we must stop slavery now

from the nyt


A girl cried after being rescued on Monday from a factory where she had been forced to work in Dongguan, China.
By DAVID BARBOZA
Published: May 1, 2008
SHANGHAI — China said Wednesday that it was investigating whether hundreds or perhaps thousands of children from poor areas in the southwest part of the country were sold to work as slave laborers in booming coastal factory cities.

Authorities in southern Guangdong Province, near Hong Kong, said they had already “rescued” over 100 children from factories in the city of Dongguan, a huge manufacturing center known for producing and exporting toys, textiles and electronics.

The children, mostly between the ages of 13 and 15, were often tricked or kidnapped by employment agencies working in an impoverished part of western Sichuan Province, and then sent to factory towns in Guangdong, where they were often forced to work as much as 300 hours a month for little money, according to government officials and accounts from the state-owned media.

The authorities in southern China said Wednesday that they had arrested several people involved in the case and that they were now trying to determine the identities of the children.

"These youngsters have no ID cards, so it makes it difficult to identify them," said Zhang Xiang, a spokesman for the Guangdong Labor Bureau. The child labor scandal, which was uncovered by Southern Metropolis, a crusading newspaper based in Guangzhou, in southern China, comes less than a year after the authorities said they had rescued hundreds of people, including children, from working as "slave laborers" in brick kilns in the north and central part of the country.

Many of the workers in that case also said that they had been kidnapped.

"The Liangshan child labor case is quite typical," says Hu Xingdou, a professor of economics and social policy at the Beijing Institute of Technology. "China’s economy is developing at a fascinating speed, but often at the expense of laws, human rights and environmental protection."

Professor Hu said that while Beijing has pushed to improve labor conditions throughout the nation, local governments are still driven by incentives to grow their economy, and so they try to lure cheap labor. "Most of the workforce comes from underdeveloped or poverty-stricken areas," he says. "Some children are even sold by their parents, who often don’t have any idea of the working conditions."

The child labor cases are an embarrassment to the Chinese government, which has in recent years announced a series of nationwide crackdowns on child labor and labor law violations.

But experts say rising labor, energy and raw material costs, and labor shortages in some parts of southern China, have forced some factory owners to cut costs or find new sources of cheap labor, including child labor.

Even factories that supply global companies, including Wal-Mart Stores, have been accused in recent years of using child labor, and violating local labor laws. Big corporations have stepped up their factory audits, but suppliers are sometimes adept are hiding operations and workers from auditors.

Officials in the city of Dongguan say they are now investigating all factories in the area to determine whether any are employing children. Young people can legally go to work in factories at age 16.

In a series of articles this week, journalists working for Southern Metropolis wrote that they had traveled to Liangshan Prefecture in Sichuan Province to pose as recruiters and interview parents and other residents.

The newspaper said recruiters and labor agencies working in Liangshan often transported children south and then "sold" them to factories at virtual auctions in Guangdong Province, one of China’s biggest manufacturing centers and home to a huge population of migrant workers.

At some coastal factories, children were even lined up and selected based on their body type, the journalists wrote.

The newspaper also alleged that when the children were paid, they received about three renminbi per hour, or about 42 cents, far below the local minimum wage of about 64 cents an hour. By law, overtime pay is much higher.

Chen Fulin, a government spokesman in Liangshan Prefecture in Sichuan Province, said in a telephone interview Wednesday that the articles on child labor in Southern Metropolis were correct.

"So far, we have detected and found four people in Zhaojue County suspected of luring the youngsters from Liangshan to Dongguan and forcing them to work in factories," he said. "We are dealing with the illegal employment agencies and the labor dealers, according to the law." In its report, Southern Metropolis said some children were threatened with death if they tried to escape from labor recruiters.

The newspaper did not identify the coastal factories where the children worked but the report said one was a toy factory in Dongguan, and that it had not been difficult for the journalists to uncover the labor scandal.

"Since journalists could discover the facts by secret interviews in a few days," Southern Metropolis wrote in a separate editorial on Tuesday, "how could the labor departments show no interest in it and turn aside from it for such a long time?"

Chen Yang contributed research for this article.

a suite of living hamsters

A SUIT OF LIVING HAMSTERS
home
by jsr

13/08/06
12:21 AM











I went to M. this morning with my idea to spend the rent money on a suit of living hamsters, trained to kill; told her, "Look, next time someone tries to force me into a van, and kidnap me, they will be grabbing a rabid hamster hell bent on biting." I pointed at my stick drawings showing a man holding a gun on me as a hamster bites off the offending arm (this is an exaggeration -- it actually takes them quite an effort to break the skin at their present skill level, though training should clear this up any day now, I expect).

"How often do people try to kidnap you? You don't leave the apartment except to walk the dog."

"There was an incident ... just yesterday . . . I didn't want to alarm you until I had thought of a solution, like this Anti-Terrorist Hamster Device that I am proposing. Not that I want you to feel pressured into making a decision, or anything, but I really should point out that you more than likely hold the very fate of the apartment in your hand, M.... if not the entire goddamn neighborhood!!"

"Yea, right... I told you already, there is no way in hell that I am going to let you hire a tailor to make little hamster pockets in a suit for those hamsters."
"You told me that I couldn't hire a tailor to make pockets. Thank dog you said nothing about not gluing hamsters to a suit, or I wouldn't even be able to create proto-type."

"You know that I meant, no suit, period."

"No, when you say, "Don't hire a tailor to create hamster pockets, no matter how good the idea is... not that you said it like this... regardless, this means -- don't hire a tailor to create hamster pockets, and nothing more. Sometimes M., it is really hard, for an English Major, like me, to talk to you."


I've just begun to strategize on how to get this Suite Of Armor That Can Actually Attack into production. . . if anyone can think of how to talk some sense into M., you would be doing me a favor if you gave her a call and tried to talk some sense into her. Everytime I try to bring this up again she starts throwing stuff at me. She actually threw the cat at me this morning. A declawed cat, freaked out and screaming, is not something you ever want hurled at your crotch, believe me.


The 89.73 hours that I spent working out the schematic drawings of the suit and researching tecniques to drive hamsters stark raving mad were not entirely wasted, I suppose... I just can't help but believe that I am one step closer to my ultimate goal of merging Man and Hamster's DNA into a super being... Oh, if mankind could just have the brain of the hamster!!!! We could achieve so much!!! Like greater powers of navigating habit trails, for instance...

I CAME OUT OF MY CAVE FIGHTING...

i came out of my cave fighting

we are at war

we must not forget this sacred vow to our blood
not for one fucking second!!!!

another day, another hamster glued to my arm

another day, another hamster glued to my arm
home
by jsr

13/08/06
12:22 AM











Having a hamster superglued to your arm sounds a lot more amusing than it actually has turned out to be. I was merely trying to think of some hip new fashion excessories, so I experiemented with gluing rodents to my body. Who hasn't? There was no getting the humping little squealer off, though...

The problems started to become apparent almost immediatly with the pooping and peeing all over me... and there was the incessent humping -- which ended in embarrassingly loud, squeaky orgasms followed by laying back half dead for bouts of full body twitching punctuated with what I can only describe as explosive flatulence . . I was kind of relieved the morning I awoke and found Ruby Dog sitting beside me on the bed, calmly chewing away on a bloody, stinky ball of furry eviscera on my arm.

Death does not become a hamster. The smell is really getting to M. She is making me sit by the window with my arm hanging out -- to add to my humiliation, a small doillie covers the part of my arm where the hamster intestines and lower skeleton are pretty much all still stuck there... people keep waving at me, and M. won't let me give them the finger anymore.

the eagle turned on Saddam and Attacked
home
by jsr

22/02/07
2:56 PM



Saddam was one of our warriors way back
we crowned him a prince

he fucked up and we fucked up
hell everybody was fucking up
it was war & shit never goes the way anyone really wants

son went all mad dog in the end
when we decided
to use the kurds
to take him down

HE HITLERED UP
for security purposes
went to war

saddam's head was so dangerous
the executioner ripped it right off
the crowds screamed and cried
tried to drive his mighty spirit away from the gallows
rightly so trembling in fear
at the horror of his coming wrath

His spirit surprised everyone & no one
with a wave and a tear
he forgave them their place in history
as great men do

as
great men

expect



sorry old soldier left hungry alone in your fox hole

wish i could have told you

we are praying
for you


to all enemies we sing: our hearts are still open
our minds are still free

we were not effected
by they great they's
enchantment spells

we too are sickened
by
the
rotting diseased cloak of these lies







we are coming for you

i am
a man of my word
the word
your word
our word



YOU ARE FORGIVEN

forgive us


We just didn't make it in time saddam
this stoic crusader was still marching silently
through the carnage
seeking rank on missions top secret
waging war from under deep cover
pretending always to go along



waiting

waiting

waitng

for the order

to come down




you know how that is

I

salute

u



we all salute you

THE LEGEND OF WARREN THE APE

"I think they're seriously afraid of my talent! "

Male
100 years old
New York , NEW YORK
United States








a
Warren has actually come a long way from his early performances in a new york zoo, when he says he was experimenting with GUERILLA THEATER by masterbating constantly and throwing his shit at hot girls, guys and a lot of different species of birds, though by no means all. As I believe I may have heard warren say one night, "That shit was an invitation to ecstasy.... but if the peace is just some scroungy sparrow HO, I figure rosy palms is going to be hotter, so why the hell would I risk yet another goddamned disease? I have enough all ready, trust me."

OF course there was a lot of weed and a large plate of shrromssssieees involved, and the lamp could just as well have said this...

I don't remember every thing about the trip, though I do fear I will never forget the sight of Warren keistering those shrooms. He loves nothing better than to msniupulate the conversation until his asshole is the center of attention. Kind of like how I feel everyone should know about my bountiful member, in case they ever need a ride.

Not that I have ever but poked Warren... well, at least not while I was awake. I have passed out around this guy, and after seeing the sick stuff he does to other people who pass out around him... Oh, well, can't go there... just can't quite afford the therapy yet.

this poem really sucks

22/02/07
1:35 AM



I was so drunk when I wrote it
that it was supposed to be a grocery list...
i took it to the store and tried to buy shit on the poem
and i got demanding with the clerks
when I couldn't find an eagle
oh, it was a mess with batons and screaming
I barely made bail in time for
a court appearance over something else
I am totally innocent of ...
some vegetable molestation th ing...
hell,
any radish in roger's park chicago
gets shoved up a but in a grocery store and put back
and they are knocking on my door
like I am the only one
who can't afford to actually buy radishes
in this neighborhood



Now, while this poem seems to imply putting radishes in the ass, when one remembers the great literary symbolism associated with the radish since it was made famous as the food of kings in Baywolf (phoenic spell), the first story in the english language, and later lauded in the King James Version of the bible as 'the true vegetible of knowledge, and healthy passages of bowl." Verse something or other... bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb

ruby dog

here are pictures that look like my dog.h

kessler keeper of the pigs

Thirty nine million two hundred and forty six thousand years before our story takes place, plate teutonics wiped out the last vestiges of their off planet civilization. No one knew about a planet called earth, or the civilization that spawned their species and sent them on great ships out into cold, black space. They destroyed their original host planet, leaving their once green and blue eden black and brown, as dead as the sterile vaccum of space that replaced the sweet oxygen of the atmosphere.


Thessler, Keep of Pigs, was not aware of any of this, and indeed would have considered the tale just so much pig shit. .. history at that moment was not helping him one bit. He had responsibilities, had to keep the pigs in line, make sure that they turned over their offerings every year.
His job was to negoitiate with the upstart animals, of course; for all times from now until the then, pigs and horses and vegetables had been forced to give humans what they required to Sustain and Pursue The Happy, as had been written over a million years before, in the first recorded histories....

Humans knew that their ancestors had given the pigs and cows and goats and various vegetibles and fruits their ability to reason to increase their ability to survive in hostile climates... being able to speak and tell their owners where they hurt or how they could be happier had seemed like the humane thing to do, though this was of course an after thought of the practical consideration of keeping their food alive as their species migrated out into more often than not cold, dead space.

Kessler watched the newsies on a wall size holo. Pigs throwing bombs, mostly. Piglets throwing stones. Suicide Porks. There was rioting in no less than seven cities down the coast. He could pretty much forget his quartily bonus
buying him a new summer house.
The Cow's were going to be trouble again this year, he was just certain of that. The damn cows were
always tryed to gloam onto any contractual advantage that the pig's wheedled out of the humans -- and the pigs were willing to send their children out as to blow up just one human over even small points of protocal, like where the damned water glasses were set during a particular state dinner.

As Keeper of The Pigs, his head was about to roll over this one. The pigs had been content for over 390,000 years. They knew their history, how the humans made them. Some of them now thought that their 'Bacon Tax' had been paid already. They were even threatening to go off into space by themselves, though they had no feasible way of doing so, without taking vegetibles and humans along to feed on. The abscence of life was almost expected during all the years of expoloration, but discovering it was true, that their planet really was a special place... that their little splash of life was all; how could the series of accidents reapeat again? Not even in the infinite vastness.

Kessler also knew a bit about how poorly they were doing with the vegetibles this year. Every source of food developed on the planet into a thinking species. Now they had only each other to prey on, in an endless cycle.. the humans corpses went to feed the plants, which than supported man and the animals that he fed upon.

As Kessler silently raged about this, he was astounded to see, from his 345th floor apartment, a space ship, a gleaming silver behemoth, glide down from a blue sky and hover over the entire downtown area. He was no less surprised later that night, when the Newsies reported that the ships were manned by the descendents of an earth plant, the Strawberry. And when the lowly humans were marched onto ships to be the food supply for the strawberries, who it turns out were intergalactic pirates with no moral scruples about destroying anything that was not strawberry, he was surprised all the more. ... but, he sure was glad to be off the hook on the pig thing, and isn't that what it's all about at the end of the day, huh? This is how certainly howThessler, Keeper of Pigs, lived happily ever after . . well, that and the complete apathy of the strawberries toward killing humans -- which they found dsstasteful if not out right immoral, and left the humans to live out their natural lifespams relatively undisturbed, and no one really seemed to care too much, after a while, that they would be eaten after their long, comfortable lives.

John Mccain Keeps Food In His Cheeks!!!

Senator John, Chipmunk Cheeks, McCain has finally admitted that he keeps large quantities of food in his extended cheeks. Telling this reporter, "It all started when I was in Nam, laying there in a hundred and twenty degrees of hell, feeling rats eating my goddamn dick... and just being too tired to do anything about it... well, didn't mean to talk about that. You publish that shit and I will have you dead by morning. Now, anyways, for the record... I was laying there one day and had a vision, of a mighty chipmonk, telling me that if I ever was around a lot of food again, I would be like the mighty chipmonk and save some for later, in my cheeks. I had no idea I would end up with these jowls at this age. Not complaining, I can keep a full boned chicken in this side. And a couple side dishes over here. Not to mention, a gun and a playboy, which were the two things I vowed to have with me if I was ever captured again. Laying there in that lonely bamboo prison, my only friends were rats. For the most part they still are. I took one as my wife. Back in nam. When she died I ate her meat, but I kept her skin. I still keep it hidden in my recturm. Old habits die hard I guess. In fact, I still raise rats, for both food and companionship, of course."

best pick up line in the universe

I know a lot of you people who read this have a hard time meeting members of any sex or even species to cater to your sick, meaningless urges for the latest hyper-thrill... you rely on that miracle of this century, plastics... Plastic dolls, plastic dicks, plastic clits, plastic balls, plastic crusty but hairs... and the old standard, panties dipped in tuna juice, have really become your best friend... this is fucking pathetic, okay?

Normally, I just really try not to think about the stuff that you people are into ... it leads to... well, a short thrill followed by hours and hours of standing in the shower soaping myself up with lava and screaming over and over again, "I am unclean, unclean!!"

Still, even if the neighborhood dogs had not told me to swear off sex with the living, I probably would have quit anyways. The blood and murder was cool, but... well, sometimes, when I have intercourse afterwards with the warm corpse, I have to fantasize about other stuff... like killing puppies. I love that little yap they make when you cut their throat (though you have to careful with them, because when they die, their sphincter's release and they actually squirt shit. If you are not careful where you aim their buts while slitting their soft, warm throats, you could put out an eye, man).

Anyways, the pick up line is this....

For proper use, go up to your prey in a public place, where you can most easily start building a false sense of security in them. Do not have any weapons showing when you try this, and for gods sake, just this once, clean your goddamn nails, okay? You cannot be expected to be at your peak killing with rotting intestines under your nails. The smell alone will drive some women away, though puppes will be attracted... 'Yap! Yap!' they go.

Okay, look the 'it' in the eye, and use your best Phil Hartman sleaze voice to say, "Baby, I would like to cut your mother's head off and fuck her throat hole... just like I did my dear old mom." Now, make it out like you are kidding about this, okay? Making fun of serial killing is one hell of a good way of hiding your actual killing behind a facade of moralistic humorizing... trust me on this.

celebrity animals who have slept their way to the top

I guess I should come out with an opinion on this 'hot' topic that is sweeping across the blogs... Well, we all know Spuds Machenzie owed everything to certain oral technique which he first perfected on himself and then used to take Hollywood by storm... He had free beer!!!! For life!!! How many fucking dogs achieve that??? None. So, I don't blame him . . .

He sure could lick lap. I'm sure everyone has by now seen the tapes on the net of him lap loving Paul Schaffer while he was on the Letterman Show... I guess he had been up smoking crack and licking himself for like a week before the show, and just kind of staggered over to the band and his brain blew out and he jumped on the stunned though obviously pleased Mr. Shaffer.

Spuds never did come down they say, just sits in that hospital all doped up on thorazine and very, very slowly licks his ass over and over. . . I hear that he gets day passes out to visit the Playboy Mansion and his Scientology Auditing, but I guess he still just sits there drooling on his own privates no matter where he is.. Sad case. Like those Corey's who used to act in stoner movies like pot heads though they were really like herion addicts? They do the same thing, but on the streets. Spuds at least knew to save his money.

So, after thinking about Spuds a bit, and seeing that amazing, amazing oral artistery he once had and his now slow, ineffective manner of licking his soft bone... well, I just feel sorry for him, I guess. I mean who here can say what they would do if they could lick themselves?

The classic tale of animal whoring always was and of course always will be -- Flipper.

I don't know if I can add anything to the whole 'blow hole' scene that emerged out in Hollywood at that time... I mean, that horny sea stud, I have a poster of him pumping Tryone Powers in the ass, while James Dean hip whacks his blow-hole and Shirly McClain lickis a pickle sticking out of his ass... Everyone bought that one... but, besides the well known stuff... I happen to have heard he was the one who first gave Drew Barrymore Blow...

They say she crawled faster than any of the other infants at the commercial tryouts. Yea, Flipper was the one who convinced Drew's Mom to drug the tot and let Roman Polanksi babysit and all this other shit that lead to her unique and quirky brillance. The Flip took her mom out, and just for a goof--for an anecdote to tell to his jaded celebrity buddies, he got her stoned on acid and weed and hypnotized her into giving her kid speed and letting her hang out with micheal jackson and that damn chimp that he has butt fucking him 24 hours a day (a habit he picked up from Elizabeth Talyor, who actually eats the monkeys through out the day and is always calling in for more).

When Flipper died, everyone said he od'd, but no...
that's just less embarrassing than the truth, which is what his official biographers have been saying forever. . . . I happen to know he died from rectal bleeding, after getting fisted by a bull elephant that he kept all methed up and chained by his pool.


Oh, well... this topic saddens me so. I wish animals could get parts without having to sleep their way through production office after production office, but that is just the way things are done. I mean, everytime I see a pup on some commercial, I know that it isn't an innocent, oh no... not after being on the hundreds of couches it takes to make it in that business. Poor little lap lickers. Remember them around the holidays, and for those few blessed days, try not to throw shoes at them when they start licking themselves... for the animals, dammit!!!

merlin cut himself into specks

merlin cut himself into specks &fed himself to you
home
by jsr

14/03/07
4:28 PM

the wizard
is NOW

INSIDE YOU


seize his magic
hold on for DEAR LIFE



PRAY TO THE MAD MAGICIANS' VOICE IN YOUR HEAD
MAKE IT MIGHTY AND STRONG

enough

FOR A TOTAL WAR FOR TOTAL PEACE


a blood soaked arthur
is rising

there are many ways to die


in this crusade of pain

&
only ONE

TO LIVE

forgive

PRESIDENT TELLS SHOCKED WORLD,"IN ORDER TO SAVE THE IRAQI'S, WE MAY HAVE TO KILL EVERY DAMN ONE OF THOSE BASTARDS..."

As W. The Rockstar President went out to get his mail today, he made the somewhat cryptic statement, "Yea, I got me some bad boys in here, some of them nuclear ones...been using it to keep my collection of cowboy hats on, and to make nifty endtables. But, I am thinking now, that the only way to save the Iraqui's is to fall back on what was, I hope the world will remember, my original plan, which is to kill all of the Iraqui's, so we know that they are safe from factions in their own society that would terrorize the march of freedom. Like with animals -- and you would not believe the reports I get on how many people these despicable NARCO TERRORISTS kill and mayhem. If it isn't alligators taken some kid in the nile, it is a . . . well, some god forasken pig eating somebody at a goddamned petting zoo. I will not stand by and say 'hey, they are animals, so they can kill on my watch.' I think them other presidents were scared of bears or something . . . being from texas, and having shot many a bear out in the wild, where dad would put the pens that held these feirce beasts as we crept to within a hundred yards, risking life and limb, to kill these creatures. Oh, it was a battle between man and animal of the likes unseen since dad went into that Chicken Coup to hunt the often peckish hen. He barely came out of that one alive. There were ankle scratches that to this day he cannot bear to remember. In fact he faints, like we all do. Chicken scratches can be as painful as... well, hell, bullets, I imagine. Well, more bullets than one. People can still walk with a bullet, but when dad took that chicken scratch, they had to airlift him to Mountain Sinia -- there was not way in hell he was walking with that gash, which almost broke the skin."

The president then scratched his groin, belched, went back inside with his mail and slammed the door shut behind.

PENGUINS TAKEN IN RAPTURE ...DESPONDENT HUMANS LEFT BEHIND

PENGUINS TAKEN IN RAPTURE...DESPONDENT HUMANS LEFT BEHIND!!!!!Seemingly only penguins were taken up into the heavens this morning when a supreme deity finally kept its promise to save the worthy from the hell of the world.

As the deity scooped up the penguins in his hands, thousands of screaming human voices were raised to protest the supreme deity's decision, representing every type of whining known to man. The deity shushed the humans, then pointed at the amusing antics of various penguins who were doing an elaborate ice-scapade version of a tale that they explained, in a short introduction, was too complex for human understanding. . .




Before leaving, the deity told the humans,"Hey, ectoplasm, get over yourself. I didn't even try to make another species that comes close to a penguin. Let alone, Man... Yea, right -- come on, you don't even really believe that, do you? Every dog you have ever met is a better being than you. . . I mean, name a dog that isn't a better being than you? ... Let alone a penguin -- they're fucking nature's clowns, man! You put your robin williams and conans on stage with an emporer penguin, not only will it kick their asses, it will make you laugh harder than you ever have before in your life while it does so. You are a component in an echosphere, and if anything, you should be punished, if not just weeded out. You're probably very lucky that I don't bother thinking about you very much."

After finding out their species is well down on the animal totem pole that god uses to judge specks of the echosphere, humans around the world were reported to be, 'thinking about other stuff,' and 'keeping busy.'







NOTE FROM JOHNNY PAIN: Well, I'd say YOU HUMANS have a bit of egg on the old face, today, huh? I am so glad I married into another species, marsupial. I mean, we might go after dogs or something, but man? Like the deity said when asked about when the humans would go, "Not on my fucking watch, that is for sure."

IS IT SO INSANE TO SHAVE HAMSTERS???

I think my position on Hamster Hair should be clear by now. This fashion statement slows them down and I will not have that!! Not in my army. The problem is that afterwards they look kind of scrawny and pathetic. A bitchin' tan really helps. They say that if you look better, you feel better, so it probably applies to Hamsters, too. So, of course, I have added tanning to their training schedules.

Today I lectured the new troops for two hours on how to do maximum damage with a toothpick (while I was glueing the toothpicks to the hamsters' paws, there was a slight mishap, and I had a hamster glued to my arm for about an hour... it stayed on even when I twirled my arm around in a circle real fast.. I finally just ripped it off... man, how that thing squealed in pain--almost drowned out mine) and then another hour on The Three Stooges School Of Martial Arts, mostly on Curly's break through moves (as you know, the CIA invented the whole idea that the Stooges should take their fighting method and make a film to train recruits in far off places; as many millions of laughs have shown, the Stooges of course did them one better, and hid their deadly games under the veil of slapstick comedy). Curly's moves are mean, and some say below the belt, but dammit, these hamsters have a size deficiency to make up for!!

After the lectures, I ran them through some drills... or at least tried to. I fear that once more I have a band of leaders so sure of their own minds that they do not often follow directions. Hamsters are known as born war strategists, of course, and I don't want to beat that out of them... but they did have some strange attack ideas when I put them on the world map and told them to show me how they would take over the world.

M. seems to think that they are merely just, quote, "Running this way and that, all helter skelter."

What does she know of the hells of war? I have read dozens of books on Vietnam and am haunted by flashbacks to page numbers that I am pretty sure are from those books...

Napoleon The Seventh (Ruby ate all but the original, I must sadly report) seems to be just the little Mussolini I need to do my bidding without thinking too much. I took him and Alexander the Great The Seventh (yes, Ruby), and General Sniggly Poo The Sixth (you get the picture), down to the beach today. I stayed under a sun umbrella as they tanned. I was surprised by how many people were on the beach sucking cancer in through their skins. I thought this human geography would be smarter than that, optimist that I am.

Just a few minutes after we were all set up, as I rubbed coconut lotion on Napoleon, the lifeguard came walking up. A young college looking boy. "What the hell are those?" He asked me.
"Shaved hamsters."
"Whoa. Did they have disease, or something"
"No, I assure you, they are healthy. In fact, they are at the top of their game."
"Why did you shave them then?"
"Duh... aerodynamics."
"Well, anyways, no animals on the beach."

It doesn't take a keen mind like mine very long to spot an enemy agent, and when he said this, totally interrupting my training schedule, I knew he was acting under orders to sabotage my army at all costs.

"Well, I will hate to break that news to my other three hundred hamsters. They are going to be pissed. I can't always control them."

"Look, buddy..."
"That's General Buddy, to you."
"Okay... I have a phone here to call the cops, okay?"
"Cops, you say. . . Don¢t you mean . . . wombats?"
"What?"
"You heard me! Dammit, man, when are you going to wise up to the marsupial threat!!" I gather up my umbrella and tan oil, put the troops in a shoe box and begin trudging across the sand, knowing that the enemy has upped the stakes in the game... and will stop at nothing to break up my training camp. When I reach the steps, I turn around and see the lifeguard watching me with a puzzled look on his face. Taking in every damn bit of information he can about me. I take one last stab at saving his soul. "They couldn't have paid you enough to make up for living in their vision of a world, which they will have if they win."

The Mighty Beat Them To Piss And Twitches Hamster Army now is entering a time of trials. I expected this. I will need to watch for spies everywhere. Even people I know could be deep plants, people who have been working their way into my life for years... how did they know I would build a Hamster Army?

Probably that damn Miss Cleo the psychic. According to the commercials and that one sleazy looking woman singer, she is always right. I knew she was making a mistake by advertising her powers. And sure enough, where is she now? Locked up in a CIA lab. Sure as shit, the wombats have gained access to her through their sympathizers in the Company.

Johnny Pain Out...

massah jackoffyourson wows cops by blowing lama

Massah jackoffyourson allegedly staved off a child molestation accusation in 1990 with a $2 million payment to the son of an employee at his Neverland Ranch, according to a television report, which went on to say he also paid out another fifty three dollars to the family of a neighborhood pig, who refuses to be identified because he is afraid he will be labeled, quote, 'another one of massah jackoffyourson's washed up, ex-celebrity, rubba bubbas... like one of them corey's.'

The Secret Posse reported the payment in a segment to be broadcast Friday night, did not disclose its source of information, though it is suspected they merely went to a jackoffyourson fan sight and checked out the section where the kids took polls on things like, "Did you enjoy massah jackoffyourson's mouth on your anus?"

The poll was taken by over three hundred children, and seemingly not one was into anal ligulas.In the segment, a retired Santa Barbara County Sheriff, said his office investigated Jackson in 1993 in connection with one boy's claim and came upon the second accusation. The ex sheriff spit repeatedly on the ground as emphasis of his disgust as he told reporters, "Yea, we knew he was a chicken chaser from way back, just couldn't get none of the parents to let them kids talk, not after getting to be millionaire's all sudden and signing away their rights. These are poor people who he victimizes, ones he can actually impress with all his fancy surgeries and highly advanced oral sex techniques on llama's and chimps. You think he can sing? You should see how he blows llama! You gotta respect something like that a little, but the kids? Now, if I had arrested him, I'd of shoved his sick, pus dripping ass out of my squad car when I was doing about ninety, and then turned around and run him over a couple times, then shot the hell out of whatever was left for trying to flee from a police officer.

"The first boy reportedly was paid $15 million to $20 million by massah Jackoffyourson to avoid what the jaskoffyourson's attorney's claim was an 'allegation' that would damage massah jackoffyourson's career even if proven untrue. Which is of course just another lie from their putrid lips, because, as all people not on the jaskoffyourson's payroll will now admit, it could only be good for massah jackoffyourson's career to just once be proven not guilty of molesting children, which is of course, impossible....Reporters laughed in the beak of jackoffyourson's press agent when the talking parrot dressed in leather chaps told them, "Massah Jackoffyourson denies, ark . . . ever harming any child. . . . and is a...Rubba, let's all do shots and play rubba... ark, cracker... is currently fighting charges he molested a boy in 2003. He says he can, lie and buy his way out ...ark... he owes me a lot of crackers... ark... for shitting in his mouth, like he demands... ark, crackers."

Jackoffyourson is reported to have stated repeatedly that he was going to, quote, 'bitch slap that damn charge,' though his attorney has tried to explain to jackoffyourson that this is impossible, his efforts to get jackoffyourson to understand the nature of the rule of law was purely in vain. He's obviously....ark...a lot dummer than me, a goddamn parrot... ark...do shot! Rubba!!! Crackes..."

His attorney, the Scum Sucker, as his closest call him, went on to say, "My theory is, he thinks these kids are baby llamas. Arck... doesn't matter to me though, win or lose, I get paid a fucking barrel of money!!!! I'll say or do anything!!! Hell, if I hadn't shirked legal responsibility for all of my kids, ..ark... he could rubba them for this kind of money!! Ark!
The retired sheriff interviewed on the newsmagazine, stupid shit that happens, told reporters, `We always believed there were eight to 10 other children out there.'' ``

The sheriff also said that the employee's son did not file charges and didn't want to testify, saying, " He was afraid his friends would think he was a homosexual, or even worse -- a pig fucker or a llama blower or a chimp eater outer, or a parrot but lickerm or ... Well, quite frankly the kid went on and on -- two officers vomited half way through... Let me tell you, buddy, it is just pitiful what that freak does to those animals. He has leather costumes for those damn llamas... hell, the pigs, too. One pig he dresses up like Elvis all the time, even has a black pompadour he pastes on it's head. He claims that he has captured Elvis's soul in the pig, by some ritual he made up with peanut butter and banana sandwiches -- which were indeed the king's favorite, so we are also investigating the possibility that the king lives, and may have, god forbid, been sodomized."The retired sheriff has previously discussed the boy's claim, but said he wasn't sure until the SECRET POSSE report that massah Jackoffyourson had paid the boy $2 million.``stupid shit that happens'' said the settlement contained a clause barring it from being discussed publicly.The sheriff said the 12-year-old accused Jackson of ``fondling him through his clothes,'' which could be the basis of misdemeanor charges. No charges were ever filed because officers on the scene were too busy eating the free donuts and pizza and watching jackoffyourson perform amazing oral feats on both a lusty llama and a bi-sexual yak.
Jackson, 49, has pleaded not guilty to committing a lewd act upon a child, administering an intoxicating agent and conspiring to commit child abduction, false imprisonment and extortion -- as well as a series of sodomy charges on a list of animals that would make the Los Angeles Zoo green with envy. His trial is set to start Jan. 31, 2005. Not so president, when he heard that jackoffyourson would still be in possession of his children, went on telvevision with an impassioned speech calling for any al queda sleeper agents to never, ever blow up massah jackoffyourson. Democratics responded, "Oh, his asinine attempt at reverse psychology is not going to work."Not so president responded to democratic charges by saying, "How the hell did they find out about reverse psychology? Find me that damn press leak... now!!! Have the cia kill them with paper clips, a slow death from a thousand points of paper clips... Yea, I like that there sound of words there... A thousand points of paper clips... Might work for torturing them camel riding yahoos, too. Now, tell me again, just what the hell were we talking about.

Massah Jackoffyourson recently renamed his never, never land ranch to simply, "No I Never, Never Played No Rubba With their Cute Little Asses Ranch."

When asked by reporters what the fuck is up with the new name, jackoffyourson responded, "My attorney thingy, he says I mean don keys¦ What, oh.. No, donkeys. They have cute asses. You ever stick your head in a donkey's ass? It's all warm and juicy, like Jiz Taylor's pee pee thingy."

At that point Jackoffyourson was led away by a parrot, who could be heard by reporters saying, over and over as he lured the reluctant jackoffyourson away from the spotlight and into an awaiting limo filled with children, "The children in the limo are getting cold. Arrk. The Children in the limo are getting cold!"

WARREN THE APE

heads up



china



and wherever the hell you are


Warren the ape-ished one is laying in front of the sofa unconscious and dribbling the usual vomit and vomit like substances from the corners of his fuzzy mouth.... some whore he was beating on earlier probably broke out of her restraints (I ain't coping to letting her go, but the footage would be too tempting for me to pass up, probably)and is right now cutting his toes off with a switch blade. M is all freaking out, so I told her warren was all into the toes getting cut off and sewed back on thing, and since Warren is Warren, M. believed me enough to excuse herself to vomit...

DETECTIVE STORY

NH312 545 0018
Hectorly worked as a private detective out of a small office on Wabash, in Chicago's loop, with a window right across from the rusted metal tracks of the elevated train. Double Pane windows and insulated brick walls keep the noise out as the trains scream past. The room was ill-lit, one small grey, industrial looking steel lamp on his desk. On the floor was a mint green indoor/outdoor carpeting with numerous black cigarette burns and various unidentifiable stains of most colors. The off-white paint job stained beige with nicotine smoke added even less luster to the already dingy flat.

Someone kept smoking cigars in the bathroom that he shared with a group of freelance writers next door who wrote porno about children for children, and the stench filled his office. He hated it, and was chain-smoking Marlboro's in the hope of defeating the odor. He had tried room deoderizing sprays, incense, candles... One day he had the thought that his deoderizer had been more than defeated -- it had actually been consumed by the cigar smoke and shit out into something nasty. That's when he decided to start fighting smoke with smoke, lighting one up whenever the smell got bad... he wasn't used to smoking more than three or four a day, and ratcheting his smoking up to twenty, sometimes thirty, during his work day was giving him a sticky, hacking cough, though he was glad to exchange that for the naseua from the cigars. He isn't sure why one smoke would cancel out another, just that it worked. Everyone told him it wouldn't work, and tended to claim it didn't even after he carefully explained that it did. This was pissing him off to no fucking end.


At 2:38 pm, a famous face walked into the office, stopped midway into the room, pulled a paper face mask out of his fany-pak, which was elaborated drapped with red strings and decorated with obscure, religous looking symbols, and explained, "Sorry, you see... it's cool tht you smoke, because you're a HP Weon. Normally, I don't allow people to face with me who ... smoke. But, you know, I am happy to talk to you... as soon as one of the ... assitants... bring my oxygen tank up from the limos. One of them will explain the rest. I'll wait outside in the Big Breathy. That's Scamatomolgy speak, in case you're wondering. My assistant will brief you."

The assistant came in, an earnest looking young man in an expensive blue suit with a pearl grey tie and a shiny black shirt. "Mr. Smooze's religion demands, when leaving the Big Breathy, that he wear a Scamoto Oxy Devicotron - an oxygen tank, to you... that's the way we talk. Intriged?"

"No... I'm thinking about kicking your ass. . . but I ain't got nobody at this point who will bail me out... so I think you better wait outside."

"You're a Higher Power Weon. I have to do what you ask."

"Call me that again, the ass kicking goes up a notch or two. I'll break bones, man."

"No, that's a good thing to be... that's why Mr. Toadmouth Smooze the First will be Facing with you in... let me check the now." He pauses and makes a handmotion in front of a camera on his belt, and someone evidently speaks to him...
"in... 25 seconds. You are High Power Weon, you're surely wondering why? Right?"

"You are asking for an ass kicking... every word you say, boy... translates into something else I want to kick your ass over... you really should shut up."

"A PWW is the high, high of the five... The five, man! Mr S. will explain what that is. Stay Enhanced... Five seconds to arrival. Thank you for your time."


The assistant rushed out of the room before Hectorly could make good on his threat, which he had fully intended to do. The veins inside his forehead are pounding. It feels to him like his anger is pulsing through them. Hectorly was raised a proto-marxist by his union president mother, and even though he had come to think he knew better, he still found his first impulse was to consider anyone with money part of the problem; this combined in his mind with the weird way the actor had just approached him and how much he despised cults in general and was pushing up his blood pressure something fierce, which his doctor had warned him against repeatedly after his last heart attack.

Hectorly had watched the man go from childstar, to teen in treatment, to a popular front-man for the latest Hollywood cult to target uneducated, narcissistic actors... and become a recent star of a string of a series of movies very loosely based on the television show I SPY... minus the cartoony aspects, and the black guy became an evil spy... which striped the story down to two men going mano mano with advanced spy technology. Hectorly had seen the preview and had hated, truly, truly hated, to see a great idea from sullied first by the movie, and then the association with a cult... a cult wanting the movie to make money was enough to keep him away from the flick. He had read how the religion was out buying up tickets to increase the ticket take of the movie and make it appear more successul than it was -- after all, they figured, what's good for Smooze, is good for Scamatomology.

The star came back into the room with a sleak, black enamelled oxygen tank attached to his belt and running a line up to a clear plastic mask that covered all of his mouth and one eye.

"Oh, Jesus, I'm afraid to ask... and yet, I know I have to.. why does your eye need oxygen?"

"It's religious device that can only be Comprendo'd by certain people who know... secrets."


"You start talking to me about... your fucking secrets, and I will cap your ass. I'm just crazy that way. Ask my momma... no, that's right, you can't... because I killed the bitch when she started trying to shove her religion down my throat."

"Uh, excuse me?"

"You have a problem with me killing my mother?"

"Not while I need your Servy Wersies. That's ..."
"Some language you made up to linguistically trap people in a language of your choosing, with your set of assumed truths?"




"Hey, let's talk english, here. Your a Brainy Brain, aren't you? We can work on that. When I say Servy Wersies, it means I have a Usey for you. That makes you, in this circumstance... My Higher Power Weon. Not socially or anything... though you can always have some assistants for whatever. You get famous, though, and boy... we got your parties, and the favors... we'll plant a field of your favorite wheat. That's popular with our Celebes."
You said there's some kind of test? No...
"Oh. Shit, I hate tests. I had to take one once. Boy, did I get my mom to fire that tutor's ass. We banned his ass from the set and he cried like one of my assistant's who I've stripped down in front of a bunch of my friends and made dance around if they want to keep their goddamn jobs."




"You did that?"

"Enough times it got boring. I made some of them put bottles up their asses. Tom Cruise gets bored and makes his assistants fight to the death. I think it's because he likes to fuck the corpses in the these holes he drills into their skulls, but he says it isn't just that... who knows? Those Alpha Seven Romeos, they do as they please. They get beards that are color coordinated insidey and outsidey, as we say. Intrigued?"

"You didn't come here to discuss that crusty but hair, did you?"

"I love talking crusty but hairs!!"

"That was a joke."

"I keep a lock of crusty but hair in a golden locket that I keep on a chain around my neck, next to my heart, at all times."

"I meant that Smooze is a crusty but hair."

"Oh, he wishes. Sure, sure... he does. Have you heard that rumour that Katie is a getting a sex change? It's just a rumour. He'll sue anyone who repeats it without hard core evidence. I mean, you could learn secrets about stuff like this... after a few courses."

"NO. Whose hairs are those in your locket?"

"Oh, just various ones that I took off my used enema collection. Intrigued?"

"Oh, hell no... Do you have a reason for being here, besides getting me so pissed off that I have no recourse except to kill you?"



Proceed to part two... if you wanta.



"Yes.... Oh, yes... that's why you're a Higher Power Weon, a HPW... You have something I Needy. Someone has stolen my red ruby and diamond encrusted, one of kind designer but plug. This was concieved by Andy Warhol, originally, then Pollack did the actual work of shaping the wood and putting in the bumpy, humpy jewels. Oh, god, I miss it."

"You read the sign on the door that says No But Plug Related Jobs. You think I put that up there for my health, asshole?" Hectorly lit a cigarette, took in a big drag and then blew smoke out across the room, filling the space with undulating white tendrils.

"I thought you would make an exception, for me..."

"Yes, right. People make exceptions for you all the time, don't they? I mean, you're rich and famous, so why wouldn't everyone treat you like your shit doesn't stink."

"Well, that's just the way it is. And I have been told from a good source, the chick who changes my diapers, that she likes the smell... so there, Smarty Pants Negative. I didn't make the rules. The religion says that about your behavior, not you... we know how to change your behavior."

"I'll bet you do. You start doing anything that even looks like you are trying to change my behavior, and I will kill you, your family, and everyone in your fucking blackberry."

"That would take awhile."

"I am sure it would be my pleasure to kill your nutty cult freinds... or at least it would be good for the world. They put most scam artists in jail... you guys found a hook... believe your own scam. The last sane one was probably the writer of Dianetics -- about ten years before he wrote the book and disappeared onto his yacht with those young boys."

"They were assistants. Everyone keeps enough to run a fucking yacht, come on. Well, business people... and some other people, who you could learn about..."


"You what? I've had enough... in fact, way more than enough... "

He opened the lower drawer of his desk and pulled out an electric meat carver, turned it on and jumped across the desk, grabbing the moviestar by the throat. "I am going to have to cut your neck veins. Don't worry, it won't hurt?"

"Really?"

"Oh, hell no."

i accidently sort of slaughtered M's mom

The other day, she got all mad at me over nothing, and with my paranoid, weedy ways, I became convinced that she was breaking up with me and I, well... I sort of accidently slaughtered her family. Then I guess I might have hung their heads on 16 foot long wooden posts that I tied to the stately metal of the Michigan Avenue drawbridge, in the heart of downtown and right during rush hour....

This is as bad as that time I drank all those cappucinos (like fifteen -- they were free... the vendor had been snitty with me so he was too dead to care). That time I became convinced that the FBI should check out M'.s Bin Laden connections. She did not like being snatched off the street, whisked away to some third world country that she never saw because of the hood over her body -- her only clothing in the chilly climate-- where she was drugged and beaten and interrogated for 72 hours straight. Afterwhich, she was told that if she ever talked about this, they would snatch her again and not let her walk. They were actually quite specific about what they would do, and had her sign three different pages, all too classified for her to read... the upshot of their threat was that they would keep M. alive, in a dank prison in Bogota, slowly shitting herself to death with dissentary.


Anyways... now, I knew that on a public stunt like this, the press would probably get wind of it so I needed a great disguise. I guess I actually might have called all the press, back when I thought that we were broke up. I didn't want her to miss the event, you know.

I do not think I have any fault unless it is this -- I acted too soon. My reaction itself was normal, and actually shows the dept of my love for her. That's what I'll tell her.

I had to disguise myself while I was down on the bridge putting her grandparents and parents and sisters all on the posts -- I pulled them all out of a big bag, where they had grown all juicy from the blood, shoved them on the poles, then taped them way up on high on the bridge. I had to scale a like one and half foot beam to get up there, to the hightest point of the looping metal arms of the four lane draw bridge.

I painted myself dark blue. With crayons. It hurt like hell, but it came off easy. Mostly.
My night shaded skin melded just fine with the river when I dove in to make my escape. I retrieved my self-warming scuba pelt and air canisters,and swam back up to north the 78 blocks to the beach across from my house... in like twenty minutes or less... don't like to brag, but it's probably the fastest ever.....

Oddly enough, their description of me is so far off.
I mean, this lady told the cameraman, "We all agree. It was blue guy with a tiny dick."

'Ha,' I thought when I heard this nugget, 'I will never be caught with them looking for a tiny dick.' I of course am big and I have no idea why they slander me? Probably just keeping my size back, so the general public doesn't know, only the blue nude man with the almost montrous genitilia, and this is how they will know him.

They showed cops downtown making all the bums pull their pants down to see if they had a tiny blue dicks, and a couple did,but it turned out to be just from the cold, so they were issued socks to keep their weiners in.

Now, you are probably going to hear about this on the news, unless this too is one of those things the CIA is just going to hide from you, exactly like who killed JFK.

M. will probably find out right away. I will hold my lying position as long as possible, of course-- I will tell her that I am not now, nor ever was, painted in blue crayons, and furthermore, that I do not know what happened to all of my blue crayons. I'll stand this ground until it is absurd due to her preponderance of evidence to go on with said lie (and often well past this point, into the truly pathetic). Four cops tried to notify or interrogate her or something. I had to catch them in the buildings small lobby and quietly get behind them and get a fucking garrot over their necks and decapitate them all without disturbing M., who had us watching some chick flick...

Oh, well . . .
Got blood on my hands, weed in my head, and heads on poles.. yea, life is good.

vampire story

Vampire Story
home
by jsr

19/01/07
4:53 AM



"Streaks of moonlight come down from holes in the ceiling of the barn; clouds of dust rise from his steps. He has been tracking the beast for weeks... In unfamiliar country, he had found himself trapped without shelter as the sunset, rode for miles before finding the dilapidated barn.

The forest outside is dense with black trees; winter bare of leaves, the branches are outlined by a dusting of brilliant white snow. He is keeping watch on the road . . . waiting for the . . . when he hears boards creaking behind him, up in the loft . . . and he realizes the creature has found the same sanctuary.

He walks into the middle of the barn and looks up into the darkness above him. The lofts are cloaked in opaque blackness. The warmth of the torch brings stinging sweat down his forehead, into his eyes. He starts to wipe it away and the beast streaks down from the rafters, a huge blur of black leather slapping down on top of him. He feels the bite in his neck and swoons as the blood flows away from his brain...

Two nights later, shivering deep inside from the cold, he awakens . . . draws in a deep gasp, becomes aware of his parched throat and dry, cracked lips... His tongue feels thick, like it's covered in fuzz.

He remembers the bite; his swoon... knows what he has become. He had always expected that vampires felt different, inhuman... a sort of animalistic, hedonistic something that would make murder come easy. There was no change, none that he could tell... other than the thirst.
He resolved to end it before it came to that.


Evil begets evil. The phrase begins playing over and over in his mind. Evil begets evil. Evil . . .

No . . . he tells himself . . . no. He takes the stake from his bag, tucks it in his belt and crawls up a wooden ladder to the loft, intent on throwing himself down and stabbing the wood through his heart. He gets to the top, swings around and sits down, lets his feet dangle over the side, takes in a deep breath and wonders if he will go to hell? He expected when he was a vampire that he would not give a damn about god and here he was, a vampire, and none of the questions were anymore answered than before. It really was beginning to strike him that he had more or less been infected with something that effected his body, and not his mind . . .

He didn't want to die; that came to him sitting there; even if he was a vampire -- that which he had hated and solemnly vowed to spend his short, brutal life hunting -- he still wanted to live. He isn't sure why?

He had lived to destroy evil . . . Now, he was evil . . . though he didn't feel evil at all, and had done nothing evil . . . he was still a vampire, and they were evil . . . he was sure of that when he was hunting them!!

Now?

Had he been hunting down and killing creatures like himself?

A sinking vertigo seems to spin his head around a bit as he realizes that he must have killed vampires who felt just like he did. They never stopped to talk to the creatures... the moment they met, the battle was on."

They were sitting around a fire by the lake on the shores of Chicago, an illegal thing they did once in awhile after digging out a hole in the dunes to hide the flames from the cops patrolling the park, listening to Hamms squeaky voice spinning what he called the vampire tale. A tale he had just finished, though Cracks was none-the-wiser, and was indeed waiting for something more to come... as they all were.

After a long minute, it dawned on him that the story was over, and Cracks was once again just confused. Like he always was when Hams got to telling stories. Hams loved to trick people into coming to the end of stories, and finding someone was in a coma, or an alternative reality, or was really a ghost, or whatever -- something out of nowhere.

'This story,' Cracks thought, 'is his worst ever. A vampire story? What was he trying to say? What does a vampire represent? Is this some stupid 'love king kong' kind of things?'

Cracks was tempted to kill Hamms, as he usually was after one of his stories.


He knew that Hamms would be so easily to kill. The
small, grey mouse would fit into the palm of his hand. And it wasn't like he was even a fierce rodent. No, Hamms had the hesitant air of someone who hung out with a lot of drunken stoners who will step on him if he is not careful.
His tail had been broken no less than six times in his short life.

Hamms isn't sure why he tells the tales he does? The ends just come to him, like the stories, and if he thinks about them too much, they became like all the other stories he has heard, and they had begun to bore him deep in his soul. He shouldn't have expected the humans to understand this.

Hamms was only a mouse in appearance, obviously, or he could not have told the tale. He was from a planet that was as dissimilar from earth as could be -- so dissimilar that eventual space traveling humans wouldn't even bother looking for life there.

He was on earth trying to learn about humans stories. He called them lies, in his mind. Tricks, more or less.

Most creatures who had developed in the cosmos were interested in the truths of the universe, and while some humans were this way, and all were capable, there were others . . . a mental subspecies that wanted to believe lies -- thinking the truth hurt too much. They were living virtual lives, basically, based on soap operas and drugs and bad novels and movies and a myriad of symptomologies rich and intriguing... at least to Hamms, and a handful of other scientists who specialized in primitive cultures.

The humans under Hamms mental microscope were literally going to the carnival while their planet died. He was going to start his paper for the inter-galactic news feed with a line about that.

Frankie Lynn Fallen Child Star

Franky Lynn, Childstar turned porn star turned clerk at an adult bookstore... looked up from his seat on the floor, at the glass counter where some customer was standing and waiting to have his dollars changed into 'tokens', and told himself that he could do this... that it was role like any role and he could do it.

Still, he opened another whippet, put it in his lips and ripped off the top -- the resulting blast freezes his lip to the whippet, something his raging, roaring, hallucinating head does not notice as he stands up and tries to smile for the customer. "Memo, can I slep do wid somptin."

He isn't sure why his words are so screwed up until he starts to feel his lip rip, which sends his buzz running off for higher ground. He jerks the whippet off and see's a thin line of blood spread glistening and black across the glass counter, over the display of dildos and whips and various anal related products of dubious quality.

"I think you are bleeding, dude."
"Tokens?"
"Uh, yes. One dollar please."
"Five dollar limit."
"The other guy never charges me. My mouth is why half these guys come in here."
"Man, your mouth is your own business."
"Doesn't have to be."

He sits back down on the floor and takes down another whippet, watches the ceiling begin to breath for a moment, before he crashes hard and cold and naked back on a planet now filling up with a line of somewhat nervous looking men.

"What is he doing down there?"
"He's licking his balls, like a dog."
"Oh, I have to see that."

He stands up just as a middle aged man with silver glasses, a bald head, and a stringy grey beard traveling across his face where once there was a chin, leans over the counter. His head painful whaps into teeth.
"Oh, god damn it!!! Now, I'm bleeding in my mouth."

One hand pressed to the top of his head, he looks down at the line of men and says, "Who the fuck wants some tokens?"

"Uh, that is why we're been lined up here for the last five minutes, whippet boy."

THe small group of men are staring at the gay mans blood, which is pouring from his mouth and pooling on the gleaming grey linoleum floor. They collective take a step back, then one steps over to the door and pushes it open and leaves, letting the morning sun flow across the small storeroom filled with cheap plastic devices and wall to wall magazines with shiny, airbrushed cheeks on both faces and asses.

He has a coin changer that he hits once for each dollar they hand him. As he takes care of the men and watches them disappear into the pathetic orgy in the back room, he is just grateful that no one recognizes him. He understood why gary coleman punched that women who slammed him for being a security guard so damn well that he often fantasized about hunting her down and killer her, then sending her head to gary... that would violate a restraining order, he reminded himself (he lost what the judge called his 'privelege" to call gary his freind after he took him hostage, with a toy gun, and tried to force him to do a video come back movie that Frankie had tried to do in his twenties, just before finding that unless he stared in porn, he was going to be homeless -- or at least credit cardless, which he once thought was the same thing.


He was pretty sure he was going to be okay in his sleepy little nothing job... and most importantly, he told himself, he was technically still in the business. He could already hear how he would describe the job in bars, "I'm in the marketing end of movies now."


His golden moment ends as peels of laughter come from the back and a lone, feminine voice yells out, "Ohhh, I couldn't believe it was him either," which is followed by a chorus of voices agreeing...

Before he can stop himself, he yells back at them, "Who fucked Drew Barrymore in the ass when he was seven, huh? Who?"

He seems to have stunned them all into silence, and looking at himself in the mirror, he flashes what is left of his trademark smile... which fades as someone who everyone back there just finds hilarious yells out, "Oh, everyone has fucked her in the ass-- even me. I thought she was a little boy. That's what she told me. She'll say anything to get some dick up her ass. You gotta respect that."

And with that, he decided to do the last sleaziest thing he could, the one bottom he always swore he would shoot himself before he experienced . . . Feeling like he was now going to hate himself at some new, herefore undreamed of levelt, he opens his wallet, pulls out the only business card there, and stares at the number as he dials.
When he hears the famalier salesman's chipper closing voice answer, Franklin talks in a dead to the world monotone:
"Yes, uh, Tom, listen... I'm ready to become a Scientologist."



THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.

where to go to listen to my radio show peace and pipedreams

http://www.podcastfearless.com/peaceandpipe/

i am GILFORD TUTTLE, WHITE MALE CHRISTIAN WARRIOR

Once more I have been called by the lord to preach among the heathens on this web site, because evidently there are a lot of readers who missed the earlier letters that I had in here -- otherwise you would stop coming in here and reading this vile, drug addled attempt at prose. I take comfort in the thought that I am so personally blessed by godly insight that you will be a completly different person after reading this prose. You will be.... GOD WEASLED!!!


Yeah, I say, today I am speaking about the blonde, buff, deity with balls as big as mountains, the manly fanny patter himself, Jock Jesus.

His almighty manhoodedness tells me to talk about god weasling.

God Weasling is one of the primary tenents of the religion that has formed here, in the bosom of the Tuttle Family, after we were blessedly thrown out of our old church when our two year old started talking in tounges and we insisted everyone shut up and listen during services. Fools are all going to hell for that one, unless they send me a tithing or two. The Tuttle Family Electric Bill Fund is in need of donators at this point. If not for the money I make forcing the kids to work paper routes all night, I do not know how Jock Jesus would support my ministry, but I am sure he would find a way. For I bring the wisdom of the God Weasled.

God Weasling is as old as religion itself. Basically it means you can trick people into becoming religious by any means possible, like abducting them and brainwashing for them for a few months (as long as you can get them to sign a release, which is easy once they are brain washed -- ask the scientologists, those litigenous bastards). To this end, I have started doing some experiments with brain washing on the kids. And praise the Blonde Buff One, I was able to make them into little machines that go to school all day, then deliver papers all night -- all the while being filled with religious esctasy by the combination of drugs and chanting that I keep them on.

Now that I know this works, I am going to start snatching kids, juvenile deliquent types, and brainwashing them for about eight weeks, after which they will find 'ecstasy' through sleep deprivation, chanting, and giving me all the money from their paper routes.

Thank god for Reverend Sung Young Moon, that conservative shark killing chink, he was a messenger of how to create a great religion, even though Satan obviously did take him over in the end, or he would have long ago turned his money and resources over to Jock Jesus, as all the rightous on earth have.

So, you whores, sodomites, celebrity poker watching hell bound boofs and others not associated with the Tuttle Church OF Jock Jesus, or one of my kids subsideries (I have created what I call mini-churches, refrigerator boxes painted with crosses and our symbol, a bicep flexing mightely, where I post them throughout the month to read our daily family newsletter, play tapes of our blessed two year old speaking in tounges, and other things that they damn well better get donations for or they have to stay out there until they do-- poor kids, they must be really sinning on the side for the blonde buff one to curse them like this, but what can I do in the face of god, eh?)..... you have two choices -- get rid of your hippy christ now and turn him in for Jock Jesus in a sleeveless shirt with balls as big as mountains (need I even add they are perfectyly shaped ovals?), or die and go to hell, where Satan will shove hot pokers up your ass for all eternity.... and you only like it when your mom is watching.


The Buff One Does work in mysterious ways. I can make this all clear to you in six to eight weeks. You can pay me back for my services afterwards with almost all the money you make for the rest of your lives.


copywrite 2006 john scott ridgway

rabby's trailer park emporiums great meth wars

Me and Boner and Shappy been up three days smoking our new batch of meth--this White Trash turned out prettty damn good. Our eyes are bulging out of our head's so much that Shappy actually had one pop out. We had a hell of time getting it back in. He bled a lot, too. Passed out at some point. I guess that's a good sign. Like I told Boner, "You sleep off a hang-over, so why the hell not bleeding too much?"

Yea, this White Trash is great... well, except for smelling like Boner's shit. That's 'cause we thought we were going to sell some to this kid down at the 7-11 on fourth street, Gerald The Battery Boy, a a twelve year old who steals car batteries to support his habit -- that's one industrious kid, and I am keeping my eye on him because he could prove to be a potential rivalry who I will have to run out of the trailer park, like I did his older sister, when she tried to bring in her own crank from those high-falutin Woodcocks on the southside of the park -- all those southsiders think that they're better than us just because they're on that side of Merrywinkle Unicorn Lane. I say, hell no, we all got the meth-mouths and live in a trailer park.

At least in public... inside, I know them southsiders are just so smart and all Game Show sophisticated -- how the hell am I supposed to compete with that? Sometimes when I am around them, I wish my parents had all educated me by putting on Wheel Of Fortune and them 'hard' game shows that require guessing at the size of different words-- who the hell can tell one size of word from the other, I say... but then, I wasn't raised watching 100,000 question, was I mom? This is one of the reason the social worker used to say I was using meth as an eight year old. Hell, sometimes on meth I feel like I could get everything perfect on the Price Is Right (which requires years and years of price checking, and then getting called ... which is why all the older price checkers at Kmart go there on vacations, which they can afford every ten or so years, depending on saving habits!!

Sometimes I remember that social worker coming in and looking at the tv and asking my mom and dad why they never put on something educational, like Hollywood Squares? They were both a little embarrassed to be raising us on Jerry that day. This was the only time I ever saw my daddy squirm, and it made an impact on me... sure, it hurt. Dad just waited until the social worker was gone and then told us she was 'putting on airs,' that we could go to her house right at that very moment and find her watching Jerry because 'nobody, in their hearts, can resist that show.' At the time I believe him.

I seem to have gotten off the topic again. Meth could possibly be adding to this, like Boner thinks, but I doubt it. He is filled with strange notions ever since being forced to watch Ophra, back last year when he was in jail and ended up some intellectual black guys bitch. I wish the hell he would take that guys picture down from the living room wall... keeps giving me an uncomfortable feeling way up in my but.


NOw, I guess I was about to explain why our new batch of White Trash meth smells like Boner's shit -- which is generally known around these parts to be surprisingly different than the smell of his ass.

Well, getting from our territory to the 7-11 is mighty tricky, of course. Any time we go out of our territory, we put ourselves in extreme danger of getting attacked by rival meth gangs, not to mention the Waterloo, Indiana Police Department. They won't actually come in the trailer park anymore. They claim it's cause of the smell and that they just don't plain give a shit about the people who live here. ... but when we leave, they are all over us the second we venture out of Shappy's Trailer Park Emporium.. And when you got the meth mouth, there ain't no hiding it from the cops. No matter how many times you tell 'em you just got out of treatment and are working a program now, they will search ya. Hell, most of them know our names by now.

So I figured I'd just use some of the education I got in the big house. Got Boner to stick a bunch of little bags of meth up his but. Keistering is we call it when we're in jail. Hell, when I was in Marion, I kept a contraband turkey up in my hershey hole for three days while it thawed enough for me to cook it up on my hot plate.

We figured we could go down to the alley back of the 7-11, and just let them cops search us. That way, they'd think we were clean and leave us alone.

Of course, two pigs came up to us the second we left the trailer park and threw us against their cars and searched us. One of em says, "Even these three aren't stupid enough to leave with meth. They can learn. Hmp."

Bastard. I told him that I read tv guide just for the articles, but he didn't seem to believe me.

After they left, the customers began slinking up. Once we had their cash, Boner would grunt and strain until he farted out a bag or two.


The idea, as you can tell, was perfect.


CONTINUE READING IN THE NEXT ENTRY... if ya got this far.

the elves attic

Rabby's Trailer Park Emporium's Great Meth Wars
home
by jsr

02/01/07
3:57 PM
This is part twoo....

There was a problem though... the Woodcocks were across the street in
their usual spot, trying to horn in on our business. Them Woodcocks are
an inbred tribe from the hotey-totey, stuck up south-side of the trailer
park. They think they're all fancy 'cause they got cousins to marry and
such, which keeps all the cars in the same family. We sure as hell wish
we had cousins, but after that lab we were running during the Anual
SKeeter Reunion And Pig Fucking blew all up... shot the house like twenty
feet into the air and killed all our relatives, including our most
favorite slutty cousins and a pig I had had my eye on for years...

Them Woodcocks send their eight and nine year olds out to do the delivery.
Marge the Momma told me she does it that way for two reasons-- said
when the kids were in jail was about the only time they got to schooling,
and of course being minors they usually got off with nothing little
sentences that the Woodcocks prided themselves in being able to handle
standing on their heads.

Anways... so people had a choice between our bags, which Boner was wet
farting out and they were kind of dripping brown stuff during the hand
off, or the Woodcocks nice clean bags. Well, at first... I have to say,
there for awhile, I thought we were in some real trouble. But then this
trucker come up, and when he got a bag of our stuff, he got on the CB and
started bragging on how he was doing some meth that smelled like a White
Ass. Next thing we knew, perverts from adult bookstores for miles around
and truck stops all over this side of the county were pulling up behind
the 7-11 asking for some White Ass.

Them Hoity-toity Woodcocks were fuming like a vat of grain alcohol filled
with decongestants!!

We were so happy with the results that we had Boner keister the money on
the way home, only he didn't have no more bags and the money got all
shitty . I guess it kind of looked like a brown dye pack had went off on
the money, like from a robbery, and when we tried to spend it on a bunch
of cough syryup and decongestants and such the Guy at the Jewels called
the cops on us.

The cops could tell it wasn't a dye pack, but they didn't want to come
close to the money. Told us were going to go out back and burn every bit
of it, or we were going to jail for doing perverted shit with money. I
tried to tell him that we did not put the money up our anuses for
satisfaction. Duder was having none of it. Got all pissed off and was
waving his baton around as he screamed, "Hey, when I get to putting money
up my ass, I burn it afterwards, because I live in a goddamn society!!!"
Then he proceeded to beat Boner, which turned him on... the big old woody
shoving out of his pants seemed to make the cop hit him harder, and
harder... Then those two knuckleheads made a date at some porta-potty
behind the Kroger's Market.

The world is such a messed up place. Sometimes i think we are the only
sane people in an insane world, man. I mean, if people would just let us
be, the world would be perfect. Well, except for meth-mouth, lack of
cousins, and the Boner-butt smell of this meth.





2:50 PM
Like anyone who was listening to Tuttle's program this afternoon, I have just learned that Boner has continued the Bitch ways that he learned in prison, and is once more out peddling his ass. Boner decided to expose this preacher after listening to this Tuttle's CB radio 'salvation station,' which he uses to harrass trucker's passing by on highway 6. We was a listening to the show, because a lot of the Trucker's are our customers... Well, Gilford was going on about the Mountanous Balls of Jock Jesus, and some trucker who was just passing through came back at him, saying something about how having a Jesus with big balls seemed a little gay to him. Hell, anyone can see this jock jesus thing is a little gay -- Boner is known to often touch himself during the Savation Station CB broadcastes, which often include graphic descriptions of a well-muscled Jesus working out.


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


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

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

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

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



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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





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



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


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

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




Later In The Night....



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

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

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


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

"I've got religion, again."

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

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


Three awful days have passed since Boner first put the fifteen foot mud balls in the back yard. Things have kind of spun out of control ever since then, with all these huge semi-truck's sporting rainbow flags blocking every entryway into Rabby's Trailer Park Emporium. I guess by now the Legend of White Ass has been told across CB radios all over The six county area, and carved into the stalls of every truck stop from here to Fort Wayne.

There are now a couple hundred of them out there, gay truckers and their groupies -- various fag hags have been showing up today, too. All of them wearing just them pink trucker caps saying Peterbilt, and them damn white tube tops and nothing else. The sight is making the neighbors vomit, and that is not adding anything pleasent to the usual dog shit and urine scent of this trailer park.

The cops have been keeping watch on this from outside the trailer park, which is making me nervous as hell. I sent shappy up to see what they was doing and he says they're just drinking beers and whacking off. Shappy thinks this is all anyone ever does, so when he is supposed to be checking on cops or Buffalo Survaillance, or whatever... he always just comes back and says, "They're drinking beers and whacking off." Boner buys this story everytime, too.

I am now convinced that Boner started his gay trucker's church all because I told him that he couldn't keep putting the meth up his but.

By now you all should know that he keistered the latest batch of White Trash meth, turning it into the gay trucker phenomena White Ass... and that I told him we weren't a going to let him put anymore meth up his but. This was after Boner was all happy with having farted out all these bags, tricking the cops and getting to make his asshole the center of attention.


Boner was pretty sure this was the best thing that ever happened to him. A crying Carl told me this afterwards. Carl at least is avoiding the mud ball religion thing. He's just in the back room snorting white ass and playing with those crumpled up paper balls of his.

Anyways, I'm a thinking now that Boner Statrted this whole religion just to keep putting the meth up his butt. If I had told him that he could keister some of it, maybe... but no, I was so sick of smoking meth that smelled like his ass that I pretty much told him there was no way the white trash was getting anywhere near his asshole.

I guess I shouldn't have been so hard on him. Boner has had a difficult life, what with being abducted by a family of pigs, and raised out back of the house. He was a teenager before my parents realized anything was the amiss. Like daddy used to say, "If you'd a been raised by pigs, a rutting on your brothers and sisters all your life, then you'd fuck sheep and chickens and stray cats, too."

I hate to say it, but I am almost ready to join the enemy camp, which has turned out to be none other than the secretly gay meth snorting minister Gilford Tuttle. He is on the CB every day now, from when he wakes up until he passes out late at night, going on and on about the heathen activity taking place in Boner's church. His descriptions are pretty damn graphic, and not for the light hearted. Shappy is of course wetting himself whenever he hears the guys voice, and then the diarraeh starts and no place in this trailer is splatter free after a few days of this, believe me.

Boner took all the latest batch of white trash, and has spent the morning 'converting' it into white ass, by having his minions poke bags up into his but, which he then wet farts back out.

They've got some kind of religous chant going while he does it. Whenever another bag of white trash is poked in -- on the end of this large black dildo, Boner's yelling, "I'M BITCHING FOR GOD!!"

His followers then chant back, "He's god's bitch."

They've been doing this all morning.

"I'm bitching for god."
"He's god's bitch."

It gets to you after a few hours, believe me.

Carl came up with a solution to the problem of the fifteen foot tall Jesus mud balls and Boner's gay trucker religion. I'll tell ya, when Boner took that kitten and dipped it in a chemical vat and held it over them flames and used that eye dropper and meth and Crisco and all the other shit to turn Carl into some Super Gay Cat, I thought he was crazy. But he told me he learned the recipe from the most twisted prisoner that he ever bitched, and sure enough...

Carl told me and Shappy, "We have to offer him some way of getting his but attention. Right now, he's in butthole heaven. He won't give that up easy."

Carl then kind of fluttered about the room in that swishy way of his as he added, "Well, he does love his enemas... we could put the white ass in enemas and put Boner in charge of production! To get the smell that we all love so much, Boner could dip each of the enema's in his White Ass smell. We'll poke each and every one up his but before we sell it. That way, he would be selling his but juices. You know he's always dreamed of finding a way to market his sweet, sweet but juices."

And that's true, Boner's dream has always been to market his but juices. Or his 'sweet, sweet but juices,' as he always called them. I just thought that was crazy. Same as I did when Boner said he was going to make himself a Super Gay Cat that can talk.


Carl went out back, weaving between the half-naked truckers, their sagging white beer bellies and matted chest hair and flabby titties showing sadly through their tightlty stretched white tube tops... They were all involved in some kind of Daisy Chain that I tried not to look at.

Carl had in his mouth a big old red enema filled with White Ass and Crisco and Water, snuck up beside where Boner's fat ass was hanging off one of them big mud balls, shoved that red nozzle up deep into boner and and jumped up and down on it, splashing the meth deep up into that old boys bowels.

Boner's face lit right up, and his ears started flapping like they do... he looked like he couldn't have been happier with that white ass blasting through his bowel. Carl jumped up beside him and real quick explained to him about how we wanted to put him charge of putting his but juices on the new line of White Trash Enemas.

Boner was so happy that he jumped down off the balls with no regard to his anus having just been filled by a large enema. His feet hit the ground and he let loose with a brown blast that splattered the truckers and fag hags and their groupies.... This seemed to launch them all into some kind of sexual frenzy, which set off a new round of vomiting among the neighbors that was a watching and taping everything on their cell phones. Shappy had to run back inside.

I guess actually Boner was relieved that Carl was taking this latest gay religion of his with a grain of salt, instead of the usual week long hissy fits he's known for. By the time they got back up inside the trailer, Carl got Boner to agree to disband the religion in exchange for renewed litter box privilges -- Boner has been messing in the plants up under the windows and behind the couch ever since these two started having problems over Boner's Bitching...

Boner told all the trucker's to go home, and they reluctantly did. You would think they would learn after awhile that Boner doesn't really mean it when he starts these religions, but they fall for it everytime. Carl says it's cause Boner is so hot, but I happen to know Carl was conditioned to think this by Boner when he was a small kitten.


I'm letting him keep the mud balls and the little shrine, mostly because it will be easy for his gay trucker buddies to find our trailer, which should help the traffic problem that all these truckers have been causing as they cruise around the trailer park looking for some White Ass.

Boner's as happy as can be with his new product line -- him and Carl have been trying out different types of enemas all afternoon. They've still got like six crates to go and they're both already leaking something awful.

I'm going to have to hose out the whole trailer when they'e done. . . like I always have to when those two get to playing with enemas. Sure am glad things are back to normal around here.