Tuesday, September 30, 2003
The rapid decline of the Holy Roman Church's credibility, authority, and membership can be pinned directly on its insane policy of enforced clerical celibacy. All the ultraviolent nuns and kiddie-diddlin' priests are the natural result of a vocation which forbids entry to red-blooded, sexually functional adults.
Back in the Dark Ages, before the Revelation as told to Saints Freud and Reich, before steamin'-hot, spread-open gash was only a mouse click away, religions could get away with sublimating the public's sexual energies. But nowadays, a billion wrecked marriages and a trillion herpes sores later, the masses are way too ass-savvy to keep their pants buttoned and pray the Rosary instead. To flourish, a religion must incorporate open sexuality as part of its liturgy. Catholicism can choose to ignore this fact only at its own peril.
The withered, scrawny, pale, standard-pedo-profile priesthood must be purged. In its stead must emerge a stable of stud priests: young, massively hung, sexually insatiable human power drills willing to administer the newly defined "Eighth Sacrament"—orgasm—to an undersexed, spiritually undernourished flock. Likewise, the current crop of pruny-dry, unfuckable nuns will be supplanted by a stunning array of mesmerizing Temple Priestesses, their nips pert and their vadges dripping golden nectar.
This is not to say that spiritual yearnings and sexual urges are synonymous. It's merely a practical suggestion that for a modern religion to rake in the ducats, it must forever confuse spirituality with sexuality. The only way to bring people to God these days is through a whorehouse.
Posted by jg @ 11:06 PM PST []
I was born knowing I'd die. Every cell in my body knew it before I was able to speak a word.
And though deep in my brain there lurks a constant awareness of my mortality, it's impossible to live with this knowledge. Facing it head-on would kill me. I couldn't get out of bed or chew my food or wipe my ass if I was constantly reminded of the very real fact that my story will end with a one-way descent into the realm of the inanimate.
So for me to function...even barely...I must pretend that life means something more than nothing. I have to fool myself, even for a moment, that my daily activities, my little victories and acts of creation, will stave off my inevitable destruction. I must convince myself, against all evidence, that it's noble to struggle and to never quit. I have to ignore the gnawing sense that life is an act of falling down a bottomless black hole, one day at a time.
To live life fully, to wring every drop from it, I must make believe that everything I know is false. I must turn my back on reality. To live is to be insane.
I'm not complaining. There will be plenty of time for sanity and nonexistence.
Posted by jg @ 07:15 AM PST []
Sunday, September 28, 2003
TOLEDO, OH—Sociologists, behaviorial specialists, and racial demagogues are converging on this dying Rust Belt town to observe a once-in-a-lifetime event—the romantic pairing of an Asian man with a black woman. It is believed to be the first such pairing in world history.
Pol Pak (left) and L'Queeq'a Hardy (right) first met six months ago, when Hardy applied for a cashier's job at the Kim Chee Hut, a fast-food Korean restaurant which Pak owns. Pak, whose entire family was wiped out by a freak fireworks accident in the summer of 2002, took a shine to the fresh-faced Ohio Negress almost instantly. They became friends...then confidantes...then lovers. After several weeks of toiling side-by-side, their interracial lust was finally consummated one night beside a hot-grease fryer in the Kim Chee Hut's kitchen.
"I don't usually go for African women," Pak confesses. "They too loud, they come in and not buy anything, and they steal all the time," he says. "But L'Queeq'a is different. She not loud at all, and I haven't caught her stealing things yet."
"Little yellow-faced no-dick ching chow ling egg foo yungs," Hardy quips while ringing up a to-go order. "That's what I used to think of Asian motherfuckers. But those little-dick guys know how to eat pussy! Whoooo!" Hardy raises her hands in the air and begins dancing around in a circle.
"This is unprecedented," marvels Eaves Whitestone, a University of Oxford sociology professor and a 1997 recipient of the Roger Ebert Fellowship for Research in Interracial Dating. "Black men, since they come from hunter-gatherer tribes, aren't timid about foraging for all colors of women. You even see an occasional white man who's unafraid to cross the color line. But there's no historical record of an Asian man ever dating a black woman. He must REALLY know how to eat pussy!"
Posted by jg @ 11:10 PM PST []
Saturday, September 27, 2003
Machiavelli, that lanky Italian rapscallion, pondered in his epic power screed The Prince whether it was better for rulers to be loved or feared. He concluded that if you can't have both, you should ditch the love, because people treat you better when they're afraid of you.
But that was five hundred years ago. Modern techno-social innovations such as the portable toaster, the drive-in root-beer stand, and racially integrated public restrooms have produced a gentler world where higher emotions such as love can blossom in a man's breast without him being called a "sissy-pants" or a "Nancy boy," or even "One Who Drinketh From the Pink Goblet." It is also a world where the stark Manichaean dualities of 16th-Century Dago morality have crumbled under a wave of situational ethics and really good acid.
All options are possible simultaneously. It is good to be loved. It is good to be feared. Both can be bad, too. It all depends on who's doing the loving and the fearing. There are billions of humans whose love I wouldn't want; I don't mind if they fear me. But there's a handful of people I love, chosen ones who I hope never fear me. And on the flip side, I've often made the mistake of seeking love from people I should have feared. My advice is to try and make everyone love you a lot and fear you just enough. And if they refuse to love you, work that much harder on scaring them.
Posted by jg @ 11:40 PM PST []
Friday, September 26, 2003
Icy rain bullets fell on my head as I circled the prison yard, breathing fresh air for the first time in nearly eight months. It was late January, and I'd been stuffed in airless county-jail boxes since the previous May. I'd turned pale as chalk, and my back was a strawberry field of zits. The clean air and cold rain felt like a baptism.
As I rounded the track's corner, it seemed odd to behold a family of thirty-pound rats huddled on the field. They were a few feet from the track's edge and within striking distance of my feet. The other convicts seemed unperturbed by the giant rodents. I walked back to my dormitory, scratching my head and thinking that maybe I'd finally gone insane.
Another con later explained that the creatures were called Nutria, who often emerged from nearby wetlands and crawled under the prison fences looking for inmates to feed them. Nutria are common only in swampy Gulf Coast states and parts of the Pacific Northwest. I was familiar with "Nutraloaf," a nauseating mash fed to disobedient convicts, but I'd never heard of "Nutria" before. Sounded like a vitamin-enriched shower gel rather than an oversized ratlike beastie.
Big D. was a white convict in his mid-thirties who'd beaten his mother to death with a baseball bat in his mid-teens. Rumor had it that when he first got to the pen, he was a skinny seedling who suffered some serious punking-out. But over the years, the weight pile had transformed him into one giant round muscle. His body was the shape of the Kool-Aid Man. He was able to snap your neck between his hammy fingers. But every day, Big D. was out there on the field with apple or orange sections, feeding the Nutria.
I figured Big D. would never parole, but a year ago, I heard his scratchy voice behind me at a local convenience store. I turned around and saw him grinning, a murderer who was suddenly a free man. His parole was so strict that if he so much as entered a bar, he'd be back in prison for the rest of his life. He said we should hang out sometime and gave me a business card that had the number of the Salvation Army where he was staying.
He tried calling once, but I never called him back. He scared me. Big D. was one of the very, very few convicts I encountered who I believed should never be released. Most of the other guys were just fuckups and screwballs, dangerous only to themselves. But there was simply a piece missing from Big D.'s head. I didn't want to mistakenly step on his foot and get strangled to death.
I never saw him again. I've concluded that he's probably back in prison.
Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe after killing his mom and spending twenty years buried alive, he figured out how to keep part of his heart alive. After all, he did go out and feed the Nutria every day.
Posted by jg @ 08:24 PM PST []
Thursday, September 25, 2003
As my weary eyes survey a civilization decaying so rapidly you can almost SEE it rotting like high-speed photography of vermin devouring a corpse, I strain to find glimmers of hope beyond the smoke clouds and carnage.
Amid the stinking tossed salad of modern existence, I managed to find one humble crouton of promising news:
Fewer men are wearing ponytails these days.
Now in remission, this sinister follicular ritual, this implausible melding of yuppiedom and hipsterism, reached its height sometime in the late 1980s. Steven Seagal, that slit-eyed, puffy-cheeked, action-movie shlub, wore one. He probably still does...I don't know...haven't heard much about him lately. And I can't name anyone else famous who sported an equestrian ass-Swiffer back then, either. They've all faded into nobodiness, a just fate for sartorial criminality.
And for the foolios who still "don the scrunchie," take a hint from nature: Ponies don't wear guytails. And beyond that, it makes you REALLY vulnerable in a fight.
+++++++++
I write about pregnancy-fetish porn sites HERE.
Posted by jg @ 05:54 PM PST []
Tuesday, September 23, 2003
The average American—and 99% of them are average—bathes immobile and lard-assed in the boob tube's spectral glow for nearly four hours daily. It has been said that a person's brain is more active while they're asleep than while watching television. For the blunting effect that TV has on their cognitive skills, the average American might as well be smoking meth four hours daily.
Every movie Hollywood ever made has been turned into a TV show, and every TV show has been turned into a movie. And now, with the advent of a Texas Chainsaw Massacre remake, every movie ever made has now been remade. There are no ideas left. They've all been eaten.
The proliferation of "reality" television programs are a beacon of cathode-ray light illuminating TV broadcasting's future. Americans now eagerly watch other Americans arresting criminals, bickering with their roommates or family members, engaging in romantic subterfuge, and taking their pets to see psychics.
Yet this is not "reality" for most Americans. Most of these shows only highlight the exciting parts of everyday existence. Over the next generation, as the first wave of reality programs suffer extinction due to sameness and overexposure, a second wave of "true reality" programs will succeed them.
These will consist exclusively of TV programs featuring Americans watching television. Viewers will sit in front of their TVs to watch other viewers sitting in front of their TVs. And a dumb peace will reign throughout the land.
Posted by jg @ 09:58 PM PST []
Monday, September 22, 2003
I love to travel. I have restless blood in my veins. It doesn't matter where I'm going, so long as it's new. No, it doesn't have to be new, provided it isn't where I've been stuck. I'll find something compelling about any place—can't say the same about people.
I grew from fetus to adulthood about five miles outside of Philly. Most of the kids around me had never been to New York, which is less than a hundred miles away. A few of them had never even braved the five-mile trek into Philly. I encounter the same maddening phenomenon here in Oregon—most adults I talk to have visited Seattle once or twice, and they might have made it to Idaho or California to see a relative a long time ago. It astonishes me how complacent the commoners are with seeing the SAME THINGS over and over and over and over again. Why not crawl into the casket already?
My toes have stepped down in forty-eight states and fourteen countries, and it isn't enough. Still have to see Hawaii and Rhode Island and Asia and Africa and South America and maybe the North and South Poles. I'd be happy waking up in a new city every morning for the rest of my life.
Part of it, I'm sure, is that I never felt at home anywhere. Maybe the travelphobes find a warm sugary womb amid kith and kin. Not me. I'm a drifter. When things get bad, there's always a road out of town.
Posted by jg @ 11:22 PM PST []
Sunday, September 21, 2003
I'm not sure whether a belief in astrology results from mental retardation or is the cause of it. The idea that "the stars" are somehow AWARE that humans arbitrarily divide a year into twelve segments, each with a cute symbol assigned to it, much less the notion that "the stars" GIVE A FUCK about it, is evidence of hunter-gatherer cranial simplicity. When anyone asks me what my "sign" is, they've already held up an invisible sign to me, one which says, I'M RETARDED.
I share a birthday with warmongering coke-dealer George Bush, Sr., homo crooner Jim "Gomer Pyle" Nabors, and Nazi hors d'oeuvre Anne Frank. And I share NO OTHER PERSONALITY TRAITS with ANY of them. This alone disproves astrology. Case closed.
I won't even bother to explain the cheap snake-oil tactics which astrologers use to hoodwink the suggestible schnooks who swallow their cosmic poop. GEMINI: Some days you feel better than other days...A friend of yours recently had business trouble... OH MY GOD! THEY'RE TALKING ABOUT ME!!!
If you need a horoscope to tell the future, you HAVE no future.
Posted by jg @ 07:12 PM PST []
Saturday, September 20, 2003
Ten years ago, I would threaten to smash anyone who mildly criticized me. Blinding, crushing violence—more, more, more—was my orgasmic substitute. Gory snapshots of murder victims were my pornography.
But somewhere in time, I connected violence with the familial ugliness I didn't want in my life anymore. And I realized I'd never be able to kill everyone. Shoot one down, and a hundred more stand up. The early childhood violence which damaged me was threatening to erase me altogether.
Even though I've been lifting weights every day for five years...and am more capable of cracking skulls than ever...violence bores me. It's more fun to take out my aggression on a tight snatch. Better to pound a pussy than a face.
Sex and violence both release endorphins, but only one is a parole violation.
Posted by jg @ 09:27 PM PST []
Friday, September 19, 2003
Today, dear friends, I dropped my pants, lifted my legs, and received a high colonic.
My lifelong wrestling match with my digestive system took a decisive turn this afternoon. After surveying the competition, I opted for Portland's least-expensive and most-Earth Mothery practitioner of this gentle art of aquatic ass-blasting. She and her gray ponytail greeted me in her small office whose walls featured pro-Womyn tapestries dedicated to "goddess" and "post-menopausal zest!"
She led me to The Beast, an unsettling combo of gynecological chair and high-tech commode. She proferred a clear plastic tube the width of a drinking straw. She also handed over a foil packet of K-Y jelly, instructing me to jam the lubed tube about four inches up my Holy Rectum. She discreetly left the room, and after I completed said jamming, I placed my legs astride the machine, discreetly covered my naughty bits with a towel, and summoned her back to turn on the water.
Over forty-five minutes, roughly five gallons of aqua viva were pumped up my poop chute. In a further stroke of feminization, my stomach became distended with water as if I was pregnant. The colon lady would walk into the room every five minutes, making it difficult for me to feel comfy letting loose with chunky brown asswater while she hovered over me. But soon enough I could bear no more. BRAPP!! FLARP!!! SPLAB!!! all while she quizzed me about my dietary habits. The machine was thoughtfully designed with clear disposal pipes so I could watch my watery waste swishing away.
After spraying my turd-splattered butt with a hose, I zipped up my pants and took a bus home. As I neared my stop, I realized I would need to "release" again...SOON. Each pothole brought agony to my asshole. I rushed up to my apartment and flung myself on the crapper...a huge wet hippo spray emitted from me and hit not only the toilet, but all nearby environs. Cookie walked in and began lapping it up off the floor as if it were a hearty beef stew.
I feel feverish and have a headache that's so bad, I feel like hammering nails into the wall with my skull.
Wish me well.
Posted by jg @ 09:38 PM PST []
Thursday, September 18, 2003
NACHITOCHES, LA—The creator of "Hivvie," a loveable cartoon figure modeled on the Human Immunodeficiency Virus, has received praise from educators for his innovative grade-school "Let's Learn 'Bout HIV!!!" programs. Yet he is also under attack from parents' groups and church leaders who claim it's inappropriate to teach children under twelve about anal sex and intravenous drug use.
Hivvie, drawn by Louisiana graphic designer and AIDS activist Joe Hawkins, debuted nationwide last week as American kids resumed classes for the fall. Hivvie appears in coloring books, posters, stuffed dolls, and several videos distributed for free by Hawkins's "Learn 'Em Young Foundation." In a comic book called "Hivvie Kills Your Uncle," the cartoon virus happily courses through the host's bloodstream as if it were a giant red water slide. In an animated video titled "Shootin' Meth = Certain Death," Hivvie and his madcap gang of viral pals bring about the demise of a thrill-seeking, needle-sharing punk-rock band.
"In a colorful, engaging manner, Hivvie teaches youngsters that if they're going to have sex and shoot drugs, they should do it safely," Hawkins explains via telephone. "Using this information, they can grow up to be healthy, productive IV drug users and practitioners of alternative sexuality."
Keith Casper, a Louisiana Baptist minister, disagrees strongly. "We shouldn't be schoolin' kindergartners to become sodomists and junkies," says Casper, who will burn a Hivvie doll in effigy during a church picnic and weenie roast this Saturday. "When I was growing up, kids didn't become fags and dope fiends until at least junior high."
Posted by jg @ 11:34 PM PST []
Wednesday, September 17, 2003
I wonder whether anyone has ever masturbated to the Mona Lisa. It had to have happened somewhere in history...say, a lonely one-armed Bavarian cobbler on a wintry night in the late 1800s, ogling a gold-leafed art book illuminated by a kerosene lamp, yanking his legume-shaped manhood while wearing a fingerless glove, spilling his rancid yellowy seed on Mona's face and then beating his dog with a cane because he felt guilty...but one would have to be PRETTY HARD-UP to wanna plug this butt-ugly wop skank.
If the Mona Lisa sidled up to the barstool next to yours at closing time, would you do her? Look at this "classic beauty" objectively—beady eyes, wormy lips, a nose which could dig holes in the ground, balding forehead, stringy hair, and easily a hundred pounds overweight—I'd have to pop Viagra like Good 'n' Plenty to even consider it. Shave the top of her head, and she looks like Jason Alexander. The only thing vaguely erotic about this painting is the hint of a shiner over her left eye. Now THAT'S hot!
Why is she smiling? Because they didn't have mirrors back then.
Posted by jg @ 07:29 PM PST []
Tuesday, September 16, 2003
"You tell people what you are," sighed giant-lipped rapper Chuck D back in ANSWER Me! #1, "and people still don't believe you."
I felt Mistah Chuck's pain back then, and I still feel it on this rainy September eve—not the pain attendant to four hundred years of oppression, nor the pain of the slavemaster's whip, nor even the pain of growing up in a middle-class Long Island neighborhood and clocking major G's—but the existential torment of articulating myself with the cold gleaming finesse of a surgeon's scalpel and having the great pink-and-brown turd called "humanity" act as if I'm speaking another language.
The picture to the right (a larger, more legible version is nestled here) is from a 1969 Supergirl comic called "PLEASE STOP MY FUNERAL!" I first encountered it in a box of my brother's books back while he was being slowly driven mad in Vietnam. And, apart from the blonde hair, friendly boobs, and snappin' 'gina, I identified with Supergirl's plight. She's at her own funeral—she can even see her own casket—yet she's screaming that she's alive. And no one, not even her loved ones, can see or hear her. They're certain she's dead.
When I pinch myself, I feel it. But when I start to scream about it, most of the deadwoods go solemnly about their business—deaf, blind, and hopelessly dumb.
Posted by jg @ 11:13 PM PST []
Monday, September 15, 2003
We newlyweds had been living in the jumbo ashen crater called LA for only a couple of months after leaving New York. Back in Brooklyn, my fists put the landlord in the hospital after he called the new wife "stupid." Assault charges were dropped when I told the judge I was leaving the state and promised not to get slapped with any new assault beefs over the coming year.
Two lonely pebbles in the World's Largest Parking Lot, we decided to go out one evening and ogle a glam show at a crumbling palace near MacArthur Park. In the crowded auditorium, some pint-sized curly-haired cocksucker with black eyeliner who resembled the man in the Greek plate to the left bumped into the wife without excusing himself. I tapped on his shoulder and told him to apologize. Instead, he spit in my face and said:
"Why don't we take this outside, WHERE THE TURF IS REAL?"
The magnificent idiocy of this phrase always stuck with me. Whether outside or inside, on grass or AstroTurf®, he would have seen how "real" the "turf" was as he was being slammed into it. But, mindful of the clanging jail doors that would accompany another assault charge, I walked away.
I don't need to take out anymore punk nobodies who try to make a name for themselves at my expense as if I were Billy the Kid. I'm forty-two and still standing, fools. Your cowardly sucker punches haven't left a scratch. I've already proven where the turf is real.
It's wherever I walk.
Posted by jg @ 10:55 PM PST []
Sunday, September 14, 2003
Crunchy creamy sweet and dreamy
Butterscotch delights
Butterflies and baby birds
And children flying kites
Wacky, zany, kooky music
Play a silly flute
March around and shake your tushie
Golly, this is cute!
Sprinkly jingly tickly feeling
Big bright red balloons
Crazy monkeys eat bananas
Wall-to-wall cartoons
Velvet kittens play in baskets
All the livelong day
Soon the men will come with caskets
And take us all away
Posted by jg @ 10:43 PM PST []
Saturday, September 13, 2003
It was 1986, the year that AIDS and crack cocaine were the new media horror stories. I didn't want AIDS, but crack sounded so powerful, I had to try it. Me and the wife-to-be drove up to Washington Heights above Harlem and copped some buttery nuggets in a plastic vial from a Spanish Wolfman.
We motored up to the Catskill Mountains for the weekend, staying at a moldy old resort where meals, lodging, and bingo were all included in the $99 price. On Saturday morning we shoved a white rock into a glass pipe and took some megablasts while watching Pee Wee's Playhouse. My head swelled up to weather-balloon size and it seemed as if my heart was going to punch through my ribs and splatter all over the room. But as soon as it felt safe again, we smoked some more. That night, gacked on crack, we drove through the dark mountain forests to a posh hotel featuring kosher comedians such as Mal Z. Lawrence.
The ride back was black and quiet. Trees were huddled deep and thick on both sides of the narrow road. Suddenly, as we hit a dip, a bearded wildman in a fringed-rawhide jacket jumped out of the woods and tried leaping onto the car hood. It was something out of a "Freddy" or "Jason" movie, minus the production values and plus the real threat of death. I hit the accelerator and left him in the forest.
We reached our hotel with foreheads sweating and our hearts battered like punching bags. I decided not to develop a crack habit.
Posted by jg @ 09:07 PM PST []
Friday, September 12, 2003
I was about four. We were visiting a house in Southeast Philly's sludgy grey-and-brick wastelands. When the little girl who lived there and I went to play in their barren backyard, she warned me that her grandmother was a "meanie."
The back door popped open a few minutes later, and Grandma Meanie began screaming at both of us...until she caught my eye and realized I wasn't one of her little abuse-worthy descendents. She immediately dropped the Witch Face, apologized, and disappeared behind the door.
The Meanie's sudden change of tone left a dent in my brain deep enough to salvage the memory nearly four decades later. It was one of the few times in my childhood when I was singled out to be spared from scorn. And it was early proof of the principle that people treat you as harshly as they feel entitled to treat you. I was exempted because Meanie's predatory rodent mind only felt the right to spit venom at blood relatives. Everyone else was off-limits.
In this world full of Meanies, it's best to radiate the sense that you aren't to be fucked with. Spray an invisible skunk cloud around yourself. Walk through life with wide shoulders and cold steel in your eyes. Use body language to warn all Meanies you'll inflict ruthless retaliation through either brute force or subterfuge. But remember that it's not as important to be capable of revenge as it is to create the idea that you're untouchable.
Beyond that, be as nice as you can manage.
Posted by jg @ 11:40 PM PST []
Thursday, September 11, 2003
The story I'm about to tell you has nothing to do with a real-life black male who lives in Portland. He never dresses with a Southwestern flair, and he truly doesn't delude himself about his intelligence.
And just for the record, I didn't once have a girlfriend who looked so terrified when he entered a club that she said we had to leave immediately. She didn't wait until we were a safe distance from the club to tell me that he had raped her. She didn't say that he once told her he needed a place to stay, she offered him her couch, and in the middle of the night he crawled into her bed and raped her while she protested. And she didn't say that when she told other girls about it, some of them shared similar tales about him. And I really never heard an entirely different girl recount a story about how the same guy once took advantage of a girl who'd passed out from drinking, his thrusts shoving a tampon so far up her snatch that she became ill from it. And I didn't have another friend who told me that a Portland stripper once told him that the male in question forced himself upon her while she was trying to sleep. Really, there aren't SEVERAL similar allegations independently circulating about this person, so don't worry.
And there's NO WAY that this same man has been on a mission to exterminate all "Nazis" in Portland, not realizing all Nazis in Portland died out some time around the last Ice Age. He doesn't make phone calls to send thugs down to beat up people whom he suspects of being "Nazi sympathizers." He hasn't stated on numerous occasions that such people "should be killed."
So anyway, last night I had a dream that I saw this guy in a club. He gave me a dirty look, and I called him a rapist. Then he tried kicking my head, but seeing as he was a dozen feet away, he didn't come close. So, being the eminently cordial and logical guy that I am, I sat him down and explained a few things. I told him I really didn't care what he did in his spare time, even if he rapes people. But I did note that it's highly hypocritical for him to go on these moralistic stampedes when he apparently has so many personal problems which need to be addressed. Simply put, rapists shouldn't worry about racists until the rapists have stopped raping. It's always the people with the bloodiest hands who go on the most hysterical crusades. And even if all the allegations about him were untrue, it still isn't nice to wish physical harm upon people whose beliefs differ from his.
There's something wrong about those who go around inflicting ACTUAL harm upon people...who then call for MORE actual harm upon people...because those other people believe things which THEORETICALLY may harm people. If you've anointed yourself holy enough to "exterminate the scum," you're no better than a Nazi—worse, in fact, because at least the Nazis were honest about what they were doing.
He listened to me, and since there was no way to argue with my iron logic, he agreed. We became friends and had a nice chat.
I invite all world leaders to bring their problems to me, and I'll work them out in my dreams.
Posted by jg @ 11:32 PM PST []
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
For proof that "White Power" has ceased to be a threat to anyone except those who espouse it, one need only consider how many formerly loudmouthed Nazi types have fled to the religious sanctuary of Odinism.
Christianity is often mistaken as a European religion. In truth, it's a Middle Eastern meme which had better success fooling Europeans than Middle Easterners. Before Christ's doctrine of masochistic turd-munchin' submissiveness came and ate Europe's soul, most of the native Euro-religions were keener on power and blood-drinking and shoving heads on sticks than they were about turning the other cheek.
Odin was an ass-kicking, pissed-off, buffed-out grandfather type worshiped by ancient Germanic and Scandinavian tribes. Contrary to the idiotic propaganda of certain misinformed anti-hate groups, he was not worshiped by Hitler's crew; in fact, Adolf swore allegiance to Christianity (which was, er, founded by a Jew), and his underlings actively persecuted Odinists.
But in yet another of the eternal popcorn string of ironies with which this world tortures me, one now sees Americans of Euro ancestry pleading for the right to worship as their "indigenous" forefathers once did before the Christian missionaries came with a sword in one hand and a Bible in the other.
Modern Odinists remind me of the sad Indians who'd gather on the prison yard to beat their tom-toms and mewl their off-key chants. All they seem to want is the right to worship the God that let them down.
Posted by jg @ 09:55 PM PST []
Tuesday, September 9, 2003
More than five years ago, I was thrown into a cell at the Sheriff's station in Southeast Portland. I waited alone in that cold cement box to speak with a detective who, when I was still at-large, had told me over the phone that he was going to hunt me down "like a dog." I told him to speak to my lawyer and to "have a nice day."
I was sure I wouldn't spend more than a weekend in lockdown. But that cell was the first one in a long string of cells which kept locking shut on me until I sprung loose nearly two-and-a-half years later.
Yesterday I sat in the same cell again. I was performing as an asshole policeman in a local independent film, and the Sheriff's department was allowing the producers to shoot there. Without knowing anything about me or my history, the screenwriter wrote a line where my character tells a visitor that "with those tattoos we might confuse you with the animals and keep you by accident."
Animals. Hunted down like a dog. The same cell. To complete the circle, I threw in a line where I tell the visitor to "have a nice day."
Posted by jg @ 08:25 PM PST []
Monday, September 8, 2003
My craggy heart is swirling and twirling and whirling—and nearly hurling—with sadness and relief. My little girl, my precious Mongoloid-looking virgin she-pup, has been thoroughly and irrevocably deflowered by the savage penile pillaging of Busta the Boston Terrier.
The dirty deed...and yet, the deed which sprouteth forth so much love and joy and tenderness and sun-showers of flower petals and the resultant high pollen counts which eventually lead to sneezing and then, ultimately, violence...was accomplished less than two hours ago. My pal Shon, who provided these candid photos, finally transported the ever-randy Busta to my crib after having hemmed and hawed—but mostly hemmed—over the weekend about whether he was emotionally prepared to see his son venture into the fullness of manhood.
Shon eagerly snapped pictures as Busta mercilessly pursued the Duchess of Cookwich around my surprisingly upscale wood-floored apartment for about fifteen minutes before we decided to leave the two crazy kids alone. Cookie valiantly nipped and barked and vainly appealed to me for succor.
Upon returning nearly an hour later, I was greeted by the disturbing specter of a two-headed, eight-pawed spider walking up to meet me. The dogs were stuck together like Siamese Twins joined at the ass—still in the throes of sexual congress—yet they were oddly calm and matter-of-fact. I quietly excused myself and allowed them another half-hour to unhinge themselves.
When I fearlessly entered the Goad Abode again, they were no longer the frightening Unidog I had previously encountered. But Busta's clear-gel cum was everywhere as if someone had squirted Mop & Glo all over the floor and then neglected to mop.
Since Busta will be sleeping over, I almost feel as if I'm intruding upon their wedding night. I will toss and turn through these coming dark hours, an unwanted human chaperone at a canine fuckfest.
Posted by jg @ 09:46 PM PST []
Sunday, September 7, 2003
Though I try my best to ignore the appalling land mass directly south of where I live, California’s upcoming gubernatorial recall election should be fascinating to anyone obsessed with racial ironies.
If the current governor is recalled, the top two contenders to fill his spot are the Democrat Cruz Bustamante and the muscle-bound cinematic villain-killer Arnold Schwarzenegger. Both men have dubious racial skeletons hanging in their closets.
Schwarzenegger’s father was a member of the Nazi Party in Austria. Arnold also was a lifelong friend of Austrian President Kurt Waldheim, who was revealed to have aided and abetted the Nazis in WWII. As part of his administrative duties during the war, Waldheim approved a propaganda leaflet which included the phrase, "enough of the Jewish war, kill the Jews.…" Even after such information came to light, Schwarzenegger (did you know his last name means "Black Nigger" in German?) was quoted as saying, "My friends don't want me to mention Kurt's name, because of all the recent Nazi stuff…but I love him." In 1977, during the filming of his steroidal epic Pumping Iron, Arnold allegedly said that he "admired" Hitler. And a 1992 article by Spy magazine quoted a "friend" of Schwarzenegger’s saying that back in the 1970s, Arnold "enjoyed playing and giving away records of Hitler’s speeches."
While a college student in the 1970s, Cruz Bustamante (did you know his last name means "Bus 'em in, man" in Spanish?) belonged to a radical Mexican campus organization called MEChA, an acronym for Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlán, which translates as "Chicano Student Movement of Aztlán." MEChA’s logo is an eagle clutching a stick of dynamite and a machete in its claws. Its slogan is, "For the race, everything; for those outside the race, nothing." The word "Aztlán" is used to describe the Southwestern United States, which MEChA claims has always belonged to Mexicans and will one day be wrested from the "gringo" invaders and returned to Mexico. The group’s constitution declares that "the call of our blood is our power, our responsibility, and our inevitable destiny."
Although Schwarzenegger has gone to great pains to donate money to Jewish causes and repudiate his past, Bustamante refuses to apologize for his involvement in MEChA.
Naturally, left-wingers will harp on Arnold’s past, while right-wingers will blather on about Bustamante’s past. Belonging to neither wing, I merely share this information with you and trust you to draw your own conclusions.
The Democrats should pray it doesn't come down to the swimsuit competition, because Arnold would be a shoo-in.
Posted by jg @ 11:42 PM PST []
Saturday, September 6, 2003
It's now official—I'm the only living American who isn't popping antidepressant medication daily. And yet I've never felt better in my life.
I realize this is a set-up for a punchline—"Of all people, you SHOULD be on medication." Yukkety-yuk. Hardy-har-har. HAW!
Actually, I tried Paxil for two months while in jail, at a time when my heart was constantly scraping the dirty cement floor. And though I've sampled every drug the Feds have ever declared illegal—weed, speed, acid, heroin, coke, mushrooms, mescaline, Ecstasy, ketamine, PCP—it was only the perfectly legal, state-prescribed Paxil which had me waking to the sound of screams in my head. I abruptly discontinued the "meds." Within days, I felt clarity returning to my brain as if my sinuses were suddenly unblocked.
Depression happens for several valid reasons, none of which should be ignored or smeared away with pharmaceuticals. From my experience, bad moods tend to be situational rather than chemical. Fix the situation, and the malaise lifts like a fog.
It's probably no coincidence that the "War on Drugs" coincided with the wholesale legal doping of America. You're a nation of zombies, dutifully swallowing brain-gelding magic bullets because the doctor told you so. A generation ago, the doctor was pushing electroshock therapy and lobotomies on you. And in a generation, when you're all brain-damaged with liver cancer and a third leg growing out the middle of your chest, I'll find it hard to shed a tear.
Posted by jg @ 10:41 PM PST []
Friday, September 5, 2003
My bitch is in heat again. Her canine snatch is puffed-up like a baboon's ass. She smells like sardines baked in feces. Dried dog blood is splattered all over as if the apartment were a stove top where tomato sauce has been boiling too long. She licks her bleeding gash all day and seems confused.
Back in college, my tubby girlfriend and I had a cat-in-estrus whose yowling and screeching were so maddening, it nearly drove me to my first-ever act of cruelty toward animals. An ice cube placed on her kitty coochie didn't stop her. Neither did a skillfully applied pencil eraser. So we hooked her to a leash and walked her down a dark Philly alley, hoping her ear-splitting wails would lure some neighborhood tomcats to come and shag her into silence. No such luck.
I'm looking for a well-hung Portland canine—or a normally endowed Asian or Mexican man—to come and satisfy li'l Cookie's deep-womb yearnings. Please e-mail me if you can do the job.
Posted by jg @ 10:31 PM PST []
Thursday, September 4, 2003
Being raised Catholic—and therefore having reached adulthood psychotic—I was taught that priests had the power to turn bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ. Not the symbolic body and blood as represented in other Christian sects' communion ceremonies—the Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation teaches that once a priest utters the prescribed phrases and waves his child-molesting hands over the bread and wine, these humble items LITERALLY transform into Christ's REAL body and blood, although they still look remarkably like bread and wine, and I'll bet a science lab would say the same thing.
Once these flavorless wafers are thus gorily alchemized, the priest places these alleged chunks of Christflesh onto the faithful's tongues, whereby Jesus enters the bloodstream and presumably dampens your desire to keep wacking off so much.
As an altar boy, my duty was to hold a golden ping-pong-paddle-shaped disk under the communicants' throats to insure that no Christ Crumbs would fall to the floor and be trampled 'neath the sinners' feet. After the eucharistic ceremony was over, the priest would use a hand towel to brush the Christ Crumbs and unused Jesus Wafers back into a "ciborium" or some such Latin-sounding device. He would then place it all back in a tabernacle to ensure no one would hurt the poor little defenseless deity.
Assuming I'm just a scoffer and the Catholics are right about all this, I have some questions:
1) If a believer has bad breath, can Jesus smell it when he's placed in their mouth?
2) How do you know what part of Jesus you're getting? A piece of bicep would be OK, but I don't want to be munching on his scrotum or the bottom of his feet, divine or not.
3) Does Jesus stay in your body forever, or is he eventually digested? And if the latter, is it a sin to wipe Jesus from your ass?
+++++++++
Apropos the subject at hand, here's something I wrote about Catholic schoolgirls.
Posted by jg @ 10:00 PM PST []
Wednesday, September 3, 2003
I was in kindergarten and my sister was a bouffanted, false-eyelashed, Motown-listening teen skank in a silver-lamé jacket and roach-killer shoes. She spent her entire first paycheck from her waitressing job buying me toys, most notably a little plastic gumball machine. She spent so much on me that she didn't even have bus fare left, so we wound up walking five miles home, me toting the gumball machine the whole way.
Around the same time, she found out that some neighborhood kids were teasing me, so she marched down to their clubhouse and screamed at them like only women can scream. She was highly protective of her nerdy little bookworm brother.
But when I was twelve, she allowed her husband to bloody my nose and routinely threaten me. And later on, she proved to be such a rotten cunt that I'll never speak to her again. NEVER.
This has been my experience with women—gumball machines and bloody noses, sweet moments and heartbreaking viciousness, protectiveness and endangerment. And I wonder how my life's trajectory would have been altered if there had been a few more gumball machines.
Posted by jg @ 10:59 PM PST []
Tuesday, September 2, 2003
ROCK ISLAND, ILLINOIS—After a hard-fought summer of extra-inning wins and head-first slides into home plate, most baseball teams would feel ecstatic to have won the league championship. Most teams would be bathing in champagne froth and having unprotected sex with local female fans.
Not so the Rock Island Roosters.
After sweeping the Quad Cities World Series against the Davenport Devils, a morose sense of guilt overcame most Roosters, who unanimously elected to give their championship trophy to the losers.
"It isn't about winning, it's about justice," explained Roosters skipper Tod Croppy. "Ideas such as 'talent,' 'hard work,' and 'superiority' are social constructs." When asked whether it might be insulting to hand the vanquished Devils a trophy which they didn't win, Croppy replied, "It isn't nearly as bad for their self-esteem as the fact that we beat them."
"I think this is pretty cool," beamed Antoine Gingerflake, the Devils' first baseman. "It was wrong what they did to us—beating us like that—and this goes a long way toward making things right." Gingerflake was later spotted having unprotected sex with a local Roosters fan.
Posted by jg @ 11:04 PM PST []
Monday, September 1, 2003
Labor Day and September 1st fell on the same day this year. Two rusty nails in summer's coffin. Two cold slaps to my face. Two ravens on a grey wall, watching their shadows grow longer.
It's still hot in the daytime, but the nights are getting colder.
No more wearing a wifebeater at 3AM to go buy ice cream. No more late-night drives with the windows rolled down. No more slipping on rocks while buck-ass naked in the Klickitat River. No more soft hum of the electric fan in the late morning as I decide whether to wake up or continue sleeping.
Back east as a kid, this is when school would soon be starting and I'd get that sick hole in my stomach knowing I'd have to wear a tie, sit at a hard wooden desk, and take notes about things I never cared about and would never remember.
Soon the "Holiday Season" will come, designed to temporarily distract everyone from the inescapable free-fall into winter's black pit.
I love summer when it's here, and I hate it when it leaves.