XXXVII

It's no secret that the world is full of deranged, insane, babbling lunatics who are more than happy to share their opinions regarding their incomprehensible conspiracy theories. Although a good portion of these people go on to lead a happy and fulfilling life working at Radio Shack or hosting their own conservative AM radio talk show, some slip through the cracks and find their way into the seedy underbelly of the general public. After a matter of time, these psychotic individuals begin explaining their whacked out "what they don't want you to know" stories to every unfortunate individual they encounter, occasionally at gunpoint. It's all downhill from there; soon they're avid Art Bell fans and are using Tripod's homepage creation software to construct animated gif shrines devoted to exposing the secrets of the universe that they (and only they) know. The Internet has become a breeding ground for the mentally depraved conspiracy theory nutcases, as the basic nature of this electronic medium encourages building communities, despite how justified we would be in taking a flamethrower to them and calling in artillery strikes just to be sure.

Throughout my pointless journeys across the Internet, I've encountered any and every conspiracy theory possible, many of which used the scrolling text function to prove key points. These wacked out webpages invariably fall into one of two obsessive subjects: aliens and the government.


ALIENS - Conspiracists think about aliens more often than aliens think about themselves. In their wildest dreams, these magic creatures inhabit the hollow Earth, live underneath the ocean in the semi-lost city of Atlantis, are currently flying in from different dimensions, and are routinely visiting us every other hour because they're trying to get to Neptune but are too embarrassed to ask for directions. Earth is apparently a very popular destination for aliens due to the fact that their home planet lacks the exciting and wonderful inventions of mankind such as that new green-colored 409 cleaning spray. These mysterious space creatures have the following characteristics and qualities:

• They are apparently all very bored and have nothing to do on their home planet. This would explain why they travel millions of light years to visit our stinking, rotting, filthy planet for the sole purpose of drawing circles in corn and cramming high tech thermometers inside fat white people's asses. I've often wondered what crucial information there is to glean from some farmer's backyard and the anus of his toothless son, but I can only assume it's some really crucial stuff and is so advanced that our feeble human minds wouldn't be able to understand it, even if somebody used a colorful flowchart and a laser pointer.
• Despite being thousands of years beyond our current technology level, aliens have not yet figured out how to mass produce a spacecraft which doesn't resemble a dog's chew toy. Although these unbelievably advanced interstellar ships can successfully avoid radar detection and turn invisible at will, they can still be captured by gritty, blurry cameras manufactured by Korea in the late 1950s. Sometimes they shoot a thick length of string straight up into the air above them in an attempt to look "fake" or "like the work of an eight-year old."
• They come from many, many different exotic places and locations. Some aliens prefer the mild, dry climate in the center of the hollow Earth, while others prefer to exist in different dimensions. Sure you've got the plain-vanilla aliens that live on the planet of Grabualsa 9 and use a boring old UFO to travel here every day on their commute to work, but these aliens aren't very popular anymore. The hot and popular breed of aliens these days inhabit secret areas of the Earth or float around in an ethereal plane of existence which floats somewhere above Milwaukee.
• World peace is the number one message on their agenda, although they don't prefer to spread this message through traditional means of communication such as talking to people or writing things down. Instead, they beam their thoughts directly to humans who they deem worthy enough to be one of, if not the only, "chosen prophets." These prophets make up a small minority of people who have the ability to relay the important messages from our friends in Dimension Q, announcements which usually ask us to stop polluting, give dolphins positions of power, or blow up the government.

THE GOVERNMENT - Another big winner with our neurotic Internet buddies is the ever-so-evil government. I have never seen a single conspiracy website which described the government as being anything but pure, unadulterated Satanism. They're 20 pounds of evil in a two-pound bag, only without the bag and with an extra serving of evil sauce. Despite the fact that the government only exists because of the money we give them, they apparently have no qualms with slowly killing us all through highly exciting and experimental methods. Here are just a few of their nefarious schemes:

• Something incredibly evil and incredibly vague involving the North Pole. I don't know what the hell is up there or why the US government found it appropriate to travel thousands of miles out of their way to get another people-killin' scheme rolling, but that's probably because I haven't been formally trained in "Conspiracy Nutball Theory" by the Utah University School of Keep Your Goddamn Evil Zionist Money, You Clueless Zombie Drone. If I remember correctly, the North Pole contains a lot of snow and is located to the north of everything south of it, so it's got that going for it, which is good. All you need to know that the North Pole has a lot of nasty things going on, so if it's in your vacation plans for the upcoming holiday, perhaps you should reconsider travel agents.
• Electricity. Much like "Project: North Pole," the government's dastardly plans involving electricity and the injuring or death of over a million people is somewhat difficult to understand. From what little cohesive information I've been able to glean, electricity is being used to corrupt our brainwaves and destroy vital organs in our head that we would normally use to become psychic and talk to dolphins and aliens. Electricity, in conjunction with the dangerous setup of government gear in the North Pole, is responsible for creating deadly magnetic waves that helped empower Adolf Hitler and the people who produced "Kangaroo Jack."
• Mind control. A good majority of the government's plans revolves around turning us all into lifeless zombies incapable of thinking for ourselves, addicted to absorbing electronic rays that are regularly broadcast through our homes, and obsessed with giving our money to faceless organizations. I think I pretty much already spelled out the joke in that last sentence, so I've got absolutely nowhere else to go with this point.
   

There are many other targets of the conspiracy theory minded Internet nutwad, but I don't have the time nor energy to go into depth with each one. Here is a brief overview:

• The Yeti - Otherwise known as "Bigfoot" or "John Kruk," the Yeti is believed to be some alien that lives in the woods and refuses to shave, even for important job interviews.
• Dolphins - Everybody knows that dolphins are the smartest creatures this side of the sun. So what if they don't do shit but swim around and get killed all day? Dolphins are somehow the most intelligent, passionate, and creative animal in existence! To truly live in harmony, we must make friends with the dolphin... really good friends, if you catch my drift, sailor.
• The Face on Mars - Leading scientists claim it's just a heap of Martian dirt, but smart people know better: it's an ancient alien temple used for teleportation! If you look directly into the eyes of the Face on Mars, you will either turn to stone or you will get a mysterious phone call and promptly die within seven days.
• The Bible / Nostradamus - Both accurately predict the future and when we'll all die in a horrible, fiery apocalypse, which was scheduled to take place in 1967, then 1969, then 1971 followed by 1973, 1978, 1981, 1981 (again), 1985, 1992, 1993, 1995, 1994 (we were going to travel back in time in the year 1995 to get killed in 1994), 1999, 2000 (many times), 2002, and the upcoming destruction of 2012. Make sure to dress appropriately.

For more information on how to be completely out-of-your-brain crazy, stop by Art Bell's website and learn about the secrets THEY don't want you to know about! "They," of course, meaning "the government organization in charge of making sure you never obtain a firearm."

XXXVI

Some things change.
Some things don't.

XXXV

And in continuing with the spirit, I present to you the worst quote ever:

"This was only a deportation, and many bad things happened on the road....that is not Genocide."

-Nabi Sensoy, Former Turkish Ambassador, on the Assyrian/Armenian Genocide.

XXXIV

Have you ever wondered what it would be like if Hitler were a Starfish? 
Well, wonder no more!




Grandpa's old war stories would go something like this:



In other news, if you're looking for a pen pal, look no further than

Charles Manson
B-33920
PO Box 3476
Corcoran, CA 93212-3476

Letters are welcome, but home-baked goods will be thrown out.

XXXIII

This blog is compiled of 100% non-fiction accounts.  I don't know if you guys are aware of that or not.  If something is posted on this page, you can bet your bottom dollar that it is cold, hard, FACT. 

People I hardly know outside of the net come up to me every now and then and tell me what a great job I've done with this page.  I'm so creative, and so funny, andandand so witty.  Everyone has a favorite entry. Don't get me wrong, I do appreciate their complements, but mainly, and most especially, their taking the time to read this.  (This is where I "shout-out" to my 2 subscribers and my other 5 known loyal readers.)

Over the past year, my personal-profile alone has gotten 500+ hits.  That doesn't take into account the actual blog entries themselves.

What am I getting at?

Dear readers,  I'm talking about monetizing.

Now, hold your horses.  I know how you youngsters like to jump on those "they sold-out" jargon bandwagons.

I never listened to Run DMC until every white person and their mother started wearing the shirt.  Truth be told, as big of a hip-hop aficionado as I consider myself, I don't particularly care for Run and the gang. 

If it weren't for the movie (or the poster in every dorm) I probably would have never read Fear & Loathing, nor any of the good doctor's other fine literature, for that matter.

Sometimes, monetization makes for a bigger fan base.  But I don't really care about drawing in more fans, so much as I care about making money without having to do anything.

The Ramones sold more t-shirts than albums.  If they had a problem with that, maybe they should have recorded better albums.  Or, maybe they should have come up with a less-fashion-prone logo.

See?  We can all still be gods.

XXXII

A little over a year ago I found myself at Cordova Mall, looking to fill a void.  I ended up in Urban Vibes, a shoe store that would find itself out of business within the coming year.  As soon as I rounded the corner into the store, a pair of purple lizard Baby Phat ankle boots caught my eye and melted my heart.
I stood there looking at the $170 price tag (you're paying for the name at that point), when out of nowhere a grizzly bear of a black man walked up behind me and bellowed out "Hey there, white woman."  Noticing that I was the only white woman in the store, I turned around and greeted him with bright eyes and the biggest closed-mouth smile.  He started to mumble something but then turned around and walked out of the store. 
Not three minutes later, as I was trying on my purple BabyPhats, the same man returned.  He meandered over to a lady with ham hocks for thighs.  She was looking at some yellow heels.  I heard him slowly say to her, under his breath, "Girl.....my dick hard.  What's it gonna take for you to come home with me?"  She didn't look at him, but promptly retorted with "You buy me dees shoes..."  a few seconds passed and he said "oh-kay."
Sadly enough, I didn't get the boots.

XXXI

Telegram to Hip Hop: 

Dear Hip Hop (stop) This shit has gone too far (stop) Please see that mixer and turntables are returned to Kool Herc (stop) The ghettos are dancing off beat (stop) The master of ceremonies have forgotten that they were once slaves and have neglected the occasion of this ceremony (stop) Perhaps we should not have encouraged them to use cordless microphones, for they have walked too far from the source and are emitting a lesser frequency (stop) Please inform all interested parties that cash nor murder have been added to the list of elements (stop) We are discontinuing our current line of braggadocio, in light of the current trend in "realness" (stop) As an alternative, we will be confiscating weed supplies and replacing them with magic mushrooms, in hopes of helping niggas see beyond their reality (stop) Give my regards to Brooklyn.

-Saul Williams, Telegram

XXX

Brief Illustrated History of Mankind

XXIX

Can you buy Ché Guevara shirts in Wal-Mart yet? I really hope so.
His face is the corporate logo by which university students identify like-minded non-thinkers/non-readers.
Whenever I see a Ché shirt hanging in the mall or on some hipster's person, it's like seeing "All The News That's Fit To Print" in the New York Times- I use it as a gauge to make sure I am still alive. Just who the fuck are these pompous bastards fooling? Does this still annoy me? It does? Good. I am still alive.
Say what you will about the mentality of the person who not only seeks out things to be annoyed by, but finds comfort in his annoyance. I attribute the Ché Guevara t-shirt and the New York Times slogan to adding years to my life.

XXVIII

Your mind cannot create a facial image from scratch. Any face you imagine or dream up is a direct withdrawal from the ol' memory bank. The faces you see in dreams are those of strangers you've seen in real life (whether you noticed them or not) throughout your life.

XXVII

The Hollow Earth theory has been supported by a not-so-surprising range of groups: from UFO theorists to neo-Nazi groups and conservative Christians, many tinfoilists have worked it into their ideologies. It might have started with Frederick Culmer and his 1886 pamphlet The Inner World, which presented the theory in its definitive form and attempted to prop it up with a few shaky scientific buttresses. You can find the pamphlet in its entirety here. The work is rather long and wordy, and to be honest, I only read about two thirds. An excerpt gives it all in a nutshell:

"The earth is a rotating crust of uneven surface, open at the North and South, through which openings our sun shines by direct and refracted rays beyond their interior equatorial line and the light and heat thereof supplies the interior, the diurnal rotation causing every part to receive in its turn, the genial warmth and light. Thus they have their days and nights, their seed time and harvest, their summer and winter; and they have their sky overhead with its clouds, rain, waterspouts, thunder and lightning. The diameter of the interior is so great that the opposite side cannot be seen, being six thousand miles distant at the equator; our moon sheds her light likewise on them, and the Polar Star is always theirs. The thickness of the earth's crust is one thousand miles, making the diameter at their equator six thousand miles, and diminishing it to one thousand at either pole."

I have faith man's future.

XXVI

"Where did you get that hammer?" I asked as I glanced over at the Scarecrow riding in the passenger seat of my '58 Catalina, complete with power steering and mascot Rat Fink perched atop the dash. Scarecrow was, at that moment, sitting with a half-gallon jug of bottom-shelf gin between his legs. After carefully slicing a lime in quarters, he was using a hammer to jam the wedges into the bottle of sustenance. The lime was a critical element.
We may have been cruising around at midnight on our way to another tavern, after being asked in a less than nice tone to vacant the previous one, in a blemished old Pontiac, taking swigs of a half-gallon vat of rot-gut gin, but we weren't Troglodytes.
Scarecrow did not respond, needing pure concentration to guide his remaining motor skills to finish the task at hand.
"Where the fuck are we going?" A pointless and purely rhetorical question, we both knew that. Sure, I probably should have turned the headlights on, but let's be honest, they wouldn't have helped me see the road any better. We were using the force as we had become accustomed. Just point me at the sky and we would get there. Our destination point was decided upon arrival. Any other way would be Fascist.
Three spikes and four destroyed cassette tapes later, we were there, much to the chagrin of the homeowner whose pool we were in. At last Scarecrow spoke up, "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke!" Then he promptly keeled over and passed out into the pittosporums. I went inside to search for more gin and some horseradish. The cops didn't get the joke either.

XXV

As most of you probably know, I recently had the privilege of touring the National High Magnetic Field Laboratory in the Tallanasty. This field trip was the highlight of being in the Engineering Club. For four weeks I counted down the days to seeing the 45Tesla magnet in all its glory and power. When the tour finally came around, our guide showed us each magnet over 20T they had, saving the mother of all magnets for last. After waiting 4 weeks, riding in a van for 3 hours, and walking around the lab for 2, we got to the wing of the lab where they keep the 45T monster. We walked down the hall, rounded the corner, and were greeted by this


That's right. 45 Teslas of disappointment. "Researchers are using the Magnet, so we can't let you go see it..."

It seemed fishy that they would just happen to be using the magnet when we were there to see it, and that they would just happen to have stuck it behind the corner, when all their other magnets were in plain view. How do I know the magnet even exists?

The level of disappointing coincidences in my recent life has been uncanny, if anything. This is especially true when it comes to things standing in the way of earning this engineering degree. If something can stand in my way, it will; it doesn't have to, in fact it'd be more convenient on its part to not stand in my way, but it goes ahead and takes advantage of the opportunity . The rate at which such obstacles have been happening has been slowly, but surely, turning me into a solipsist. So until further notice, only I exist.

XXIV

Thank God for the La Place Transform!

XXIII

I was five when I saw my first sunrise. During the winter months, my mom and grandfather would get up at the ass crack of dawn every Tuesday morning for breakfast at The Coffee Cup. I went with them a few times, but only for the amusement of knowing I'd be up before the sun was. Once seated, I'd sit and stare in amazement at the waitresses weaving through a maze of white collar workers, tables, and chairs, with eight or ten bowls of grits all up and down either arm. I knew what I wanted to do with my life!

As we were heading out of the restaurant one morning, an old woman stopped me, told me I was pretty, and asked me to smile big for her. Always obey your elders. Yes ma'am, and I smiled big. She plopped her dentures into her hands and smiled back. I didn't know how to react, so I laughed. As soon as that happened, she garbled to me, sans dents, that I shouldn't laugh at other peoples' losses, and that I'd be lucky to live long enough to see my teeth fall out.

Today, a blind man asked me if I had two hands. I had to look at both hands before I could give him a sure answer.

XXII

The first time I ever BS'ed an assignment was in first grade. Since it was Friday, it was show-and-tell day. Show-and-tell was invented by The Man to ingrain into the soft minds of American children that consumerism relieves the pangs of being a human. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition! Seeing as how I caught onto this at age six, show-and-tell was never anything I got hyped up over.

Inevitably, I forgot to bring something to class one week. Thanks to my mother's unwavering will to pump me full of potassium, I had a banana in my lunch box. The poor thing had been suffocating in the PVC entrapment for 4 hours and as a result it was all spotted. When it was my turn, I held up my spotty banana in front of the whole class and declared, "I know this is just a banana, but I brought this to show everyone today, because I call this a dalmatian banana."

"How clever!" my teacher exclaimed.

XXI

I'm sitting in Starbucks. Two tables down a man in his mid thirties is reading The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats. He's not really reading. He's been on same page for the past 20 minutes, and keeps glancing up. Yes, that's right. Our friend is sitting at Starbucks, pretending to read, in a desperate attempt to attract women.

Back in the day when a man wanted a woman's attention, he would spill a drink on her at a show, hook her up with drugs at a rave, or make sure she had beer at all times at a kegger. If he was really committed, he would break into her house and climb into bed with her parents.

I do not agree with this new mating ritual at all. It's sad and boring.

XX

You scream, I scream, we all scream for ice-cream!

XIX

Forty years ago, cogs rain on Brooklyn...

I've just spent the last thirty minutes staring at a picture that was taken exactly a year ago today.

There's a party. I'm on a couch with someone, and another person is sitting across from us. I remember we were talking about art and belly dancing, right before the picture was taken. I had known the person on the couch for about a week, and the person sitting across from me for about fifteen minutes.

An hour ago, the person I was sitting next to on the couch told me that he's going to take the person sitting across from me out on a date this weekend. When their date rolls around, it'll have been exactly one year since I went on the first date with the person sitting on the couch.

...well, I thought it was kind of eerie.



I'm sitting here looking at this picture, thinking of everything that's happened since it was taken. All the people, all the places, the ups, the downs, the disorienting hurdles that jerk your neck back, causing whip lash. And then I think of things that have happened outside of my life-with-blinders. All the politics, the wars, the epidemics, the menial-yet-still-important scientific discoveries... I couldn't even begin to count.

Every year we all end up saying something to the effect of "this year went by faster than last year." It really does feel like just last weekend I was sitting there, beer in hand, discussing belly dancing with this stranger, turned acquaintance.

I've always been told that the closer we come to Armageddon, the faster time will seem to pass. My theory is that the older we get, the more aware of time's passage we become. It's not that we, as a whole, are getting closer to Armageddon; rather, we, individually, are getting closer to our own eminent demise.

XVIII

The term serial killer is widely believed to have been coined by FBI agent Robert Ressler and Dr. Robert Keppel during the 1970s. Serial killer became a household term largely in part of the wide media coverage of Ted Bundy and David Berkowitz (aka "Son of Sam") during the mid '70s. The term allows criminologists to distinguish between those who kill several people over a long period of time, and those who kill several people during a single event.

Something has been irking me, lately. You people tend to pin the honorary title on just anyone who takes out more than one person. With that being said, let's take a look at some definitions, and set ourselves straight.

A serial killer is someone who commits three or more murders over an extended period of time, with cooling-off periods in between. In between their crimes, they appear to be quite normal, a state which is often called "the mask of sanity" in the psychological field.

A mass murderer, on the other hand, is someone who kills four or more people in a single event and at one location. The perpetrators sometime commit suicide shortly after their killings, meaning knowledge of their state of mind and what triggers their actions is often left to speculation, rather than fact. Mass murderers who are caught sometimes claim they cannot clearly remember the event.

A spree killer commits multiple murders in different locations over a period of time that may vary from a few hours to several days. Unlike serial killers, however, they do not revert to normal behavior in between slayings.

The US Bureau of Justice Statistics defines a serial killing as "involving the kililng of several victims in three or more seperate events." This definition is especially close to that of a spree killer, and perhaps the only thing seperating the two is the cooling-off period in between crimes. For example, Jeffery Dahmer commited his second murder nine years after his first, but his last eight victims were killed in a span of just seven months. Spree killers, on the other hand, do not have this cooling-off period, and are in a state of constant hunting until they are caught or killed.

All of the above types of crimes are generally carried out by solitary individuals. Of course, there have been instances in all three categories in which two or more perpetrators have acted together. There are other types of multiple killings as well, although they often involve larger organizations, i.e. genocide, terrorist attacks, etc.

The more you know...

XVII

Since 4th grade, I've always fallen into the hands of teachers that force students to chose either history or science fair. When given the choice, I've always done science fair. The only time I've done history fair was when I was forced into it- those years being 5th, 7th and 8th grade.

In 5th grade, the theme was "GREAT inventions."

I paired up with Amber Evans, who would later write me a note using different colored gel pens telling me that I was too strange of a person to be her friend. Amber was a missionary's daughter, who had lived all but that one year of her life in Africa. In retrospect, I should have seen said note coming from a mile away.

We ended up doing the fair project on the great invention that is air conditioning.

When we went to be judged, all three judges told us that our project seemed to be too science-oriented. Next time, include a time line.

Thus said, we won nothing.


7th grade rolled around and I did my project on several failed attempts up Mt. Everest, why they failed, and why the first successful attempt to the summit was, in fact, successful.

I made a really nifty board, which included little mountain climbers scaling the side, each with a tag....that was the most badass time line ever.

Both judges told me I did too much focusing on failed attempts and should have honed in on the first successful venture. Next time, work on specifics.

I won nothing.


The following year, after deciding that History Fair was a waste of my time and energy, I spent a grand total of 4 hours slapping pictures of Pearl Harbor to an old refrigerator box. When I got to school the next morning, I found out that 40 other students chose the same topic. The judges grouped all of the Pearl Harbor boards together in the far corner of the gym. Next time, come up with something original.

We Pearl Harbor kids won nothing.


Science fair was easier to win because virtually no one wanted to participate. I won first place twice, and second place every other year I participated. Save 5th grade, when I was disqualified for having samples of mold. Apparently mold is hazardous to children with Asthma. God damned Asthma kids, always cramping my style and ruining it for the rest of us. I say population control.

XVI

As a child, my parents always told me never to trust strangers, no matter how nice they seem. The prime example that was generally given was that of John Wayne Gacy. For those of you too caught up in MTV's hit new show Bromance, I'll quickly fill you in:

John Wayne Gacy (b. 1942) was a Polish High School Dropout with an alcoholic father who beat up on him and called him gay.

Like all good Poles, he hurriedly married the daughter of a KFC franchise owner. Through the marriage, John was promoted to manager in no time. There is no doubt that the marriage was arranged. "Father knows best" isn't just a saying, it's the truth. John's father was the first to realize his son was queerer than a $3 bill. Teachers and classmates recall John's affinity for contact sports, i.e. wrestling. It was no secret in the neighborhood that John's favorite part of the football game was the lockerroom interviews.

The Gacys settled in Waterloo, Iowa and had a son and a daughter. Gacy worked hard at his KFC franchise but still found time to kick back and party with the Jaycees. Despite his Polish heritage, John enjoyed the finer aspects of life (prostitution, porn, and hard drugs). To nobody's surprise, John grew tired of his role as a father and a husband and opened a boys' club in the basement of his home, where he provided them with booze in return for everything a Polish KFC manager could ever need.

Soon thereafter, two Waterloo boys, aged 16 and 15, accused him of sexually assaulting them. In retalliation, John hired some punks to beat up on the accusers, but was quickly snitched on, found guilty of sodomy, and sentanced to 10 years in prison. His wife divorced him, his father died on Christmas day, and he never saw his children again.

After being released from prison, John moved in with his mother and got a job as a chef in a Chicago restaurant. With the help of his mother, he bought a house with a four-foot deep crawl space under the floor. John remarried and had two daughters. Within the next several years, John was arrested a number of times for making sexual advances to children and teens, was divorced, and had become a political activist for the local Democratic Party, volunteering to clean the party offices.

With the bitches out of his life, John eventually earned the title of precinct captain and had the honor of having his photo taken with First Lady Carter, who was in town for the annual Polish Constitution Day Parade that Gacy was directing for the third year in a row. Carter posed for pictures with Gacy and autographed his photo. In the picture, Gacy is wearing an "S" pin, indicating a person who has received special clearance by the United States Secret Service. During the search of Gacy's house after his arrest, this photo caused a major embarrassment to the Secret Service.

As if he weren't weird enough, Gacy started dressing up as a clown, using childrens' parties and block parties as an excuse to act out on his alter ego.

From summer 1975 till January 1977, several of Gacy's employees and aquaintances mysteriously disappeared. Dear reader, I hope it isn't too hard to guess that he was raping and killing the men (in no particular order), then stuffing their bloated decomposing bodies under the floorboards.

The kidnappings and rapeings and killings went on for a couple of years. Gacy's victims were all male, ranging from 14-21 in age. Gacy grew tired of stuffing hacked up bodies under the floorboard so he did what any sensible Pole would do- he hired a teenage boy to do the job for him. Eventually, said handyman waltzed into work one evening to find his employer dressed in his clown suit, drunk off his ass, and with a set of handcuffs. Somehow, Gacy was able to convience his employee to get into the handcuffs. Unfortunately, the genepool wasn't cleansed that night, as the teenager managed to find the key and escape.

On December 21, 1978, one of Gacy's employees told police that Gacy was bragging about killing 30 people. Shortly thereafter, Gacy was convienently arrested for marijuana possession. Police took out a second warrant, went back to his house, and easily found the decomposing bodies in the crawlspace.

After being informed that he would now face murder charges, Gacy confessed to some 25-30 murders, telling investigators that most were buried in the crawlspace and on his property, and that he threw the last five bodies, after the crawlspace was full, off the I-55 bridge and into a river.

Gacy spent 14 years on death row before being lethally injected. During that time, he took up a hobby and painted his days away. Many of his paintings were signed by athletes, celebrities, and political figures such as Richard Nixon, the sold to charity. Usually, the famous signers were not informed that they were signing "Serial Killer Art."

His last meal consisted of KFC, strawberries, and deep fried shrimp.
His last words were "kiss my ass."


...But all of that is beside the point.
John Wayne Gacy's artwork sucks.




















SERIOUSLY.

XV

I spent $4 on triops.
The packet contained about 30 eggs.
I did everything right, including buying fancy spring water, working like Sisyphus to maintain the water temperature at 80F, and making sure that everything was done according to instruction booklet.
Only two hatched.

XIV

Let me tell you about a young asshole I met once.

We'll call him Lance.

I had the pleasure of meeting Lance down at Lake Alice during a Lunar Eclipse, earlier this February. He was down there, with his laptop, just chilling. He hastily acknowledged me and stated that he was an astronomy major, watching the eclipse, as though I were there to take him away in cuffs. I responded with a simple "good evening" and we sat there in silence for a nice five minutes, watching the earth's shadow blot out the moon.

Just as the moon was almost totally eclipsed, a sneeze broke the silence and Lance was off to the races. This kid had memorized the narration of the first episode of The Universe and decided to regurgitate it to my date and me. He went on about dark matter, black holes, worm holes, and the Big Bang. I was able to squeeze in a small bit on string theory, but he just brushed it off and explained that humans' trying to understand the universe is like an ant trying to understand calculus.

After his ninety minute banter Lance finally introduced himself, shook our hands, listed the numerous theater projects he's currently involved in, and informed us that his last name is a palindrome. I introduced myself, but before I finished my sentence he interrupted me, saying that he had to head home. He packed up his laptop, explained that he had to be up at 5 to train for a triathlon, wished us the best, and disappeared into the woods.

Lance killed my date's mojo.

XIII

I have a love/hate relationship with watercolors.

XII

I can't believe I'm having to copypasta for you people.
I hope you're happy.


One day on Halloween, I decided to fuck with the major retard at school when I came out of science for break. He was dressed as Ash. Knowing this was going to happen, I brought a Mudkips doll. Thus I started the conversation, making sure no one saw me.

"So I heard you like Mudkips..."

"Mudkips? I LUUUUUUUUUUUURVE MUDKIPS."

"Well uh would you fuck a Mudki-"

"OF COURSE!"

" happen to have a Mudkips here, and..."

Before I finished the sentence, which would have resulted in me hitting him across the face with the doll, he grabbed it. In one swift motion his pants were down and he was violently humping it. Not to get between a man and his Mudkips, I started to walk away, because there is no way I'd be caught wrestling a half-naked crazy guy humping a Mudkips.

Needles to say, within 5 to 10 seconds, some girls saw him and started screaming. I cooly walked into a restroom, pretending nothing had ever happened; not that I had intended that outcome, but now that it was in play I didn't want to be involved.

I came back two minutes later, and like any wanton act on school grounds there was now a huge crowd round him. He was still fucking it and baying this real fucked up 'EEEEEEEEEEINNNNF EEEEEEEEEEINNNF' sound. Suddenly a scuffle broke out in the middle, meaning he probably did something stupid. I asked someone what had happened. A girlfriend of one of the football players tried to get him to stop, but he bit her for trying to take it away. Someone called in a few football players (all dressed up like Road Warrior) who proceeded to pummel the shit out of the guy. Meanwhile the school police were freaking out and having trouble getting in to the situation.

A few minutes later the intruder alarm went off and we were shuffled into classrooms. Over the intercom the principal announced that someone had thrown a flaming plush toy into the library. Uh.. what the hell.

So we were kept there and about 30 minutes later the principal came on again. This time he was saying that whoever was behind the beating should turn themselves in. All of a sudden this woman began yelling “I WILL SUE YOU FOR DAMAGES. YOU LITTLE PUNKS, I’M GONNA SUE…” and it was cut off.

I asked an office later what had happened. Apparently his mother had come to pick him up and threatened to sue for the beating and 'whatever else happened.' The school threatened to counter-sue because of lewd conduct, inciting a riot, and starting a fight.

So I ask you: do you like Mudkips?

XI

X

The END is coming and you may die!

There has been a lot of talk of Armageddon lately. From Mayan predictions to asteroid storms predicted in the Bible Code, everybody is looking at 21 December 2012. The running joke among us gun-toting, baby-saving Republicans is that Obama will have fucked things up so much by 2012 that...well, you know.

But no, you have it all wrong. We all remember back in '98 when we gathered in Sherman to welcome the X-ists that would destroy the Pinks. And we all remember being so disappointed when we came down off our high and realized the Normals were still walking among us. Ddate Program Theorists rattle on about the date being read upside down, that X-Day won't come until 8661. However, we Yeti refuse to belive that we'll have to wait 6653 years for the flying-saucers' rendezvous. The end of the world is and forever will be set to end 5 July 1998. The Gregorian Calendar is wrong. 5 July 1998 has yet to come.

I am proud to announce, dear readers, that this 5 July I will be in New York to welcome the Sex Goddesses.

And to the Burners (you know who you are) I'll just add that THIS Church is proud to pay its taxes. We're for-profit, we want profit, and we want to cast out false profits.

PRAISE "BOB"

IX

Call me petty, but I just don't like you.

VIII

Thanksgiving Prayer

To John  Dillinger and hope he is still alive.
 

Thanksgiving Day November 28 1986
 

Thanks for the wild turkey and
the passenger pigeons, destined
to be shat out through wholesome
American guts.


Thanks for a continent to despoil
and poison.

Thanks for Indians to provide a
modicum of challenge and
danger.

Thanks for vast herds of bison to
kill and skin leaving the
carcasses to rot.

Thanks for bounties on wolves
and coyotes.

Thanks for the American dream,
To vulgarize and to falsify until
the bare lies shine through.

Thanks for the KKK.

For nigger-killin' lawmen,
feelin' their notches.

For decent church-goin' women,
with their mean, pinched, bitter,
evil faces.

Thanks for "Kill a Queer for
Christ" stickers.

Thanks for laboratory AIDS.

Thanks for Prohibition and the
war against drugs.

Thanks for a country where
nobody's allowed to mind the
own business.

Thanks for a nation of finks.

Yes, thanks for all the
memories-- all right let's see
your arms!

You always were a headache and
you always were a bore.

Thanks for the last and greatest
betrayal of the last and greatest
of human dreams.

 

-William Burroughs 

VII

HOLY GOD YES, MEAT! MEAT MEAT MEAT MEAT MEAT!

Who knew that something I like could produce things I like?

Words of encouragement!



Say, that's a real variety of meats. Kids LOVE sweetbreads!



Wait a minute...



You know what I really like in a meal? SURPRISES!



"But," I hear you declare, "I only know how to cook for women!"



"Ouch!", "Might not be terrible...", and "Who doesn't enjoy those?!"
In that order.



Golly, those were some great meals, but now what?



Well, I hope you've all learned a little about cooking with meat...and with luck, a little about yourselves!
Have a great day, kids!

Originally posted 9.6.08 on the myspace blog

VI

Upon awakening this morning, I turned to my lover and asked if he had given any thought to surviving a Zombie Apocalypse. Surprisingly, and disappointingly so, he didn't have an answer for me. I've figured my room would be an ideal place to hide, if I didn't have a way to get out of town. 3 stories up, dead-bolted steel door, cinder-block walls, a sink for water, and a balcony with one hell of a view. Sure, maybe my best bet would be to just sacrifice myself to live amongst the undead, but at least it doesn't sound as bad as being dismembered and disemboweled in the stairwell. I reminded myself that there is no food in my room. Nonsense! I have a hamster, a fish, and a roommate.

They say you learn something new everyday, and today, my lover informed me of an unfortunate biological trait we've adapted.

Since the dawning of civilization, cannibalism has been as natural as sex- every species does it, some do it more than others, some see it as a holy rite, and some look down upon it. What is often ignored is that if you eat your neighbor's arm before it is cooked, you'll throw it right up. This thought unnerved me. We eat raw fish in our sushi. We're only ever told to steer clear of raw beef, pork, and poultry because of parasites and bacteria. Surely at some point in recent time there have been cases of people eating raw human flesh and keeping it down. Right? Right? Wrong.
After extensive research, I've come to find that this fact is, sadly, true. Jeffery Dahmer, the Donner Party, Liver-Eating Johnson, and the survivors of Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571 all roasted their victims/friends/coworkers over an open fire before consumption. I cannot express in words how far down my spirit sunk when I confirmed this fact. I imagine it's how the colorblind kid in that sappy movie felt when he found out he couldn't grow up to be a fighter pilot. Congratulations, human race, you've managed to over-evolve yourself to the point that if you had to survive off of eating each other, you'd better have a fire.

V

Another Halloween has come and gone.

The costumes change annually to keep up with whatever the Disney Channel is pumping into our kids' decaying minds, but one thing remains constant year-to-year:

Types of Houses Trick-or-Treaters will encounter

The Shut-In: This particular asshole will hide. Their lights go off for a couple of hours, and when the kids have left, the lights come back on. The unfortunate side-effects of being the 'shut-in' include getting "COCKCHEESE" written on your bay window, and the ever so popular egging.

The creepy old pervert: When asked "Trick or Treat?!" they are eager to see your treat, and then offer to show you their treats as well. Note: watch for their tongue licking their lips.

The Anti-Halloween Pentacostoids: They are rare, but usually one per neighborhood. They appear to be the friendly type and will even smile as they place a treat in your plastic pumpkin. Note: hey kids, this is where those little comic Bibles are coming from. Parents, don't try to return the tracts, because this might result in an ear-fucking diatribe about how you are in violation of...

EPHESIANS 5:11
or
I THESSALONIANS 5:22

The neighborhood cracked-out haunted house: We've all seen them, and sure as hell have been to one. Ironically, it is the neighborhood pariah who turns out to be this over-achiever that cluster fucks every light socket in their house with black lights, strobe lights, and other various motorized gadgets. This overgrown man-child will answer the door with a chainsaw and a hockey mask, scaring the crap out of children to the wonderful hardcore retro 33rpm record of Disney's Haunted Mansion Soundtrack (chilling thrilling sounds of the haunted house).

IV

A rat king is formed when a number of rats become tied together by their tails. Most rat kings consist of a tangled mass of between 5 - 10 rats, although rat kings comprised of up to 32 rats have been reliably recorded.

Rat kings are thought to be formed when the tails of young rats become glued together by feces and urine while in the nest. The knots thus formed are then pulled tighter when the rats attempt to extricate themselves. Sometimes rat kings perish due to their inability to forage effectively. However, they are sometimes also fed by other family members.Attempts to induce rat kings in the laboratory by tying the tails of live rats together have been unsuccessful to the extent that the results look nothing like real kings. However, gluing the tails of rats together has been more successful. Although initially not knotted, the rats themselves struggle until a true knot is formed.


(originally posted 3.9.08)

III

Pope Alexander VI was a lawyer by training. He was among the wealthiest and most ambitious men in Europe, fond of his many mistresses and his illegitimate offspring. He indulged his worldly tastes with great vigor and was one of the most corrupt and secular popes in history. Alexander is perhaps best remembered for his Ballet of Chestnuts, in which fifty courtesans crawled naked on the floor collecting chestnuts that had been strewn across the papal apartments, following which was an obligatory orgy. Prizes were awarded to men who could make his partner(s) orgasm the quickest, and the most.
Though it was never proven that he was poisoned, after having dined with Cardinal Adriano da Corneto, Alexander started foaming at the mouth. Over the next few days his skin began to peel off, his face turned dark red and swelled, and his stomach turned to liquid. His passing was a messy one. Everything in his death room, including the carpet, had to be disposed of, as his body was said to be spewing sulfurous gas and oozing liquefied organs from every orifice. The priests of St. Peter's Basilica refused to accept the rotting corpse for burial, until forced to do so by papal staff. Although Alexander received his last rites moments before his last breath, Pope Pius III, his successor, forbade the saying of Mass for the repose of Alexander's soul.

II

Wayne Roth, 38, of Pittston, was bitten by a cobra belonging to his friend, Roger Croteau, after playfully reaching into the tank and picking up the snake. Wayne subsequently refused to go to a hospital, telling Roger, "I'm a man. I can handle it."

Instead of a hospital, Wayne reported to a bar. He had three drinks, and enjoyed bragging that he had just been bitten by a cobra. Cobra venom is a slow-acting central nervous system toxin. He died within a few hours, in Jenkins Township, Pennsylvania.

I

Two years ago I sat in the Plaza of the Americas, drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette, and reading for my comparative politics class. In all honesty, I was there with the intent that drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette, and reading a comparative politics textbook would lure the attention of a scruffy lad who takes his coffee black. Needless to say, that only happens in commercials for LenseCrafters.
Near by, the Student Health Organization was passing out free flavored condoms to the mass of students walking to and from lunch. People-watching was inevitable.
You've got the girl walking by herself that takes what's handed to her with unflinching confidence and discretely slips them in her purse as she gets her cell phone out.
Following her, you've got the small group of guys, still wet behind the ears from high school. They diverge their route in order to score these freebies. They take them with some sort of pride and humor, show them off to their friends, walk to the end of the corridor, stuff them in their backpack, then meander back for a couple more.
Then you've got the hand-in-hand couple that have been together since their junior year in high school. She'll take two with a sheepish smile and stick them in his pocket as they walk away quickly, eyes transfixed on the ground.
My favorite is the fratish-looking guy who walks by himself, nose in the air, takes them quickly without looking at the person giving them out, looks over his shoulder, then shoves the little packets in his front pocket with more force than necessary.
The kids giving out the condoms always seem disturbingly chipper. On second thought, I suppose there's nothing to frown about when you're passing out flavored condoms.