The gospel of Itchy Wiggle Christ - Gregory-John McCormick, Ralf Dellhofen (best memoirs of all time txt) 📗

to these filthy loud monsters. how equal does a woman feel when she is raped and beaten and had her purse stolen from one, or a gang, of these monsters? the equality that the usa forces at the point of a gun is only such that it gives the monsters the freedom to rape and molest and steal. for any person who has not been in prison, or taken a death-drive through the city of detroit, the butthole of the world, or somehow not experienced these monsters firsthand, it is probably hard to convince you of this truth. if one simply listens to the monster´s "music", the rap and hip-hop garbage, one can discern enough that there is violence, rape, sexism, drugs, thievery, and other social sicknesses involved in monster culture. that should be enough, but then, there are those of you who do not understand this, or you refuse to understand it. if so, i dare any one of you to visit detroit for a few days. and if you make it out alive, i´m certain that once one or many of the monster-inhabitants in detroit rape you and steal your belongings and stab or shoot you, your equality-thinking will change post-haste. but this is all just thinking. the usa has guns pointed at the heads of the world and will force all of you, citizens or not, to believe in the twisted logic of america, or you will die or be put in prison. the entire reason for the usa to make any normal, intelligent, good person equal to these monsters is simple: reduce the world population to the lowest common denominator in order to control the population easier. when the usa can put any person on earth in prison for any reason they choose, based on the sick behavior of the monsters, then america controls the world. ask the iraqi-soldiers who were beaten and tortured by us-soldiers. they´ll tell you it is true.

 

as the day draws to a close, a sense of anticipation hangs in the air. amazonian ants can kill and devour fifty thousand insects and animals per day, per colony. they must be hungry. the world is definately easier for beautiful people. i must be extremely ugly, then. the world is very difficult for me. i don´t see an ugly man in the mirror, i see a clown. my eyes seems to constantly have this "you´ve got to be fucking kidding me" kind of look. as if the whole world is a joke and i don´t get it. but, even deeper in my eyes is the "you better be sure you want to fuck with me" look. it can be taken any way you want. i can be trusted. i can be your best friend in the world. but you better honor that trust and friendship. i am not a nice man when crossed. a scene like this sends the human imagination running wild. bulldog ants in tasmania. the jack-jumper. lovely creature, that. kill a man in under four minutes. nasty, volitile, easily agitated. seems to be a bit like this skinheaded skinny irish prisoner i know. they say, to play the blues, you have to feel pain. i play the blues so very very well. suck my ass, nick slave. i am a jack-jumper ant with a deadly venom sting, i sing the blues like no ant can.

 

and here again is the night which brings my death-sleep and my dreams that take me away from the living hell. i worked hard at my paintings. a retard with tentacles and little angry midget with a bullwhip and mechanical legs. nice stuff, my usual, my sickness, my anger, my deep depression, my melancholy, my tiredness. ja, i worked hard. i´m screaming with delight deep in my soul because i know soon my eyes will close. but my soul also sheds a bitter tear, knowing i will undoubtedly wake up eventually, and the torture will begin again, the cycle of slow death, the entropy of my spirit. the black hole of death that is this prison, slowly and inevitably sucking out my life essence. my purity of essence. the clown is not smiling any longer. the clown wants only to go to sleep and never ever wake up again. see you in my dreams, girldear, á colleen.

 

 

2. The Gospel of Itchy Wiggle Christ

and then it is morning, as promised by the gods of hell. sunday morning, day of the sun or son, which ever fits the bill in your own twisted retarded logic scheme. kitty cats on TV. i haven´t seen a live real cat in four or more years. "your kids know plenty about marijuana, you should know too". that is from the myriad commercials in america dealing with the ever-growing demonization and paranoia about drugs. as william burroughs stated, it is anathema for these idiots to think that one could escape the horrors of life by using narcotics and drugs. well, it was something like that. how´s tanzi? she´s fine. crinkle pinkle poppy-pop, i´m a cherry coughing drop. i escape into my mind when i don´t have enough, or any, drugs or alcohol to chemically escape from this wicked nasty filthy world. my mind is a powerful ally in my war against reality.

 

shaving the head. a liberating experience, just ask sinéad o´connor, hehe. she´s very pretty, but doubtful as a potential mate. i imagine she would be quite a hard woman to live with, much as my mom was. and yet i miss my mother terribly - every single day, even nine years after she died, i think of my mom and i have very terrible feelings. so if i were to have a wife like sinéad, which would be to say like my mother perhaps, maybe would only be an attempt to regain my great loss. my mom seemed to me to be the quintessential irish woman - very proud, argumentative, nagging constantly, smart, witty. often hard to live with. when i was in ireland, i met many girls, some who i could have married, one i came very close to marrying. and it makes sense that i would marry an irish girl so that we could have pure irish kiddies, all that celtic power in the genetic line, keeping the mccormick name and bloodline untainted by outside races. but that doesn´t seem like such a great reason to be exclusive. not to mention that many a smart irish girl would not have a gadabout drunken rover such as myself, ha ha.

 

then there is the thing about my mom. and it would not be fair to my potential wife to have to live up to my memory of my mother. due to my inhabiting germany over most of the last fifteen years, i´ve found myself extremely attracted and compatible with german girls. but there are problems there as well that go far beyond the scope of this writing and beyond what i care to write about. and yet, most germans were celtic at some point, and i sense that in some german girls - they are quite similar to irish girls at times. it is confusing. i have an english friend who knows me quite well, and it is his opinion that i only consider marrying an irish girl. he strongly believes that it is my only option for true happiness. perhaps he is correct. and it is not such a difficult task to try to keep in mind that my wife is not my mother. altho it is my suspicion that every irish man looks for his mother in his wife. it´s a psycho-genetic mainstay, perhaps, like drinking and the wanderlust. this is all conjecture, of course. i don´t know if i will ever have the chance to meet, talk to, touch, let alone marry any girl ever again. irish, german, chinese, russian, or otherwise. so, sorry sinéad, we won´t be shaving our heads together anytime soon, or any other parts of our bodies, ha ha.

 

i have a very dirty mind, yes? but i´ve not been with a girl for many many years. all i have are thoughts, and often my thoughts stray. not having sex for over four years tends to warp one´s mind. fantasies, dreams, desires. i need a bottle of bushmills, a beautiful irish girl, a hotel room, and time.

 

it is the devil´s puppeteer who stretches his fingers and answers the question: what will happen next? the spirit is willing, but the flesh is very weak. the monkey has got you - you do what is inside your head. an angry midget beats my soul. god is the one who feeds you. good and evil: people are not judged by what they think or say, but by what they do. there is no greater enemy than one´s fears, it takes a brave man to face them. what do you seek captain nemo? - i seek a queen. the wheels of life keep turning and turning - life goes on and the innocent die. explaining everything settles absolutely nothing. fixing it only makes it worse. for some people this world ain´t ever going to be right. my honor is my faithfullness. some people are afraid of whatever runs free. hitler´s phone number in the bunker, berlin, 1945: 12-00-50. why am i warm in the shadows of paris, when i know that the dawn means goodbye?

 

the night, the night, the night. jackhammer headache with jackhammer thoughts. great white shark of depression taking tasty chunks out of my bleeding soul. i can not be saved from this attack, or any other. i have been bitten by this shark since i was a very small boy. but it is nighttime now, the dreams come soon. i snuck a cat-nap this afternoon, and had a fabulous dream. i was living out the beatles song "norwegian wood". i was in the strange girl´s flat, sitting on her rug, biding my time, drinking her wine. the whole time i heard the song, but it was me singing it and playing the music my way, sort of hard and punk, but melodic. then i was playing a concert, i was on guitar, playing the sitar solo. it was a good dream, maybe because i like john lennon. and i´ve often had feelings that he watches me from where he is now. or maybe i am simply just psychotic, what with my shark of depression shit and john hinkley-type delusions. i talk to bees and sparrows. i hate people. i hate what this world has become, i hate my life, i hate myself. i much prefer dreams to being awake and having to see monsters and retards all around me. i embrace my nightmares before i try to actually try to get along with the filthy stink-hole assholes of this world. or maybe there really is a shark of depression. maybe john lennon does look over me. maybe vincent van gogh helps me paint. maybe kurt cobain, sid vicious, darby crash, and jim morrison are all waiting for me to snuff it so i can join the party in hell for good punk rockers who cared to much and needed to get out of this toilet you monsters call earth. drink