Not That Kind of Woman



“Over the years you have been hunted
by the men who threw harpoons
And in the long run he will kill you
just to feed the pets we crave,
put the flowers in your vase
and keep the lipstick on your face.
Over the years you swam the ocean
Following feelings of your own
Now you are washed up on the shoreline
I can see your body lie
It’s a shame you have to die
to put the shadow on our eye
Maybe we’ll go
Maybe we’ll disappear
It’s not that we don’t know
It’s just that we don’t want to care.
Under the bridges
Over the foam
Wind on the water
Carry me home.”

WIND ON THE WATER (The Last Whale)


The Look of Love


All In the Family


Alien Love


“I’m not that kind of woman,” Perfidia growled, “and I won’t compete with an older woman. That’s not who I am, politically.” But, that’s exactly who she was as she strolled along the shore tossing her disintegrating cousins back into the sea. They’d been set upon by a strange malady researchers had yet to explain that left her unafflicted. Each arm of those dying starfish had cashed in its chips, deciding to leave the poker game before real trouble showed up–it was a vote for independence about a generation and 30 years of industrialization too late. From the depths had they been born, and to the depths they would return–dust to dust, ashes to ashes, drop for drop. They would greet us once again in Canaan Land when we hasten to join them soon enough. Death, even come early, was irreconcilably part of the great circle. She paused to sniff the salt air and added, “Besides, you are too old for me and there are plenty of fish in the sea–younger ones at that. I must heed what my body tells me, as its voice is powerful indeed. I’m in the prime of my life.”

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He quickened his pace to keep up with her. It was no longer as easy as it had once been, his balance unsteady, his footing less sure–even with fins, she outdistanced him almost as easily on land as in water. Perfidia was also proving more slippery than he’d bargained for. Stopping to catch his breath, he recalled how Michael had cautioned him not to sleep with mermaids if he couldn’t swim. He’d immediately ignored her wisdom, of course. But now, he was beginning to regret it. The rocky shoreline seemed preordained to bring a man down or break him–especially at night. Flecks of salt spray wet his cheek. He’d left his oil skins at home in the far corner from a comfortable fire. He reckoned one as beautiful as this would have little problem attracting young Turks, yet she complained they were too hard to catch. Only the older ones seemed willing to indulge her. He’d noticed she consumed them like sardines from the occasional bone in her wake. She had a wicked smile and dulcet tones as soft as any angel’s. Yes, the scales were hard to get accustomed to, but her eyes more than made up for that. And, oh yes, she WAS slippery–there was always that, though company where that might be aired was hard to find. Still, she bristled with rebuke and boundaries more finely woven than the sheerest fishnet. Approaching her was like wading through a nest of fishhooks, a hedgehog of reproach.



Amicus had decided on the strategy of Orion–advance with a rose colored lens of his own making–a handsomely gilded mirror fashioned out of self delusions and trust a girl scout would have found fatuous. It wasn’t that he could feel the pain of stepping through the shards of that shattered glass so much as hear the crunch his numbed bare bleeding feet had whispered as he made his way. He’d mistaken them for eggshells. He hadn’t counted on the fragility of mirrors, nor had he recalled the more prudent course Orion had seized on by polishing his shield. Amicus had none. Predicating the affair on vows of friendship insisting on caring about him and not wanting to see him hurt had proven no defense at all. Guileless, he was easily digested.

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“I have no mate, no partner–I’m alone and vulnerable,” she’d pleaded. “I will be your mate, your partner–I will always be your friend,” he’d reassured her, “I have other promises to keep and commitments, to be sure, but my heart is big enough to include you, if only you can accept all involved as equals–family.” But it wasn’t to be. Women were quick to recognize this beautiful, but slippery scaly creature. Divas don’t mix. When this carnivorous wasp showed up to rob the honey and make off with the grub, the hive invariably set upon her and drove her off. It was always the same, the females, the workers did the heavy lifting of excluding her, never the drones–they were besotted with her charm, her beautiful body, her sultry voice and inviting overtures…at least until the dye was cast.

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“Can I pee  on you?” she demurely asked one night, “It would be a big turn-on for me.” Not being wise to the mating protocols of fish, he responded obligingly, “I guess so–I mean I don’t think it would hurt me, and if it makes you happy…” The available bedding wouldn’t allow for this kind of adventure, but the thought gave rise to other pillow talk. “What’s it like to sleep with fish?” he asked. “Why do you ask?” she snipped. “I was just curious,” he parried. “Well, I read that pillow talk is just another way for men to oppress fish and control them.” Amicus pondered this weighty conjecture. He recalled again how he’d been warned about sleeping with mermaids. He also recalled other folk wisdom about fish and visitors beginning to stink after 3 days. How many mariners had ignored such sage advice when confronted with a pretty face and a slippery personality? His fate was sealed. Though he thought to preserve his catch in the cold box of wisdom, the house began to reek, then the neighborhood, then his resolve and the tone of their affair.

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It would have been difficult if there’d been only himself in such a tempestuous arrangement, but there were others–more than 3 not counting himself. Sometimes they were all together under one roof with her and barely enough space to sleep without disturbing one another, an ex-husband older than her father set on ‘reconsumating’ the marriage who she’d secretly married as a teen to avoid the disapproval of her parents, an artist who’d become homeless after offering to paint her in the nude, and a bicycle mechanic now once again homeless after she’d entered his inner circle. She was the ultimate femme fatale. Perfidia was also a creature of large appetites and little to no conscience. A steady diet of fish had allowed her to grow strong and ravenous. Eventually, after too much impertinence to bear for unrequited love or even unrequited friendship, he broke. “I don’t get metaphor,” she’d complained, “Be more explicit and tell me what you mean, although do remember I read somewhere there’s no such thing as constructive criticism!” He was certain she didn’t see this observation as anything to do with her own tongue.

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Amicus had gently suggested that to have friends, you have to BE a friend, and that it didn’t hurt to be a lady while at it. “Well, we’ve already established I’m no ‘lady’,” she rejoined, “and I don’t want emotional abuse or constructive criticism to be the price of friendship.” She scowled, daring him to offer more. He rose and took the bait.

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“I certainly want nothing to do with ’emotional abuse’. That you’re ‘in love w/someone else’ is fine. Like you’ve said, you never declared you ‘love’ me. On the other hand, the premise for a friendship was that you cared about me, and vice versa. Yes, I can be more specific, though I hesitate to go into a long litany, when it comes to MY being offended:

I was offended when you didn’t want to be SEEN having me pick you up (from Alderbrook) where you were putting on a show to a packed aquarium.

I was offended when you didn’t want to be SEEN in my company while driving you to TESC to pick up your bike, and later your fry’s.

I was offended when you told me by phone when I needed to talk, “You’ve got 5 minutes!”

I was offended when I asked if you sought a ‘contract’, as you asked me, with your next meal and you said, “Oh, no–I wouldn’t ask him for anything like that.”

I was offended when you asked me to take you and your fry to dinner after I’d explained I was poorer than you. You conveniently assumed not dressing in rags or driving a new car meant I couldn’t be taken at my word. You used me–constantly.

I was offended when you acted too good to eat what I, myself, eat in gleanings from local produce stands. You said you went dumpster diving yourself while I pointed out I hadn’t brought the produce from a dumpster. Nor would perfect produce off the grocer’s shelves have sufficed. You insisted on ONLY organic food from the COOP, no less. You weren’t willing to cook and preserve it yourself, saying you didn’t have time.

I was offended when you acted like you couldn’t trust me with the key to your home, even for a few minutes…even asking me if I was going to take anything. But, you expect others to trust you!

I was offended when you would often act fearful, like I was going to hurt you…or your daughter. You had no basis applicable to me for this overreaching assumption.

I was offended when you asked about my Netflix password after bristling when I asked for your website password for barely long enough to post a pop-up on your website in your presence.

I was offended when you asked me if all I wanted when coming over was to ‘fuck’, and on another occasion asked if I was trying to have you touch my ‘crotch’. You can ask to piss on me, but your ‘boundaries’ are beyond reproach.

I admit to some curiosity about who you are in ‘love’ with. What are they doing to help you? Ah, yes–the bike mechanic.  Except now that he’s no longer as useful as you envisioned, the welcome mat for him is being rolled up as well.

Yes, you wounded me and I feel you were cavalier about it. But, I’m blessed with a safe place and someone who genuinely cares about me, though she doesn’t always sound like it. I’d hoped to create enough room for you to be safe too. I don’t compartmentalize well.

You’ve been abused by men in the past–violently so. I’m not them and didn’t like being treated like I was. I do not believe you genuinely care what happens to me or are interested in what happens in my life. I especially feel like you would throw me under the bus if others insisted you do so or you found it convenient/awkward.

So, I intend to complete my editing of your performance at TCTV and the fish music with or without your cooperation, post it, and broadcast it. I was willing to spend some time with you, if you were interested, demonstrating how to use the editing software. It doesn’t sound like your time constraints or inclination will allow for that.

I will list myself as the producer and the fishery. I will provide you and the porgy with full credit as the performing artists including contact info for those interested in hiring you. My own logo and information will also be included. This is not negotiable. I will do my best to make the two of you look and sound good. I do wish you happy spawning. I hope you find what you’re looking for and it’d be great if I knew who you were in ‘love’ with so I’m not tempted to ask others.

I do NOT want to be ‘used’ anymore.

‘Patriarch’ is a great label to affix as it allows ignoring the feelings of the man when, after all, he must be so ‘powerful’ and ‘privileged’.

I do not blame you for seeking a romantic interest w/someone more suitable for your age and lifestyle. What I do resent is your utter disdain for my feelings, focusing only on your own. You admitted, “I’m selfish.” I’d have to agree–an understatement. You’re so self absorbed, you’re blind–terminally narcissistic.

Nevertheless, you have some sympathy from both Michael and myself for being, of necessity, in ‘survival mode’. Things have to be tough in an ocean of predators. But, you’ve been needlessly and gratuitously hard on me emotionally. I don’t feel ‘safe’ at your place, or even calling you anymore. That disappoints me.

I felt insulted when you’d grouse about how much time you’d invested/spent w/me as though it was a 1-way street. I sincerely hope you treat your other fishermen friends with more consideration in the future.

Yes, I’m still your friend. I care about what happens to you, and I’m NOT a friend to everyone–far from it. But, I think you have a lot of catching up to do to BE a friend, and I’m not certain at all you’re up to it. That will have to be OK as I’m not counting on it or you.

1) Don’t use me.
2) If you don’t care about me, tell me so I can get on with my life without any illusions.
3) If I can’t count on your loyalty, tell me, as that’s the basis for any trust or friendship, so I’m not wasting my time w/you thinking otherwise.
4) Do NOT act embarrassed to be seen in public with me or to be seen having me pick you up. I have NEVER been treated like that by ANY ‘friend’ and find it intolerable!
5) Recognize I am not in a position to help you financially without my having to apologize for it.
6) Do NOT assume (as you stated so succinctly) I am an asshole!
7) Consider that any quid pro quo I may want for services you request might not involve $ or your body. I’ve given a lot of thought to your question of whether my financial relationship with Michael makes me a whore. No, it does not…because we DO care about and love each other. Whores do not. If this were not the distinction, then every relationship where one party was more successful financially would make it a form of prostitution. On the contrary, it’s prostitution when the whore USES the patron. It’s purely a business relationship and there is no emotional commitment. That sounds more like what we had going than Michael and myself except for the fact I told you I loved you. I meant that and it was unconditional without any ‘strings’ or ‘contracts’! That you would treat that as contemptuously as you did is sad, but I’ll get over it. You, however, may not because while love may make one vulnerable, sneering at it (compatmentalizing?) leaves a vacuum, even if it’s unrequited. I’m a romantic–in love with the idea of love. I’d much rather suffer the pain of that than the emptiness of the alternative. Whoever you’re in ‘love’ with, I give it 6 months. You are fickle, selfish, and don’t see men in the same league as you emotionally.”

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Amicus had learned Perfidia had sufficient reason to be suspicious of men. When she had landed younger ones, she’d attracted stalkers, one who had angrily swung her body by the hair on her head and another who had swung her guitar as violently, smashing it into a wall while destroying it. Being the youngest had given her a taste for indulgence, he reasoned, but lent her nothing of how to be a lady or sensitive to the feelings of others, especially the hot blooded young Turks. She battled them toe to toe as though her life depended on it, for it did, giving no quarter and getting none in return. The sire of her fry felt especially used, like a sperm bank withdrawal and he was paying the price for his lack of foresight in the form of child support. “Perhaps I did use him,” she mused. Setting up men proved facile for her–keeping them was more difficult. Ultimately, the spirit wilts after enough of the body has been picked clean.

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“Those two have issues!” exclaimed one TCTV staffer after the video shoot of their performance. “It was her ex-husband,” advised Amicus, delineating between that status and the fry’s sire. “Really? He’s SO much older than her,” marveled the staffer. “It happens,” smiled Amicus. Fish aren’t that particular. She’d also been, for her, on her best behavior.

It didn’t take long for Perfidia to break the silence after getting the online communication outlining just why their one-time affair sucked bad…the one where she’d wanted more early on, always more…until the well ran dry. “You are brilliant,” she glossed before beginning to dissect the heartfelt appeal to emotion and human decency. “What do you mean you might ask around?”, she challenged, “Is that some kind of blackmail?” “No, not at all,” he demurred. “Well, if you must know who I’m in love with,” she continued, “It’s the bike mechanic. But, who were you going to ask, my parents?” “I don’t know your parents or where they live or how to contact them,” rationalized Amicus. “You don’t know my friends,” Perfidia glowered. “Good point,” said he. “Well, don’t go talking to him–I don’t want to scare him away,” she added. “Fair enough,” he agreed, “Best of luck.”

But luck wasn’t with Perfidia. While she’d cried her heart out over the phone to Amicus only a week or so earlier, the homeless bike mechanic was now in her lair with two young minnows in tow. She made her move, inviting him to move in permanently, and he gently declined the overture. She was crushed–then angry. He’d have to move his stuff out of her space sooner than later–much sooner now that she’d been rebuffed. She’d undertaken building the Panama Canal w/her intended before even establishing a drainage ditch. Her orchestrations failed. Some guys just aren’t into sea food–especially if they’re on the menu.

Perfidia wasn’t done, she took issue with other minor discrepancies, ignoring the overall picture. “Don’t eat me,” begged Amicus. “Eat you?” exploded Perfidia, “You rip into me with your e-mail and online message and expect me NOT to eat you?

Things got worse–if that’s possible in the Maritimes. Things were getting slimy in a hurry. TCTV setup the unwary fisher of men in a bid to be even more perfidious, in their own unique fashion, than Perfidia herself. Disturbed, Amicus gave Perfidia a jingle on the phone, seeking moral support–the kind a friend might offer. Perfidia suggested mediation or therapy instead. She wouldn’t return his calls or messages asking for some commiseration, a courtesy he’d been more than generous with on her behalf. Perfidia would have none of it until her silence prompted him to query why she would not return his calls. Like a fish out of water, she finally called during the middle of a conversation with another seaman, a musical one. She said she’d call back later, then did so after a minute. She couldn’t stand curbing her ire or desire for instant gratification. The musical one excused himself from what he saw as an awkward 3-way call. Perfidia read the riot act. She lead off with, “Let’s not communicate for a couple of months. This is all just too stressful for me. I thought being a journalist would be fun/interesting, but I didn’t realize it was so fraught with difficulty and risk. I can’t handle it.” “But, you haven’t DONE anything,” he countered, “Where’s your loyalty?” “You called on a Friday night when this TCTV thing came up,” she argued, “and I can’t handle it.” “Thanks a lot!” he objected. “I should have known better than to rely on you. Forget the two months–let’s not speak to one another again EVER! By the way, would you please mail the video tape, A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT,  to me I loaned you and your fry?”

Perfidia had spawned out for the season. She needed to regain her strength for another run, maybe next year. She was entering a “new phase” in her life, she explained.

Amicus considered it all and concluded a parting shot to underscore his disgust and narrow escape would be cheaper than a therapist and much more satisfying. It read:

My address (for returning A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT video) is Amicus, 1515 Tiger Tail Lane, Olympia, WA 98502.
The video tape has sentimental value to me even if it’s not of great monetary value. I loaned it to you and your fry out of friendship and a show of good faith.
I now regret that. Somehow, I doubt I’ll see it again as it would take you out of your way to mail it.
I can spend months listening to YOUR drama, the slights and impertinence YOU have suffered at the hand of Contrary Barry Garden, or to you crying your heart out to me over the bike mechanic, or issues regarding your landlord, Section 8 housing authorities, the fish market, the cod fisherman across the street disrespecting you, or Invincible keeping his distance, the clients who owed you money, or who you owed money to–all that’s a given, right? Moreover, I got to listen for weeks over how whatever I did crossed this or that boundary of the dozens you laid out. BUT, when *I* finally take you up on your suggestion I be more explicit and take the time to explain/defend myself–even ONCE, that’s just too much for you, too much drama, too much stress. I was expected as YOUR friend to commiserate over your issues with your fry’s sire, but when I asked for moral support or suggest I’m too sensitive for you or make other observations even you admit, that’s just “over the top”?
I regret meeting you and all the many things I did for you, the time I spent on your behalf, the $ I spent for what I feared you needed, the emotional investment and above all, the TRUST I placed in you. I will NEVER do such a thing again. I have sworn off fish forever! Of course, there’s no way I can take it all back, but I would if I could. What I said is the God’s honest truth, you may like fishermen, but you do NOT care about them–you certainly didn’t care about me and I have absolutely NOTHING to show, at least that you willingly gave, from our time together. I wish I could turn back the clock and erase what followed. You’re one of the meanest most slippery fish I’ve ever been romantically involved with. In short, you’re all the candy bars I’ve ever eaten.


Biologists report across much of North America, wasps are converting ladybugs into zombie bodyguards in backyards and empty lots, in farm fields and wildflower meadows. Nor is the spotted lady beetle unique. Scientists are finding the same is true for a vast number of host species, ranging from insects to fish to mammals. They serve their parasite even if they must literally hurl themselves to their own death to do so. Across the natural world the same question arises again and again: Why would an organism do all it can to ensure its tormentor’s survival rather than fight for its own?

In the end, love makes fools of us all. The host falls in love with its own demise, its own leech, offering its body and itself like some condemned Jesus at the Last Supper. The mind boggles. Self delusion is like that.

“If the power of a gene can extend to manipulation of the physical world,” Dawkins wondered, “could it not extend as well to the manipulation of another living creature?” Dawkins argued that it could, and he pointed to parasites as his prime example. The ability of a parasite to control the behavior of a host is encoded in its genes. If one of those genes mutated, the host’s behavior would change.

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3 Responses to Not That Kind of Woman

  1. admin says:

    **** PUBLIC WARNING **** to the unwary–Be careful WHO you comment to on their timeline and try to make certain they’re sane. The following message was received from someone unknown to this reporter/writer:

    From Irene Schneider, FaceBook musician:

    Hi, why are you posting that link on my music? [She’s referring to a link pointing to the piece above]

    about an hour ago

    I have already reported you for threatening my life. Be very careful,
    John Smith.

    7 minutes ago
    Amicus: Huh? I don’t even know who you are. Are you crazy?

    Irene: You’ve sent me a poem threatening me, to kill me

    Amicus: What possible ‘threat’ are you referring to?

    Irene: …unless your account is hacked

    you posted a comment on my wall with a poem that has threats to my life

    saying things like “sorry you have to die” and so on

    i let u know in case your account has been hacked,. if it was not you then you must pay attention to who is hacking it.

    if you have been hacked and it was not you threatening me i apologize, so check it.

    Amicus: Jesus, Irene. I honestly don’t know you and I’m a writer. I included in my piece lyrics from a song by Crosby and Nash of Crosby, Stills, & Nash fame. You’re a case if you’re so easily frightened. You’re an artist. So am I, a writer. You post your stuff and I posted mine. I don’t know any more about you than what you put on your timeline. If you disappeared tomorrow, I’d never notice.

    For a musician, you’re pretty obtuse. I even attributed the lyrics, if you’ll read comprehensively.

    Irene: Listen, it’s not funyn to post a poem with life threats, just so you know.

    It’s not funny to anyone, especially not here on FaceBook with so many abusers

    Amicus: Check out The Last Whale by Crosby, Stills, & Nash on Youtube.

    Irene: OK

    i don’t know that, but your comment was completely off my music,

    and I’ve had stalkers before. I reported them and they were caught.

    So, I am not short of careful.

    if you had no evil intention it’s good to know

    Amicus: Well, if I’d had room to post the comment independently, I would have. I go with what I’ve got.

    Irene: But, be carfeful, no one likes to get poems with life threats.


    OK, but not on my wall, not to me. Post it to your fans on your wall.

    Amicus: Do you threaten every rapper out there with reports of abuse too?

    Irene: i’ll take down the notice to my wall if you did not mean it.

    i only report people who threaten me as anyone would do.

    Amicus: Look, if you don’t want me posting on your wall, you can always defriend me. I don’t know you anyway.

    Irene: Just stop posting those things, It’s not nice.

    I already did. It’s not sane to post death theats to anyone.


    Amicus: But, you’re never going to make it as a public figure at this rate with this level of paranoia–that’s dangerous to others in itself.
    Are you a whale?

    Irene: Stop it.

    Amicus: I’m going to copy this dialog for my blog as an example of how much mental illness is on the net. Thanks.

  2. admin says:

    TO: Lenny Bruce fans everywhere, as well as all the @ssholes and @ttention whores in the world (including/especially at TCTV), you know who you are–This is a counter-intuitive inspirational piece from the BEDTIME STORIES FOR ADULTS series. As adults, you all know these truths to be self evident. So, if you feel like applauding at the end of this recitation–just…DON’T! It’s really annoying.

    You are a bastard of the universe and seriously messed up. You have no right to be here
    Deteriorata. Deteriorata

    Go wrathfully amid the poised and chaste,
    And remember what mindless stimulation there may be in noise and owning a piece thereof.
    Avoid quiet and passive persons, unless you are in need of sleep.
    Get a mean dog.
    Better yet, as far as possible, without surrender, alienate as many timorous little bastards as you can. So long as you are beautiful and in your prime, you can get away with it.
    Rotate your tires.
    Prevaricate at volume with Byzantine obfuscation, and listen not to others with their smarmy bilge: the dull and ignorant; say, Yo, whazzup with them?
    While sucking up, speak glowingly of those greater than yourself
    And heed well their advice, even though they be turkeys.
    Avoid passive-aggressive personalities as you would the plague; it’s bad enough they are deadly boring; they’re also a royal pain in the @ss. Never miss an opportunity to control others, be it through histrionics, abuse of authority or intimidation. Life is that they may serve YOU.
    Know what/who to kiss, and when–never give a sucker an even break. If caught, try to make it look like a virtue–never let them see you sweat. Admit no wrong doing–NEVER apologize. Reject all criticism as unjust. Compassion is for suckers.
    Remember–the opposite sex is the ENEMY! Wade into them. Use their living guts to grease the axle of your chariot.
    Consider that two wrongs never make a right, but that three do!
    Wherever possible, put people on hold–your power is measured by how long you can keep them there. If you have a small child, they are ideal for implementing this tactic.
    If you compare yourself with others, you may become vexed and bitter–some news flash there! For always will these bungling fools be lesser persons than yourself, better paid 9 out of 10 times too. Embrace hubris, for it is your key to the Kingdom. Humility is for the little people.
    Be comforted that in the face of all aridity and disillusionment
    And despite the changing fortunes of time
    There is always a big future in computer maintenance, betraying your friends, and stepping on while using others. All their pain is just an illusion.

    You are an attention whore.
    You have no right to be here.
    And whether you can hear it or not,
    The universe IS laughing behind your back.

    Enjoy your achievements, for what that’s bloody worth, and plan to be reassigned any day now.
    Stay interested in your career, and don’t neglect to feign eating some Humble Pie unless you’re already overweight; it is a very nutritious snack say recent articles in Psychopathology Today.

    Remember The Pueblo.
    Strive at all times to bend, fold, spindle, and mutilate.
    Know yourself.
    If you need help, call the FBI
    Exercise paranoia in your daily/business affairs–especially your affairs.
    Especially with those persons closest to you –
    That lemon on your left, for instance.
    The world is full of high-strung corporate psychopaths.
    But, let this not blind you to what fate truly holds in store: demented zombie fascist ghouls whose vaunted ideals conceal bloodthirsty plans for jingoistic genocide.
    Be assured that a walk through the ocean of most souls
    Would scarcely get your feet wet.
    Therefore, Fall not in love. It will stick to your face.
    Be yourself, but do not risk detection–EVER! Never tell the fuckers what you really think. Neither be clinical about love, especially with that Sweet 16 year old on Friendster, or your ass is grass.

    Gracefully surrender the things of youth: birds, clean air, tuna, Taiwan, concern for others. Recall that you should like people in general, just not in the particular.
    And let not the sands of time get in your lunch–or your crotch.
    Hire people with hooks.
    For a good time, call 866-6000 x-6399. Ask for Candy.
    Take heart in the deepening gloom.
    Eschew the questionable counsel of decrepit hosers, nor willingly follow their drooling downward stagger into the depths of sadly premature senility.
    Know that your dog is finally getting enough cheese
    And reflect that whatever fortune may be your lot
    It could only be worse in Olympia.

    Nurture unhinged hallucinations/suspicions that everything is A-OK to shield yourself from suddenly wising up. Neither be distressed you are imagining things–the recurring fear that fatigue and loneliness are merely prologues. Beyond a wholesome discipline, slip fully into mental bondage.

    You are an orphan of the universe, no less than the trees, the ozone layer, the buffalo, or the Edsel. You are cattle, you are chattel. You are in the way.
    You have no right to be here
    And whether you can hear it or not
    The universe is laughing behind your back.

    Therefore, make peace with your god
    Whatever you perceive him/her/it to be – hairy thunderer, or cosmic muffin.
    With all its hopes, dreams, promises, and urban renewal,
    The world continues to deteriorate.
    Give up!

    Whether it is clear to you or not, the economy is growing as it doubly should. Ergo, say your prayers, whatever you hope to gain by that, and whatever your deluded aspirations may have deemed, finding you are a certain loser in the bedlam of life’s lottery–now kiss your sorry @ss goodbye.

    You are a pimple on the backside of the universe. You are all the candy bars ever eaten.
    You have no right to be here.
    And whether you can hear it or not
    The universe is laughing behind your back.

    And yet, for all its rampant spam, its government-sanctioned drug cartels and tranquilizer-stifled screams, it’s just too beautiful a deal. Double down, cheer up, dream on–as if you might ever get to cop a slice.

    Starve to be happy.

  3. admin says:

    My Name Is Adolf Eichman by Thomas Merton, a Trappist monk of the Abbey of Gethsemani, Kentucky.

    My name is Adolf Eichmann.
    The Jews came every day
    to vat they thought vould be
    fun in the showers.
    The mothers were quite ingenious.
    They vould take the children
    und hide them in bundles of clothing.
    Ve found the children,
    scrubbed them,
    put them in the chambers
    and sealed them in.

    Yes, I vatched through the portholes
    as they were droven und chant:
    “Hey, mein Liebe, heyyy.”
    I enjoyed watching them die.
    Ve took off their clean Jewish love rings,
    removed their teeth and hair –
    for strategic defense…for der father land.
    I made soap out of them,
    I made soap out of all of them;
    I made lampshades of the skin of those with tattoos,
    ashtrays from their skulls,
    and they hung me,
    in full view of the prison yard.

    People say,
    “Adolf Eichmann should have been hung!”
    You all think you’re better than me, don’t you?
    You who have kept yourselves virtuous by distance
    because you don’t stand at the windows and watch.
    You don’t have too.
    Nein, if you recognize the whoredom
    in all of you,
    that you vould have done the same,
    if you dared know yourselves.

    My defense?
    I vas a soldier.
    People laugh,
    “Ha ha! This is no defense,
    that you are a soldier.”
    This is trite.
    I vas a soldier,
    a good soldier.
    I killed thousands, perhaps tens of thousands.
    But YOU–you’re prepared to kill millions,
    even tens of millions or more.
    I saw the end of a conscientious day’s effort.
    I saw all the work that I did.
    I saw them writhing in pain–gasping for air.
    I, Adolf Eichmann,
    vatched through the portholes.
    I saw every Jew burned
    und turned into soap.
    Do you people think yourselves better
    because you burned your enemies
    at long distances
    with missiles?
    Without ever seeing what you’d done to them?
    I know you. We are kindred spirits–brothers!…you and I.
    Hiroshima . . . Auf Wiedersehen . . .

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