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Friday, November 29, 2013

THE FIRST DUTY OF A MAYOR IS TO HAVE A SENSE OF HUMOUR - TO INCREASE THE MORALE OF HIS CITY... MAYOR FORD HAS DONE THIS ... YOU HAVE MY VOTE!



       T THE QUESTION ISN'T WHO HAS SMOKED CRACK
IN TORONTO: THE QUESTION IS WHO HASN'T 
smoked crack in Toronto! 

     Canada has turned out some of the world's best
commedians! How the hell have we managed to
lose our sense of humour on a National Scale?
     Well, O.K. Perhaps the answer to that question 
is obvious...
      But TORONTO THE GOOD is dead and gone 
and no one misses it!
      What other Toronto mayor has ever made it to
the Tonight Show?

       Mayor Rob Ford has done his first duty. He has
increased the visibility of the City of Toronto, and he
has improved the morale of the City's citizens
in the darkest time of the year.

       A CITY'S MAYOR IS SUPPOSED TO DRINK, FOOLS!
And IF HE'S NOT A DRUNK, HE SHOULD PRETEND TO BE
ONE!

       The LEAFS are finally improved. But that team
in the past depressed the hell out of the City of Metro
Toronto for DECADES!
       We should have attacked the Maple Leaf ownership
and drummed them out of town, tarred and feathered...
Not now however! Now we have a coach who
actually laughs from time to time!  HALLELUJAH!

       Do you see where I'm going with this article?

       NOW WE HAVE A MAYOR who can laugh, and
who makes others laugh! What's wrong with that?

       The question isn't what's wrong with Mayor Ford...
the question is what's wrong with we Canadians?

       THE MOST BELOVED MAYOR NORTH BAY, ontario, EVER HAD... HIS FAVOURITE EXPRESSION was: "It's not so
serious!"
       And he had the guts to live up to his motto.
He was reputed to run the best Brothel in Town,
was rumoured to purchase hundreds of votes
by buying alcohol for busloads of drunks.... and most
important of all, he talked to the common man ( read "common" as meaning 'impoverished!' --- just as Mayor Ford is known to do!)
       And as I say, he was BELOVED... because he
cheered up the City of North Bay throughout
the deep depression of successive DARK NORTHERN
WINTERS.

         MAYOR FRANK WILCOX OF WAIT-A-BIT, North
West Territories, has been soundly criticized by the
one  sober citizen in town (who remains anonymous) --- for spending the entire yearly
municipal budget on purchasing booze in bulk rather
than securing electricity for the town...
         Each year he puts this ONE ISSUE to the vote.
And each year his PLATFORM wins by a landslide.
         Mayor Wilcox has just sent Mayor Ford a communication of support. And Mayor Ford has my vote
as well as Mayor Frank Wilcox!

         Have you watched the humourless, self-righteous
idiots Toronto now has a City Councillors?
Have you watched their solemn speech-making
on T.V.? Do you really want these witless moralizers
to run things?  AGAIN?

         Torontonians, wipe off your pocket mirrors
and look yourself straight in the eye.

           Who would you rather sit beside at dinner, that's
the question you must ask yourselves - for this is
test for a mayor!  He must sell the city, after all.
And no one wants to have a convention
in a boring City peopled by dull demi-preachers.

      I say this, "Do not abandon your honourable Mayor,
before you take a really accurate look
at his would be replacement!"
      Mayor Ford might threaten your shallow sense
 of stability, but if his replacement MAKES YOUR SKIN
CRAWL, who has really won the ISSUE?

           Canadians, look at yourselves.  What the hell
are you up to?  Why can you no longer laugh?


         

EVERY THOUSAND YEARS TORTURE MUST BE BANNED ON BLACK FRIDAY


                               HANK SAT IN THE DRIFTWOOD CHAIR AND STARED AT THE SKY.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>.<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

a tale
oh, don't tell me.... Please.... Wait-a-bit!   
....
***************PLEASE NOTE -- I ALMOST PULLED THIS ARTICLE; IT'S IN SUCH BAD TASTE.... BUT I'M AGAINST CENSORSHIP.
THIS IS A GOOD TASTE WARNING ----THIS ARTICLE IS NOT
In good taste!!! Please be warned.***************


                            My bunker-mate Hank returned from the GREEN ROOM, which is the LIBRARY OF HEADLINES
underneath the horrid lair of the disgusting
TUNNEL PEOPLE.
            
             Please Note: WE USED TO CALL IT THE
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS but that title
came to have unfortunate carnal associations.
             One thing we librarians have learned
is that: LESS IS MORE, after a time,
where headlines are concerned.

                      You can only say the word, "SHIT' so much in all its
many perambulations.
                      Then, unfortunate as this is, the OBSCENITY LOSES ITS
FUCKING,FOOKEN, fucken, impact.
             And then, when you're really PISSED-OFF
you have nothing to say.

                         Witness this screed  SCREED! written by
a formerly well-respected author, who
was suffering from merciless attack of the GOUT
IN THE LEFT FOOT.... after drinking too much evil
hallucinogenic Green Chartreuse Brewed by
the Devilish Torturers of the ASS-LICKING (TOAD-ASS
LICKING) BREW MASTERS OF THE PSYCHOTIC
TUNNEL PEOPLE....

             WORDS DO NOT SUFFICE TO
           EXPRESS THE DISGUST I FELT
            the morning after when I learned
                 that even PSYCHOSIS OF GREEN MONSTROUS
MINDS.... loses its entertainment value after
a mere twelve hours of endless repetition....

                 IN THE GREEN HELLS OF THE SULFROUS
BREATH OF WASP-TAILED
LECHEROUS
DAISY-LOVING MILK MAIDS

after a time all adjectives become meaningless
                        thoUGH
    adverbs may always carry bowel-wrenching
    horror in their power to SURPRISE
    the incontinent...  ...   ... read this and you either will or will not
                                                                    see me scabrous point...oh no!!  EYE IZ
                                                                                                                       disappearing!!! 

THIS IS A FUCKEN DRAFT
BE SURE TO PUBLISH THIS BIT
________________________________________

FRANK'S EVIL TWIN "FRANK-FRANK" LANDED TODAY

"THIS IS NOT A GOOD THING: HE'S THE ONLY
NATURAL BORN SADIST I EVER MET!"
Mayor Frank Wilcox states in his Affidavit.


(if you're having stomach cramps writhing on the floor
after eating twelve hits of stichnine laced acid... he'll make you stub your toe on the way to the toilet! He did it to me!)

if you're terrified... you think you're dying, quivering
with fear, terrified, he'll force you to pray 
to a God you don't believe in.... 
in an act of strange, never-to-be-understood
torture.

"If you do not like what you're reading, it makes fuck-all difference to me!" says our mayor's twin, Frank-Ftrank."I hope this offends you and gives you strichnine-stomach cramps! Heroin-withdrawal stomach cramps -  a kick in the balls type stomach cramps... all thrust up your ass with a sharp, twisted, rusty wire!!!!" 
                                by a wife who really bores you!
     
     "FUCK OFF ! JESUS CHRIST MY LEFT FOOT HURTS
    THIS IS WHAT GOUT FEELS LIKE!!!!


pussy-riot of PAIN...............................oooooooooooooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooofuk!!!


an UGLY LITTLE STORY
___________________

 OOOOOHHHH  It THROBS

      PAIN IS A DIS-INHIBITER, SO DON'T EXPECT ME TO BE POLITE.


Once upon a time I was really stoned, wired to the rafters, howling
like a syphilitic jackal and barking like the darkest deepest bear-demon of the primordial mind....
           Love of my life, thoughtful howl-bitch girlfriend in the
name of MIND-FUCK HELP... DROVE ME to the hospital
         And of course, they whisked me out of the
EMERGENCY ward.... lickity-split.... No one wants to hear
some CAVEMAN BEAST... with long  DRIPPING GREY
DARK RASTA HAIR ask their TREMBLING GRANDMA,
        
         "How much for a blow job, honey???"
      
          No answer, natch

         "Ya ya ya ya ya ya.... I know I know", IL Monstro smiles in a happy
malevolent grin...."I KNOW HOW MUCH!.... ya told me last week....
it's twenty dollars..."
        . "But I know it's more expensive... I know
it'll cost more now.... Tell me, 'HOW MUCH WITHOUT YOUR TEETH?'" 

                AND THEN they wheeled me tongue-working, teeth snapping
eyes rolling and winking... at every child I saw... 
      Wheeled me up to the third floor... WHERE... natch I run into DOCTOR BLOCH - once again-  she refuses to hold my
testicles in her warm clasped gland hands as I attempt
to give a  urine sample....."
          "YAVOWL!!!!"
           And then they wheel me down,farther still, still
strapped to the gurney... where they
hide me inn a a free private room and
turn off theair conditioning.
           Doc Bloch approaches me in the dark --
as per usual --- with a hypodermic.. fully of nasty
geek-juice meant to knock  me out,
sneaky like.
           I'm not supposed to see her, but I have ESP and
whisper:  
          "Hey, baby,   COME AND SIT ON POPPA'S...face!"
            She does not. MUCH as she wants to stay
and writhe naked down upon my nose... no!
SHE DOES NOT!
                           BUT....
twenty minutes later when the max-blast of
LIBRIUM has had no effect, she tries it once
again.... this time  a FULL-UP MAXIMUM INJECTION
OF A DIAZEPAM...
                      This slows me down somewhat... and makes me DEMONIC IN A PLEASANT WAY... and gives me a PLATE-BREAKING HARD-ON.... that weighs more than THE DUMBBELL most modern PUSSY-MALEs use to strengthen... give an iota of strength to their pitiful wrists....
                  AND ..... "'IT'  IT IT IT....., DOCTOR, IT THROBBED IN THE AIR, QUIVERED, SEEMED TO SNIFF THE AIR...then turned to look at me AS IF IT HAD AN INTELLIGENCE ALL ITS OWN!"...
             " AS IF ... AS IF....'IT'    KNEW WHAT I
WAS THINKING....!"
              THEN....  "OH,  D-D-DOC-DOC-DOCTOR, IT
STARTED DRIPPING AND LIKE A SNAKE WITH SOME STRANGE GENUIS... HIS THICK AND THROBBING DICK,
BIG AS MY WRIST, AND NODDING LIKE THE BRIGHTEST
RED TULIP IN A HOT SPRING NOON, IT TURNED ITS HEAD,
WINKED IT'S HAPPY SINGLE EYE... AND... AND SMILED AT ME..."
             It was horrible!"
            "Oh, please doctor --- give me a sedative ( a strong one, just like the one I saw you give him three times...to that
fiend!"
          As Uncle Bucky used to say: "GIVE IT TO ME, DOCTOR, I CAN TAKE IT!"
             
          "Quick! Before I start MASTURBATING THIS INSTANT
WITH BOTH HANDS AND SNATCH YOUR TWAT
TWO TIMES!!



          That, sweet angel, is what gout in the left
foot if like... less painful now.... AFTER TAKING TEN ACETACYLIC ACID
TABLETS   WITH CODEIN.... and drinking a bottle of
RYE WHISKEY STRAIGHT NO WATER CHASER...
and no pussy-riot beside me to piss me off.

               At least not yet, but in 20 minutes, "Yes,"
I whispered, making promises, I made a call.

 
                        HANDS-ON HANK SAT ON THE DRIFTWOOD chair
AND STARED AT THE SKY
above the bunker. He wasn't moving. He just
stared at the cloudy sky, like in a trance.

               He wrote this: He was reading a scrunched up note on a 
filthy piece of paper he'd snatched (nicked) from
IL Monstro's army bag

            IL Monstro (Frank-Frank) had dropped from the sky in a parachute and had damn-nearly landed on Hank's face.
Hank was shocked. 
           Hank is still shocked, reading this
bit of foolscap... the paper had a twisted kind of prayer
on it...a note... a message...It looked like
someone had wiped his ass with it
           After a particularly wet and nasty shit with chucked-up 
Chinese chunks in it.
          Hank was more shocked by what he had seen
than by what he was now reading...
          He was reading a description of MORRIT IL MONSTRO
 FORCING SOMEONE TO PRAY
WHILE THAT PERSON  IS HALLUCINATING ON PCP....
                                                                                     (A HORRID PSYCHE-CRIME)

          He reads, "I'm not a religious person. I believe in
sweet-fuck-all, the great god FUK...
which means: "Holy fuck I'm in pain...
and I have an erection... every time my
fukkin foot fukken fuk-me throbs  so does
my christly dong... this sends confusin
messages to my fuckin' forebrain forehead
'n forelocked fuckin fucked EYE which sees
sweet-fuck-all it likes...
       YAH I fucken said "IT"  I am IT AND IT'S
not happy at praying at the fucked up senseless
brainless lead-pipe grey ballock-drippen sky. 


HANK SAT IN THE DRIFTWOOD CHAIR, AND___________
_________________________________
                        smiled in silence.

Verbal torture dies...
                                      by...
                                                  its own hand.















             Cheers from Wait-a-bit on Black Friday

                                                                                        Enjoy your shopping...                                                         
 

Thursday, November 28, 2013

HORROR TALES OF THE DARK HILLS -----------THE DEMONIC PSYCHOTIC HISTORY OF THE TUNNEL PEOPLE

There's a 'BAD TASTE WARNING"  on this one, also.
 Truly this tale is not for children or for sensitive souls.



        
 FORBIDDEN UNSPOKEN HISTORY OF THE TUNNEL PEOPLE


               I hear this wild cackling from about fifteen
feet away... The crazed fool has been digging
madly... digging away towards the East.
I suspect, he's trying to get farther away from me...
and I can't blame him for trying to escape. I watch
his pathetic, futile attempts at success...
in that enterprise.
          The deeper he digs, the more ensconced he
is, the more his facial features look like my own...
           There was a Polanski film titled, "The Tenant".
Somehow the director accessed a forbidden truth,
one never to be revealed to mortals.
           How the man came upon this annal of pre-human
history, it matters not.
           I honour him for his deep spirit of adventure and occult enquiry.
            Of course,the poor fool cannot be permitted to live long now.

           In that  movie, the new tenant of an evil
apartment starts to look and act more and more
like the earlier tenant of the same apartment, 
who had been a very sadistic and twisted man indeed.
          I'm not going to pretend that this is what's happening
here.... only that, as the days get shorter and the nights get
longer and more dark and more unendurable...Ha! Ha!
         I have been watching Hank, and I've been trying very hard not to laugh!
          I watch as his formerly sophisticated New York
City, East Coast  facial features start to
coarsen and elongate and thicken and look more and more
familiar ---it's as if I'm watching some weird dark version
of Pinoccio... 
          Only, the wooden doll's face is
my own... And Hank's face, his formerly fine aristocratic
features start to change... to twist and thicken...
           His nose, especially thickens, and grows longer
and twists towards his left cheek, as if it has
been broken many times - as indeed mine has with
vicious organized bare knuckle fights in smoking oil towns
by the rivers... fights I won or lost, no matter. The result didn't matter so much to me - I enjoyed my own pain as much as
I delighted in the pain of my opponents.
          Or in sharp stiletto knife-fights, fought with thin
blades against my icepick.... jabbing and stabbing fights
I never lost... over the decades, longer and longer ago...
than it is wise for me to mention...!
         Oh, how I loved those
romantic evenings... the huge barges rolling and shuddering
along the turns in the River... the taste of dirty diesel smoke
on my tongue.... the scream of the steel sides of the
floatation barges against walls of rock - a strange
music under the sky, a kind of wailing
counterpoint... to the begging shudders, coughs and
whimpering... coming from the men I am slowly dispatching
like a fine precision butcher of Black Angus Meat or 
a Japanese chef of  Kobi Beef,... 
properly cleansed.... but in my case meticulously killed,
slowly.
            
            As  seasons passed, the audiences would make crude bets on the winner...of these savage highly illegal delectable contests. Needless to say, these fights to the death
became extremely expensive to attend.
           Huge bets were made and accepted. Enormous
sums were at stake. Princely sums. No wager was ever permitted to be a cheat.
           No one dared imagine what the punishment for
such an infraction would be.

           The people in the know knew the real wager - the bet
where the odds where three to one against me... The bet
was how many stabs of the ice-pick I could achieve
against the poor raging rube who was raised against me... 
how many punctures 3 inches deep and deeper 
I could make and NOT kill the sucker 
who repeatedly kept trying to sever my coarse-faced head from my body...
            
            (I learned this game from a woman I loved
named Alana... she was a lesbian woman who mated
her sisters... She was raped in the offal of an alley...
By a fat, powerful 250 pound sadist - a pipe cutter -
who broke a finger each time he raped her.. so she
would remember the full indignity, when she returned
to complete consciousness of the event...)
                Months later when
 full-featured recollection returned to her...
a horror for each snapped digit... a twisted
unnatural indignity for each dislocated toe.
She began to dream of her revenge.
               
                The monster expected her to remember.
In fact, he wished her to return to him  like some
subservient golem with no will of her own...
                 His wish... He wanted to die himself,
in a dark way that would make his Demon Tribe chorckel
in the hill caves to the East. Demons, after all, do not die
but remember each ugly feat of rebellion
against Grace... 
               They remember with pride!
               It is their sole purpose, the sole delight
of a depraved, doomed, twisted tribe - mocked and ignored
by all  other hellish denizens of the living, the lost and the
scarcely alive.
            How many stab wounds with her finely honed
deep silver pick did Alana attain to?
            ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-NINE. (149)
deep bleeding penetrations she achieved
over a ninety minute tirade of dark delight.
             She found release many times as she 
heard him gurgle and plead and 
squirm in his own bloody mud
in the black pig shit behind an ancient 
leprous latrine...
            His own demon dung the steaming effluent
 of his kind  rattled and hissed as he bled into it....
              How she laughed! How her sisters laughed!
And how his cousins howled with knee-slapping
hysterical guffaws... as they saw him fart and
beg...and best of all plead in horror for mercy and
forgiveness!!!
              What howls were heard! The Tribe still
speaks of it! As she made him eat his
own skinned testicles, slowly boiled in an incandescent
cherry sauce! What hilarity was shared by both
sides of the audience!
         There are and were the immortal parent demons of the
Tunnel People of the EAST, the DREAMERS OF THE OLD PSYCHOSIS on one side... 
          And the SADISTIC LESBIAN KILLER WITCHES of the burning marshes to the SOUTH... We call them Lesbian, but in fact they are 'BI-TORTULAR', as only you can imagine.

               What a party was had by the denizens
of hell that night, I can tell you!
                In the Satanic Calender, the date
is celebrated in a pig-snouted lustful NIGHT FEAST  called
"Bloody Valentines".
                Many throbbing gifts are exchanged
this dark night each year now ever since, 
I can assure you!
           All to celebrate Alana's keen eyed targeted striking,
and the low-throated bestial screams 
of the HungGlonks!...
               149 deep stabs and She left him
alive and panting...unable to die...
unable even to beg for death.
                You could see the pleading need for
extermination in his porcine eyes, I am told.
                 No one assisted him. And he lived
for monstrous squealing centuries, hale and
hearty - with a face, I am told - rather like mine.
                 Yes, rather like my own... And quite like 
the visage Hank is
growing with extremely gradual unquiet ease, the face
he is coming to see unconsciously in the mirror.

                  It's a face that makes his knees quake
and shake, every time he allows himself a peek 
into the glass.
                It is a face he cannot permit himself to see, of course... It is a horror he will not allow himself
to acknowledge as his own Destiny, not for months
and months yet...
                Every glimpse he permits himself in the yellow-candled flickering light --- makes him run wildly to the outer
edges of the forest... and emit howling sobs of unutterable
despair.
               
                 How it makes me laugh to see this! It is
my one entertainment, other than forcing Matilda
to crawl through her own Shame as I penetrate her
repeatedly and at length...at the end of my own thick
snake-scaled bulging proboscis... I make her crawl through
an interminable tunnel of endless hoops, numbered
in some forgotten script, written and
etched in the steaming dark prehistory of man.

         In many decades, after perhaps a century
of further torture which I shall inflict upon her, she
will find the courage, the hatred, strength and  Will to take her revenge upon me once again.
         It is an event I await with eager, delectable
sardonic lustful anticipation.
         We shall see who will win the Cycle of the Game
that night!  We'll see who holds the Record then!
The Trophy for the largest number of flashing silver  penetrations... while all the while (and here's where
the artistry is!) while all the time ensuring
that the pleading, begging opponent... who is just
beginning to putrefy... While all the time ensuring
the cyclic loser lives!
         We'll see then who is awarded the steaming Laurel
of our Dark Lord!




                                         (C)2013 by William G. Milne
                                           All rights reserved.

  

Sunday, November 17, 2013

CHURCH PABLUM WON'T GET YOU MATURE....PREFER OTHER TOPICS, BUT...IT DON'T GET DEEPER THAN THAT, JACK!

        

       Our Roving Reporter  delves
into  mundane matters and he likes it that way.
For example, his article on the mating habits
of the woodpecker, or the story about existence of flies...
or his articles about the School for Mystics, or the
crazy fools living in foxholes at Wait-A-Bit...
such things as these are what Rov. prefers to
write about.... and he'd rather stay away
from the religio-spiritual beat.
        He'd rather discuss hangover cures.

        Or do an enquiry into the deeper meanings
at the heart of the Universe, the "quantum" world,
or any damn thing at all providing there's some
humour in the story somewhere !

        As I say, I deal too much with serious stuff,
I start to get a rash. And my left foot is already starting
to throb and act up... so it's time for a change of pace!      

            
               The problem is this - and this is your Roving
Reporter getting to the bottom of the story.

               The message of the Christ as it's been
taught to us is a bunch of pablum....and we who
are fed on it will never be mature.

               Today. just one point has to be made.

              (1) The point that Jesus Christ was "so very
special" and the "only" son of God, etc. etc. is a nursery
tale, and not a very good one.  
             Nursery tales - like the stories of the Brothers Grimm are supposed to be spooky, scarey... and then the scariness
gets resolved and everything is made more or less OK
and the kid who is being told the story then
can go to sleep, reassured that he's safe.
            The spooky part about the fairy tale we've been
told about Christ - the spooky part is never resolved. The 
spooky part about the Jesus Christ story , as we have
been taught it, is that the story is a lie.
            (1) Jesus Christ is not so special that He is not like
any of us... ie: he can walk on water and we can't -
see how special He is? No! No! This is all wrong.
                What is special about the one we call Christ
or "anointed one" is how much he IS LIKE each and every one of us. He is so like each of us that He is Bill, Pete and Paul's ultimate identity... O.K., let's call it Identity.

                If he is unique and so very very special,
like a rare piece of China ---- well, one powerful monopoly
can control that special piece of china.
                But if He IS EVERY MAN and woman's innermost
nature, then no  monopoly can own Him.  Because He
is what we are. If He is what we are, what each of us is,
then all we need do is look within, meditate, learn to sit
still and see ourselves, realize our own nature... and we
possess Him.... each one of us possesses Him...just as
we possess ourselves.
                The Grail Quest is the quest to realize
yourself, and by finding yourself, realize
the Christ. It's ridiculously simple...
                The difficulty about grasping the nature
of things - each person's own nature, it is not difficult
because each of us must understand a complex situation.
The difficulty is having one's mind attain to the profound
simplicity of all thing.

                Do you see how pervasive it is - the lie
we have been fed like pablum?

                The lie prevents each individual from going on the
true quest to realize himself.
                 The pie is in the sky and not within - this is
the lie.

                 The lie we have been fed, affects our ability to
apprehend reality. You with me?

                 It don't get any deeper than that, Jack!









      The Tenth Roman legion marched across
Egypt to drive out the early Christians. 

         The Empire Church called them, "heretics".
For the "heretics" had their own system for
attaining the Truth. And they didn't need the church
as an expensive middleman to find  God within.





         The Bible, as we find it today, was not assembled by God; it was put together by a highly politicized 
group of Bishops, the Chamber of Commerce
of their day.
        What has been passed down to us is
a castrated bible, and we really cannot correctly
see it in any other way.
         The so-called canon is sent down to us
 as the ONLY truth. Nothing could be more
erroneous.
         History is written
 by the winners. 
          And the winners never tell the whole story.       

Monday, November 11, 2013

KLEAR YOUR MIND ---ORGASM CLINIC------KLEANSE YOUR BODY. KWIK CURE!


                OK, to be honest, the clinic was never called
the :  
      KLEAR YOUR MIND --- ORGASM CLINIC

              But a benefactor  called it by that name
and broadcast the name in a massive advertising campaign
that had my clients running for the hills faster than
my intensely surprising FAST-RELAX methods.
       I`m surprised our advertiser forgot the
words KWIK CURE!

                    The clever, sophisticated professional woman
 realizes after a decade of misery, and after
several husbands have been shown the door, that
she has ORGASM REPRESSION issues - well, this calibre of
lady is not going to go for the type of therapist
who approves of the "K" in KLEANSE YOUR BODY, KLEAR
YOUR MIND -- ORGASM KLINIC.
         No, certainly not, but my cousin Morty did the sign  "as
a favour" to me and at the urging of his mother.  As a
SURPRISE he purchased the acreage
above the clinic, and erected a GIGANTIC BILLBOARD that
can still  be seen from the highway. 
        And his considerate message to me was: "In business,
you can`t have too much publicity!"
          His mother comes from an extremely wealthy family
in mining, building construction and leasing - and having
been cured by my clinic, she insisted Monty give the whole
therapy team "a Bonus we`d never forget..."
          "`A Bonus for the Boneman` was how she put it," Morty
assured me. `That fucker deserves it!` was exactly what she
said.

             I can't discuss too much of her case, but
suffice it to say I cured her orgasm repression
syndrome. But in doing so... (I freely admit it now)
I used a little too much current in the electrical
stimulation wand I used to effect the cure.
             Now she can achieve orgasm... but only
through a constant application of electrical stimulation
The aspect of her treatment that no one could foresee
is that, as the years pass, more and more current
becomes necessary in order to please her and give
her relief.
          Now she can receive pleasure only after a significant
jolt of pain, and she says she thinks of me each
time she has to apply the electrodes.
          If she doesn't engage in sexual activity, her
stutter becomes worse and she develops a tic in her
left eye, which is noticeable to the point of becoming
ungainly.

            Her lawyers have assured me that she never did
have a stutter before I cured her with my somewhat
surprising treatment - though this is the sort of thing
that can never be proven in a Court of Law.
           She still harbours a certain resentment of me
and my methods. The phrase, "deep and abiding hatred" was
used in one letter I received from her barrister.

Note:  My only comment on the case is that many of us
need to feel an intensity of pain before we are permitted to
feel pleasure - as we labour under the tyranny of whatever
complex afflicts us.


        At 7:00A.M. I take a drive down the valley to where
the clinic is located, and I see the second billboard:

KLEAR YOUR MIND -------ORGASM CLINIC
BODY KLEANSE IN TEN! ------GUARANTEED!
WE'LL REALLY FIX YOU!

          I open the clinic door and walk into the
hallway. Dr Laura, my assistant hands me a bright yellow
pamphlet.
        It's early morning, before coffee... She is almost
always charming and gracious about saying "hello" quietly
not knowing what delicate state of mind I might still be
enduring at this hour.

           But what's this? No hello and no coffee, and...
and is she snickering behind her hand...? Are those tears
tears of laughter? Is she about to scream with GLEE??
           She hands me a stack of about 500 more bright yellow
pamphlets.     I read the promo Morty had written. First
the handwritten scribble, "Not to worry - 22,000 of these
are already distributed... On the porches of everyone
you know, everyone you might one day want to know!"
            I open the bright yellow brochure. 
  It's an advertising jingle. The words are written in big purple
letters, about half-inch high letters... big purple
letters against a vibrant yellow background! Ye gods!
I don`t even have to read the words to know
the message is disturbing...!
                                                

KLEAR YOUR MIND, SHAVE YOUR PUBES,
   LET THE DOC UNLOCK YOUR TUBES!
   GIVE A CHEER WHEN YOU HEAR THE THUNDER,
    IT`S "SURPRISE!" FROM THE LAND DOWN UNDER!"


            
            I call Laura on the intercom:   "Ah, Laura, how many..."
            "Morning, sir!" she replies. (She never calls me sir...
she is floating  on a cloud of her own hilarity...)
      " How many  of these delights....how many have gone
out?"
      "Well,Sir...
      " DON`T CALL ME, SIR!" I am losing whatever thin
veneer of respectability I might have... ever had...`
      (I don`t like to shout in the mornings.... I prefer to fall
to my knees and beg forgiveness for my sins of the night
before, whether I committed them or not...)
       "Ha! Ha! Yes, well Morty`s Note  says: "DON`T
WORRY, BOSS, I`M ON THE JOB!" 
       "That`s not  reassuring...what else does the little 
bastard have to say?"
       "His next words seem to say... "NO SWEAT, PAPERED
THE NORTH-EAST SECTOR!"
       I have a sinking  feeling in my chest and a rising feeling
in my stomach... "WHY ME? I ask as I run to the sink on my
knees.... I vomit six or seven times...tasting last night's
bottle of rye whiskey.
       I'm  shuddering, half-naked on the lino... shaking  with the
dry heaves...
      Returning to the phone I choke out,  "North-East SECTOR! What does he mean.... SECTOR"
       "It seems to be a rather large sector, sir.
Here we have it - written on the back:
                            
                             ` From Forest Hill to Beverly Hills,
                              From Ocho Rios to Hay River`...."

       "That helps,  thanks Doctor....


        Having the personality I have, and the few highly-
inventive bad habits, I have awoken many mornings
only to face disasters on the Richter scale.
       I intend to handle this crisis the only possible
way I can - Lock the doors, close the drapes, turn off
the phone and the television, and start living life
under a different name... 
        Who am I this morning?
       
          None of us  need to know.            

      

        Unfortunately the local papers did know
put a photograph of Morty`s Billboard on the front page, and
the New York,  Miami, and Toronto papers followed suit.
           I observed a number of expensive vehicles peel out
of my lot in reverse, soon as they observed the
special "K" in Klear...
            As a result, the misery of a a number of troubled
women continued longer than necessary... all because of
Marty`s misguided enthusiasm and his mother's evil glee.
                 I asked for a discreet sign - small official letters in
a Bronze plaque  beside a not at all ostentatious black front
door with brass handle.
              Imagine the delight of a rather famous movie star
when she was flash-photograped by dozens of members
of the press,  soon as she stepped  discreetly
out of the Clinic side door... 
            To have her profile exposed between the words, 
"KLEAR"   and    "ORGASM CLINIC"
She was not at all pleased -
especially  since the parts she played suggested in 
no uncertain terms that having an orgasm was the
least of her problems... In other words she was moaning
and rocking her head back and forth, burbling in baby
talk and cumming like a freight train at least twice a night
in all of her "Action Films."
           There was action, all right, just
not sufficiently RELAXIN ACTION in her own life.
In this unwitting  promo, she about as hot as
her accountant drinking iced water, counting cool percentages.
       PUBLICITY - the two-edged sword!  The actress felt it
and the politician`s wife; and now my team, we`re worried
about it as well.

           I have found a charming spot way north of Rio -
a relaxing no-name resort at Wait-A-Bit.  The rooms smell a bit, 
but we get no news up here.



       

      Oh yes, and the wife of our high level politician
was not happy either... But, knowing the politician,
everybody  assumed it was highly likely that anyone 
close to such a demi-man in the haute monde was going to
 have  orgasm problems at the very  least - 
not to mention major difficulties with a psychotic break 
over the sudden appearance of STDs.

 
                                                                                Sstie!  Tabernack!

         




Thursday, November 7, 2013

WHAT WAS ERECTED FIRST AT THE CROSSROADS? -----THE PHALLUS OR THE CROSS?-----------------------------THE ONLY DANCE THERE IS------identity to IDENTITY.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE ERECTION AND THE CROSS, WHICH STOOD FIRST AT THE CROSSROADS? -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------OUR HISTORY IS STRANGE ENOUGH WITHOUT REPRESSIONS

  -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



         
 
                                   OUR HISTORY IS STRANGE ENOUGH, WITHOUT
REPRESSING IT. 
      Once we start repressing what happened,
once we start being liars to ourselves: then of course
our history becomes  "complicated".
       Lies make complications.
       Our intellect loves to understand complications.
        Only the Mind can grasp  profound simplicity

        Intellect is a lower human function than Mind.
        We have to go through a kind of death
in order to attain to Mind.
         Mind comes as Grace, when we stop trying
to intellectually understand.

         The intellect reaches a wall, and it cannot pass
through. Only by trying to pierce the wall, which it
 it cannot do...does the intellect, as it lies down
exhausted, give over to a higher function.
         Only by trying do we learn not to try...

        We learn we are using the wrong tool for the job:
intellectual desire must be annihilated. Only
through the death of one function, does Grace
enter.

         There's only ONE GAME in town, by the way,
the Game is a living being learning how to come
into unity  with its Source, finding Home, 
so to speak.
          The isolated 'being' learns how to return 
to 'Being'.
           The only Game in town started off as
a game of hide and seek between man and God.
            In the beginning all there was was God.
God decided to hide from Himself: so he created
man, an entity who does not know his own
Identity.
           


         If you don't like the Christian term, 'Grace',
because 'Grace' implies an external agent, you
can say: "Through a   death of the intellect I 
entered into the unity of all things.
         Words are traps... places for the intellect
to reside, argue contradictions and hide.

 .



                                This article started as  a note regarding 
this SPIRIT vs SEX duality that is
always bugging me.
       Perhaps because I have been known to have attacks
of mania... and hyper-sexuality is associated with
mania. Perhaps I'm more obsessed with this Split in our
psyche than anyone needs to be.
        I can be awake for three days at times, hammering
away at some topic... But this is not about me.

                 At many crossroads in Britain...often a large
erection/phallus/was set up as a statue. At many
important places would be a large statue that
was a phallus.  This was usual.
        People worshipped fertility and so they
worshipped a hard-on as a symbol the way we
now use a cross as a symbol.
        There is no doubt about this. I'm not making
this stuff up.  There's a fine little book called
Celtic Crosses which sets out the history of
early crosses in the world of the Celts.
And crosses in our history started out as phalli.
        So what happened?

        Well, the church came along and many
monks, etc. etc.... And what was done is this
the phallos was "Xed" out into a cross.
        Put your fingers in an "X"  you'll see
it's identical with a cross.

         Now I know the cross represents
Christ in our minds... But when you go to a
phallus, carve off the head and add a cross
piece... yes, you make a cross... but
at the same time you are crossing
out the sexual element.
        This "X"ing out business is my idea.
It originates with me, the thought, but it
seems obvious.
        Is it not obvious to you?

        To quote Father Belyea, once again:
"Nobody sees the obvious."
         But once you see an obvious truth;
it's difficult to forget it. Because obvious
facts are irrefutable.

         First we worshipped fertility, the organ
of fecundity, itself.
         Christ's Father, our Christian God was
originally a fertility God, worshipped as
an organ of fecundity
          Why would we attempt to deny
the obvious?
            
                       
                        Only through denial, repressions and lies
do we make history complicated.