He's Troubled ... But I Can Save Him. Part III : What Is With This Guy and Lawn Ornaments?

THIS JUST IN: SLAPPY HAS FOUND A PICTURE OF A YOUNGER, MORE ROCKERISH HIPSTER WITH JONATHAN SMYTHE-DAVIES SR.
DIG THE MEGADETH T-SHIRT AND PARIS HILTON LAZY EYE.

Large amounts of rice wine can make a man do strange things.
It can lead to excessive politeness and bowing.
it can lead to really disturbing animation and overzealous work ethics.
Or it can lead to the kidnapping, repainting and subsequent return of a neighbours' yard decoration in a fit of self-righteous anger.

In my defense (not Slappy's - I have barely enough defense for myself) the lawn jockey was pretty damned offensive -- 1940's Warner Bros. cartoon offensive, in fact.
And we were quite drunk on the aforementioned sake. We were going through a pretentious phase. We wanted to get loaded but we had to set ourselves apart from all the other drunken man-children populating Central Ontario. No Black Label for me and Slappy, it had to be sake.
Don't judge. Drinking strange alcoholic beverages is just part of growing up. How do you think The Dr. McGillicuddy's Peach Schnapps Empire stays in business?
It stood to reason that we would steal a lawn jockey from the next door neighbour. We were two crazy non-conformists. We were drinking for SOCIAL JUSTICE! We were drinking for RACIAL EQUALITY! We were drinking because WE DIDN'T HAVE ANY POT!
What else were we going to do? Support our local sports team?
I'm not sure if we had the idea of painting this symbol of oppression -- whom we affectionately dubbed Jonathan Smythe-Davies Sr. -- when we emancipated him. We likely just wanted to keep property values artificially high ... but the binge continued. Barbara was surprisingly well disposed to our cries of "Fetch us more Japanese hooch from a licensed distributor of said beverages, wench." She's a trooper.
Especially since we were wearing her sun dresses at the time.
Slappy, being of an artistic persuasion, had some white paint lying around, I, being of a rockin' persuasion, had some Public Enemy discs lying around. One thing led to another ... and a political statement was born.
The thing that stood out most about Slappy's whitefication of Jonathan Smythe-Davies Sr. was the detail he put into the job. I tend to do non-work related things in a half assed manner. Slappy veers more towards the hilariously triple assed. He didn't just slap on some white paint. He changed the eyes. He changed the lips. He used texture and shading to change the cheek bones.
The man is a god damned artistic genius - although I doubt this made it into his portfolio.
We painted an 'X' on his cap (as was the style at the time) and "It's a black thing ... you wouldn't understand" on the back of his jacket. We put him back facing the neighbour's front door two nights later.
The next morning, Barbara, Girl Detective, was outside trying to corral the cat when she noticed a police car at the curb. She looked around the hedge and saw two officers talking to the aggrieved home owners. From this point on, all quotes are approximated.

Probably Racist Lady Next Door: "We wouldn't have called you but we thought it was part of something larger."
Police Officers "Larger? What do you mean larger?"
PRLND: "Well, we thought it might be gang related."
PO: (trying not to laugh) "Well, I don't know about that but they certainly did a good job."

At the time, there may have been fifteen people of African descent in Orillia. Slappy makes me look like Malcolm X and I am generally the whitest guy in any room I walk into.
Still, I was proud to be the vanguard of Afro-Canadian gang activity in Central Ontario. With apologies to The Simpsons writers, I'd have called us the Christ Punchers.

I worked at the local weekly newspaper at the time. It didn't make it into the police blotter but I was tempted to interview the bigots next door for a story about escalating gang violence in Orillia. Sadly, I lacked the follow through (or the cojones, your choice) and the story died.

J. Smythe-Davies was ultimately repainted black and placed behind a padlocked fence.
We should have freed him. Repainting him was a definite sign our neighbours were douchebags.
Unfortunately, Slappy and I eventually sobered up. It is one of my life's largest regrets.

I, Sarah Palin, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.

God help us all.

An Excerpt From The Aging Hipster's Failed "Asian Adoption" Essay

Wait a minute. Don't judge me. You guys do worse to your cats?
Am I right?
I don't even know why I included this photo but... if you know a better way to keep your cat from meowing incessantly, please let me know.

I have to cater to this fuckng cat. I make sure someone (not me - I can't stand the smell) feeds him.

I give him affection (when I'm loaded).

I make sure he can go in and out the front door (which Barb is usually closest to) every five minutes, but still...

You're damn right I get him drunk every once in a while.
If not for me, how would he ever raise his little kitty cat self esteem?

I'm doing him a favour. If it were not for me, he'd be stuck in some little kitty cat rut. He'd spend most of his life thinking he will never achieve his little kitty cat dreams.

Without me getting him loaded, he'd never dream of writing the Great Kitty-American Novel.

If I didn't get this cat drunk, he'd never get any pussy! Get what I mean there? You see the pun I included?
You did? Good.

If I didn't feed him liquor he would never dream of being the first kitty cat rock star - those fucking cats who meow Christmas jingles don't count.

Fucking sell-outs!

You think so too?

Well ... Good. Please consider my request to give me one of your excess children. I will even take a girl. I promise I'll raise her to be an obnoxious socialist busy-body.

Gimme an Asian Baby,

Yours in Christ,

The Aging Hipster

The Fall Fair Baby Competition is Decadent and Depraved

(Editor's note: The following crossed our desk after being rejected by all of the major media outlets in the Orillia-Barrie-Midland Triangle. While we have yet to locate the author, billed only as Hunter S. Thompson's non-union Mexican equivalent, The Aging Hipster felt his story needed to be told.)

It was somewhere around the sheep display when the drugs began to take hold.
Damned good thing too -- all that hay was kicking the hell out my allergies.
The air was full of foul carnival music and barkers promising Def Leppard mirrors and giant combs to any man who could knock over three ill-weighted milk bottles with a softball. I elbowed my way through a sea of ugly hillbillies and their spawn getting their annual compulsive infusion of cotton candy and blue ribbon quilts. I was already late for the baby photo contest and I needed to be there for two reasons. First - it was an important story. Second - one of the mothers was paying me to heckle the other babies.
I arrived in the converted roller skating rink -- where these babies were to be judged -- and scanned the area for a bar. After five minutes I found a snack bar in the corner that sold domestic beer and boxed wine in plastic cups. I took one of both and thanked the Gods I'd brought a thermos full of mint julep for emergencies.
An odd mixture of yokels and soccer moms were gathered around a booth - the back lined with pictures of lily white babies. Most of the photos seemed professionally taken. Clearly against the rules, but it seems parents who hold their infants up to public scrutiny for their own personal gain have little regard for rules. The pictures were numbered and each had a corresponding Pringles can. The numbered can with the most money took home the prize. It seems my client's money could have been better spent but it was too late for that. I'd already spent the money on mint, bourbon, powdered sugar and a thermos.
Still, I had a job to do and I am nothing if not a professional. "Good Lord," I yelled. "The one on the left looks like he was chewed up by a rat terrier." Stifled laughter from all but one of the soccer moms and outright guffaws from the yokels.
"Does baby nineteen look drunk to you? What kind of monsters get their baby drunk ... AND TAKE PICTURES OF IT?" Even the well-heeled ladies weren't bothering to hide their laughter.
Some kid was dressed in a cowboy hat and bandana. "I'll wager he's never roped a calf in his life," I yelled in a thick southern drawl
"God damn buddy, you a funny guy." said some farmer, slapping me hard on the back, spilling half of my drink on my American flag Chuck Taylors.
"Fuck off BUDDY," I murmured. "I'm working here."
At this point the story becomes very slippery, with many loose ends and dark shadows. I continued taunting infant children to the amusement of the growing crowd until the pageant organizer arrived and pulled me aside. Forty-years-old, paunchy with glasses - he looked like an elementary school vice principal. He looked like something a six-year-old would draw if you asked him to illustrate the concept of humourless.
"What in the name of HOLY FUCK do you think you're doing?" he hissed. "Making fun of all these children who've yet to do you any harm?"
"Just doing my job, sir."
"Do you know what we are going to do to people like you when Stephen Harper gets his majority. Your kind will be locked in cages and forced to fight each other with machetes on the CBC. Now shut the fuck up."
I was shaken. This was a bit heavy to lay on a man with a head full of Benadryl and mint julep. I reacted the only way a reasonable man could.
"Baby 42 has the beady eyes of a paedophile." I yelled.
That's when the rousties came.

I woke up in a ditch on Hwy. 12. I was badly beaten and missing one thermos. I never found out which kid won but I'd bet it was that little bitch dressed up as a pumpkin.

Nonsense 101: To The Moon and Way Fuckin' Beyond Alice!

It's rare that you find a rocket scientist and an occult enthusiast in the same room.
It's downright weird to find them in the same person.

Jack Parsons was just such a weird, weird man.

Born in 1914, Parsons was a college drop out who hated authority. His diary claims he visibly invoked Satan at the age of thirteen. He also had a deep, abiding love for science fiction stories and blowing shit up.

Pretty much the same as myself - except I never got around to putting a man on the moon.

Fast-forward to 1939. Parsons was a member of the not-so-affectionally dubbed Suicide Squad - named for their series of increasingly alarming explosions caused at CalTech while trying to create stable, usable rocket fuel. Their goal was simple: put the human race into outer space.

This was also the year Parsons discovered the writings of famed English Satanist Aleister Crowley. He started invoking the god Pan before every rocket launch. Silly bugger.

Around this time, Parsons also found a new buddy and fellow Crowely enthusiast named L. Ron. You may have heard of him. He and Parsons started a boat dealing company named Allied Enterprises.

Parsons wasn't yet getting far with his rocket fuel experiments - things kept unexpectedly blowing up. He wasn't hurting for money though. In 1942, Parsons' estranged father died leaving him a mansion in in the nice part of Pasadena. Parsons rented out the rooms to "only atheists and those of a Bohemian disposition," according to his newspaper ad.

A man after my own heart, if it were not for the stupid occultism.

Noisy parties and police raids ensued. Parsons was able to win over the cops with his charm, good looks and reputation as a rocket scientist. But, from all accounts, things got plenty weird - lots of nakedness, magicks and substance abuse - over at the Parsons' spread.

An excerpt from a Parsons poem published in an occult magazine in 1943?

"I hight Don Quixote, I live on peyote, marijuana, morphine and cocaine, I never know sadness, but only a madness that burns at the heart and the brain."

As I said, a man after my own heart -- if not for the stupidity and bad poetry. But what the fuck does 'hight' mean?

Parsons started becoming more successful with his rocket fuel experiments. He had a fulfilling relationship with his ex-wife's half sister Betty.
If you listen to devotees of this sorta crap, he was becoming more successful with his magicks. He and Hubbard allegedly completed the Babalon Working spell which ushered in a goddess who led the way to world peace and free love.

Recent events suggest this spell wasn't as effective as Parsons' acolytes may suggest.

Nevertheless...

His life was finally starting to work out, huh?
Uhh, No.
In 1947, L. Ron Hubbard buggered off with a boat, all the cash from Allied Enterprises and for good measure, Betty - Parsons' girlfriend.
L. Ron Hubbard eventually married Betty and started Scientology with the stolen money.

The official Scientology line is that Hubbard was instructed to 'infiltrate a black magic ring' by the U.S. Navy.
Horseshit! Go ahead and sue me Mr. Cruise.

As the '40s wound down things kept getting worse for Parsons. He was stripped of his security clearance and almost prosecuted for treason since he gave classified documents to the Israeli government, with whom he was negotiating for a rocket guru gig. Parsons was reduced to working for Hollywood movies, making tiny explosive squibs that mimicked a man being shot. But his rocket fuel eventually worked. Ex-Nazi/Future Upstanding American Citizen/Full Time Rocket Scientist Wernher Von Braun cited Parsons as the most influential rocket scientist in history.

Parsons never lived to see his dream of landing a man on the moon, but his rocket fuel discovery was instrumental in putting one there. Jack Parsons blew himself up in 1952.

One newspaper wrote that, "The explosion blew off his right forearm, tore a gaping hole in his jaw and shattered the other arm and both legs."

Some say Jack was killed because he had become an embarassment to the American government.

Some say Scientologists had Jack killed to cover Hubbard's shameful behaviour.

Most say Parsons liked fucking around with explosives and was far too sweaty and high. One friend noted in a Parsons' biography that "Jack used to sweat a lot and [a coffee can in which he was mixing Mercury Fulminate] just slipped out of his hand and blew him up."

Jack Parsons is rarely mentioned inside the rocket scientist community these days but the Parsons Crater on the far side of the Moon has been named after him.

Rest In Peace, you Delusional Genius!

I Know What A Prison Lover Ought To Be - Seven Wildly Misinterpreted Songs

1.) Okie From Muskogee - Merle Haggard

"It started out as a joke. We wrote to be satirical originally. But then people latched onto it, and it really turned into this song that looked into the mindset of people so opposite of who and where we were."
So said Merle Haggard when asked about his biggest hit. It describes a 1960s Oklahoma town where 'traditional American values' like football, the Stars and Stripes and respect for authority still reign supreme.
Some claim this is sheer revisionism. I tend to believe Merle.
The length of Haggard's hair does not define him. Neither does his well documented drug ingestion or tail chasing.
But it might give you a hint that he's taking the piss when the first line of the song starts " We don't smoke marijuana in Muskogee. We don't take no trips on LSD."
He goes on to sing "We don't make no party out of lovin'. We like holding hands and pitching woo. We don't let hair grow long and shaggy like the hippies out in San Francisco do."
Besides, Haggard saw Johnny Cash's legendary San Quentin shows while doing ten years for holding up a Bakersfield saloon. He says it turned his life around.
I once saw Judas Priest at Maple Leaf Gardens while doing three years in journalism school for reading too much Kerouac. It did fuck all for me.
Who am I to argue?

2.) Short People - Randy Newman

I was nine-years-old when the song Randy Newman's song Short People was released in 1978.
I loved that song. I recognized it -- if not as satire -- than at least a joke.
And I was short and I was ... oh yeah ... NINE-FUCKING-YEARS-OLD!
It's a minor tragedy that the greatest song writer of the last fifty years is primarily known for a novelty song.
It isn't even a slight throw-away song. At it's best, it is a vicious smack down of bigotry. At it's worst, it's a fictional diary of a mad man. Who could take "They got little hands and little eyes, And they walk around tellin' great big lies, Don't want no short people 'round here" seriously?
Anyone under 5'2" in the 1970s, I guess. Midgets, Dwarves and the like used to throw Short People parties where they would throw tiny little eggs and tiny little darts at pictures of Randy Newman. It kinda makes you want to kick tiny little Tom Cruise in his tiny little nuts.
"It was too bad that was my one big hit--a novelty record like The Chipmunks did," Newman recently told the Fredricksburg Free Lance-Star. He hates the damn song now. "It was a hit that did me no good, that did me harm. A bad break."

3.) Every Breath You Take - The Police

Every Breath You Take used to be a very popular first dance wedding song.
I've not personally known anyone whose wedding song was Every Breath You Take.
Mind you, I try not to hang out with stupid people. Especially two stupid people who are about to get married.
The song is about obsession and stalking. It's creepy. It's isn't about everlasting love. It's about a sinister, controlling character whose relationship is ending.
Casual living room poll?
Barb's wedding song: Turbo Lover by Judas Priest
Brian's wedding song? Should I Stay or Should I Go by The Clash
Also Brian's funeral song, BTW.

4.) Only Women Bleed - Alice Cooper

One might forgive the casual listener for assuming Alice Cooper had the worst intentions with Only Women Bleed.
He wrote songs about welcoming you to his nightmare. He wrote songs about necrophilia and the eventual world domination of man-eating spiders.
This was all on the same album that held Only Women Bleed.
So the song is about cutting up chicks, huh?
At least the song is about menstruation, right?
Naw.
It's about our patriarchal society in which women do most of the work and get the shitty end of the stick.
Pretty sensitive for a dude with decapitaed dolls and torture equipment as on-stage props if you ask me.
Plus, Etta James covered the song in 1999.
I'll bow to Etta's judgment rather than the wankers who slap Parental Advisory labels on records, thank you.

5.) This Land Is Your Land - Woody Guthrie

It sounds incredibly patriotic. The majesty of America on display:

"This land is your land, this land is my land
From California to the New York Island
From the Redwood Forest to the Gulf Stream waters
This land was made for you and me."

Except Guthrie was a self-confessed socialist. He painted the phrase "This Machine Kills Fascists" on his guitar. He reveled in sticking it to - for lack of a better analogy - The Man.
Witness the verse that usually gets left out by people who conduct choruses of school children:

"In the squares of the city, In the shadow of a steeple;
By the relief office, I'd seen my people.
As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking,
Is this land made for you and me?"

And here comes the beautiful, left-wing, property sharing kicker:

"There was a big high wall there that tried to stop me;
Sign was painted, it said private property;
But on the back side it didn't say nothing;
That side was made for you and me."

see also: Bruce Springsteen's Born In The USA.
Really, Ronald Reagan? You wanted Born In The USA for your re-election song? The first lyrics

"Born down in a dead man's town
The first kick I took was when I hit the ground
You end up like a dog that's been beat too much
'Til you spend half your life just covering up"

didn't tip you off the song wasn't as patriotic as the title suggested? Alzheimer's Disease may have kicked in by this point, but didn't you have handlers, Ronnie?

Please visit The Library of Congress for other Woody Guthrie songs of which Ronald Reagan would not have approved.

6.) The Summer of '69 - Bryan Adams

Bryan Adams was born in the fall of 1959. Therefore:

"Me and some guys from school
Had a Band and we tried real hard
Jimmy quit and Jody got married
I shoulda known we'd never get far"

never happened unless he and his friends were extremely precocious hillbillies.
The song is just a sophomoric reference to mutual oral sex. Fuckin' grow up, people. Jimmy never quit, Jodi never got married
... I'll wager it was just a bet with his producer about the dirtiest song he could get on Canadian radio.
Hence the closing line "Me and my baby in ... uhh... '69".
I'll wager Mr. Adams record label deemed The Autumn of Piston Fisting slightly not subtle enough.
Despite his obvious pranksterism, Bryan Adams is still a very shitty songwriter.

7.) In-A Gadda-Da-Vida - Iron Butterfly

Often confused with music.
It is not.


I double-dog-dare-ya to add your own examples.
Don't be a pussy.
Say something.

He's Troubled ... But I Can Save Him. Part II: Mushrooms, Mushrooms, Everywhere but Not a Drop to Drink

As a responsible adult I'm not advocating the use of Magic Mushrooms.

As a realist I'm not advocating mixing a batch of them into Campbell's (non-magic) Mushroom Soup and walking the streets of Toronto for nine hours with Slappy and Spanky (not their real names as they lead semi-respectable lives these days).

You know those times when you just have to load up on British Columbian 'shrooms just to shake the cobwebs out?
No? Then go to Hell.
Don't you dare judge me -- if you haven't done this yourself you shouldn't be reading this blog.

Back to the point. Where was I? Oh, yes ... please understand, Slappy and Spanky can never agree on anything. In fact, the only thing I can ever remember them agreeing upon was that we should ingest wood-chippy halucinogenics and wander aimlessly one Saturday afternoon. Once everyone had agreed on THAT basic concept, all unity and harmony flew out the window.

That said, I'll offer a few tips on coping with a halucinogenic walking tour of Canada's biggest city.

Once you exit the building in which you've ingested the above mushrooms, you may feel the urge to look up at the CN Tower and comment that it looks like a big wang.
This is natural.
Feel free to giggle.
No one looks twice at a Toronto street giggler.
Please refrain from lying on your back on the sidewalk, looking up, and snickering, "huh huh huh ... big Toronto wang. Heh, Wangy".
It not only disconcerts the locals ... It really hurts tourism.

As you make your way towards wherever Slappy and Spanky lead you -- be prepared. There will be some sort of Hobo Jungle. In happens in all major cities. Please do not taunt the hobos or offer them whisky that you can not provide. There but for the grace of God -- and the lack of a Conservative majority government -- go you. Don't be such a prick.

These knobs who have filled your head with bad, bad drugs, will walk down the Cherry Beach rent boy stroll. As a confirmed hetrosexualist, don't take that walk with imaginary voices jabbering in your head unless:

a.) You are REALLY secure about your masculinity

...or...

b.) You REALLY need the money

Fellas will be cruising and whistling at you.
If you're Straight? Be cool. Take it as a compliment.
If you're a Gay Prostitute? Shake that ass and get the best price you can. If you work out, wear a tank top.

When you get to the lake - take in the scenery. Watch the ships. Contemplate an indifferent Creator vs. the happy mistake of evolution.
Under no circumstances talk to children whose mothers are too negligent to notice their kid wants to hang out with three ugly stoned guys sitting on a dock. Even really fried people recognize this as bad parenting.
Besides, encountering eight-year-old kids -- while more fucked up than you have ever been in your life -- is very bad mojo. I think it says something about that in The Bible.

"Encountereth not the toddlers whilst tripping thy balls off, for it is unseemly in the eyes of God and he shall lower his head and shake it sadly, muttering that he should have given the place to the monkeys."
-Halucinations 4:21

Don't drink Lake Ontario water and claim it's as good as city water. I don't care how thirsty you are. City water is horrible but it does lack a certain amount of feces.

When it starts to get dark, walk up the street, pool your money and hail a taxi cab. Don't care that your taxi driver is having a boxed fried chicken dinner date with his girlfriend. He works hard at a shitty job. He deserves at least that much. Tip him well.

Get dropped off at the nearest bar. Drink as much as you can but don't expect to get drunk - you're still too 'shroomed up. Ignore Slappy and Spanky arguing. Admire the beauty of the waitress in an unfamiliar nonsexual way. Then...
... try to reset
... try to relax
... try to realize you are safe for at least one more day.
... try not to do any more drugs the next morning.

I'm Really Looking Forward to my Upcoming Job as Rock Star.

So much so, in fact that I've already drafted my rider.
Since we're so close, I'll let you have a peek:

This rider is attached and made part of the contract between BRIAN ELLICOTT, herein referred to as the ARTIST and _______________, herein referred to as promoter.

1. BILLING: VERY IMPORTANT
Artist shall be billed as BRIAN ELLICOTT. It shall appear as such in all advertisements, fliers, marquees etc. Artist shall receive 100% headline billing.
Advertising the ARTIST as 'former member of GRAND FUNK RAILROAD' is not acceptable. Mr. Ellicott has never been affiliated with GRAND FUNK RAILROAD or its' later incarnation, GRAND FUNK.

2. MERCHANDISE
Promoter agrees to provide use of well-lit space, table and chairs. The ARTIST reserves the right to sell crap he has lying around his home at engagement.

3. DRESSING ROOM
Promoter agrees to provide a safe, private space for ARTIST'S use. Promoter agrees to keep all unauthorized males and ugly chicks from entering this area. A bathroom must be located somewhere in the building.

4. PROMOTER ASSUMES FULL LIABILITY FOR:
Payment of any and all costs, expenses, losses, litigation, tossed-panty clean-up and damages related to this engagement.

5. SECURITY
Promoter agrees to supply able bodied, sober security in case the stage is, for lust or outrage reasons, rushed. One guard will be required to escort ARTIST to stage. Two guards will be required to carry ARTIST from stage. In any event the ARTIST deems his security at risk the ARTIST has the right to bugger off and be paid in full.

6. HOSPITALITY
One (1) hot meal of waffles and sausages is to be provided before show at no ($0) cost to ARTIST. Twelve (12) vending machine sandwiches and tap water are to be provided to crew. Standard buy-out is $25 US/Can/Euro 35/AUD 7000/Yen 15/GBP per person

NOTE: If local/working crew is present, promoter must provide Burger King coupons. Burger King Coupons may be confiscated by ARTIST if high.

6a. MORE HOSPITALITY
In dressing room:
One (1) bottle of chilled vodka NO PRINCE IGOR!
One (1) bottle of room temperature vodka NO PRINCE IGOR!
One (1) bottle of body temperature PRINCE IGOR vodka
Various bourbons
One (1) bottle of local red wine
One (1) bottle of local white wine
Four (4) clean pair of underpants NO FRUIT OF THE LOOM!
One (1) hot-plate
One (1) frying pan
Four (4) slices of pre-buttered rye bread
Three (3) slices of No Name processed cheese. One (1) slice is to be cut in half.
No (0) smoke detectors
In the unlikely event ARTIST does not consume all of above it is to be distributed to local homeless community at cost to promoter.

7. ACCOMMODATIONS
Promoter agrees to provide and pay for hotel room or find sofa for ARTIST to crash on or about.

Jesus is Just Alright With Me

I was once a child,
You may find that hard to believe.
Okay, you may not. Barb once described me as "a toddler with access to liquor and weapons."
Regardless, as a tyke, my well-meaning but naive mother would drag me to church.
A Baptist church, no less.

And lo, the child was well and truly bored once he realized his Sunday School teachers wouldn't answer questions like, "How did Noah fit dinosaurs onto the Ark?" and "Who did Adam and Eve's children mate with?".
-Stolinations 3:17

The people at the church, with a few exceptions, meant as well as my Mom. My mother, for example, would never picket an abortion clinic. She'd never fag-bash - she wouldn't even say the word 'fag' (she calls them 'funny'. It's kinda cute). She once tried to pass an ordinance to keeps kids from dancing in Price's Corners but quickly forgot her pet project once the cooking sherry wore off.
Like my mother, I'm sure most of these Baptists just wanted my soul saved. What kind of monster wouldn't want to make sure I didn't end up in a lake of fire where torment would be heaped upon torment and the wails of my fellow damned would echo ... blah ... blah ... blah. How very fucking quaint. Thanks for your interest. I actually mean that. Sorry it didn't work for y'all.
However, a few of these people were, for lack of a couple better words, Evil Douchebags.
Like the Sunday School teacher who said, and I'm paraphrasing here, "If you steal a cookie, don't repent and suddenly die -- you'll end up in Hell." What The Fuck? I loved stealing cookies at the age of nine. I lived to steal cookies. Cookie Theft was my raison d'etre. Sex, Drugs and Rock 'n' Roll (or at least hidden Playboys, Beer and Blondie's Greatest Hits) were still several months away!
That notion -- that I could be sent to Hell if I choked to death on a stolen cookie -- scared the fuck out of me! I had nightmares I can still vividly picture right now.
The worst of the lot, however, is whoever let the above comics get into my hot little hands.
Written, illustrated and published by Jack T. Chick, these little comic books - about the size of a pack of smokes - were SOLD to the sort of people who wanted to convert other people to Christianity. These books scared me more than any ten saggy-jowled stolen cookie ladies. I was convinced I'd end up in Hell on a technicality.
A little research about Jack Chick, sadly still living, shows he's a Fundamentalist Christian who hates the usual suspects: abortion, drugs, homosexuals, Rock 'n' Roll, Halloween, Harry Potter and Dungeons and Dragons ... and the Catholic Church.
Sadly, he hates the Catholic Church for all the wrong reasons. Chick believes many of the world's problems are deliberately caused by the Catholic Church. He credits the Catholic Church with founding Islam, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, and the Jehovah's Witnesses. Also? Starting the Holocaust and founding Communism.
Myself?
On one hand, the Catholic Church shouldn't have covered up all the altar boy molestation.
On the other hand, they gave us the Catholic school girl uniform.
I'm torn.
I know it seems silly now, but it really did scare me insensible as a child.
Luckily, it also made me think God was kind of a prick.
So here I stand before you now, a liberal athiest with a penchant for celebrating Halloween with my homo friends, dressed as Harry Potter while drunk and listening to Black Sabbath. I played Dungeons and Dragons once -- but I never really took to it.
When Jack Chick dies - as he will soon (he was born in 1924), I will make it a personal life mission to urinate on his grave. I may host a bus tour to do so. Scarred me for life, that fucker did.
Thank you indulging my self indulgence. I just wanted to get that off my chest.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled smart aleckry.


P.S. New Paul Westerberg and Randy Newman albums were released today. And yes, the Paul Westerberg album is supposed to sound like that.