Thursday, May 19, 2011


Wow! This comic rap about Barack Obama's extra-judicial, extra-jurisdictional execution of Osama bin Laden has the issue covered from pretty much every possible rhetorical angle. Kudos on being so goddamn thorough!


From Terry Gross's FRESH AIR show on NPR yesterday:
Ms JACOBSEN: A flying disc really did crash in New Mexico. And it was transported to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, and then in 1951 it was transferred to Area 51, which is why the base is called Area 51. And the stunning part about this reveal was that my source, who I absolutely believe and worked with for 18 months on this, was one of the engineers who received the equipment – he refers to it as equipment – and he also received the people who were in the craft. And so…

GROSS: Do you mean the remains of the people in the craft?

Ms. JACOBSEN: The people were – according to the source – the people in the craft who were child-sized pilots, and there’s a lot of debate about how old they were. He believes that they were 13, although other people believe that they may have been older … And what he says is that the child-sized aviators in this craft were the result of a Soviet human experimentation program, and they had been made to look like aliens a la Orson Welles’ “War of the Worlds.” When the Orson Welles radio broadcast “The War of the Worlds” aired in 1938, people on the East Coast actually took actions based on their belief that Martians had landed in New Jersey and were attacking. And this fascinated the American military – I source all this in my book – and led to a lot of behind-the-scenes thinking about what it meant that American citizens could be so moved by something that was fictional – that was science fiction. And across the pond, Hitler also paid attention to “The War of the Worlds.” He referenced it in a speech. And according to my source, Stalin also paid attention to “The War of the Worlds” and was fascinated by American susceptibility toward science fiction. And so his plan, according to my source, was to create panic in the United States with this belief that a UFO had landed with aliens inside of it.

GROSS: Mm-hmm. So you’re saying that these children were surgically altered.

Ms. JACOBSEN: I am repeating what the source told me is that…

GROSS: Right. That he’s saying. I’m sorry. He’s saying that they were surgically altered.

Ms. JACOBSEN: Yeah. Or genetically. It’s unclear. What he is absolutely clear about is that the iconic images that we have now of aliens with the big head and the nose and the eyes, that is actually what the child-size pilots looked like. And what I asked my source over and over again, where my skepticism came in was, why, originally in 1947, when this craft supposedly crashed with these grotesque humans in it, why on earth didn’t President Truman hold a press conference to show what a horrible, evil, abhorrent man Joseph Stalin was, to be working with Dr. Mengele? And the source’s answer – which took a very long time – was ultimately: because we decided to do the same thing. And that the head of the program – who my source says was a man named Vannevar Bush, who had also been in charge of the Manhattan Project, decided that it was important to figure out what the Soviets had done. And so we began our own rogue program with human experiments. And this, says the source, is why it’s all secret.
This dove-tails so neatly with everything I have believed and written about over the last 13 years, it's not even funny. You can listen to the entire interview with author Anne Jacobsen, who seems distressingly qualified and legit, HERE.


In Part 3 of How To Murder Your Children For Fun + Profit, one of the escorts - Naomi, had been going on about her dream of destiny, while Lynn, the other woman I’d been squiring around that evening was in servicing a john. Naomi’s heart-felt admission went like this: “I believe this stage of my life is almost finished and I will soon go to the United States where I'll meet a very rich man who will make me a big star - I mean huge.”

She made that statement just before dawn while we sat in a 24-hr Petrocan station somewhere around the border of Burlington and Mississauga, the pre-fab outer reaches of the Greater Toronto Asswipe, the GTA as it’s known. Within a few minutes, I get a text from Lynn that she’s done. So we go to her trick’s place around the corner at some cookie-cutter townhouse with a new - and no doubt heavily-leveraged - Camaro parked in front.

Lynn comes thumping out, looking disheveled in her East Asian baby doll get-up, throws herself into the backseat and promptly curls up under my jacket, even her head. The john is right behind her, thick-faced and nasty. As he comes round to the driver’s side, I reach for my pepper spray and flip off the safety, ready to soak him down.

He’s unshaven, sweaty and red-eyed, shirt buttons done up askew. His breath is a stomach-churning combination of sour booze, cheap cigars and rancid milk. His wrists lay heavily on the window sill.

“So, listen,” he says, out of breath from walking down the drive. “I know it’s not you but you tell Johnny or whatever the fuck the guy who runs this thing is called - you tell him I’m paying for these bitches to show up with real fucking blow, not some garbage cut with speed. I almost blew out a colon snortin’ that shit.” 

He points at Lynn in the backseat. “Ask her!” 

Lynn nods without pulling her head out from under my jacket. 

“I wear a hernia belt,” the john continues and lifts his shirt to show me some kind of black nylon waist harness with velcro straps. “If she wasn’t there to cinch up the back for me, my guts’d be all over the fucking tiles and I’d be suing the ass off that faggot Johnny - big time.” 

He starts to point at me but sees my hand rise a few inches, pepper spray at the ready and clearly thinks better of shoving his finger in my face. He stands straight and backs off a step. “So you just tell him that. Okay?”

“Will do.” I put the car into gear and drive off.

One of the main deals here at the low end of the whoring game, is the women must often show up with drugs, usually weed and/or blow. A lot of guys demand it. If the woman doesn’t bring along drugs then forget it. I mean, he’ll pay for the stuff an all but she’s got to have the shit or she gets the door slammed in her face.

Monday, May 16, 2011


After a week-long, previously unannounced "downtime" for the world's biggest blogging outfit, we can now get back to exposing our opinions and proclivities for the Powers That Be to peruse with the greatest of ease, and in the most luxurious leisure and comfort. In the meantime, here's a great video featuring the legendary Robert Anton Wilson giving his (very valid) opinion on conspiracy theories, in which he enumerates the only conspiracy theorists that he trusts - Carl Oglesby being one of them. I bring this up only because I am in the process of preparing to interview Mr. Oglesby, and I will be posting said interview in the very near future. Keep your eyes peeled!

Tuesday, May 10, 2011


As much as I love ‘em, I was bitching about our old pal Basil’s rants, which bitch about his slightly-glamorous, yet low-paying job driving hookers around. For a lot of us, that would be a dream job. I made the argument that he should tie his rants to larger sociological circumstances, and am beginning to think I was wrong. Perhaps such an approach would give his writing breadth, but on the other hand, perhaps his depth would suffer.

Regardless, I thought I’d tell a story. Yer old pal Anonymous is pretty drunk and high right now, courtesy of a little chemical know-how, some weird Internet pills, and cheap light beer.

The other day I ran into a 75-year old woman vomiting on the sidewalk. We both used to score high-powered narcotics from a guy who died recently, so we knew each other beforehand. I was a little worried about her – there are a lot of creeps who fiend for crack in her neighborhood, so I sat down with her for a bit so she could get her bearings and tell me about the time she shot her third husband and the time her first husband shot her in the ass. Now, these are New Orleans-area folks; they know how to milk every system they come across, and can live quite well without ever having to do anything but trade pills to someone literate enough to fill out various forms. But I digress – the point is these old ladies in the opiate and muscle relaxer-filled handicapped community next door know how to hustle way better than any small-town America white dude ever could. But I do quite well.

I just told the reader that I sat down with the lady because I was worried about her. And the reader probably believed me. If you still believe me, I’ll let you know I do all kinds of work with the handicapped and the elderly: keeping them company and so forth. It fulfills me spiritually and gives me an opportunity to help those in need. Plus her son’s a heroin dealer and I kept hoping he’d come home while I was talking to her so I could score a $40 bag. If he didn’t come home, I was gonna hit her up for some of her pills that make heroin look like baby aspirin.

But it didn’t happen. My psychotic wife darted into the parking lot, pissing off a taxi driver because she didn’t signal and basically almost caused him to broadside her – in my uninsured car. Yes, my wife is a professional party pooper. She shows up, and any happy mood that existed among people interacting evaporates. The disposition she expresses toward people makes them want to avoid her, especially addicts. Addicts are experts in practicing avoidance, and we hate conflict to the point we’ll do anything to get away from it. Conflict always calls for drugs or alcohol; whether we are convinced drugs and alcohol will give us the balls to deal with the conflict or if we are convinced that they will help us blank it out, I do not know, but we sure do like it when things go smoothly. I suspect drugs and alcohol help us to accomplish whatever end we wish, but the more advanced the addiction, the more likely that blackout is the desired outcome, and the more likely we’ll run into unintended consequences for our fucked up behavior.

So back to the story; my wife shows up and demands that I leave with her and go home. The old woman with whom I was talking told my wife to sit her ass down and tell her about her father. Yes, the old lady wanted to know about my wife’s father. At least that’s what she told my wife.

It was a sinister tale I’ve heard many times before: her father was a drunken asshole who beat her mom and her older siblings. Then he’d force her mom to cook up a chicken that he had killed with his drunken buddies, and she’d have to pluck it, clean it, boil it, and feed it to the crowd of drunks who had suddenly converged upon her house. You don’t generally get this type of story from Americans; the fact they were all Mexicans made the story more real. Among New Orleans folks, it’s more likely to be a common story.

So my wife tells the elderly woman the story. They swap tales of bad men and the badder women whom they claim to be, always placing the woman on top in the conflict. Normally I wouldn’t bother listening to an hour’s worth of this bullshit, but I kept hoping her heroin-dealing son would get home, so I stayed, interjecting when appropriate, and supporting the stories of both in whatever way made me look like a good guy. Part of this choice in tactics was so that the elderly woman would later talk about what a good guy I was to her son, therefore (hopefully) increasing the quality and take on whatever drugs I subsequently scored from the guy. I was and am very conscious of the fact that the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his mother, and if the man is a drug dealer, it’s good to have his mother on your side. When he stiffs you and you complain to his mother, he’s likely to be in a greater world of shit than he would be otherwise.

The heroin-dealing son didn’t come home that night, at least while I was there. A couple of days later I walked over to the store to buy some beer and his mother stopped me, told me what a good guy I am, and told me that it was probably the fact she drank Budweiser (as opposed to Coors Light) two nights before that she became ill and vomited on the sidewalk. My response was something to the effect of “Oh yeah, Budweiser will do that; that’s why I drink Coors-labeled beers.” She said she was going to get back inside and finish watching Roadhouse, but to take care of my wife. I said “of course!” Being nice to this woman has created a good image of myself which she will share with others around her. That’s how propaganda works. Not through the message, but through the people that carry the message to others.

The moral of my story? Well, there probably isn’t one. It’s full of immorality and hidden agendas. I should probably feel guilty about my fetish for “visitin” with the elderly and the infirm, but I know that’s the ticket to good drugs. I mean, I went 2 years (until he died) milking very potent legally-prescribed narcotics from a guy in a wheelchair. A lot of junkies sit around fiending, sucking dick, or pawning stolen shit to support their habits. I play the “nice guy” role, under the guise of “helping others,” and have been able to maintain addictions off and on for years without doing anything I can’t live with.

So there you have it: that image in our heads of a junkie strung out on heroin sucking dick under the bridge is a horrifying image someone borrowed AND created to try to steer people into religion or something equally sinister. A junkie can get by on just being a nice person. Maybe my modus operandi has morally questionable components, but for an addict, getting high is the greatest morality, and doing it within the behavioral confines of what “civil society” claims to be just is perfectly moral.

Cheers to all, especially to my old pal Jerky!

Monday, May 9, 2011


Driving the Trick Taxi, as my friend Fernando christened it, is getting to be a real strain. Impossibly stupid hours, lousy pay - and I don’t even have to do the johns. In the end, taking gas and repair costs into account, I think I’m making something like nine dollars per hour. Well, that’s the glamorous, high-stakes world of illicit sex for you.

Last night I had a couple of veterans in the car - Naomi and Lynn. While we sit in the McDonald's parking lot at Thorncliffe, they bitch and carp about every last thing, real foul mouths on them.

“Remember back when we never had to do Pakis?” Naomi yells over her shoulder at Lynn.
“Gawd,” Lynn groans. “Can you believe it's got to the point where you have to sucking Paki cock - and for LESS than what we made back in the day!”
Naomi shakes her head bitterly. “Yeah - and now it’s almost nothing BUT Pakis!”
“And they’re cheap fuckers,” Lynn carries on. “No Paki has ever tipped me a dollar - not one.”
Their voices get louder and meaner as their anger builds, like a crap stereo turned up way too high. I feel like whacking my head against the top of the steering wheel.