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

to pay the bill. but what if they do some kind of DNA check on all the bodily fluids, vomit, and alcohol we spilled all over everything? well, if they haven´t caught me yet, they never will. hey, i´m thirsty, can i see your wrist for a moment?

 

the mind in that beast is the same as ever, still devious, still full of hatred. i am naked, my hair is dyed bright neon green, i am standing outside on the balcony of a hotel in amsterdam, i am very drunk and consciously altered from a bag of psilocybin magic mushrooms and a few tabs of acid. i am screaming as tho i were being tortured to death. the police break into the hotel room, a pretty blond policewoman comments how she likes my hair and it would be a good idea for me to stop screaming. i agree.

 

princess diana former bedroom is up for grabs - you can stay overnight in her ancestral home in england for a mere 56 thousand dollars a night. what a bargain! perhaps one has a chance to diddle princess di´s ghost, some kind of metaphysical pervert sex. some retard woman is being starved to death. the family who owns the retard is named "schindler"? are these the same people from "schindler´s list"? does this new schindler family have a new list of retards they want to starve to death? i certainly would not want anyone keeping me alive if i were knocked on the head and turned into a retard. shit, i can hardly stand being alive now, when my mental and physical faculties are still intact - i think very often of starving myself to death in this prison, similar to what bobby sands did - but i hang on for some reason i don´t understand - maybe i am already retarded. i certainly don´t feel so smart, but i´m not in need for anyone to feed me, altho i am lax in my own attempts at feeding. i find it difficult at best to maintain my nourishment standards, me being a strict vegetarian in a world full of sick flesh eating monsters. i´m sick all the time, probably because i don´t get enough nutrition. but i really couldn´t care less. i really have no care whether i live or die at this point. just as long as something happens. i´m bored as all hell, i feel as tho i am a car, with satan driving, his hoof is pressed on the accelerator pedal all the way to the floor, but the transmission is in neutral - i´m all revved up with no place to go. and maybe i have 1000 different thoughts going on in my head at one time, maybe i am a genius, maybe i am a decent artist, but none of this matters to me very much when i am stuck in this prison with no real hope of ever going free. so, in a sense, i am just as bad off as this retard that schindler is starving to death in florida, and maybe that retard is luckier than i am - it does not know whether it is alive or dead anyway - death is no big loss - but i know i am alive, and i know i am suffering. i only wish i could get schindler to kill me somehow. gurgle-gurgle-drool-coff-errrrreee.

 

it´s all too much. thinking that there is a purpose to my life, a destiny. and then it is all destroyed - no purpose, no reason, just NOTHING - all that i had has been seized and stolen by the nazi prison devils. it leads me to believe that my purpose to exist - that is, to spread knowledge of anarchy, chaos, and true freedom, not the phoney bullshit "freedom" that the usa pawns off to the world, that my purpose has been recognized by real evil - the powers that be, the illuminati, satan´s tool on earth - and they do their best to keep me locked in prison illegaly. i rot, my soul withers. satan, laughing, spreads his wings.

 

how many diseases can one man endure? is the clown the ultimate figure of the essence of my soul? perhaps, or more likely, a manifestation of my ego, to use a freudian context. frighten and entertain, seemingly my two best qualities. perform for the barely-evolved chimps, MANKIND. dream a little dream with me. if you use your nose to sniff household cleaning products to get high, you could get brain damage or die. so please, all you nice americans, take a deep breath as you clean your toilets, hmm. it is funny, that between european toilets, on the whole, and american toilets, it is european toilets that are much cleaner. especially german toilets. i´ve never seen a filthy german toilet, even in some of the really seedy establishments that i tend to haunt. but i have seen american toilets that have made me want to puke just to take a piss in them. maybe it says something about americans, but then again, it is no secret that americans are extremely ugly assholes. i put on my clown make-up and dance naked under the irish moon. dream that i was never born, dream i don´t exist, kill me softly in my dreams.

 

the game is nothing - the playing of the game is everything. a man who walks backward, staring into the past, is likely to trip and hurt himself. i am the fire, burning bright on both ends of the candle, and soon the flames shall meet, and i will be extinguished. i am a dream, a whisper of truth and light, just a tinge of memories, and much sadness and loss, i´m a ghost, and it will take but a wind-of-change to carry me off, to dissipate my meager-form into the clouds of mediocrity and low-brow insanity. my ear shall be removed with the quick slash of my trusty razor. i am the painter, pouring my soul into every brush stroke, burning with a passion to have just one soul in this wretched filthy world understand my pain. i am a malnourished prisoner who suffers from extreme migraine headaches, so much so that i weep bitter tears while i vomit blood and bile into a diseased toilet, then i return to sit on my bed and close my eyes, and let the hallucinations play in my twisted head - dreams and visions of desire and need, friendly aliens and sexifull irish goddesses. i am entropy, nothingness, infatuation with emptiness.

 

 

 

 

10. The Gospel of Itchy Wiggle Christ

good morning, deutschland, it is easter sunday, 2005. i will rise from the dead.

 

yesterday was vincent van gogh´s birthday,the 30th of march, he would have been 149 years old! well, i "celebrated" this day in the best way i could. a chocolate candy bar and a cherry tart, sort of a "poor man´s black-forest cake". and i talked to vincent, as i tend to do often. ah well. maybe someday, if i am ever free from this hell-hole, i can throw a really BIG party on vincent´s birthday. it would be fabulous to celebrate his 150th birthday next year. i would buy a few cases of absinth, a few cases of cheap french wine, a big keg of heineken beer, and serve poffertjes and edam cheese - whatever other french and dutch items that vincent may have enjoyed. then i would hang a bunch of vincent´s prints around my house. and i would go to the train station and find some homeless people and invite them to my vincent party, just as vincent would have done. i think this would be great! i only hope it is possible. there´s so much i owe to vincent - i would never have started painting if it were not for my reading about his life and seeing his work. vincent is the one artist that i am actually in awe when i see his work.

 

i fell into the abyss while i was looking into it. i´m only waiting for my body to go SPLAT on the sharp rocks of satan´s cellar. holy mother of god, do i hope that happens soon. i am sick again, or, physically sick again - i was only healthy for ten days this time before the latest malady hit me - some kind of lung infection that makes it difficult to breathe and produces green creamy mucous-ahit when i cough, along with some blood from my lungs, i think i am coughing so hard that i burst some capillaries in the lung tissue. i am completely miserable. no, i am a chihuahua puppy-dog, i go RUFF! RUFF!, YIP! YIP!, and i bite ankles of the postlady that comes to deliver mail to my mistress. as a cute and cuddly chihuahua dog, i live a comfortable life, i get plenty of food and treats and loving care. i am the happiest doggy in the world. RUFF! RÜLPS!

 

tornados, snowstorms, troops in iraq, the pope is dead. all the same retared shit. nazi death-squads stomping thru my migraine head, disease in my blood, black blood of death pouring out my ass, green neon mucous pooling in my lungs. i´m not a healthy man, this is not a healthy world. i´m not a free man. i think i am dying in here. we all die.

 

shit is clean compared to what is happening to me. this has to end sometime soon, i´ve written enough to let the world know what is going on in my head, i´ve written enough to piss a lot of people off - this seems to be my greatest talent. i´ve already gotten so much negative feedback from my paintings, that i´m starting to have creative "burps", where i am painting and i suddenly lose all drive to continue. i guess i don´t take critism very well - or maybe i am afraid that what i am painting will be used against me by some nazi fuck-head in the american government. but i also am afraid i will never get out of this godforsaken prison. a funny thing tho, whenever i do get these creative burps, i mix a bunch of different colored paints until i have a color that looks like nuclear baby shit, and then i start destroying what i am working on at that time by making it look like it is covered in baby shit. this is the kind of stuff that i find quite hilarious. but i have a very sick sense of humor. well, this is the end, beautiful friend. these last few pages may be the past i ever write. i think i should cover myself in my nuclear baby shit paint, set myself on fire, and run around screaming in frenzied agony. i am baby shit. i got a poopy butt.

 

never question the treachery of a human being - expect it, and you will never be surprised - smile when faith is kept, but never allow your eyes to close when you smile.

 

i need an ice-pick lobotomy. psychological surrender. recognize the obvious, bow to the inevitable. hear all, trust nothing. the more we are willing to risk, the