Wednesday, May 28, 2008



I nailed her once out of curiousity, and twice for flinching. I needed sexual healing—and indeed, her love was like bad medicine, and she gave me medicine head. It was like a money-shot heard 'round the world, and all-too-often, by my roommates.

Sorry, guys.

She was a sweet girl, and with few regrets of our time ill-spent together, brief though it thankfully was—indeed, it was cervix with a smile. But something was amiss about the Ms. I couldn't put my finger on it, though I'd had my fingers in it several times. Perhaps this was the problem, in the end...

It was friendly fire from the meat rifle. You should never use your friends as sex toys.

Women have all the best toys, of course, and always have. I worked in a porn shop; it's the second lesson you learn (the first being, Use the bathroom next door…). Men's sex toys are never cool; they're fragile and expensive like a real woman, but they smell terrible, and no matter how much you spent or how good it looks, you're still a sad little man who comes home to a cold rubber hole.

That musky lube n' latex smell always stuck with me, long after I quit the shop. Cold and clinical—sterile yet filthy—it's like a quivering little dentist's office hunched down on all fours.

Eventually, this goes somewhere.

Ah yes…that night, that wretched night…


There was food and drink, and drink, and drink. And then, later, we drank.

She was a good friend, though she stood outside the circle; and like all who stand outside of circles, there was a high risk of possession. But low inhibitions love high risks, and to seek a higher love some nights is just to say you seek a higher proof. Some friends of mine desired her; but it was I, Rasputin, who appeared to hold the mantle—dusty though it was, and cluttered with denial. I sort of knew, but didn't want to. I wasn't sure I wanted her; I wasn't sure I didn't. I only knew I wanted something soon.

She was mourning the loss of a long-term fling and a short-term buzz like a widow at the wake… Well, I thought, there's only one way to console a widow, right? Weaving the last frayed threads of courage into a hangman's rope of utter ballsiness, I pondered my odds, ogled her curves, and took my best shot at my worst idea.


Score one for Rasputin, and a couch that might not ever be the same. If walls could talk, they'd just console the floor; the poor thing had an awful night. And yet the further I went, the closer I got to realizing just how bad this could turn out. In seeking an out, I pleaded no contest and no condom; but I was not about to get off quite so easy (or rather not get off, as such)—she came prepared, and I would either let her down or lay her down right then.

It was no longer my conquest; rather, it became hers. When the good get going, the bad get going at it really good. But with every awkward fondle and averted gaze, even the silent language of our pores and glands began to hint that this was not a good idea. Something about her pheromones threw me off.

It took forever to pick up on her signals. She made zero noise, and never moved unless I physically moved her limbs for her. I constantly positioned her like a doll, aiming for a response of any sort, and eventually a freckle for a target. When she came, it was like a shy and blushing Hentai chick—no sound, no shake, no motion…then an odd little grunt followed by a fine filmy trickle from the bunnyhole. The first time out, I didn't notice—I'd assumed I was a failure, until she finally pulled away, and breathless, said, "Last one." Sure enough, there was a small mess and the musk of her unsettling pheromones.

It felt so petty to even notice, yet something waiting out the whiskey deep within whispered and insisted that it all had meaning still. I almost lost interest; there was something weird, familiar about that scent. I shrugged it off, and took my turn. The condom ripped; she offered up another. I don't recall the brand, but Lemmy help me, I'll never buy it. They were cheap, tight, and desensitizing. The spermicide smelled like bile and melting plastic, like someone had been trying to eat Tupperware and heaved. I was about twenty thrusts to payday when it hit me…it wasn't just her offbeat chemistry, or some Third World spermicide—on any other night, I'd never care. It was a combination of things, a conspiracy of tactile discontentment…sight, sound, smell, and taste…an alien sensation, like I wasn't meant to be there. Bah…whiner.

I finally placed the scent as the friction stirred it up…that sterile-but-dirty, sickly clinical hospital smell: she smelled just like a sex toy, an artificial vagina.

Combined with her silence, limp passivity and lack of natural response, I felt more so then than ever like I was viciously screwing a blow-up doll.


One man's daughter is another man's disappointment. But then, Need is a harsh mistress; and when staring face to busoms, nose to nipples with a word made flesh that spells relief, release, and nobody's fault but mine, anybody's tune can change, anybody's life can become a Lynyrd Skynyrd lyric, and this bird you'll never change—happy as a lark until the vultures gather 'round, to see who stumbles naked from your room.

One day, you awake to the smothering falseness of the world around you. It was Wednesday; I was due. "Reality is what you get away with," I said; and some nights, I get away with far too much. One day, the Veil of Maya lifts, and you realize it's as filthy as all your other linens in the pile.

It's all a distraction; it's all a diversion…a Black Iron Prison, and every Need and Want about you just the spear of a centurion.


I knew what I needed, and gave her what she wanted, until I needed her not to want it anymore. I had second thoughts going in, and a third thought going down…

I don't generally fuck people I like; it's better if I feel like they deserve the abuse. Hunger says I need to shoot the lamb; the Will to Eat says, "She's a dirty, dirty lamb. Aim for the head." Love is the Law; Fire at Will.

She basked in a brevity of afterglow and a heaviness of sweat. I basked in the metaphors around me, bitter esoterica with the smells and tastes of all I didn't need. Huddled in a murky, sunless room, bathed in flickers of artificial light, a lasting ick and lingering swishes of another successful failure, I was fingering the stitches that held a deeper wound together, with a blaring of the stereo and a bottle full of sleep.

Sometimes, it's fucking great to be alive; and sometimes, only "sometimes" is enough. Suicide is only cowardice if you do it in your sleep. Again, I insist within, that I'm prolonging the inevitable. Tonight, we'll say I'm referring just to sleep. Sleep, like death, is something that we often resist merely out of habit, and frequently out of formality.

It's an artificial peace. Even when the mornings fall on afternoons…the aches, the dread, the throbbing head…the calls that never cease… imminent alarms blaring out imminent doom.


I sent her on her way. We'd reconvene sporadically throughout the week, but I found myself needing greater and greater levels of intoxication to make it through. I didn't want to hurt her feelings; but she'd gone from a good friend to a slinky, writhing mess of all and everything I didn't want. I found myself erect out of sheer courtesy and awake out of sheer nuisance. "Not tonight," I'll say. She'll pout and cock an eyebrow, "Headache?" "No," I'd reply, "Liver failure."

I sip the caramel-colored hemlock more evenings than I should, but I've always known the truth from hype—be it "wise spirits" this, "spiritual drink" that, or "love by candlelight and triple-barrel distillation"…the truth is that no bottle of booze in existence—regardless of malt, price range, or reputation among other inebriates—has ever been, nor ever will be, a "wise liquor," a "spiritual drink," any "worker of love," or anything apart from an alcoholic pipe dream…a "bourbon legend." I've said it oft before, and even still I only sometimes listen: The piss-ant, when pissed on, does not become more "ant." Thus, no drunken man, upon further drinking, has ever become more "man." However, some have compared favorably with the aforementioned ant.

Artificial colors, artificial flavors—every word but "80 proof" is just a hollow lie. It says "very rare" on the label, but they had a thousand bottles on the shelf. At least as many empties clink across the bedroom floor. "Imported," but it's made in Tennessee… "Premium," but it's seven bucks a fifth…

It's an artificial confidence, to quench the coward's thirst…to lend an artificial joy, to all our joyless toys and worse.


Hormones, pheromones, erogenous zones and grating tones…sometimes you're better off waking up alone. I'll bemoan waking alone…bitch n' moan, bitch n' moan…and yet I wouldn't let her sleep with me. I gave her what she wanted, took the minimum I needed, and sent her on her way.

At the end of the day, I would be a notch on her bedpost disguised as a notch on mine. I don't believe in "love" so much as psychosis-driven affection. I've often posited that there is no "good" or "evil," only actions with consequences—some favorable, some not. I likewise contend that there is no "love," but rather, desire with tenacity—some desires being more tenacious and enduring than others, like syphilis without all the brain hemorrhaging.

Love shall light our way like lamps of burning human fat…
But it's an artificial light. (Nero's lanterns burning bright)
Beyond the old heave ho, it only heaves with old(er) hat.


She made life seem less empty for a time; but the void that cuts upon her absence expresses only that it was merely a distraction. But from what? The faith I don't have? The hope I can't see? The gods I can't hear? The penultimate truth I can never fully know? I don't need to go out and find myself; I'm not out there. I'm right here, awake with only increments more angst than any other godless morning after, mourning afternoon. I won't find myself in anyone's beliefs. I'm not lost; I just did something I wish I hadn't—the key is that I know. And the Tree of Knowledge bore fruit tasting of Sunday's satin undies on a Tuesday afternoon, with a scent of bitter loss and inexpensive mall perfume. It's not quite paradise lost; still I shall slither back from Eden, having done the Devil's work.

Religion is no less a distraction. Most religions and philosophies, myths and metaphors we live by or live against, are like crumpled-up old sailor's maps…street guides before the age of GPS: the map is not the territory, and no map can ever show you the exact locale of every shark or giant squid at every time—hell, even in this day and age, 95% of our ocean's unexplored. No road map tells you what the traffic's like, or if the cops are out in force tonight, or if some neighbor's drooling offspring is playing ball out in the street. The menu is not the meal; and no menu's gonna tell you if the cook teabagged your food.

I don't buy into absolutes, though my disbelief is couched in absolutist terms. No shepherd's scroll or tribal legend, no hero myth or Channeled Regent, is ever there to warn you when the walls come tumbling down. That's not to say that one can't dodge a bullet now and then, living by the book or heeding words of old…but it is to say that those books, those words, won't tell you the location of every gunman, garden snake, and gloryhole. You have to think for yourself, and be prepared for sudden stops, or giant squid, or cock hairs in your food.

And sometimes, you have to be prepared to accept that you're a lecherous alcoholic who ruins countless friendships with his penis. Oh, wait—nevermind; I found some Vicodin. Carry on.

Be it love or faith… kisses, cock or codeine…it's all diversionary. It's an artificial hope, bathed in artificial light. But truly, these are artificial times.

There's a raven at my door, and Old Crow in my glass; let's shed a (tiny) artificial tear, and let it pass…


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Tuesday, May 27, 2008


June 30th, 2007

The dream is dead, but my loins are purring. My eyes are tired, but my mind is swimming. I don't know what I am here for anymore. But then I saw her standing there…and God be praised, even as He is betrayed.

And it came to pass that upon coming, I would come to pass on for countless twitching hours a great and terrible Peace I felt from her name and my ignorance: it was that I knew her name, and it was Jezebel; and that I knew nothing else at all about her, other than she did not know me, either. Great and terrible indeed was this piece of Peace, and of ass--it was a piece that passes all understanding.

I knew not her faith or creed, yet knew the name of every god she called for when she screamed. And so it was, that God knew the number of hairs upon her head; and that I would know the number and location of every birthmark, and the shapes that each would make when squeezed from an infinity of angles. And as I ravaged as reprobate the image of God among the Godless, I swiftly and with Heaven's hellfire would eat the flesh of a perfect sacrifice--as the lips of the devoted shook and shivered from the gift of tongues… It was here that nipples were erect and temples were defiled, where dreams and visions of pale steeds and scarlet whores gave sight to the blind and bound, and soothing aloe to the handcuffed... Where the erect Elect took up their cross as handmaidens took off their clothes… Where the knees of those who knelt were ground to thin stigmata while the master gnawed on any ears that were to hear, all that I would whisper here--sweet nothings, precious else and the lonely now. For, by grace, the Lonely Now was yesterday.

And sometimes, I need to be reminded why I can never get attached. Such pleasures of the flesh and those beneath the chest...creature comforts, comforted creatures...damsels in distress, undressed; paradise by dashboard fright. It all makes you write stupid things. At the end of the night, it was a fleeting glimmer of hope, and an epic smear across the sheets. In the end, I am unredeemable; I'm not even worth ten cents in Minnesota. I am resigned to fate, or fatality.

But still...Love just sits there, gawking at you…peering creepily through the blinds.

Bah. It probably has bugs in it, anyway.


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Monday, May 26, 2008


May 28, 2007

God is love when you're getting laid...but love is dead when you're out of smokes.

Nothing emphasizes one's own ugliness like meeting a truly beautiful person. And there is nothing like meeting someone truly wonderful to make you realize what an utterly horrible human being you are. There is nothing like encountering a winning combination to help you realize your losing odds. There is nothing like encountering all you might ever want to realize all you'll never have or find.

You look, and then you lust...and you think of all the awful, perverse and wondrous things you'd like to do to her...the way (or ways) you might molest her every inch and crevice, orifice, and tender bits--lick and nibble, bite and fuck, slap, manhandle, screw, defile her every goddamned cell...nail her very DNA into the floorboards until it dripped and slithered with the very primordial ooze from wence it came, and you came on.

And then Conscience says, "You know, they arrest people for that." Or worse--yes, worst of all, it says: "You know, she does have parents..."

And so you stop. You pause, reflect...regret. And then you dream anew...and look, and lust, all over again. "Fuck it," you say.

"Sure, she has a mother. So did the steak I ate today. So did the eggs I had for breakfast--they had a mother. In fact, not only did those eggs have a mother, but I took that mother, plucked it, skinned it, breaded and deep-fried it. Fuck it. Fuck its mother. Fuck it all to hell. We all have mothers. We also all have needs."

And the way things really are...the elephant in our living rooms, shitting its collosal elephant shits upon our mouse-sized dreams...this is how it truly is...this is what we are reduced to: that we close our eyes upon fondling what we have, that we might imagine it is what we want. We shall penetrate our hideous conquests, drunken, eyes wide shut and stomach churning at the very touch and every passing scent...and dream we're making love to all we'll never have. Truly I ask, is ignorance really bliss? Because bliss never resembles what we wake to in the morning, yet ignorance still follows through the day. We're screwed if we do; we're screwed if we don't. And some of us are screwed because we never did, and likely never will.


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Sunday, May 25, 2008


May 8, 2007

***transcribed from some bar napkins I scribbled on, some restless fuzzy nights ago***

The weird, the wild, the drunk and can't pub-crawl with any meaning unless the emphasis be upon the crawl itself. Learn to crawl before you walk, I say: because seven Irish Car Bombs down the mad and winding road, walking isn't quite all that it was.

Learn to enjoy the crawl, live to love--yea, love to live--the crusty floor you crawl upon; you'll be stretched out, strung out, curled upon its granite before long. Learn to love your neighbor, in that sense.

A pack of Pall Malls to offer up to dear ol'/dead ol' Vonnegut--either to celebrate his life and gift, or gloat upon another liberal gone, either/or like Kierkegaard and just as foreign, if anything is ever truly such: this was all I needed at the moment. Live in the moment.

Love the crawl, love the granite looming ever-near. Live and love the moment.

I suckled that smoke like your mother's sweaty teat. Short breaths, long drags, smoke rings, cancer nuzzled like a lover... "I've never seen anyone enjoy a cigarette like that," the bartender remarked, as I smoked the unfiltered Coughin' Nails to the nub like a joint until it singed my thumb.

"Cigarettes?" I said, "I hardly care. I never really liked them." And then I lit another.

I'm living, drinking, smoking in the moment, in the now. The cigarettes just share that sacred space. I don't enjoy the cigarettes; I enjoy the moment. And next I'll have another double-whiskey, and play some sloppy pool with my limping, leering friend. I'll enjoy it even though I know I'll lose. And then I shall hit upon some random bar slut, whomever might be left or wobbly, whose freckles aren't quite cancerous. Maybe I'll get a hummer in the stall. It isn't quite a honeymoon, but it's pickled drooling refuge for the moments that it lasts. And it's real, unlike the number that I'll give her. Fuck 'er, fuck it all; it's not about tomorrow. Tomorrow is not now. Love the moment, love the now; love the freckles that aren't quite cancer. Love it all, and how.

Some drunken redneck will want to fight; he'll smell like sweat and failure. I'll get caught checking out some girl's behind, because I will not see the mirror. I'll eat some things I shouldn't; the girl may or may not be on that list.

It takes a special sort of Zen to find the beauty in the ugliness in every breath and step I take, lest the next be taken from me. It's a special sort of eyes. Hindsight is 20/20, but I'm down to just one contact, and I've had it in for months. But maybe life is better that way--viewed through a milky, floating lens. At least it is right now.

The gang--those warriors left still standing or not currently vomiting--will gather when all is done, and the Crawl is now just rough slumps against time...stop-sell time, last call for alcohol, and first crack at tomorrow's headache. We'll laugh and do illegal things. The room will move in frames and tracers. Philosophy will soak the air. "It's's the thing," someone will say, "It's everything." In the morning, it's a joke; but I'm sure it will seem quite meaningful at the time. But the best things in life are such, no doubt--deep for a time, and deeply weird forever. The best jokes start out as parables, no?

I'll smoke another Pall Mall, maybe three; I still don't care for cigarettes--and I'll hate them in the morn, but I'm fresh out of cigars. We'll toast one up for Vonnegut again, and talk about Ice-Nine, though some will just pretend to get the joke, and wander, rolling, stoned, into another room. I won't see them again, but they were my best friends in the world. At least they were right then. Someone wants to watch a movie, but they'll pass out on the couch.

Fuck 'em. Fuck it all. Sleep is death. But with every passing movement, dying doesn't seem so bad. Death is just another way of life. I'd pass out sooner, but the cat's left a surprise for me. Every pussy mocks me, even that. Live in the moment, love the moment, yeah...but some moments are easier loved than others by night's end. Still, I'll live it just the same.

Maybe all of that will happen; maybe it already did. Maybe none of it will happen. But I'll still wind up in bed; and the swearwords, I assure you, are the same.

As I nod and drift and cough a bit, fighting back the nausea of the night, losing my gaze as if my very astral form into the ceiling fan whirring above the bed, I'll think but for a moment, Is there something more than this? Surely, there is something more--if not beyond the shell of flesh, if not beyond the silent least beyond the ceiling fan, I guess.

Of course--and like all fate--it finds me. As I roll and scratch my friendly bits, I'll feel a crunch beneath the sheet. An issue of Blue Blood or some such goth chick porn awaits, perhaps--battered by age and the crusts of countless dead. Ah, something more indeed!

"Thank you, Lord," I'll say within, and jerk myself to sleep.



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Saturday, May 24, 2008


April 23, 2007

Now that the statute of limitations has lifted, I believe I can safely regale you all with a true tale of harrowing anticlimactic anti-wonder.

The following was taken from an old journal, wherein I was writing about my first LSD experience (or non-experience--since it was apparently gank shit), as it happened (or didn't, as such). I took three (or so) tabs and got near-jackshit, but found a way to write about it anyway, as it all unfolded...or failed to, in that instance. Of note, this was the first appearance of my "warm, buttered assholes" fiat.

My chickenscratch was almost undecipherable (and written in faded-out pencil, no less!)--I can't believe I managed to transcribe this at all. Enjoy.

ca. 2001

I wish I could call The Professor, my old Dope Mentor. But it's late, and his extended family would likely saw his head clean off for receiving phone calls this late--and The Prof would be no good to anyone without a head. He would be too short.

Tonight, I received a gift--"presents of mind" if you will...I certainly did. Tonight, I'm waiting on God or Godot...waiting for the Saviour or the Saucer Men--waiting on SOMETHING. Good acid is, allegedly, the gift that keeps on giving, like incest and syphilis. I have yet to discover whether this is "good" acid, but it is likely to continue giving, nonetheless; I have to work tomorrow, and I took way more than I was told to. Sadly, I have fallen prey to the old "It's not working must be weak...I'll just take some more!" folly, as I've done with other things in the past... Whoops.

Oh well. So far, I am largely unimpressed. I am lounging on the sofa in a colorful Death Metal t-shirt and a kilt, listening to King Crimson's Red on repeat, and staring at the large, menacing, skeletal luna moth model we have hanging from the ceiling. The image of it all is surreal enough without the drugs. That's part of the problem--I'm fucked up enough without the drugs. Thus, when I do them, I'm only disappointed. I expect too much. But what do people really expect when they drop acid? To be much like I am in my natural state, I gather. I suppose I expect to "transcend" at some point--"cross the Rubicon" and all that. But really, where do I go from here?

Oh yeah...Hell.

Case in point: The other day, I asked a coworker a typical question: If someone were to hand you a bowl of hot buttered assholes, would you put salt on them? No, really...would you? The question, as posed, is trickier than it seems. I suppose it would be like musky, puckered tortellini. And I asked this question sober, and earnestly. It was not unusual by my standards, not atypical at all. So again, I ask you, where the fuck do I go from here?

Oh yeah, to work--early tomorrow afternoon. And Hell.

Perhaps I should write a piece for the new book about people tweaking about restlessly in a room, waiting for their acid to kick in. It could be cute. I wonder how many great things have been accomplished in this world while people were waiting for their acid to hit. I imagine most of them turned out to be children's shows.

Dear God, that luna moth is creepy.

I'd love to note in this entry about how I/we obtained this shit--it's actually pretty funny, but alas I cannot. I can, however, report this much of the story, which is humorous enough in its own right: I ate a lot things I probably shouldn't have (certainly nothing new for me, I suppose, given my relationship history). A friend of mine, whom we shall call "The Doctor," said that he was leaving it for me at work. He said that it went straight from the dropper onto a piece of paper, and that I'm supposed to eat the paper. It would be in my mailbox, but never specified what sort of paper it was. Well, of all days to get lots of fucking get the idea. I have never gotten so many notes, post-its, and announcements in my entire life as I have on this forsaken day. After work, the good Doctor finds me in the parking lot and says, "Oh, hey man--sorry I didn't get to your mailbox--here it is!"

Dear God, am I bored. Oh but for a toaster to sprout legs and crawl across the floor. Oh but for a glimpse of the cats chanting Satanic litanies, sacrificing a cricket to Yog-Sothoth. Oh but for Yog-Sothoth to be playing golf with Barney Rubble. Oh but for SOMETHING.

Dear God, dear God, dear God...sincerely, bored in StL.



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Friday, May 23, 2008


April 19, 2007


A redhead sight for sore eyes (a redhead, well-read and dead ahead-head on dead-set to set her deadly sight upon the short-sighted large-hearted, the unwed unknowns she knew had enough singles; and we knew she'd had enough of singles, sick of every single coupling, or sick couple who'd singled her out to throw her in, eat her out while she blew the men and then blow the candles out now that she'd been broken in and blown any chance of release, new men were shown in, greased up and released upon a rare shot to shoot their cock-snot release within, as they know her rhythmically and biblically, back and forth, in an out and out forth across her back as she held cock in hand and held back rage within, barely able to handle either as she caved in, thrown back, until her back was thrown out…sighted shortly bedding heads of state, in short, heading any stately beds in sight, shaken up but moving right along, she was moving up and right ahead, long behind unsightly affairs with upstate movers and shakers, whom she'd given head and shaken all night long in a state of affairs, that in hindsight left her sorely out, left behind…beheld leaving by morning light in a state of shock, with red eyes and a sore behind, a long night ahead and fairly shocking bedhead. ******************************

If nothing else, this one proves that while I was not necessarily a better writer on methamphetamines, I was apparently a formidable rapper.


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Thursday, May 22, 2008


April 19th, 2007

I was digging through my oldest archives and notebooks, and found the weirdest series of scribbles...apparently, several years ago, I got the idea to write a combination Narnia/Paradise Lost parody at some point, and then lost interest and forgot about it. I have no memory of any of this, but then, those were wild years... Here are the notes I found:


One entrance is in a closet behind old smelly coats, a la Narnia. The gateway/door must be jimmied with a Golden Coathanger. There is a large yellow cat named Asohl. He is the Guide. He is somewhat ill-tempered. People alternately accuse him of looking like Garfield, Morris the Cat, and the Cowardly Lion. He hates this.

There are English-speaking beavers. I don't mean the flat-tailed mammals.

There should be Oz, Narnia, Paradise, Valhalla and Elysia references.
There are people constantly raking the Garden of Delight. They are looking for crack.

You must roll three sixes to get in the four gates...or should that be seven gates? (Hence, "Paradise Rolled"/Pair-o'-Dice. God, I need sleep.).

At least one Cloud 9 gag? Nah...
"Does he throw good parties? Babe, Donner throws EXCELLENT parties!"

No Catholics anywhere; the Pentecostals wouldn't let them in. The Pentecostals were the financial backers of Heaven. It didn't exist before they built it. Before Heaven, the Angels all had jobs as fairies and such. Therefore, for job security purposes, they indulge the fundies. They are in the process of tearing down the great Hanging Gardens of Heaven. Reasons? The fundies only allowed it to be built because they thought they would be hanging Heathens and Catholics there. Then, to make matters worse, they found out that there were hanging gardens in BABYLON! And worse still—"The Hanging Garden" is a Cure song, and Rock n' Roll is of the Devil! The Pentecostals/Fundies do Nero-type stuff to unbelievers and members of other denominations. They eventually get jobs as chief torturers in Hell.

GOD is independent from Heaven or Paradise. He isn't there.

The ultimate corridor with the ultimate truth should have a Rake in the Face gag.

"You have been weighed in the balance and found wanting" ("Mene mene tekel upharsin").

There's also a 12th century Latin phrase; tanquam si quis crucifigeret Paulum ut redemeret Petrum (as it were that one would crucify Paul in order to redeem Peter). There are other similar references in French and other languages, referring to clothes as well as money and crucifixion, but the oldest that uses the verb "rob" is from Wycliffe.


I have no idea what half of this even means now--I haven't touched this file in nearly seven (or more) years! So a lot of my references and quotes are a mystery to even me. I seriously have no fucking clue what the quotes at the end were for...

But out of context, I thought this was funny.


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Wednesday, May 21, 2008


January 17, 2007

Sure...I'll return to my long-promised Bang Thy Neighbor series conclusion soon...but first, this:

I got the most awesome e-mail today:

"Final Attempt: Free Trip to Las Vegas for Jesus Christ!"

You see, I signed up for Publishers Clearing House under the name of "Jesus Christ," for the sole purpose of getting letters that said:


Because PCH sells your name like a Thai prostitute sells ya-ba, I've gotten so many truly hilarious-sounding e-mails, that I tend to keep them, just for the titles. This last e-mail was the perfect opportunity to wrap up a hobby that has lasted since 2004.

So, without further adieu, here are some of my favorite pieces of the Lord's Latest Mail (with my commentary beneath each entry):


From: ""
Subject: Jesus Christ! Congratulations!

Fucking A! Thanks!

From: "EzLender4UOnweb"
Subject: Good Morning, Jesus Christ!

Good afternoon, Holy Spirit...

From: "Diane Klinger"
Subject: I'm trying to reach Jesus Christ

Aren't they all?

From: "Cashflow Center"
Subject: Jesus -I'd like to talk to you tomorrow (Thurs.), please confirm

"Thusday is bad for Me, but I can schedule a Friday car crash around, oh...say...3ish? Now, if you need earlier, there's a plane going down at noon..."

From: "BigMike"
Subject: Hi Jesus, You Got IMPORTANT Mail

I suppose He would, wouldn't He?


From: "Publishers Clearing House"
Subject: Script Transmitted:: Route To: CHRIST

(Here's a particularly memorable quote from the letter...)

Jesus Christ, you could find yourself in a position to really help us.
You see, recently we had a winner reaction that was less than exciting.
This resulted in a TV commercial that disappointed everyone at Publishers Clearing House
(including our boss).
We really want to make sure our winning moments are great. That's where you could come in.

From: "Psychic Connection"
Subject: Jesus You Must Test Your Psychic Connection Now!

"(Tap-tap-tap...) Is this thing on?"

From: "Certified Mail"
Subject: Jesus, are you an instant winner?

Only in Biblical Weeks.

From: "Department Cor"
Subject: Jesus, is this your confirmation number?

"777? Yeah, that's Me..."

From: "ECQ"
Subject: JESUS, last step to complete your search

To find ten good men in Sodom?

From: "Christian Debt Network"
Subject: Jesus saves…and so can you with Christian Debt Network.

"I'm Jesus Christ, and I approve of this message. Amen."

From: "Your Interests Only"
Subject: Perfect cookie for Jesus (adv)

File under: A meal fit for a king!


The following "offers" sound dangerously suspicious, in a mafioso kind of way, if read in sequence...

From: "Robert Allen"
Subject: Jesus, wanna' make $24k in 24 hours?

"Pssst...hey buddy...yeah, you, with the holes in your hands..."

From: "careerfinder"
Subject: Jesus, we're trying to reach you regarding a job

"We're going to make You an offer You can't refuse..."

Subject: Jesus, want to join the Military?

"So...about this would You feel about, oh...killing a man? $24k! All legal!"


From: "DreamMates"
Subject: Jesus, are you single?

Is this one of those "Jesus Only" arguments?

From: ""
Subject: Jesus, christian singles cafe - cozy, romantic

"...cozy, romantic...holy..."

From: "Where Christians Meet"
Subject: Jesus - Meet Real Christian Singles

As opposed to those posers in Your church.

From: "Chris M"
Subject: Check out this girl, Jesus :)

Mary: "Jesus...son, when are You going to settle down and give me some grandkids? You know, I saw that nice girl at the supermarket...she asked about You again... What? Oh fine, then--break Your mother's heart!"

From: "HotMatchup"
Subject: Jesus Christ, Sizzling profiles & hot photos of sexy women!

Maybe the direct approach is best?


From: "$50K Makeover"
Subject: Jesus Enter a new chapter in your life

A new Revelation, if you will...

From: ""
Subject: Jesus, regain your good standing

Because You really owe those people after the tsunami...

From: "RRN"
Subject: Jesus Christ Your Debt is Erased

Hallelujah! He's forgiven Himself!

From: "BN Fast Auto Loans"
Subject: JESUS, everyone deserves a second chance.

Except Hitler. Fuck that guy.

From: ""
Subject: Jesus Believe me, you better take sunscreen!

Because it's going to be pretty hot where You're going...


From: "TakeOne Entertainment"
Subject: Jesus Christ come meet the Lord of the Free DVD

"It's been pretty busy here in Heaven, so we've had to outsource a few things..."

From: "Lil Buddha"
Subject: Jesus, do you need luck desperately? Then rub my belly

"Oh sure--just rub it in, fat man."

From: "New MySpace Message"
To: "Jesus Christ" <*******>
Subject: New message from MOHAMMED on MySpace sent on February 9, 2006 11:57AM PST

I smell a fight about to break out...


From: ""
Subject: Jesus, would you take another job?

Because, to put it gently...we have to let You go.

From: "ACG Counselor"
Subject: Jesus, tear down that wall of debt

And drive out the money-lenders, while You're at it.

From: "Event Director"
Subject: Jesus, haven't taken a vacation in a while?

Because we're pretty sure You were sleeping on 9-11.

From: "CF News"
Subject: CF News: Jesus Christ, This is pretty weird...

This, my friends, is an understatement...

From: "Accounts Payable"
Subject: JESUS, Why aren't you responding?

I've been asking this for years now...


Holy shit--it like a fount eternal! Jesus H. Christ...the fun never ends!


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