guy." After that, they seemed to know me. Chicago cops have extensive lists, Johnny explained to me once, monitoring who gets radical magazines, who might be a protester, lead leftists protests, etc... and who was evidently on their side. I knew they gave out shields to put on relatives cars, and that this means a lot to Chicago cops, but evidently, as always, there is a deeper, slightly darker truth.

Johnny and I sit on matching black leather chairs, between us a coffee table adorned with various stuffed fetuses on small pedestals. At first I mistake them for some bizarre form of art, but when I ask about them, I hear, "OH, the fucking fetuses. Yea, I got that stone ass Moon Bong dumper diving for them out back of the abortion clinic. I took up taxidermy, you remember... "
"I used to bring you my road kill."
"Yea, well I sell these to fundamentalist Christians, who flash them at pregnant women outside of abortion clinics. I'm pro-abortion myself. Not just because I make a lot of money off of this. By the way, you want to see that raccoon you ran over? "

He leads me to a room in the back of the house with the tools of a taxidermist. On the bench is the smashed raccoon I had brought him. It looked much worse now, pink, shiny entrails hanging out... he had stuffed it to look freshly run over.
"I thought it would be posing ... or something. Is there a market for this kind of thing?"
"Sometimes you just got to follow your heart, boy. I'm against road kill personally. So I advertised in this leftest rag at the Heartland Cafe for radicals willing to save wild animals, convinced them showing road kill up close to people would convince people to, as their motto said on their t-shirts, SWERVE NEXT TIME."
"Sounds a little cynical of you."
"What do I care? As long as there is a market for Road Kill Creations, I'm making them. They also go over great at frat parties, as pranks... Hell, I think they make great conversation pieces, and you can even get a can of this death oil, as I call it, and sprinkle a little on the dead animal for a full sensory experience."
"Who buys this stuff?"
"Depends. If they are kids, they are more likely budding serial killers. In fact I give their names to my buddies in the FBI, and they give most of them cancer and shit, before they even become a problem. Like they did with Autism, to keep the middle classes too preoccupied to revolt and shit. Aids to stop the drugs and homosexuality they thought was destroying the moral fiber of our country, etc... It's all about being pro-active in the intelligence agencies anymore. They engineer people through social planning, and anyone who questions the status quo is a problem they would rather not have. Myself? I questioned a lot under bush, and took out my fair share of neo-cons and cash register ministers... hell, I felt I had to do my part, since I was, despite all else, raised a working class hero, so to speak. I like the unions, collective bargaining, using the great wealth of our country to enrich everyone, not just a chosen few -- or especially, a dishonest few. My family may be full of killers, but that also makes us take our vows very seriously. Killing is something we do only for causes, or accidentally, you know...or drunken,kind of stoned fun."

"Just like 007, you have a license to kill."
"More people do than you would believe."
"A lot of them are pussies about it, but yea... they are fairly easy to come by in the states. I mean, all you have to do is become a CIA operative? Been there and done that, in a loose sense. I have no beefs with them, and try to help them catch terrorists, or just shoot them myself.. they flew me into Iraq for awhile, just before the surge, to show the troops how to fight really dirty, I guess. Nothing that I can talk about, but believe me... they owe me one or more. I took my own private army over there, and they do not lose. All the damn money I spend keeping them on that island brain washed and drugged up and steroided out, they better be the best damn fighting force my poppy farms in Afghanistan can buy."

Moonbong comes into the living room where we are talking. "What's up? Can I hit that bong, man... my stash... I think someone ripped me off."
Johnny's hand goes down to the pistol on his belt, and he unsnaps the holster strap. "I told you Moonbong, you live in a weed field, and you can pluck any damn bud you want." Johnny turns to me as his hand pulls out the gun and takes aim at moonbong's chest. "I've had to tell him that every fucking time he runs out of weed for the last month. He sees his empty tray and starts looking for bags. He grew up with the Haze weed business all around him, but they never grew the stuff. I think it's because they'd get wasted and eat the plants while they were still little sprounts. That's at least what happened this one time. And the fucking gerbils ate them, too. They kept everything in Burlap bags. In fact the kids slept in the burlap bags,witht he buds around them for warmth until they were in their teens, and started getting a stink about them that no one would want on their weed. I didn't know back then he was a bed wetter or I never would have smoked any of that damn weed."

Moonbong packs the small silver bowl, leans his mouth over the end of the bong, lights up and inhales. "Whooo... thanks. Hey, Fritz, man, you want to buy some LSD enemas that I got?"
I tell him that no, I do not wish to buy any sort of enemy at all, then ask, "Why did someone put acid in an enema?"
"Rapid delivery, man. It goes straight into your brain."
"From your ass?"
"Best way, man.... I'm getting a company together to market, em, man. This way, people can get a buzz, and clean out their colons, too... man, that is really big right bow. The time of the enema has arrived, and what better feeling than having a purple haze in your ass, right?"

Johnny has not yet stopped aiming at Moonbongs head. His finger has visibly tightened on the trigger. Then he shifts aim and fires two bullets into Moon's sandal ed feet. Two of his toes go flying off in different directions. He looks first at his left toe, which has landed on a coffee table, then his right, which a black cat is just then batting out from under my chair.
"Dude, that would really hurt.... you know, if I was straight enough to feel shit like that. People ask me, like, Moon, why take hand fulls of vicodens all day, and I say... you'll see, man... and here we are, man, in exactly the kind of situation where, like, it pays to take vicodens. People are such fools, man." He picks up his toes and ambles out of the room muttering about putting his toes on ice again. "What won't that fucker shoot your toes off for? Shit, I gotta move."

With Moonbong gone, leaving a trail of blood on the hardwood floor that the cats immediately run out and start lapping. "Johnny, under the Bush regime, you had plenty of targets in government, and a president who while you worked with him, could not have been further away from your politics. Good reasons for anyone like you to kill, of course. Now that Obama, a candidate you backed up with guns when necessary..."
"None of that was proven, and at this point nothing like that officially exists... etc... don't make me kill you."
"Uh, okay.... I was trying to ask how your MO has changed since Obama was elected?"
"Well.... to be honest with... it is a little depressing. Part of why I have been staying in the house these last few months. Hell, I call out for food, drugs, and whores.... what the hell else does a man need to relax? Take your fucking grand canyon, give me a couple boulders of rock and a vat of liquid morphine. Well, that and coloring books. Bush got us all started on coloring books, because at one point in his presidency that was the only way he could communicate with anyone, and since I was taking over the world, I had to have some contact with him. You have to have some pretty damn good drugs to love coloring like Bush does, and he turned me on to this great mix he keeps in a hidden IV under his jacket. Never liked him personally, but what could I do? He had great drugs. I can forgive a lot in people who show up at the party with a barrel of dried Peyote, etc... Man knew how to get visiting dignitaries from all over the world coloring in his back yard with that stuff. Fucking weirds site. All these Arab sheiks on peyote and heroin and these new LSD variations he has the cia coming up with all the time for his coloring parities... between making him drugs and masturbatory devices, it's no wonder they couldn't afford proper armor for the soldiers at the start of the Iraq war."


Check out all of my blogs by googling my name, John Scott Ridgway


the graying

He had to forgive everyone, or no one. That was the conclusion Shleeps Mvok came to as he starred out a subway window, into a dark landscape occasionally flickering with passing lights...
If I expect to be forgiven for my trespasses . . .I have to offer the same forgiveness to others. Yet, I do not do the kind of shit that lands people in prison.

Sitting beside him, his brother has been silenced by the roar of the train echoing through the mettallic car. Shleeps was not sure how he was supposed to act toward Alvo. His brother had been in prison for the last twenty two years. Caught up in the Rebellion on Targot Lin, he was one of hundreds the government had rounded up.

He was four when Alvo went to jail. His family had suffered for his actions, too. Their father lost his job, started getting harrassed by the government at every turn, until he did what they wanted him to, and took the family off planet.

They had been run out of town, basically. Now he was back. The prison did not release broke criminals without a family sponsor. Someone had to go back. He was chosen. His brothers actions seemed idiotic to him, almost sure to cause mayhem.

They get off at the airport, walk up the stairs into the main concourse, look around the mammoth steel and glass building for signs to their plane. He is looking down at the tickets for the fourth time, comparing the numbers with the neon signs pointing to the different loading zones.
The voice he hears is official. A cop. They are talking to his brother. He looks up to see one of the men holding handcuffs in his hand, the other has a gun aimed at them.
"We're going to put these on right now. You know why."

He is amazed at what he is seeing. He has just spent seven hours going through the process of getting a prisoner out, passing through all the required hoops to be declared legal. "Hey, he is legel. We just came from Daly Prison. They..."
"Yea, we know. You're going to want to come with us, too. Cuff him up."
His heart is pounding, his fears began repeating the letters from him brother when he was in prison -- once you are charged with terrorism, they can do whatever they want to you. The law no longer applies. He had read through them when he found out he was going to make the trip back to their old planet.

Cameramen and reporters film everything.

He looks at his brother and see's him looking down at his stomach.
The cop putting on his cuffs notices, too, and tells Alvo, "It isn't going off. You went through all that shit to have a dud put in your gut, asshole."

Shleeps does not know what the hell they are talking about, but his brother seems to... his face has gone curiously blank.

Seven hours later, he is in much deeper shit than any of his fears. They have just shown him a video of his beaten brother, repeating back whatever his interrogator was telling him to say... like a puppet, he was saying that his brother was in on his plot to blow up the airport. They had also shown him an x-ray of what his brother thought was a bomb sewn into his abdomen.

His brother hadn't want to leave the prison and start a new life, he'd just wanted revenge for what had been done to him, to strike out at his enemy.

He was the victim of a strangers decision. For the moment, at least. He could see why they would interrogate him, but their assumption that he was guilty was maddening to him.
They were acting like he was totally fucked.

"I wasn't really involved." He starts to use the words as a verbal mantra against them, using the same answer everytime they tried to bring up a new angle with him. One of them starts asking about where he was trained to withstand interrogations?

They name off terrorist camps, ask him if he has been to any of them.

Twelve days later, they have still not beaten him, or treated him all that badly. His brother has been shipped back to prison, while he has been housed in a local jail, in his own room, with a Tell Vision. His file has been shipped from home, and a committee has been chosen to rule on his fate. They will not let him go to a regular court, hire his own attorney. He is considered an enemy combatant until MOOK knows otherwise.

He watches the judges deciding his fate on video. They ask him no questions. They stare into their computer screens and read everything they want to know.

He is surprised when they let him go. He is escorted to the plane by five officers, which he thought was ridiculous overkill until he realized how hated he was. As soon as he left the Prison Van, people were yelling, Murderer... Go Home.... Etc... He had no doubt that without the cops, someone would have attacked him.

Alvo was betrayed by every he had thought was his friend. The prison had an active underground, set up in cells that were cut off from the others. They met unknown to even each other. Set up places where they could hear disguised voices through the vents. He was one of the first to set up the meeting. He had to kill three men to the secrecy in plance. Prison to him was a place to spend all of his time planning his next attack. The government was his enemy, and he owed a lot of allegience to fallen comrades. When he first met the radicals who would lead him down his path into a prison cell,
none of them had much of an idea at all that the government would care about their activities. Like most they believed the rhetoric that the voting public could aright any wrong.

Check out all of my blogs by googling my name, John Scott Ridgway

racial profiling...

Nothing much to add to this debate... except my own experience.
I was driving cab, around 98, in Chicago. I made the decision early on that I was going to disprove the idea that all white cab drivers were rascists who passed up blacks. I had already driven cab in Toledo, and was more sophisticated than any small town indiana boy really needs to be after the experieince -- not only was I not raised racist, but I started driving cab in a city where the black underclass used cabs because there were almost no buses, and the housing projects were isolated in an industrial neighborhood off downtown.

I had also been ripped off dozens of times, experienced the prostitutes jumping in taxi's to avoid getting busted for being on the street, and their doing about anything to get out of paying. Heard all the stories, etc... Chicago turned out to be safer than Toledo, but I was blown away by the racism.

People using the n word right and left... jumping in a cab and assuming that I was a racist, these folks would just go on and on... usually this line started with, "Oh, cool, a white cab driver."

So one day I picked a woman up from a grocery store and I drove her to Cabrini Green, which back then was a fairly dangerous, and very notorious, housing project. She jumped out and two young kids jumped in.

I got their destination and took off without giving any thought to the fact that I had just picked up two gang aged kids from a project, and they were going to another project on up the road.

Bam... in the rear view mirror I see the lights of the cops. I inwardly curse and outwardly prepare myself to be the nice cab driver to the cops. I am very pragmatic about cops. I do not feel like I can win an arguement with them, or that showing any animosity is going to do me any good. Fucking with a cop is like black magic -- whatever you do comes back at you three times harder. They are working joes doing one of the most stressful activities that I can imagine, and they have powers that they can use, anytime, anyday, to cost you, at least, a lot of money and time.

Outside of Cabrini Green, I watch in the rear view mirror as two cops approach the cab. As one comes to my window, the other stops behind the cab, pulls out his pistol and aims in our general direction. The cop actually sounds nice as he asks me, "Where did you pick them up?"

"I dropped a woman off at Cabrini Green and they jumped in."
"Okay. You two, hop out and come around to the back."

The kids are searched. Spoke to. They look like they are kind of pissed but resigned not to say a word. Like me, they have been taught how to act around cops, how to remain neutral in the battle of good and evil.

They get back in the cab and I try to make them feel comfortable again, some how make up for what they have just been through... "You guys get that a lot?"
"All the time." The words come out in the same flat tone they used with the cops.
"Well, I'm sure as hell glad they didn't search me. I've got a huge bag of weed in the glove box. You guys want to smoke a joint?"
"You got weed?" They both start laughing, having hit the jackbox for any stoner, a stranger offering them weed when they don't have any.

I do not know what it is about cabs.... I used to think that since we took people to clubs, this was why customers were always offering me weed. I was never offered anything to drink, but I was offered coke and heroin and weed. Sometimes I would smoke with them, if it was dark and there were not a lot of cars around. You never know when you are driving a cab if you are in some spot where cops are watching. In fact, when I would hit the one hitter as I drove, afterwards I would always, by habit, then act like the reason I kept lighting my metal cigarettte (which it was painted to look like), was that the lighter was not working... I would always hold it up and click it a few times afterwards, look at it in disgust.... then put the one hitter and lighter away. And of course, once, as I finished my little ritual, I looked in the rear view mirror right into the eyes of a cop behind me at a light looking straight at me and kind of calming down from being pissed -- he saw me taking the hit, and was ready to bust me for sure, then my game played him.

You know, I read the other day a quote from Daly about people driving cab stoned... asking if we thought that was okay? I have to fight the urge not to be a hypocrit and say that I wish I had not smoked weed while driving. It helped me make it through the night, deal with working way too much, etc. They passed legislation here this week that makes pot a 200 ticket in unincorporated Cook County. Interesting.... good news, but nothing like a solution to any problem.

Which brings us back to racial profiling.... Talib, the dark marine in dreads, gets searched all the time... last time he talked about this, he had a brand new bowl and tried to get the cop to let him keep it... instead, the cop smashed it in the alley. They had no weed on them, so the cops just let them go.

The problem with this topic is people like to play BLAME THE COP over this shit. Which is patently unfair. Racial profiling like I saw at cabrini green has other elements. The kids they searched were probably in gangs -- the cops knew them, and people die in the streets of Chicago all the time because of the guns. I am all for cops going after people who are notorious for carrying around guns and killing little kids... and sending others to jail forever.

We tell the cops to do their best to stop crime. Then we set up a society where the underclass has few ways to move up in the world; where pot is subject to prohibilition, as seems the world wide consensus at this point, criminals have an in. Someone is going to make money off of pot. The pragmatic way to deal with the problem is to legalize pot, then fund drug treatment alternatives for hard drug users with the taxes. Gangs would lose their attraction real fast without money.

The alleged need for a gun on the streets would drop. The hundred kids killed in Chicago every year from gunfire would become a thing of the past. Cops could concentrate of preventing crime.
The prisons would lose a lot of money... the for profit prisons actually lobby for harsher laws so that they can get more inmates. IS anything more horrible than a company that wants people to be put in their prisons? They want to enslave others. They make money off of people they keep captive and force to work.

The cops who do the front work on this huge issue, are mere pawns on a game board too large to see from one side to the other. I have been to the ghettos enough to know that there is a different world than the nice neighborhoods, that poverty, lack of education and nutrition and employment all combine to create a problematic environment that creates a lot of criminals.
Drug dealers hanging out in the streets are all black or hispanic. Cops see this, and of course that is who they pull over. They also racial profile whites who are in black neighborhoods where drugs are sold.

I know that a lot of cops are racist. I think it shows a mental flaw to become like this, a certain level of madness in ones worldview that taints everything else. The frustration with the system that cops feel wants a target, just like everyone else.... right or left, the one thing they have in common is that they seem to almost need enemies. This is because we are programmed genetically to look at the world as us and them. Football did not invent rivalry, merely played to the genes, as is usally the case.

I don't want to be an apologist for racism, but we are xenophobic apes who tend to naturally fear strangers, and unless we can open up our empathy to another race, we are kind of stuck there.

Once again, I get to the end of the exploration of some idea in an essay, and my feelings are so ambigous . . . I think everyone is a victim sometimes to larger systems, their culture, upbringing, genes.... all kinds of shit that is not their choosing. Blaming them is tricky...

Check out all of my blogs by googling my name, John Scott Ridgway


the fix is in... Why your 401k is losing money and Goldman Sachs is scooping it up

I just read the business section of the NYT... well, at least one article, which is as close as I can usually come to a business section. I tend to think the stock market has nothing to do with me... like a lot of folks, I am learning with this recession that this is hardly the case; unemployment alone is effecting millions. Here in this article, super computers that manipulate the stock market are shown to have not just an unfair advantagous, but what should be an illegal method of making money off of everyone else for no other reason than that they can afford a fast computer, and others are letting them get away with it.

They use the computers to make huge buys and sells, pushing the prices of stocks up so they can sell at higher prices. They are presently responsible for half of the trading done on the market. Golman Sachs, who if you have not read, has been mysteriously (before this article) making money in the market. GS is exposed in a new Rolling Stone article as something of an evil empire with too much power. The claim is that they... manipulate the stock market. And here they are, still doing the same thing. Just because something is legal, does not make it right...

They need more controls on the stock market. If the average trader is going to be used by the super computers as fools to profit from, then why should anyone let them? If I was a stock broker, I would be crying foul, man. How can the government let GS get away with something so blantly bad for everyone in the world? You have to wonder.... has the country just always been prone toward believing so much in the magical hand in the stock market that no controls seem to be needed? Well, we know now that the invisible hand that is supposed to take care of everyone, is actually a computer that is enriching a few people at the expense of billions, and justice.

This is akin to letting a card counter play poker with amatuers. OF course the card counter is going to win. They need some kind of reforms that are beyond me. If nothing is done, a few companies with these computers will end up doing all of the trading. They will basically just be set up to pass stocks back and forth, reaping profits from trading fees. This kind of thing was done during the savings and loan scandal, where rich investors sold worthless peices of property back and forth to drive the price up, then sold it... and we ended up with inflated prices on property, huge loans that made no sense, and a world wide recession. Surprise, surprise...

If I believed in a conspiracy on these matters, I would say look at this shit, the fix is in on the average guy, and whoever is behind that kind of power, would have to be in the elite of the elite...
Instead, I tend to think this is blind luck backed up by blind power. That the problem is fixable, and not something held together by the dark forces of satan or bilderbergs or whoever... Only time will tell. I would not even know about this, I suppose, if people in a position to do something about it were not also aware... so, what will the suits do on this one? You can bet that the future of the stock market, which means the future of your economy, is at stake here. Where do people think this money came from at Goldman Sachs, by the way? Well, they use these computers to suck that money out of others who are playing the stock market -- people who are in control of your 401k...

Very disturbing. Class war of a sorts. The middle class investor is sure as hell getting screwed without lube....

Check out all of my blogs by googling my name, John Scott Ridgway


a poet

a few words
earnest and unkempt

slapped into an electronic machine

confounding and confusing
infused with odd impulses and supersticious notions

images of liberitine voyourism
meshed with hallmark cards and tv love

the mystical mish-mass of the mind-mess
mesmorizes and mesmorizes and mesmorizes
trying to make everyone march on cue

work on cue
love on cue
war on cue
think on cue
vote on cue
believe on cue

a harmonious social landscape
the winners and losers clearly defined
by who can jump the most hoops and memorize lines from bibles

so thinks
a serious gray bearded poet
still earning his wrinkles
as he stakes out a terrain in the mental landscape

he is aware that words can explode
he is aware that there are bullets swarming off the pages
he is aware that he is in an environment of endless cognitive warfare
he is aware of the shrinking resources and the dark way man will sacrifice another
he is aware of being a caretaker who will do what he can to stop it

He is aware of being a few words on a scrap of paper blowing in the wind

Check out all of my blogs by googling my name, John Scott Ridgway


give us a one payer system... or give you death

to paraphrase give me freedom. or give me death... with the switch that while I might not be willing to die for this issue, I do know that if we do not correct this health care system, if we just keep going along like we have been, we will be sentencing 46 million people to live without medical insurance. Shame the fuck on us. We should just be better than this. Health is not an issue that mere ups and downs in the market can effect. Stock market fucks up, well... that is no reason to contiue with our health care travesty.

Go fucking back your president people. You voted him in because of this issue, and others... this was a big one. Don't let the propoganda of the insurance companies and the right wing fucks throw you on this one. This is an issue of basic, humanitarian care for others in our society. People who try to derail a one payer system should be ashamed of themselves. Simple class warfare against the poor and the middle class at its most bald faced and out there.


The Deranged And Diseased Tale of Chester Balsonu

Chester Balls On U would always start out talking about sports, which he hated, drift into talking about his veneral disease count and related, often puss-soaked stories... Invariably, his few minutes on the air at the Peace and Pipedreams show ended with him pleaing for sex
with anyone desperatly diseased enough to swap a few with him.

A classic bit of BallsOnU:

"THis is... CHester, ballsonu, reporting... on sports. Which one? All you need to know is there was a ball, they all ran around, then went home... to loving lovers, you can bet... the kind of women who understand when a man has a couple dozens STD's and whatever he has picked up lately that have yet to be shown ... on weekly tests. My depends are full of puss, ladies... who wants to come help me shovel out the little pleasure plodder?"

Chester would go on as long as he could, forcing the other Dj's to yell him down, and sometimes physically toss him out of the studio (though they were all loath to touch him and set off any postule explosions). Once he was gone,there was usually some talk of the puddles of puss that he left on the chairs, etc.

Chester balls on u.... I can't remember if he has a backstory? I do know he got his first venerial diseases while still in the womb, and obtained a number of his diseases from his habit of picking up homeless women, the really, really crazy ones, who he could pay with table scraps.

Well, I suppose I could just call Chester Balls on U on the phone, and ask him a few questions?

"Chester, I was just writing a bit about you and realized that I don't know much."
"I have a veneral disease count, for the day, as of last tuesday, actually... of ..."
"I know about the vd, okay? Please do not remind me by referencing any open sores, or postules of anysort. I want to know what your parents did for a living, where you come from?"

"My father was used in Muskogeee experiments, where they gave black men vd so they could test them."
"Chester, you look like archie bunker, not Obama."
"My Father was a guard at the prison. And I am proud to say, the only patriot to step forward and volunteer for the program."
"Why the hell..."
"He was a genius, and something of a sex addict... always getting some disease and bringing it home to mother. This way, he had a full time excuse. Until it just fell off. He was 34 at the time. He had it stuffed, for mom to use... she never did, just left it on the mantel. Sometimes I pretended like it a space ship that got lodged in my but."
"Oh, too much... Nothing anal, Chester."
"Why are people always saying that to me?"
"How long has it been since you have discussed your shit drippings in your depends?"
"I was just discussing that with..."
"Esactly. Let's try to stick with my questions. What about your Mom?"
"My mother was one of the ugliest woman ever to walk the earth,, though she was also trippled jointed, so Dad bought her, cheap, off of a pimp who was like, her father, or maybe had been her father, though now was there mother. That question held the family reunuions enthralled, let me tell ya."
"Have you ever had a pet?"
"Here and there for a day or so. They always tend to get lodged in my anus and require another embarrassing trip the ER. I can still hear the neighbors when I brought home the last dog, who I called litttle enema... Yelling out, "Well, that'll be in his but before nightfall. I think, sometimes, these kind of statements are gypsy cureses... once you've been cursed, you have no choice."
"What is with the Beastiality and you characters from Peace and Pipedreams?"
"Well, from your lonely pedistal, I suppose you will say you have never rubbed your entire body with sharp Wisconsin cheddar cheese and then laid out naked in an alley as hundreds of rats take little, luscious love bits. The only safe word you need is Shooo..."
"No, I have no desire to... well, to do anything that you have ever thought was remotly related to sex, more than likely."
"Oh, some kind of super freak are you?"
"Super Meek. Your puss spewing ways disgust me. Okay, this name of yours, Chester Balls On U, that has to be a stage name, right?"
"Of course.... my real name is Chester Dickinass."

I hang up on the mind mess of Chester and think, once again, whoever comes up with these characters must be seriously deranged.

Check out all of my blogs by googling my name, John Scott Ridgway

one of my very sorry little attempts to show my oil paintings, pets, girl...

a new mural in rodgers park... and picking up poo and sniffing pee

m and i take a trip down to the bean sculpture... here in Chicago...

Click on the side of the videos and it should take you to utube, where you can view the entire video.

Ruby dog fights the mighty dash... click on video to watch at utube

Thank YOU for over a half million hits at my various sites ... new counter.

one war

The collected john scott ridgway

The collected john scott ridgway
a demented little entry into philosophy, humour and redemption.,

the elves attic

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