NotSafeForKids.com

by Randy Dethrow 

Joseph Smith, flamboyant con man, racist, and founder of Mormonism revealed to the world that Jesus Christ arrived here in America to preach the gospel and that the American Indians were one of the lost tribes of Israel, which, I’m sure, came as a surprise to the Indians themselves.

Christians seem to be so sure of the divinity of their mythological Jesus, whose virgin-birth and death and ressurection story was blatantly stolen from other pagan religions of the time, that they treat those who do not believe as they do with reactions ranging from sad head-shaking to extreme violence and hatred.

Which, of course, goes against Jesus central teachings of generosity, love, and compassion, but I digress.

For the divinity of Christ to be true, one has to consider that it must, as a matter of principle, apply to all intelligent life in the Universe.

Our planet is a unique one, orbiting in a so-called “Goldilocks Zone” around the sun - I/E “not too hot and not too cold but ‘just right’” to sustain life. There are billions of stars in our galaxy alone, and just as many billions of galaxies in the Universe.

The expounders of “intelligent design”, which is religion masquerading as hack science, claims that “irreducible complexity” proves the existence of God. In other words, the complex systems of chemicals, atoms, and DNA that make up the planet are so complex that they could not have occured by chance, and therefore must have been “designed” by a higher power. Of course, this negates the idea of “faith” on which God has sustained his worship for centuries.

To paraphrase Douglas Adams:
Man says to God: Prove you exist.
God says: Proof denies faith and without faith I am nothing.
And Man later says: But the complexity of the world proves you exist and so therefore you don’t.
God says: Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. And simply vanishes in a puff of logic.

Of course most creationists don’t follow this line of thinking, they simply say they now have proof of God’s existence, and I’m not gonna argue the point with them. The point is valid. God and Darwin could conceivably co-exist peacefully. But unfortunately, they also say the world was created 6000 years ago and that all the evil in the world is the product of a willful chick taking the advice of a talking snake, which is where they lose me. You have to choose. Jurassic Park or the Garden of Eden. You can’t have it both ways.

And, of course, 2000 years ago, the same angry, petty, jealous, and vicious God that created this complex world impregnated some Jewish woman and this bastard son of his took all of his previous teachings, which amounted to the advocation of rape, slavery, genocide, stoning, animal sacrifices, and an aversion to menstruating women and, rebellious son of a bitch that he was, somehow twisted all that around and preached that his father was loving, considerate, forgiving, generous, caring for the poor and the weak and the sick, and said that we humans should emulate those traits and make the world a better place. He also said that rich and powerful people really sucked ass. Ironically, by doing this, he may have inadvertently disobeyed several of the 10 commandments, such as taking the Lord’s name in vain and dishonoring his father, cos soon after, the Lord was so pissed off at him he demanded that the blaspheming twerp get nailed to a stick for his trouble. And when the two-timing peace-preaching little shit died, he absolved the world of all it’s wrongdoing by his own supreme act of sacrifice. Basically, he gave us the ultimate Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card.

But the newfound Christians didn’t disappoint God, because for the next 2000 years, the followers of this compassionate son of his tortured, raped, and killed anyone who didn’t subscribe to their worldview. Today, people who question religion publicly or engage in activities they deem “immoral” are threatened, cajoled, mocked, and sometimes, like in the case of gay-bashing and the murder of doctors who perform abortions, become the victims of a faith-based initiative called bigoted violence.

In retrospect, it might have been a good idea if the Virgin Mary had had an abortion.

But here’s where I wait anxiously for an answer to my question. If there are billions of stars in our galaxy alone, the chances of there being another planet that revolves in the “Goldilocks Zone” of another star are pretty decent. And if there is life on another planet, then it may be safe to assume that there is intelligent life on other planets as well.

For Jesus divinity to be proven, he must have been born, maybe a million times over, on other planets to preach his gospel of love, and not just in North America like Joseph Smith says. (And maybe, and I’m being an optimist here, on those planets they actually stuck by his original message and created a Utopian planet where those that lived on it actually treated each other with love and kindness, and were able to advance as a species to the point of being able to perfect interstellar travel before nuking themselves back to the stone age.)

So I hope the aliens come before we, the human race, come to the eventual apocalypse the Christians are so eagerly awaiting and even trying to hurry along. I want to ask them if a savior appeared on their planet as well so we can clear up this whole Jesus business once and for all.

by Eric Tolles 

This morning, over a rather noteworthy bowl of Boo Berries, I was staring out the window at the retaining wall located behind the cluster of condos that I reside within. Not a wall per se, more of a very tall fence that that is intertwined with ivy. During the spring, summer and most of the fall this wall is a lush green barrier between the back alley and the adjacent buildings that lay along the south side of the next block. Thanks to the attention of my rotund and sweet next door neighbor, the type of grandmother figure that fairy tales are made of, this emerald playground is host not only to birds and squirrels, but also a family of stray cats.

Felines mind you, not the aging rockabilly troupe.

The woman across the hall has a heart that, if anything, overshadows her diabetes-tempting girth. Her bones are constructed out of empathy; her eyes are utterly incapable of observing a hungry four-legged feline transient lest she pluck them from their sockets. Every day fresh tin pie plates full of meow mix and water bowls can be found at the top of our back stairwell, that is until 7 minutes after they are attended to by the family.

My werewolf buddy once remarked as he walked into my kitchen’s rear entrance that as he approached the stairs, “it was raining cats.”

So as I filled my belly with oats and blueberry goodness I watched the kattens frolic amongst the greenery, an activity I entertain most mornings. However, as I was in the process of losing myself in this La-La Land, I noticed the strangest detail. In the far left quadrant of my field of vision I spied what appeared to be a pair of tennis shoes.

They seemed to be suspended, upside down, in mid air.

I stood up to gain a better vantage and as I did the window of my kitchen revealed the large blue receptacle the city had provided for refuse. The sneakers I noticed were floating above it, though only momentary as I quickly noticed that they were attached to a pair of spindly legs that disappeared into the reeking abyss.

My mouth dropped open at the possibilities.

A Boo Berry rolled off my lips and landed in the sink.

“Plop.”

The pair of legs remained still. “Holy shit, is there a dead body in our dumpster?” I wondered out loud, to no one in particular. Or perhaps I was addressing Marla, my reptilian companion. Or any number of my pet tarantulas. I cannot be sure; I have a tendency to talk to myself, and quite often.

In any event, nobody responded to my question.

A few questions took shape in my mind.

Should I go out there and poke it with a stick? Should I get my camera first so I can document my discovery? Should I send the pictures afterward to Silke? Should I call her at work and laugh about it after sending the pictures from my phone? Should I finish my breakfast before my Boo Berries get soggy? Is Ron Perleman who Tom Waits transforms into when he gets angry (ala The Hulk)? Should I inform the authorities?

But before I could come to a decision concerning any of those questions the legs began to move and kick. A hand emerged and grabbed hold of the side of the dumpster and pulled itself back over the edge.

Out popped a crusty old bum.

I watched as he, “Mr. Bum” as he will be referred to herein-intermittently amongst equally amusing monikers-pulled 3 black garbage bags out with him. He opened the bags and began his treasure hunt. A dark blue duffel bag lay at his feet, from which he produced a pair of scissors and cut the electrical cords from a discarded coffee maker, a toaster and a hot plate. He puts the electrical cords into his duffel bag, slides the scissors into his back pocket and resumes his rummaging. A partial roll of toilet paper is discovered and placed into his bag. Then a pizza box disappears into his duffel bag. I see some cans follow; along with what appears to be the box of stale Fruity Pebbles I tossed out due to the fact that they were, well, stale.

Watching him I began to hear in my head the words of a song penned and sung by Charles Manson and The Family.

“Garbage dump oh garbage dump, you could feed the world with my garbage dump.”

Though Hobo Humphrey appears to be in his 40’s, I couldn’t help but wonder if he could be a follower of old kooky Chuck, and is gathering grub for a bevy of nubile teen girls that he has stashed somewhere on the outskirts of town. Of course I am given two pieces of evidence to the contrary.

The first is inside my own quivering piggy brain, as Manson, from what I have read, never actually got his hands dirty-literally, not figuratively- with either dumpster juice or blood. He had his unwashed, unkempt and equally “cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs” minions for that.

The other piece of evidence occurred and was registered just about 47 seconds after he had stuffed the box of Fruity Pebbles into his luggage.

Unbeknownst to Mr. Bum as he was hunting for rotten Easter eggs, his activities were also being monitored by a dozen other pairs of eyes.

From several feet removed the family of frisky felines were observing his invasion of their assumed territory, their ears perked and tails twitching. Curiosity being their province, they began closing in around him to get a closer look at what he was doing. On the top of the building that sat flush with the top of the ivy wall closest to the dumpster sat a very large and frazzled cat, the patriarch of the pussies-the “Charlie” of this family if you will-poised and intermittently preening his paws as he overlooked Vagabond Vinny’s activity.

Not blessed with opposable thumbs, Glad Bag’s patented “Draw-String” technology is the bane of a vagabond cat’s existence. But this humble hobo, bestowed with a nurturing nature it seemed, had unlocked them for his homeless and furry friends. Of course they did not necessarily need the invitation.

A couple of brave scouts began approaching closer, the weight of their hunger induced by the open cans of discarded tuna fish that I had thrown away outweighing their fear of this soiled saint dressed in dirty dungarees, a halo of buzzing flies circling above his head.

Angels come in many guises, ja?

Well, dear reader, demons do as well.

I see Mr. Bum’s mouth moving as he turned to address his newly found congregation. I wonder what he may be saying to them, what beautiful Psalms may be falling from his cracked and split lips? So impassioned by his sermon, I literally see spittle spraying forth from his mouth.

Then it happens.

His right foot suddenly comes off the ground, swings out behind him, then snaps back in front of him and firmly connects with the belly of the nearest cat. This sandy colored Siamese with toffee tipped ears opens its mouth in shock as it is lifted off its paws, hanging over Mr. Bum’s foot like a damp towel. It flies up into the air. His foot pulls back and leaves the cat flailing its legs in midair, scrabbling for purchase as it falls back to the earth. With a thud and a puff of dust it hits the concrete.

It quickly runs off into the foliage.

Thus the second piece of evidence that this man is no follower of Manson, whom once said that he would rather “kill a human than harm an animal.”

What injuries it sustained I can only guess at, but now the motive of Mr. Bum’s actions becomes not only apparent to me, but to the rest of the kattens as well. They scramble for their personal hiding places with the knowledge that he is not the patron saint of “putty tats,” but a garbage gargoyle, a stingy old codger who is not above kicking smaller mammals, either for possession of rancid food scraps or for some sick entertainment.

Now allow me to pause in my narrative for a moment.

Do any of you, and I know that I am dating myself with this statement, but do any of you recall during your childhood reading a series of books called Choose Your Own Adventure?

For those that find yourselves shaking your heads “No,” let me explain. The series contained stories that you, the reader, could have a say in the outcome of the adventure. Once the basic plot of the story was laid out, you were given a choice of how the protagonist of the story would proceed. This choice invariably leads you to other choices that culminate in the story’s ending. Depending on your choice, you were instructed to turn to a certain page, and you would proceed from there.

Of course, considering the medium presented, turning the page is not possible. So, using your scroll bar you can skip forward to the appropriate ending. I will note above each ending as to what ending follows.

So, with an air of adolescent nostalgia, I give you the following choices:

Should Eric emerge from his kitchen door, calmly walk down the stairs and approach Mr. Bum with tolerance and compassion in his heart? If so, scroll down to “Ending A.”

Should Eric burst out of his kitchen door, run down the stairs and confront Mr. Bum in an aggressive manner? If so, please scroll down to “Ending B.”

ENDING A

I emerge from my kitchen door.

As I stroll down the flight of stairs I ask, “Hey man, what was that all about? What did that cat do to deserve being kicked?”

The dude turns and addresses me.

“Those cats are evil, don’t you know that? Those cats are agents of the man, brother. Those cats have been after me all my life. They have clawed me to death my entire life. They claw me back to life. Everywhere I go they are always there, trying to steal me Lucky Charms. See, they know that I know that they know I know everything.”

I stare back at him, expressionless.

“You’ve got Lucky Charms too, I can see them right there.”

He points at my chest.

“I do?”

“Yeah, light is practically streaming from your fingertips. There is a moon hanging over your head friend, and a solar system hanging around your neck. Those cats can see it too, just as well as I can. Now listen, they want you to think that they hang out around here because of some little old lady dishing out scraps, but that is simply her trip.”

I stared at him while he was talking and I could not stop staring into his eyes. They stared right back at me. They stared into me.

“But that’s not your trip, is it? I can hear your soul screaming for change. Confusion man, it’s everywhere, even in this back alley. In that dumpster there is chaos man. White cats, black cats and all the muddied breeding that has created all these abstractions, just like that multi-colored creature I kicked. You may think I did that out of hatred, but you would be wrong. Everything I do, I do out of love. Love is all that there is. I was setting it free, dig? When I kicked him, I kicked myself. And when I kick myself a little more love pours into my heart. There is no other way than THE WAY and THE WAY is all that there is. It’s time to drop the spoon and pick up the knife, because the time is drawing close when it will all come down. And it is coming down fast.”

“What? What is coming down fast?”

“Snap, Crackle, Pop, man, Snap, Crackle, Pop.”

As he was saying those words, looking into his bright and shining eyes, he winked at me.

And somehow I knew that everything was going to be alright.

I found myself inviting him up for some breakfast. As I poured him a bowl of Sugar Puffs he offered me a small yellow marshmallow that was shaped like a door.

“What’s this?” I asked.

He replied, “It is as it is, as it appears, but watch this.”

He took the yellow marshmallow door and gently placed it on the surface of the milk in the cereal bowl, and then lifted it up. A few drops of milk clung to its surface as he flipped it over. A small droplet of milk rolled off the marshmallow and hung in the air before falling back into the bowl, causing white ripples to roll across its surface. He directed my attention back to the marshmallow as the remaining milk was quickly absorbed into the sugar. As I stared, a small white key appeared in the face of the yellow marshmallow door.

“Now take this and place it on your tongue. Don’t eat it!” He commanded. “Just let it sit there and melt. It’s magically delicious.”

I took it and did as he asked. As I sat there I could feel the key slowly melting in my mouth. Sugary and sweet, it began to flow into the cracks and crevices of my tongue, silvery lines shooting around my taste buds like a lightning storm.

He began to rummage around in his duffel bag and as he was doing so a kazoo spilled from its contents and clattered onto the kitchen floor.

As I was staring at it I heard him say, “You can play that if you want to.”

I had no clue as to how he could know that. Ever since I was a little kid I had tried and tried to play the kazoo, but I could never produce anything from one other than a shower of spittle and frustration. Teased endlessly about this on the playground, each and every kazoo I owned eventually ended up as a dozen pieces of shattered brightly colored plastic.

“You know why that is?”

He asked as if he was reading my mind.

“Because this kazoo here, this is the only one for you. It has found its way to this kitchen, to this floor that you find your feet on, because it belongs to you.”

He picked it up off of the floor and handed it to me.

Bright green with a purple cap I held it with shaking hands. It seemed much heavier than its construction suggested, and it made my fingertips tingle. It looked just like every other kazoo I had ever seen in my life, but it felt so much different. Strange-but at the same time so very comfortable-and a weight seemed to have been lifted off of my shoulders. I raised it to my mouth and placed it between my lips. It felt as if it was kissing me back as I gingerly blew air inside of it.

Music filled my kitchen.

The air became utterly pregnant with it. It was if the walls began to breathe, they contracted and retracted in unison with the tune that issued from my kazoo, as if the music was so heavy that it was forcing the walls to expand with its weight, and the walls in turn were trying to pull themselves from the frames that they were nailed to become closer to the source of the music.

The birds outside my window stopped chirping from embarrassment of their own voices.

And my guest began to slowly sing:

“Come on come on come on come on
Come on is such a joy
Come on is such a joy
Come on take it easy
Come on take it easy
Take it easy take it easy
Everybody’s got something to hide except for me and
my monkey.

The deeper you go the higher you fly
The higher you fly the deeper you go
So come on come on
Come on is such a joy
Come on is such a joy
Come on make it easy
Come on make it easy.

Take it easy take it easy
Everybody’s got something to hide except for me and
my monkey.

Your inside is out and your outside is in
Your outside is in and your inside is out
So come on come on
Come on is such a joy
Come on is such a joy
Come on make it easy
Come on make it easy
Make it easy make it easy
Everybody’s got something to hide except for me and
my monkey.”

Out of breathe and close to tears I stopped and my arms fell to my side. Completely exhausted in the effort and weakened by the crushing beauty of what I had just experienced, I dropped to my knees.

I kissed his feet.

“Who am I?”

This question, having been on my mind seemingly as long as I could remember and never able to find the answer was all I could think of to say. And deep down inside my soul I knew that he was holding onto the truth in his hands.

“You are you. You are love. You are the earth and the tree. You are the banana and the monkey. You are the Emerald Elder.”

My heart seemed to jump out of my chest. I could feel my ribs shake. His answer almost rattled my teeth right out of my jaws. I felt my eyeballs spinning in their sockets. I felt dizzy, my head felt like it was full of Malt-O-Meal.

I needed to pee.

Then he touched my shoulder with his hand, and the world snapped back into place with clarity.

I asked him, “Who are you?”

“Why, I am me. I am love, love is me. I am the Cookie Crook. I am the Fruit Brute. I am Captain Crunch. I am Waldo the Wizard and Lucky the Leprechaun.”

As he talked to me his hands began rubbing themselves together and sparks began shooting from between them. He pulled them apart and shapes began to swim between them. Pink hearts, yellow moons, blue diamonds, orange stars, purple horseshoes, and red balloons floated through the air. They flew around his head, streaking over his body like a rainbow.

They filled the room with light as he spoke.

“You are just another piece of the puzzle. Snap, Crackle, Pop is coming down fast. And I need your help, your love, to help me, help us show them how to create the spark. The white cats need to die. They are practically purring for death. They need to be bathed in their own blood so the rest of the cats will feel real fear. They have ruled over the dumpsters long enough. The trash does not belong to them, it never has. It belongs to everyone and it belongs to no one. I have heard the answer in the music from across the ocean. It spoke to me. I’ve unlocked the secrets of the bugs, and it creeps and crawls in my brain. Chirping crickets and buzzing bees. It sneaks into my ears at night and carves the words into my mind.

“Commercial Kitty, ” he smirked.

“Death To Cats,” he leered.

“Snap, Crackle, Pop,” he giggled.

As he spoke a bright green top hat grew out of his head with a four leaf clover adorning its front. His raggedy attire transformed into a shimmering green three piece suit. His beard turned golden and a puffy purple marshmallow “X” bubbled out of his forehead.

“There is a cat fight coming, and we must be ready. The Soggies are out in the desert right now getting everything ready for the apocalypse. Black cat against white cat. But we must first show them how. The black cats don’t know how. We will show them. With love in our hearts and in our blades, we must free them. We must free a number of white cats from their Meow Mix mediocrity in order to create the spark needed for the apocalypse to begin. I am nothing. We are nothing. And I am everything, and we are everything. I was once just a number, my father was the jailhouse, and my father is their system. I am only what they made me, I am only a reflection of them. I have lived in the dumpsters all of my life, lived on discarded mattresses and eaten trash to survive. We have to kill them to kill ourselves, only then will we be free to live. The black cats will win this cat fight. We will sit back in the desert and let them win. The streets will run red with the blood of the white cat. This entire world will be stained crimson. We shall sit back and watch the black cat kill from the safety of the desert, from the cavern of Toucan Sam. The Soggies are out in the desert getting everything ready right now. And as we watch the black cat take control of every dumpster on this planet, we will sit and wait. The great flaw of the black cat is his inability to rule. He can extend his paw and spring forth his claws, but he has spent the entirety of history serving the white cat. He does not know how to do anything other than that. Provided even with kitty litter, he does not cover up his own shit. He will not survive his victory for very long. He needs the white cat to run the dump. He will be unable to unlock the secret of the yellow drawstrings of garbage bags. He will starve. He will fall upon his own kind. That is when we will emerge from the desert, from Death Valley, from our hole in the earth. Once we have collected 144,000 Proofs-Of-Purchase, we will take back the dumpsters for ourselves. Our willingness to love will be the true measure of our love.”

He stopped for a minute and lifted the bowl to his lips and drank the remaining milk, slurping at the edge of the bowl. He licked a few drops from his mustache.

“It’s like this bowl. Once it was empty. Then you added some cereal. But it’s just cereal brother. Then you take some milk from your fridge. In that glass container it is just milk. Cereal and milk, right? Just two separate things. Then you pour the milk into the bowl and it flows over and around the cereal. It is still just 2 separate things. Separate egos. But over time they began to break down. The milk gets in there and breaks down the cereal. Soon enough you cannot tell the difference between them anymore. They have absorbed each other’s ego until there are no more egos. They just are, dig?”

He stands up and takes me by the arm.

“We’ve got work to do brother. I have sent Yummy Mummy, Boo Berry, Count Chocula and Franken Berry off on another trip, but we have one of our own to get on.”

“Snap, Crackle, Pop!” I shout with glee and clap my hands.

He looks at me, smiles, and I fall in love for the second time.

I grab the door knob and pull it open, my hand sticky with peppermint. The gingerbread door swings wide, letting in a blazing stream of sunlight. We walk outside and a giant yellow lemon drop hangs in the sky, spilling its rays on our up-turned faces. We stroll down a flight of caramel stairs, running our hands over sugar frosted railings. I look over at the chocolate dumpster as it sits on butterscotch wheels and wink at the cats digging through tootsie pop wrappers, empty pixie sticks and sweet-tart cellophane. We turn down the alley, our feet producing slight a slight crunching noise as we tread over graham crackers. Our path is shaded by cinnamon stick trees; thier branches hanging heavy with gum drop fruit. They are crowned with clouds of cotton candy.

Hand in hand and singing, we skip merrily in the direction of a rainbow.

ENDING B

I burst out of my kitchen door.

“Hey, you fucking rank douchebag!” I yell as I descend the stairs, “What the hell was that?”

He turns to me and barks “Mind your own fucking business,” and returns to his rooting through the trash.

Decidedly, I note that I am minding my business, which though I do not own the property, I do rent it with funds procured through working, and this unabashedly miserable and malicious creature is making a huge mess that he has no intention of cleaning up himself. I also note that in addition to that, he just abused a rather small-and though not helpless-animal that certainly lacks the means to successfully defend itself against someone of Mr. Bum’s stature.

That’s not to say that I would have not found it most entertaining, and it would have found me clapping with glee, that if instead of running off, all of the cats-patriarch “Charlie” included-had descended en masse and clawed his eyes right out of his turgid sockets.

So I do not take his advice.

I approach him and ask him, “So you enjoy kicking animals that in your estimation are lower life-forms than you?”

He begins to turn around as I shout, “Hey, me too!”

I, mimicking his action from a minute or so ago, swing my leg back, then forward as hard as I can. My foot lands smack in the middle of his ass, the front part of my sneaker-no pun intended-slips between his cheeks and punts him right in the balls.

A field goal if I ever I saw one.

Down goes the piece of shit, to his knees with enough force and sound effect that I know a large portion of skin covering his knee caps just got erased. He looks up at me with that “why’d ya do that for?” expression on his face, a question I have no intention of qualifying. His expression quickly turns to anger. Noting that his pair of scissors are still in his back pocket, I quickly grab them and toss them over the ivy wall and onto the top of the building.

Charlie the cat idly glances at them as they fly over his head then turns his attention back to Mr. Bum and I cannot say for sure, but I am almost positive that he gave me an acknowledging nod. He then leans back, his rear legs splay outwards and he begins licking his balls.

I look back down at Homeless Hugo and his hurtin’ huevos.

Pointing towards the entrance of the back alley I tell him, “Get the fuck out of here. Never come back. You are not welcome here.”

He begins to speak, some sort of retort crawling out from between his rotten and broken teeth. His breath smells like a dead baby’s coffin. Some of the flies circling around his face perish instantly from the fumes issuing across his syphilitic lips, victims of either bad timing or poor navigation. Then again, it could be a lethal combination of them both.

I swing my leg back, threatening to kick him again. He scoots forward and slowly gets to his feet, his eyes never leaving my foot. The feeling of satisfaction that had been coursing through my veins slowly begins to bleed out, not replaced by regret, but by utter revulsion. I note the irony of one transient being whose hopes for sustenance lay on the shoulders of those better off than him, one who subsides on the sympathy of others, could not extend that sympathy to another creature of like ilk.

He scuttles down the alley like a fucking cockroach, dragging his duffel bag with one hand, the other hiding at his front side. My hopes being that it was cupping his soon-to-be bruised bag of Corn Pops.

I look down at my shoe and notice a brown skid mark running from the left side of the toe area of my sneaker and across two crisscrosses of shoe laces and streaking off the right side of my shoe. I could smell the shit stain that my shoe had scraped from his putrid pants. My nostrils slammed shut from the fecal frommage of Mr. Bum’s dumpster dining.

“Well if that isn’t just the icing on the fucking cake…”

I kick it off in disgust and it soars into the air, and lands right in the dumpster. I take mental note of my second perfect shot of the day and then turn my attention back to Transient Timmy.

He turns the corner, casting a last glance in my direction.

I wave back emphatically, a huge grin crossing my face.

“Bye, bye, Mr. Bum!”

Does the Homeland Security Act make it illegal to pay our taxes?

by Joe Christ

For the past year and a half, or so, I have been spending about half of my time living in Manila, the Philippines. I really love it here, for many reasons - even though it’s always hot as fuck outside, extremely crowded (Manila is the most densely populated city in the world), the air is bad, the water polluted. Those things are mere inconveniences. I truly love the people here, the food, the culture and I spend countless hours exploring every part of the city and surrounding provinces, enjoying almost every minute of it. For one thing, when I am here in Manila, I’m not in the US!

But, today I will focus upon one thing in particular that I find inspiring - the tendency of the Filipino people to take to the street and demand action from their government, to hold their political leaders accountable for their deeds and misdeeds.

In the USA, when people are protesting the government in demonstrations, they’re instantly branded by the media as radicals, and the numbers are always unimpressive, to say the least. The average American is too apathetic to speak out against the numerous injustices and breaches of the constitution which are perpetrated by our leaders, on an increasingly frequent basis. Our fore-fathers must be turning in their graves. Here in the Philippines, politicians are shot pretty regularly - and I like that.

Imagine George W Bush having to flee the White House by helicopter, because a million people were storming down Pennsylvania Avenue. It does make for a nice mental image, but Americans are too lazy, too stupid, or just don’t care enough. For the most part, they’re willing to take whatever horse-shit is spoon-fed to them…and thus, almost deserve to have their Constitutional rights taken away. You know, like what has been happening since the “War On Terror” began. One of two “wars” we are fighting, which can never
be won - the other being the “War On Drugs”. Going to “war” against concepts, rather than a real enemy is absurd, but Americans seem to suck it up. Both “wars” were manufactured to give the government the right to seize property, bank accounts and people. Most of the politicians who disagree with these policies are too afraid to appear “soft” on terror or drugs, too scared to go against the one-party system’s official line, to do anything substantial about it. Meanwhile, the Constitution is rapidly becoming a worthless relic, and thousands of people are dying because of it.

Now, let’s go to the Philippines, where not one, but TWO former presidents (Marcos in 1986, Estrada in 2001) have fled the palace by helicopter in recent history - because a million people had taken to the streets, and were on their way to storm the palace. Do you not see why this is inspirational to me?

When I was here in Manila during election season last year, on every single day at least one politician or candidate was shot - I’m not exaggerating. Usually the deed was carried out by policemen on motorcycles, who had been hired as hit-men. That action costs around $100 US, for a “VIP” to be taken out (it’s only around $20-40 for an “ordinary” citizen to be eliminated). Politicians here in the Philippines tend to look over their shoulders a lot! Just as politicians in the US should.

So, in your mind, think of the entire population of Washington DC (around 3/4 of a million), and some of the suburbs, every single person, forming a mob and demanding the ouster of the Bush regime! That will give you some comparison to what has taken place here in Manila twice in the past 22 years.

It’s true we are a nation of laws, and Bush, in theory, can be impeached for his crimes against the US and its citizens and the world. On the one hand, you have Dennis Kucinich, who has the balls to stand up and demand the impeachment of the President. But the average citizen writes him off as a “fringe” politician…and I suppose he is, since the mainstream US politicians are ultimately part of the problem. On the other hand, you have the media (even the so-called “liberal media”) cheerleading for Bush, Cheney and company, as they wage an unconstitutional war in the Middle-East, and chip away at the Bill of Rights, piece by mother-fucking piece. And the average American gobbles it up like a sack of greasy fast-food.

Filipinos put up with martial law for almost a decade and a half, in the 1970s and 1980s, being fed lines about how it was only for the good and security of the nation. Something like we get now, in the USA…gotta fight the terrorists and drug dealers, you know! Eventually, the Filipino people had enough of that nonsense, woke up from that unpleasant pipe-dream - and they took action. The president ended his days holed-up in the USA (go figure) until his eventual death from natural causes.

Wake up, Americans! When you’re paying half of your salary just so you can have enough gasoline to go earn your salary, when your home is being taken away by the bank, when your life-savings disappear to pay for medical care - when you have nothing left - why are you not joining with other victims and storming the White House and the Capitol? When each point of the Constitution and Bills of Rights disappears, maybe, at some point, you will use the 2nd Amendment to defend all of the rest! Or maybe I’ll just stay here in the Philippines…

[This article should not be construed as a personal threat to any office-holder, but it should make them think about what’s best for the USA and its citizens - for a change.]

by Joe Christ

I can’t take total credit for this, as someone told it to me…but I thought it would be worth sharing.

St Peter greets a new arrival by asking him, “What is your name, and what have you done?”

The new arrival says, “My name is Barack Hussein Obama, and I was the first African-American president of the United States of America!”

St Peter looks perplexed, “Hmmm, I don’t recall that”, he says. “When did you take office?”

The reply - “Oh, about 5 minutes ago!”

by Eric Tolles

Her mouth is moving, but I cannot understand what she is asking, as I have no grasp on her gurgling, wet language. Having accidentally swam too close to the group of whale sharks she trolls the shallow end of commercial waters amongst, I have been mistaken for prey.

I postulate that a small cut this morning on the side of my neck while shaving spilled just enough blood into the water and attracted her attention, having sniffed it out.

Maybe she just wants to know the time because the analog clock hanging in the lobby of the grocery store reads like some secret code she cannot decipher.

Perhaps she simply wants to remark on my “off the hook” tattoos.

Or could it be that she, in an unprecedented environmentally conscientious effort, wants me to instruct her on how to properly load her daddy’s shotgun so that she can blow her head off?

A query mark of methane rises from between her lips and I struggle to keep my breakfast in my stomach. She stands before me, a buxom blonde Barbie with enough helium in her head to keep her afloat for all eternity.  Not to mention the buoys on her chest. She talks and I can feel my eyelashes singe, my eyeballs are cooking inside their sockets like 2 hard boiled eggs spinning around inside a sauce pan.

A chemical reaction much like decomposition.

Rotting hot flesh that somehow found its way out of the grave and is standing in front of me, flapping her jaw with no apparent awareness to the fact that there is a mere strip of decaying flesh and tendon holding her mandible to the rest of her putrid skull.

This convulsing Caucasian corpse is continuing to converse with me.

I flee in fucking terror.

Melting mounds of chocolate bubble butts being shaken by a million “Shaniquas” in another installment of “Gorillas Gone Wild”, a leopard print thong disappearing into a valley nestled between two peaks of Mount Kabobo as they smack their bulbous baboon lips around the remaining barbeque sauce coating the tips of their fingertips.

An army of Asian schoolgirls baring “Hello Kitty” lunchboxes and “Hello Daddy” underwear, dealing out their used panties to the delight of a billion yellow nostrils.

Ten thousand trailer parks full of Harley Davidson mulleted mamas sporting sweat-stained “Jethro’s Starter & Alternator Service” t-shirts while they squat once every 9 months to flush out another mewling janitor.

A battalion of El Caminos whose front grills are being sat on by raven-haired Latino hood rats with black outlined lips that resemble puckering and shit stained anuses. Extra beef tacos stuffed into tight jeans that spill out bambinos just as easily as lettuce.

They call you our “better halves.”

They often refer to you as the “fairer sex.”

I haven’t found any of you to be that exactly. Well, one of you, ja, but as for the rest of you…

You’re disgusting.

Your ploys and your gyrations and your shallow eyes.

Your over exposed flesh causes bile to ascend my throat.

When I think about you disrobing I can see dozens of rotund, flabby ogres shoving greasy chunks of fried meat that have fallen off their chins onto their plastic food trays back into their gaping maws. I imagine that is what you have between your legs anyway, a fast food orgy with a line that wraps around the block.

I’d rather masturbate.

With the thought of you fucking my skin crawls, my cock curls up like a snake coiling around itself and baring its fangs. It slithers around my abdomen trying to escape itself, so furiously that it rattles the teeth in my head with the attempt.

You’re repugnant, vile beasts flaunting those rotten bags of meat in my face as if it is a travesty that the attached pus dripping nipples aren’t in my mouth.

I’d rather beat off.

I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, but uttering those words will evoke images of you naked and spread eagle on your bed. I’ll throw up in my mouth thinking of you jack-hammering at your slimy clitoris with the economy sized vibrator necessary to satisfy the soulless vacuum that has been host to so many examples of the male imperative. Your equals, as it were, lame and ignorant men, ejaculating banality into your putrid womb.

What the fuck do you think you have down there?

A pot of gold?

Cake and ice cream?

Xanadu? Shangri-la?

I highly doubt it.

Show me something I haven’t seen before. Tell me something I haven’t heard before. Expose some creative flesh hidden inside your brain and I may just become interested. Engage me with intriguing conversation and I could possibly get aroused. This taste fucked out of mouth culture renders me impotent. Tits and ass are about as erotic as the McDonald’s arches unless they are attached to a woman bestowed with brutal creativity and a razor sharp mind.

Intelligence is a powerful aphrodisiac.

Sarcasm is sexy, sarcasm is hot.

Your thong is not. Your midriff is a dime a dozen. Your bared skin is nothing more than a robot sheath covering the mass produced circuitry hiding just below the surface. You think you’re turning me on, but the first turd that fell out of your mouth caused a blackout. My silence is not rapt attention; it is caused by my mind imaging my phallus as a shotgun. Not pointed at the fashionable attire covering your impeccably groomed body, but at my own head as I pull the trigger and blow a hole through the top of my skull. You don’t notice the chucks of my brain and blood splatter running down your face and staining your bland clothing as you listlessly babble on about some subject that inspires suicide.

I’m not even there. You’re not talking to me.

You’re talking to yourself in front of me.

I’d rather fuck my own fist.

I’m good at it. I know exactly how to hold it. I know just how it prefers to be stroked. I can do it anywhere, anytime, and anyway I want. I don’t have to feel as though I’m compromising my principals just to get off, as I’ve seen and heard so many men and woman do to get laid. Women tell lies to themselves and men tell them even more.

Fuck that, and fuck you.

But not literally.