The gospel of Itchy Wiggle Christ, Gregory-John McCormick, Ralf Dellhofen [black books to read .TXT] 📗

forth as if i were on LSD. what are you doing with my book? are you enjoying my hallucinations and mad ranting? i´m afraid to take a shit for the loss of blood that will ensue. i am bleeding out of both ends and from very deep disease so deep in my body, my sick unhealthy body. let´s get to work. becomming engaged on the top of the eiffel tower. laying drunk and passed out with a half-finished bottle of cheap wine cradled in my arms like a baby, somewhere in montmartre, paris. i drank loads of wine in paris, i angered many people and delighted many others, drawing pictures in vincent´s café with colored pencils, sharing bottles of wine with tourists who wanted to watch a "real parisian artist" at work. very funny! little did they know i am and was only a drunk irish rover looking for free drinks.

 

it´s just a myth, it does not exist. i´ll scream! i´ll scream like a retard who has had his toy bear stolen from him!. they thought i was dead, they tried to kill me, but they failed. you can´t have too much money or too many good friends. i need ten women. i have no problems and i do not require make enhancement drugs. well, with ten women, maybe. the wind is up, unfurl the sails, here come the irish pirates! cäp´n ralf and itchy. obey, and you will share in glories far beyond your earthly ambitions. yes, my queen, winds of hellfire blow, send my destruction across the sea. i will retire for the night soon, having finished painting "the retarded boy and his pet squid". a masterpiece of my deepest fears. drink up, you scurvey squabs! i will soon sail the seas of my dreams, i will escape this living hell. i´m running out of lives, reborn each morning in this deep dark hell, and soon all my lives will be used up and i will not wake. i will be free, finally free, my torture abated, my soul will soar once again. this life has no meaning for me any longer, this is not life. how sad is it, when i nightly look forward to disappearing into my dreams to escape the grisly reality i am consigned to suffer? could any person on earth ever say that i am wrong to wish and pray for my own end? this is a fate worse than death, and one i no longer deserve. poopy poopy crap on me, life is pain and death is free, when i´m gone you just may see, you should surrender life and follow me. gute nacht, freunde.

 

a plane is a flat, two-dimensional surface that goes on to infinity. a plane is a very big metallic machine that could carry my skinny, sick, diseased-riddled body back to my home, europe. only there could i ever be healed and be whole again.

 

good morning everyone. sickness and happiness and questionable bowel distress greet you. everyone can sing and dance in the streets. castrop-rauxel once had a pair of phantoms skulking through their neighborhood, they were dressed in black with clown make-up and elf hats and carried large sticks. any closer examination would have shown that the phantoms were indeed drunk and consciously-expanded on LSD, and that they found it interesting to sit around a small campfire in the woods watching the polizei search house by house for them. who could those phantoms have been? at some point, i was left in a forest up on top of a small mountain, all my "friends" abandoned me. i woke up around six in the morning, highly disoriented. i fell down the mountain side while taking a dump. my head hit a big tree, which inadvertently stopped my fall but gave me a concussion. i had to knock and pound on the hotel door to get in. the old lady owner was not impressed with me standing there half-naked, bloody, muddy, shitty, and on the verge of puking. hotel managers love me.

 

peace, prosperity, and tiny green things that make the mind go splat-pitter-pat-poopy-cocca-doo-doo. ski down the white slopes of pharmaceutical hell-fire. blackened hulls of pirate ships that passed thru the darker dimensions, the good captain orders attack and destroy prerogatives upon all resisting imperial merchants. god save the queen, my pimpled skinny irish ass. no more questions. raise the flag of the kingdom of itchyland, the most free country on earth, the only true feudalistic anarchistic republic of non-animal flesh ingesting citizens, where complete freedom is the only rule. steal my potatoes, will ye now? how do you like a hobbling to your thieving wretched knees, english usurping pig? blueberry milk-rice for all, free of charge at any given time. a guinness tap in every kitchen. have you noticed how your boobs have started to firm up? dr. crusher and counsellor troi find themselves exploring each other´s bodies and it leads to erotic fulfillment, lesbian experiences being completely natural in the 24th century. oh holy creeping jesus, what the fuck has happened to my brain? i have been removed too long from the female species, and i need and love my girl so much it hurts. life signs are extremely faint, and the future king of itchyland is unsure how much longer he can survive. the entire land is mourning their loss, they weep for the suffering of their king. total destruction of sense and justice, the king is being held by the evil empire, the nazi republic of american michigan death fascists, haters of freedom, creative thought and justice. darth vader had nothing on the michigan empire. the dark side of the force flourishes in that place, and constantly infiltrates and beats upon the soul of good king itchy w.c., the crippled christ, the happy retard, the sex-clown of queen steffi. oh, where is the bushmills now? when the stomach does flip-flops, when drinking could lead to projectile vomitting, i would ignore all warning signs, i would run my powered wheelchair down the middle lane of the autobahn, laughing my fool head off, spewing golden-bloody puke in all directions, soiling my adult-diapers, my colostomy bag erupts. all in the name of doing what i was borne to do: disturb the world with the absurd and the unconventional. blame it on vincent van gogh, he talked to me before i was born, he told me to borrow some of his own creative energy from the pool of all creativity. i think i took too much as always, drinking it in like it was a liter of frozen jägermeister. do not educate me.

 

i like peanut-butter and chocolate together more than any type of happy-good-time dessert. any form will do, i.e. a peanut butter cookie with pieces of a hershey bar, which i enjoy often in here, it takes the edge off of hell, even if momentarily. but the best to me is chocolate ice cream with peanut-butter, which i have not had for many many years, alas. poor itchy, poor little boy. my body is 40 years old but my spirit remains a constant 5 years old, but that ever-young spirit cries for the loss of it´s freedom to soar. gods in the celtic heaven, remove the scars from my soul and free me from the grip of evil, even if it means my death, just get me the hell out of this pit of foul filth and putrid sick evil. oh, i will sleep tonight, yes of course, okey-dokey doctor lecter, my own clarisse is much prettier than yours and she needs no coaxing to love me. but as you, i miss mine deeply. where comes the respite and reward for love? can´t there ever be true justice? did the gods abandon me, or did evil win out after all? jesus wept, longinus laughed, pilate shook his head, and mary magdalene creamed her panties. what in the hell has happened to this fucking world? stop the ride, lugh, i want to get off. this place is no longer any fun for me, brighid, make him stop. i know you hear me, i know you don´t wish to see my suffering. help me, please help me.

 

the morning after, the big let down always. crapping out tears and falling all over my misery. tried and true, black and blue, terrible, terrible. greek olympic games, wish i were in greece. i like greek people. the women are beautiful too. i like skordalia as well, on warm crusty bread with strong white cheese. wish i were in greece. shit, i wish i were anywhere but here, antarctica, greenland, poland. HA HA, no, definately not poland, that is a stupid choice, stupid place. and so the morning wreaks its horrible charms upon my life, or what barely passes as a life. so many diseases, so many ways to die, one of them must find it´s way to taking me soon, this cannot go on. so many people die needlessly, why can´t i? now it gets cold in michigan, it´s the middle of goddamned august. i only wonder when the snow comes, the frozen white piss from heaven. cold death, cold torture. i can only be miserable. it is hard to write, i am still in shock from last night´s chemical psychotic episode. must be good reading, non? á bientot.

 

it is difficult to comprehend the sheer violence of past events. ah so, my day ends, after starting a new and rather disturbing painting, it is ronald mcdonald, the world´s favorite flesh-devouring clown, standing over a butchered sick cow with its intestines spilling out on the ground, and there is a bloody butcher´s knife in ronald´s hand. a nice comment for all my flesh eating friends out there. it is so appropriate that mcdonalds uses a clown to lure and entice children to eat that shit meat that mcdonalds serves to ten billion assholes a year. get the kiddies eating flesh nice and early, disregarding the sanctity of life in the formative years before their minds can fathom how wrong it is to feed off the death of animals to keep their own bodies alive. yeah, use a clown to suck the stupid children into your sick venal trap, mcdonalds. wealth, prestige, power, and importance, you can have it all. and when you can afford to eat at mcdonalds every night, you will not only be eating like a real american, you will look like an american: a big ugly fat disgusting pig. i´ll have a big mac, fries, and a coke. SUCK SHIT YOU EATERS OF FLESH. die the tens of thousands of deaths you inadvertantly caused by eating dead animals to keep your sorry ass alive. well, it´s time for bed now; enough ranting and raving from me, it´s time to dream.

 

3. The Gospel of Itchy Wiggle Christ

homer simpson: "without the grease on my hotdog, all i can taste is the hog anus".

 

crackin´good morning, all. where´s me whiskey, ye filthy trollop? everything is cancelled, no good times, no whiskey, do not let the good times roll. we made it to friday, and today is friday the thirteenth. go to jail, go directly to jail, do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars.

 

something wrong? i don´t see