Author: f_yourblog@yahoo.com

Murder And Mayhem At Trump’s Insidious Impromptu News Conference Of Death & Damnation

Have you ever woken up in the morning and the first though you have is that you really want to pick a fight? I have many times and today I decided the person I was to pick a fight with would be the one and only Donald Trump. I ,along with the rest of the American people , have been bombarded by Donald Trump on television, printed interviews/articles in newspapers and magazines alike, Twitter, Youtube, and even radio. I must be clear I hate Donald Trump politically and personally as he is an extremely shitty person to begin with. Now why, or for what reason do I dislike Trump so highly?
Donald Trump looks quite similar to the past 44 presidents (excluding Obama obviously). He dresses in expensive high end suits worth thousands, predominately wears red or blue ties, is a 70 year old white man, and has a rather large belly. That is where the similarities end. Trump’s unique physical characteristic being found in his ungodly fake spray tan that leaves him looking like he has the worst case of jaundice in recorded history. The second primary physical characteristic is his hair which has remained a mystery for so long it can finally been called the 8th wonder of the world.
As for Donald Trump’s personality characteristics they are truly deplorable as he seems to have a Pandora’s box of bad behavior. Trump is a narcissist of Freudian proportions who’s extreme ego borders on megalomania. Also, for being completely ignorant of the American political system, Trump is over opinionated as well as ruthlessly aggressive on every front and every platform because his unquenchable thirst for power and control are unparalleled. For a president, Trump seems ignorant of the issues and takes every negative comment as a personal attack upon his character. Trump’s immature attitude has him tweeting like a tween and seems to cater to his child-like mentality that causes him to have terrible tantrums reminiscent of a 2 year old. Trump also is a sexist who’s views are almost on par with pedophilia. He is a closet racist and blatant anti semite. Trump is not only rude and insulting, but he always remains unapologetic as he points his finger at anyone but himself.
I just so happen to live in Florida and am located so geographically close to Trump’s Mar-a-Lago mansion that when I saw he was due for another visit I decided this was my chance. I drove to the Palm Beach Post newspaper headquarters down in West Palm Beach to meet up with a buddy of mine that works for the paper. He hooked me up with an official press pass and credentials which (unless you were in the know) made me look like a legitimate reporter. I then made my way to the Trump National Golf Club also located in Mar-a-Lago where Trump was due to throw an impromptu press conference. I strolled past the news truck barricade parked directly out front and past the handful of reporters shooting pre news conference pieces. I entered the club’s front door where a large security man who scowled at my press pass before ordering me through a metal detector. On the other side of the metal detector I was met by another rather large looking security man who gave me a pat down that was so intense it was more like a massage. I made my way into the conference room and managed to finagle my way into the 2nd row front and center where I waited for my prey to enter the room.
It didn’t take long before the rest of the press personnel were herded into the conference room like cattle. About a minute later Donald Trump entered from behind a curtain lazily wandering over to the podium as he smiled with self satisfaction. Once behind the podium Trump proceeded to slowly scan the room from side to side with his classically vacant stare. The conference was a fiasco and made little to absolutely no sense at all as Trump dodged questions, made false allegations and rambled on about subjects that weren’t addressed in the news conference. After 45 minutes or so Trump finally wound down his inane diatribe and opened the floor to questions. This was my opening because to fight Donald Trump your best weapon is Donald Trump. All one has to do to pick a fight with Trump is to say anything remotely critical about him and he launches himself into a terrific tirade which surpasses self defense. He then plunges head first into full on attack mode.
By the time fourth or fifth question had been asked Trump was already leaning aggressively forward over the podium his face flushed with outrageous anger. Trump’s facial features had twisted and contorted into an insane mask of rage filled disgust and endless contempt. He was cracking quickly and I knew it was now or never. I raised my hand and was lucky enough to have him call upon me.
I simply asked the president how he plans to make America great again if his bartenders at Trump’s Bar and Grill couldn’t even make a proper cocktail? Without pausing for a millisecond I continued by explaining. A patron of his eating establishment photographed a $22 gin martini because it was served in wine glass filled with a generous handful of ice. I was some unknown brand of gin, and had a very weak looking olive.
This was the straw that broke the Donald’s back as it were. Trump started waving his hands in the air like a demonically possessed air traffic controller screaming at the top of his lungs that in fact, the world has been making martinis wrong, and Trump’s bar staff actually know the correct recipe. Thats when the shit really hit the fan as they say.
Trump’s private security burst open the conference room doors with the force of an atom bomb and came charging in like rabid bulls. Unfortunately the private security team had had a miscommunication issue as to what was happening and who they were supposed to subdue. This miscommunication led Trump’s private security personnel to engage in an all out fucking fist fight with the Secret Service who too where there for the protection of the president. Steve Bannon appeared out of no where holding a copy of “Mien Komf” which he immediately started reading in German. I wanted to punch Bannon in his white nationalist fat fucking face, but I didn’t want my hand to stink of cheap whiskey, sweat and nazi for the rest of the day. Mike Pence, being the giant pussy that he is, had been methodically backing up since the opening of the Q and A to the curtain behind the podium, which he now utilized to hide with only his expensive Italian loafers poking out from the bottom. Reporters scrambled to defensive positions tripping over each other’s camera cords, and misplaced chairs in an attempt to capture as much footage as possible. Kellyanne Conway showed up to pander to the remaining cameras and reporters jumping around like a jack rabbit on crystal meth. Kellyanne was trying in vain to convince the reporters that this was not a riot of any kind, BUT it was a rally born of over exuberance, love and support for Trump. This over exuberance had caused a spontaneous outbreak of fanatical joy and sincere celebration. Moments after appearing on the scene Kellyanne was struck violently on the top of her head in the misguided attack by a Trump supporter armed with a confiscated boom microphone. The boom microphone crashed down upon Kellyanne’s skull with such brute force it split her head in half in a volcanic explosion of blood. Kellyanne’s body wavered a second with her eyes still blinking in such a way it was reminiscent of a Hammerhead Shark before collapsing lifelessly on the floor. Just then I spotted the one person I hate worse than Donald Trump, the British journalist Milo “I will say anything or back anything outrageous for attention” Yiannopoulos who is employed by the GOP to run interference using the most vile propaganda to distract the public from the president. Milo was dressed in a British school boys uniform to accommodate his latest travesty of defending, exuding and virtually promoting pedophilia. My attention was drawn to Yiannopoulos. He was fleeing franticly towards the fire exit at the back of the room when he got knocked flat on his back by an improvised nazi salute from Bannon. I ran over to Milo and informed him I was the vice president of NAMBLA (may all members of NAMBLA be castrated and left to bleed out)and I was here to help him escape. Once Milo was on his feet again I led him to the center of the conference room directly under the industrial fan that was humming like monster truck engine.
Once we were positioned under the gigantic fan I bent down, grabbed Milo behind his legs under his buttocks, and hoisted him strait up into the fury of the fan blades. The fan blades turned Milo’s head, arms and upper torso into minced meat with a shower of blood, bone and body parts raining down upon the entire room. I dropped Milo’s mutilated and mangled carcass and looked back at Steve Bannon. Bannon had worked himself into such a fury he had triggered a massive fucking heart attack. His face as white as his KKK hood, sweating like a pig at the slaughtering house, gasping for air and clutching at his heart with his right hand while still kept on reading. Seconds later Bannon dropped to his knees, explosively shit his pants and fell over dead as a door nail, and his eyes looked like 2 fucking blowfish due to Bannon’s extremely insane blood pressure right before death. The chaos was reaching a climax when I realized if I believed in self preservation this was time to make my exit. Trump’s security had surrounded him and were ushering him out the door with great difficulty because Trump kept stopping to turn around and yell ridiculous claims such as this was a media plot to destroy and discredit him, this is part of the Liberal agenda, this was in all reality fake news, the electoral college, the boarder wall, molesting women, his bank account, Putin and how it was mother Russia marrying father America, questioning Obama’s birth certificate, China hackers that plagued the election, hair care, tanning tips, advertisements for Trump Towers/ Trump casino’s/Trump Hotels, unifying America, Rosie O’Donell, preaching he never once went bankrupt, the annoying planes that fly over his mansion, tweeting, and vast voter fraud. I ducked and weaved my way to and fro, out the conference room door into the foyer. As I made a beeline for the club’s front door I saw radio personality and Trump lover Alex Jones standing in the middle of the foyer like he was the eye of a hurricane. Jones was spouting Trump propaganda and undying support for him, like a deranged circus barker. I couldn’t resist so I got in front of him and when he opened his mouth for another decree I rammed my microphone into it, and then proceeded to jam the microphone as far as humanly possible down his throat into his esophagus rendering Jones silent as well as dead the mic cord hanging out the corner of his mouth like a wayward piece of spaghetti.

As I strode towards my car drenched in blood I thought to myself what a wonderful little riot that was.

Catalog Of Humanity (The Vile Version)

The once grand city fell into the continuing chaos of decades of decay,

The businesses and those with money have abandoned this sickening city,

The whores loitering outside of the local liquor store looking for love,

The strung out narcotic zombie working the corner cleaning windshields to feed his abominable addiction,

The open festering sores that line the limbs of the homeless,

The panhandler suffering through withdraw from drink or drug fidgeting in the door way of a flea bag motel,

The flop house littered with junkies cooking up and shooting up nodding their nightmares away,

The constant flickering of lighters from the derelict row home windows reminiscent of fire flies as the crack pipes burn on,

The entire city is a cess pool engulfed in the putrid stench of a sewer,

The crooked cops riding around in the streets high on their own brutality like Nazis scumbag sons of bitches,

The dirty little convince stores selling single cigarettes and lottery scratchers to the soulless and the suffering,

The dim florescent glow from dive bars windows beckoning the bums inside for a glass of piss poor beer,

The screaming machinery bellowing like a banshee from the chop shops,

The junkyard dogs chained up in yards of dirt, clumps of weeds, and piles of its own shit,

The pimps perched like perverted gargoyles waiting to be paid by their beaten and broken bitches,

The asshole teenagers from the suburbs driving into the city to prey on the unfortunate,

The drug dealers posting up on the street corners peddling potent poisons,

The gangs who wage an endless war of horror over disputed territories,

The bouncer ejecting a greasy client from the shadows of a back room illegal casino,

The overlapping layers of spray paint so thick one can’t tell the walls original color,

The plagues of rats and roaches devouring the city turning it into shit,

The cold gray fermentable walls of the State Prison looming large casting its silhouette across the southern side of the city,

The now defunct factories slowly rotting away in the winds of time,

The dead Vietnam vet who overdosed in his cardboard condo decomposing as his body waits to be found,

The piles of foul garbage that choke up the entrances to allies,

The deep brown tap water thats murky like mud,

The squatters that inhabit the vast city cemetery emerge under the dark cloak of the encroaching night to forage for food,

The front stairs of the court house teems with lawyers and defendants debating their legal fates,

The Public assistance offices are over crowded and under staffed as the government gives up on the poor,

The sea of condoms that surround the dumpster out back of the check cashing store where hookers trade in dick for dollars,

The methhead on a 4 day bender thats furiously fucking a dead pigeon in the desolate park,

The the old deranged mentally ill man who wonders the streets arguing with himself and losing,

The inhabitants of tent city sit around their make shift fires roasting their catch of stray cats for diner,

The bankrupt arena the city built without proper parking at the corner of Rape and Heroin,

The drunken man beating his kids since he wore out his wife before his tv diner,

The dead and the dying wallowing in squalor and their lost faith,

The cries of an unwanted baby unceremoniously deposited in a garbage dumpster by a terrified teenage mother,

The distinct crunch of empty crack files mixed with broken beer bottles under ones feet as they walk down the street,

The nightly fist fights that break out in the city’s central soup kitchen,

The crumbling churches now just idle monuments to a bygone god,

And this city of shit could be any city, all cities dying from industrial death,

And forgotten by history and humanity alike.

A Catalog Of Humanity (Respectable Version)

The line of movie patrons shuffles forward to pay $20 for the latest CGI travesty,
The mother locked in the eternal battle to control her wildly unruly children as they run around her in circles laughing, yelling in excitement and screaming at disappointment,
The aging 30 somethings that chase trends to help them feel young and relevant,
Hipsters dressed like lumberjacks stand face to face like giant bookends each holding a vaporizer the size of a laptop, and blowing copious amounts of vapor in massive clouds that envelop their entire person upon exhaling,
The homeless man’s faithful dog who waits patiently outside the liquor store as his master pops in to buy a cheap bottle of booze,
The Grocery store bag boy who’s happy to be on cart duty as it allows him to utilize his cell phone,
The Millennial who almost runs a woman over in his massive SUV because he was preoccupied posting what he ate for lunch on FaceBook,
The Latino landscaper hanging outside the check cashing store waiting to cash his paycheck after a long and laborious day that has left him reeking of roofing tar,

The teenaged boy dressed in all black and sporting a bright red mohawk holding the door open for a little old lady proving chivalry is not only alive, but can be found in the unlikeliest of people,
The shrunken old man and his tinier wife who walk to their local diner everyday for breakfast,lunch and dinner for the past 42 years,

The withered old woman wrapped in countless shawls and blankets being pushed by her home health aid as the women rants about how when she was young a world like todays would never have been allowed to exist,
The small child fighting in vain to coax his bulldog to stop sitting stubbornly in the grass to get up and finish their walk to no avail.

The bulldog sitting in the grass without a care in the world sunning himself in the mid day rays as he continues to refuse to acknowledge his child master as he stairs vacantly into bulldog oblivion,
The ragged Tomcat that saunters through the neighbor hood with his large head and giant jowls fully believing himself to be the king of his suburban kingdom,

The sinister senior citizen on the board of the local HOA standing at the end of his driveway glowering in disgust at his neighbor’s lawn for being half an inch too high,
The baby with his family dining out in a noisy chain restaurant that refuses every attempt by her parents to get her to eat because she is severely overstimulated her wide eyes of wonder scanning over her brand new world,

The cashiers that looks like their job has left the bodies lifeless transforming them into mindless drones dragging merchandise across the loudly beeping scanner eyes half shut,

The undying commitment of the college student trying to raise money for a local soup kitchen as he is overlooked by people passing by him on the sidewalk feigning ignorance at his presence, The high school student who is dragging her feet on the way home because her parents know nothing of youth today,

And at the end of they day they go their way as I go mine,
And tomorrow we all will be back fulfilling our daily routine,
And we will see each other again the next day as well,
And we will continue to live our lives side by side never acknowledging one another.

Is What You Believe Worth Fighting For? By Spacedog

There are times in everyone’s life where they do not try hard enough or persist or do what is right in their heart.

They simply follow the crowd. They ignore the causes that are near and dear to their hearts. They ignore their friends because well that person may not be as liked or as popular as they so wish them to be.

However there is one constant with all of these things. You see people come and people go. When you take away all those people and all the material rubbish you are surrounded with, all you are left with is you. Nothing more, nothing less. And no matter who you are or how flawed you may be or what masks you wear to the world, well you know what it is that you believe.

“Reputation is for time; character is for eternity.” -J.B Gough

It just really saddens me to see how we as a people don’t fight constantly enough. For our world’s belief (belief as a whole), for our friend’s beliefs, for our core beliefs. What a sham(e).

Belief on the Whole

When the whole of something deteroriates all we are left we is parts that are somewhat combined and somewhat fragment.

Thankfully most of us voted in this election. The majority spoke when it came to the presidency. However one of the things that makes me most proud is that despite the unfortunate ruling in California people are peacefully protesting Prop 8. They are not bombing abortion clinics or looting stores, they just want to be heard.

Keith Olbermann. Whether you agree with him or not this man has a lot of passion and the kind of fight that more of us need. We all need to express and not repress and listen to each other. Well I let him say the rest:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cVUecPhQPqY

Frankly for his belief and his expressions well that helps the world on the whole. If not helping the current vote or current situation it maybe helps move people in the future. It’s not about shifting the view of one or two or three, it’s about a shift in the generations to come. If generations didn’t progress forth from their predecessors well then we wouldn’t have a black president now, would we?

Belief of Friends

Obviously none of us believes everything another individual says. Friend or foe, husband or ex-boyfriend, wife or mistress we all have disagreements and similarities. The thing that we must remember is that WE chose to have this people as our friends. We are not forced. This is not an arranged marriage (sorry for those of you that it is).

Once upon a time, one of my really great friends in life had a great mutual respect for me and I for him. Yes, he was overprivledged and yes he was over the top a good deal of the time but I believed in him as a person, as a friend. I stood up for him many a time. I will admit on occasion this wasn’t the “popular” move. I even lost touch with a few acquaintance type friends because of this. Still I believed in his inner goodness.

Not everyone sees this good in other people. Everyone has good in them. People usually only put emphasis on the bad. It’s a sad fault but that is life. I saw the good and it caused me to perish in ways but sadly not everyone in life can accept your choices and not everyone can be your friend.

“If it harm none, do as ye will.”

Also in the same aspect if we agree with our friends and they get persecuted for it we need to stand up as well. And vice versa.

If they don’t believe in going home with someone from the bar, I need to tell that other person to back off when they get too agressive and my friend can’t do it himself.

If they didn’t do drugs and I was I wouldn’t glorify it and push it down their throats.

It’s all about respecting one another and standing up for what you ascertain to be true.

Yes, we are not perfect. I am guility of not fighting at times when I should have but am getting much better at this through the years. Yeah my depression gets in the way at times, but if I ever had to be there for my one of my true friends I would. My situation, financially, emotionally or spiritually, would not effect this. I have done some pretty stupid things to try and protect the people I love but I would do them all over again.

Belief of Our Core

Perhaps the most important set of beliefs that we have are the ones that lie at our core. When the day is done and the lights are out at night, all you have is you. You are the only person whose own beliefs you can control. You must stand up for them at all costs.

Call them morals, call them creeds, call them principals, call them what you will. They are all uniquely ours. Some people live by more beliefs on a consistent basis and others fly by the seat of their pants. Without these beliefs, there is but a shell of a person, a body without a soul, a face without a name.

As I stated before we are not perfect. I believe in love, but that does not mean I haven’t ever had sex with a stranger. I believe in respecting others, but I’ve definitely been an asshole my fair share of times. I am not going to list all my beliefs one by one since I know what they are and hold them close to me and they affect the way I lead my daily life.

People can be very devious creatures. They find out you believe in love; they try and pull you around by a string. They find out you are generous; they blatently take advantage of this. They find out you are honest; they lie their teeth off. Opposites do attract and at times this can be tumultuous.

In a room crowded full of people acting completely fake to one another, would you be fake as well?

“Many a man’s reputation would not know his character if they met on the street. ” -Elbert Hubbard

How very true. You see what we portray to the world is not necessarily who we are. If people strived to make their two sides less in conflict perhaps we would all live in a world Mr.Hubbard would be more proud of today.

So truely ask yourself, are you fighting for what you believe in? Even if you are only fighting for the beliefs in your heart it is a start. Inside each and every one of us within the deepest darkest core and tucked away through all the recessess of pain, misfortunate, and chaos is one thing that always burns. That one thing is love.

I Was A Teenage Murder Junkie Part 2: Concert Of Carnage

G.G. Allin strode out on stage from behind Dino the Naked Drummer with a look of hateful disgust contorting his face. G.G. was wearing a pair of unlaced combat boots that kept tripping him up (it didn’t help that G.G. appeared to be severely drunk or drunk and high perhaps.). G.G. was sporting his token jock strap with “EAT ME” written in black sharpie on the front. Lastly G.G. had on a tattered tan trench coat that had been tagged by a black Sharpie which was used to scrawl “G.G. Allin & The Murder Junkies” down the back. G.G. made his way to the front of the small stage which in reality was more of s slightly elevated platform, and paced back and forth like a enraged tiger that had gone insane from captivity. G.G. grabbed the microphone from the stand like it owed him money and started singing ,but it was more or less yelling his lyrics at the top of his voice making the words hard to decipher at times. The 40-50 person crowd that had piled in behind us at the very last minute became electrified with a combination of fear and absolute awe. I then remembered what Unk had said about the safest place at the show being behind G.G. and thinking whatever happens we’re proper fucked. Due to the crowd forming behind us now Mike, Chuck and I had effectively moved forward into the front of the audience putting us on the front lines. By the time G.G. and The Murder Junkies ended the first song “Bite It You Scum” I was hooked, I had to see for myself what all of the hype was about first fucking hand.

To say G.G.’s reputation proceeded him would be the understatement of the millennium BUT thats another story all together so I digress for now anyway.

After the song ended G.G. tore off the duster like a wounded animal and addressed the crowd. “Did  you miss me?!” asked G.G. like a demented drill sergeant  “Yeah the fucking pigs, the goddamn pig judge those motherfuckers locked me up, they tried to break me, but they didn’t know shit, I’m fucking unbreakable!!” he continued angrily. By now the crowd had backed up forming the body of the audience into a U formation leaving a wide berth in front of the stage. It was in this vacant space that a couple of young fans in black metal t-shirts and torn jeans were slam dancing. G.G.’s tyrannical rant continued “I’m here and I’m really fucking pissed, you’ll being hearing a lot about me in the next couple of months THATS for sure!! Look into my eyes and hate me!” as the band started banging out the G.G. fan favorite “Look Into My Eyes and Hate Me”

I was in shock, frozen like the preverbal deer in the head lights with my eyes wide open fixated on G.G. ,and remembered a quote I had heard that said G.G. Allin was his own one man version of a freak show. How true those words rang now deafening in my head. It was then that some drunk kid with a shaved head did something to piss G.G. off who responded by bounding off stage onto the show floor. G.G. damn near ran at the guy who didn’t see G.G. coming because he was aimlessly spinning in a circle, and once G.G. reached the kid he hauled off and punched in the kid in the face. The startled kid swung wildly in self defense as G.G. continued to punish this kids discrepancy with his fists. After a minute or so a couple of other fans stepped in and dismantled the mayhem as one fan grabbed G.G. around the waist, swung him a 180 degrees, and then shoved him words the stage. G.G. jumped back on stage and picked up the microphone which he had dropped before getting into the fight with the shaved head kid. G.G. picked up right where he left off ending “Look Into My Eyes and Hate Me” flawlessly. Little did I know that the chaos I had witnessed was just the beginning as this engine of insanity was just warming up.

The next 15 minutes of the concert I can sum up by song:

“Die When You Die”- during this popular G.G. anthem G.G. poured a pitcher of cheap beer over his head, slammed the microphone repeatedly into his head until he bled, and left the stage this time to writhe on the filthy cement floor flopping around like a fish out of water that was set on fire.

“Legalize Murder”- during this particular song G.G. played with himself several times, ran out into the audience crashing into fans like a drugged out bumper car. G.G. then returned to the stage where for the rest of the song he cut his chest with a crumpled up beer can while flailing around like a man possessed by demons during a Meth binge. At the end of the song G.G. took a few minutes to ask where the sluts and whores were at as he quickly drained a pint of Jack Daniel’s, and asked the audeince who of them likes to drink,fight and fuck before finally playing the next song in the set.

“I Wanna Fuck Myself”- G.G. look a leak in the corner, played with himself repeatedly, had another fist fight this time with the beer junkie over G.G. helping himself to a couple of beers with no intention what so ever of paying. G.G. slammed his head violently against a pipe that lined the east wall of the venue a couple of times, and G.G. throwing  garbage cans into/at the audience all the while bleeding like a stuck pig his face a veritable crimson mask.

“Shoot, Knife, Strangle, Beat and Crucify” was the next song during which G.G. ditched his jock strap and ran completely naked through the crowd and around the perimeters of the basement the show was being housed in. G.G. stopped singing intermittently during his manic antics some times never finishing the song as The Murder Junkies played on not missing a beat.

“Gypsy Motherfucker” was highlighted by G.G. throwing the mic stand into the audience, shoving a female fan to the floor, a Microphone malfunction, and more of G.G.’s ranting this time over the microphone’s failure.

“What kind of dive bar piece of shit is this? Bunch of goddamn bullshit, can’t get a decent cocksucking mic, who do I have to kill to get decent gear  really? Cuz I’m about to find that fucker and murder them!” G.G. asked aggressively to no one in particular.

This served only to incite the crowd into further rowdiness as fans yelled out their support for G.G. with a growing angst and enthusiasm. G.G. got off stage for the umpteenth time to wander around the concert venue pounding beers along with cocktails he grabbed out of the fans hands as the microphone issue wasn’t being addressed. The Murder Junkies stood around loitering on the stage in some state of confusion as G.G. handled his complaint. Finally some rail thin greasy looking stage tech scrounged up a back up microphone from the bowels of the bar. G.G. snatched it from him immediately and plugged it in as if he was trying to murder the mic by stabbing it with the cord.

“Alright now we’re talking, what the fuck was that bullshit fucking unprofessional assholes” G.G. announced mumbling to the crowd as they became yet more frantic by the minute. You could feel the energy escalating, higher and higher as the adrenaline was flowing freely kicking in the intensity of the fight or flight principle. Tensions were so strained that at any moment it seemed the room could erupt in a full on, full blown riot of biblical proportions.

“Now we’re going to play is what the fuck I am a Son Of Evil!” G.G. snarled in a low growl of sorts. 15 seconds into the song the lights went out. Mike, Chuck and I were now standing side by side in total blackness, not darkness mind you I’m talking black like the finality of death itself. The only lights as I’ve mentioned were the stage lights which now had become enveloped along with everything else in the pitch black of the bar’s basement. The stunned crowd started chattering like a swarm of locusts as people tried to deduce what had happened or what had possible just happened to cause the black out and so suddenly at that. Several minutes passed as the questioning crowd grew more irritated than fearful over the total lack of light. The sounds of frustration started to ring out, the breaking of glass beer bottles, the loud and violent yelling ( “Lets fuck shit up!” “Fuck this shit!” “Burn this shithole down” “Fuck this I paid 5 bucks for a fucking ticket and I get this bullshit! “Hell fucking no!” are a few examples of what I heard.) and other various sounds of impending destruction all around us.

As the crowd wound itself up to a fevered pitch I had a reoccurring thought.

“If anything happens we’re proper fucked.”

God & Satan Enemies Of A Different Color

Preface: Most people know the story of God casting Satan from Heaven because Satan wanted to take control of Heaven.

  1. It all started when God got bored and created people to entertain him (the original reality t.v.) which pissed off more than a few Angels due to their jealousy of God’s infatuation with his new creations.
  2. Satan was not only an Angel he was the Angel of Light effectively he was God’s right hand man. Satan gathered a group of like minded angels bound together by their hate of humanity and God’s preferential treatment of people. Once Satan had assembled his crew they picked a fight with God by trash talking Humans, a fight that Satan lost.
  3. God banished Satan (along with his traitorous posse) from heaven.
  4.  BUT GOD DID NOT BANISH SATAN TO HELL. God decided if Satan hated man more than anything then Satan’s punishment was to walk among man for eternity.
  5. From this point out God and Satan were deemed to be immortal enemies clashing in a constant war of conflict as each tries to win more souls than the other.

The Question: Now I have read the Bible and I like most have a few questions. The first and foremost I question the relationship between God and Satan as far as the traditional belief. As I stated earlier in #5 God and Satan are supposed to be the ultimate foes, yet in the Bible there seems to be a good bit of dialogue between God and Satan. This alone strikes me as odd considering their intense and eternal war of good versus evil after Satan got his ass evicted from his Heavenly home.

The best example in my mind of God and Satan’s rather unorthodox relationship lies in the story of Job. Here is a brief run down summation of the story of Job as told by me (Less Sober).

One day God and Satan (post battle for Heaven) were hanging out together which seems to me like a mighty oxymoron. Why would God and Satan hangout together if their such intense enemies that they actually went to war against one another?

While God and Satan are lallygagging about God starts to brag a good bit about his follower Job and how much Job loves God with undying loyalty. Satan decides to bust God’s balls a bit about this oh so holy and devoted Job guy. Satan makes a side comment to God that its totally obvious the only reason Job gives a shit about God is because Job has a sweet life. Job had a big house, a lot of land, a wife, tons of kids and a productive farm, BUT if Job didn’t have all the perks then he’d abandon God flat out.

Now this conversation seems to follow suit with the relationship described in the Bible between the two Deities, God says something positive and Satan then undermines it with negativity. HOLD ON MY FRIENDS This Is Where It Gets Really Weird.

God decides based on what Satan said to make a bet. YES IT WAS GOD who made the bet WITH SATAN. In some versions of this story some of the faithful claim Satan proposed the bet to God, but sadly no it was all God’s idea.

The bet is this: God allows open hunting season on Job enabling Satan to do whatever horribly wicked shit he could think of to torment Job. If Job remains loyal to God in spite of all the suffering Satan rains down upon him God wins, but if Job succumbs to Satan’s vile endeavorers then simply Satan wins.

Satan then proceeds to run shop on Job. Satan kills all of Jobs crops, kills all of his animals, all of Job’s servants, burns his house down, and kills all of Job’s sons and daughters while they ate together. Job remains standing God.

Round Two Satan struck Job with sores from head to toe. Here Job’s wife does something strange she tells Job to CURSE God and then die. Its the dying part that confuses me because why would she want her husband dead considering Satan killed the rest of the family at this point. Anyway I digress. Job for his credit did not curse God nor did he die, but he did at one point wonder why his God was allowing all this foul shit to happen to him, and at one point even asks God to let him die (assumedly to avoid further torture). Job through it all sticks by God and remains faithful by not sinning in cursing God.

God immediately declares himself the victor to Satan, and then shoots down to Earth to tell Job to shut up and stop asking questions for God works in mysterious ways.

In Summation allow me to state my opinion on the story/subject matter at hand. This is how I see it in all honesty. It appears to me that instead of being eternal enemies God and the Satan had a more personal relationship (as opposed to one ruling Heaven and the other Hell completely independent of one another). To me its more like two best friends who started a business together and the business started to flourish making all involved very happy. Then one friend makes an executive decision about staffing without consulting his friend and partner first. This leads to resentment, tension, stress and anxiety plaguing the friendship driving the two friends apart. Finally one of the friends has had enough and attempts a hostile takeover of the company only to fail, and thus the partnership dissolves spectacularly along with the friendship over an argument on how the company should be run. As the years pass the two friends begin to reconnect yet both are still pissed about their falling out as each blames the other for their failed friendship. Though God and Satan don’t ever reconcile they form a new love-hate relationship because though they had a shitty falling out their friendship out weighs the one vicious fight over difference of opinion.

 

 

A Story In Just 55 words

Deep in the heart of Texas where his evil lives
A mask forged from the skin of victims bodies
A house of horrors built by damnation alone
Countless corpses lying about in decay
He’s the angel of death
the saw is family
unquenchable cannibalistic carnage
endless death
forever

(The Theme the Story is inspired and based upon in the character and horror movie icon Leatherface from the original 1974 Texas Chainsaw Massacre)

Interpreting Angels by Spacedog

I’m a firm believer in the fact that sometimes creativity, thoughts, and even emotions come from places completely outside of us. I struggled with this for many years during my drug addiction. I felt all the thoughts that blew by on the wind, that other people were having but never my own. I could not feel my own I was blocked, so naturally I thought all the good, bad, and ugly around me were me. There is a lot more bad and ugly apparent to the naked eye.
It is very good to say that the vast majority of the time now I can differentiate between the two. However when the thoughts are simple, pure, and genuine I do not really try and think, “Well where the hell did that one come from?”. We all like to believe that every good thought, intention, or deed comes directly from within us but sometimes it does not. Sometimes it is from an angel.
I believe in a lot of things. Most people that consider themselves religious would probably cringe when told all the different bits and pieces that my inner knowledge feels to be true. Most non-religious people might even feel the same way. I am who I am. There is one thing that I do believe. That is in angels.
Not in a traditional king james bible sort of way however. Angels can be dead or alive to me. Some peoples pure presence alone or amazing aspects in people that well frankly suck. I consider an angel to be inspirational. Some people can only retain that inspiration for short periods.
I admit I have had a few conversations in my life where I have completely shocked myself by some of the things I have said. Even while being the complete paradox of it. Talking about how great life is while considering suicide; talking someone out of using drugs while I was doing them on the other end of the phone line; the list goes on and on. Some may say hypocrisy . I say angel.
Am I calling myself an angel? Hell to the no. Touched by one? Much more likely.
Many of us believe in ghosts and entities that haunt, so why couldn’t there be angels?
We all have our gifts. Whatever moves you and drives you.
If you know what it is go after it wholeheartedly but do not succumb to the first inkling of failure.
If it is another person, then I really hope for your sake you are their sound producer, their roadie, their secretary, or perhaps if you like cigars their intern. Otherwise you will be disappointed when all the roses die. All roses die it is only their scent that lingers. Sometimes the scent is not enough.
When people leave us too soon, whether through death or any variety of factors we always question ourselves. Here is a little poem I’ve always liked.
People come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime.
When you figure out which it is, you know exactly what to do.

When someone is in your life for a REASON,
it is usually to meet a need
you have expressed outwardly or inwardly.
They have come to assist you through a difficulty,
to provide you with guidance and support,
to aid you physically, emotionally, or spiritually.
They may seem like a godsend, and they are.
They are there for the reason you need them to be.

Then, without any wrong doing on your part
or at an inconvenient time,
this person will say or do something
to bring the relationship to an end.
Sometimes they die. Sometimes they walk away.
Sometimes they act up or out and force you to take a stand.

What we must realize is that our need has been met,
our desire fulfilled; their work is done.
The prayer you sent up has been answered
and it is now time to move on.

When people come into your life for a SEASON,
it is because your turn has come to share, grow, or learn.
They may bring you an experience of peace or make you laugh.
They may teach you something you have never done.
They usually give you an unbelievable amount of joy.
Believe it! It is real! But, only for a season.

LIFETIME relationships teach you lifetime lessons;
those things you must build upon
in order to have a solid emotional foundation.
Your job is to accept the lesson,
love the person/people (anyway);
and put what you have learned to use in all
other relationships and areas of your life.

It is said that love is blind but friendship is clairvoyant. (Author Unknown)
So while we are generally confused, saddened, and distraught when old things end, we must move forward. The train can only go forward and not back. Sure we can pause to reminisce. Just don’t get stuck in the quicksand. Our friends, new and old, would not want us to be stagnant. I would rather be mobile and saddened, then like the great wall of china and mildly happy.
As for the poem, I truly believe that friendship is clairvoyant. One of my friends, who I would talk to generally everyday, would always call me at unusual hours. 6PM here, none at all there, 3AM here, 1PM, midnight, you get the picture. 90 percent of this time I could pinpoint within 30 minutes when he would call. I get urges for the same songs as others at the same times. It is uncanny. The list is endless.
So anyway I would like to thank the angel(s) that made this writing possible. I could not have done it on my own.
Do you ever feel an unknown, other worldly presences pushing you forward? I know I do. Otherwise I’d be writing about lesbians.

I Was A Teenage Murder Junkie Part 1 of 2

The first time I heard “Bite It You Scum” by G.G. Allin and The Murder Junkies, I was standing in the dungeon-like basement of The Barfly Lounge somewhere in the bowels of Philadelphia’s less then desirable south side, which was the only venue that would host a G.G. Allin and The Murder Junkies show. I was with my two work partners in crime Mike (a photographer) and Chuck ( Event liaison) who had found out about the concert the previous month while visiting Chuck’s sister who lived on South Street in Philly. This was the pre-internet era so the only way for unsigned bands to promote their shows was papering every free surface with flyers up and down the street. They also relied heavily on the power of word of mouth. It was one of those flyers, tacked to a telephone pole, that Chuck saw as he was walking down the street on his way to buy a pack of cigarettes. We decided it was a show that was a once in a life time chance not to be missed. So Chuck had approached our editor Vincent V. at “Grind Spine” magazine where all three of us were currently working while taking some time off before college.
We had made the hour long drive over to Philly from Gitsville NJ in Chuck’s car which in all due favor was a complete junker. The driver’s door shook so bad you thought at any second it would pop open. The speedometer was not to be trusted. There was a hole in the floor board. The radio only got one AM station, and the car seemed to have a front head light that was eternally out. When we arrived at the bar there was no appropriate parking so we had to park on the street four blocks away and walk. The corners were inhabited by hookers and drug dealers. The streets were lined with litter and more than a few homeless panhandlers. This was the type of neighborhood that if you drove through it you wouldn’t stop at red lights. Finally, we got back to the bar unscathed and in one piece, and then the door man (who looked to actually be a local biker) barely glanced at ID’s before letting us in with the stern warning “You guys don’t start any shit and I won’t have to beat the shit out of you.”
After such nice parting words from the doorman, the three of us shuffled single file through the narrow doorway of the bar. The Barfly Lounge was a small and rather cramped 500 square feet with an L shaped bar to the left. The right side of the room hosted a motley crew of tools, chairs, and wobbly tables. The only apparent patrons in the bar looked like a small group of local regulars from the surrounding neighborhood most sitting hunched over at the bar, a beer clutched tightly in one hand, and either a lit cigarette or shot glass in the other. The lighting in the bar was well beyond dim as the few spare lights that hung from the ceiling were enveloped in a thick pungent cloud of smoke that hovered like a smog cloud over Los Angeles. The thing I will remember most about The Barfly till the day I die was the overwhelmingly putrid stench, a vile smelling mix of stale beer, body odor, cigarette smoke and what we all assumed to be vomit.
“The show is in the basement. The door is in the back, next to the restroom.” said the bartender in a deep gravely voice reminiscent of Tom Waits. We slowly made our way to the back of the bar trying to see where we were going in order to avoid tripping or worse, falling onto the cesspit of a floor, and as we walked by a few of the weary down trodden customers lifted their heads just enough to stare at us as we passed. The door to the basement was a hideous dark green and had a thick greasy coat of nicotine . We cautiously proceeded down the bare concrete stairs I couldn’t help thinking that I had seen plenty of horror movies that started like this. We entered the gloomy basement which smelled so heavily of mold and mildew you had to wonder how being in this environment could negatively affect your respiratory system. We had come to far to turn back. The only light in the dank basement were the stage lights which were actually quite intense with a white light that almost felt like when you stared into the sun as a kid. Rusty exposed pipes hung from the ceiling several had been patched with duct tape and were in various stages of deterioration. There were only a handful of people lingering around waiting for the show to start in growing impatience. There was a thin lanky man about six foot two who looked like he weighed 160 pounds soaking wet and was no doubt a junkie, but he was a junkie selling 16 ounce cans of Budweiser for $3.00 a piece out of a couple of dirty igloo coolers at his feet to fund his heroin habit. Suddenly the The Murder Junkies (G.G. Allin’s last backing band before his death in 1993)  wandered lazily onto the stage where the bassist and guitarist plugged in their instruments and did a quick tune up. The drummer came out completely naked fully having earned the nickname Dino The Naked Drummer (who played naked so while drumming his clothes wouldn’t chafe his skin) and sat down behind the drums looking a bit lost as usual. It was then I became aware as I was watching the cliches and stragglers about fifty people or so had piled into the basement behind us, but were standing at the back of the room the farthest they could from the stage. The band all of a sudden launched full tilt into one of their signature songs “Bite It You Scum” and the crowd went feral. A young man who identified himself as Unk asked if we had been to a G.G. Allin show before and we said no we hadn’t. Unk went on to tell us he had found the safest place to be at G.G. Allin shows and that was behind him. No sooner had Unk finished speaking than the man referred to as the most spectacular degenerate in rock-n-roll history took the stage.

T.R. McCoy The Man, The Myth, The Monster

The following newspaper article was published in the Podunk County Chronicle on December 9th 1913 on the 25th anniversary of T.R. McCoy’s disappearance.

T.R.McCoy was one of the most controversial figures in American history that you’ve never heard of. T.R. McCoy was an anthropologists, successful sociologist, and the pioneering founder of the scientific field of cryptozoology, who one cold winter night after leaving a fundraiser for his next expedition (to the tropical islands in the Arctic Circle) heavily drunk and aggravated, vanished leaving only his left black leather glove upon the stair of the Naturalist Park on December 9th, 1888.

During his prolific and troubled carrier T.R.McCoy won several Nobel prizes for pioneering the field of cryptozoology in 1818, and for advancements in the field of sociology (in 1817, 1821 and 1833)

T.R.McCoy also had a plethora of criminal court cases for example the multiple charges of exploitation and detriment to the indigenous tribes people he studied. Once T.R.McCoy disappeared from the face of the earth; the flood gates for conspiracy theorists were opened. People formulated theories such as: The Vatican had him assassinated. Could it have been, that one of his 17 ex-wives/mistresses killed him in a crime of passion unable to tolerate his penchant for womanizing? Was it that T.R.McCoy faked his own death to escape from public controversy and legal prosecution? Did McCoy run off to one of his exotic locations and was eaten by vengeful cannibals whose ancestors McCoy swindled into becoming cheap slave labor.  Others hypothesized McCoy fell victim to a revenge bent supernatural specter from beyond the grave seeking retribution. Some said it was an alien abduction, but at the same time others wondered if McCoy himself was in fact an alien or perhaps a human-alien hybrid. Some in the general community believe McCoy, through his advanced knowledge of physics and the time space continuum, opened a portal to escape the chaos of his career and the turmoils of his personal life by entering another unknown dimension. Some other people think McCoy was employed by a government agency working on top secret project (McCoy was working with the military but the all the files are still to this day remain classified) and simply knew to much so he was effectively “Taken Out”
The more likely reality is that a fellow competitor (and there were plenty) murdered him out of jealously or retribution for McCoy destroying their careers, as he was known to do if for any reason big or small if he disliked you. More probable causes for McCoy’s disappearance also include being killed by a nefarious person from the criminal underworld due to an outstanding gambling debt. McCoy was a notorious gambler who would bet on anything just to make a wager. McCoy could have just as easily dropped his glove as he staggered down the park stairs intoxicated (as his penchant for drink was legendary), stumbled off into the park, and accidentally fell into the Elli river that runs through the park.
No body was ever found even after an extensive 93 day search. In the end we can only speculate and must be ready to acknowledge the fact that the world may never know what really happened to T.R.McCoy the man, the myth, the monster.