Witches Float...

...or burn, or both, or whateverthefuck.

This past Tuesday in Cary, Illinois, eighteen year old high school student Allen Lee of Cary-Grove High School was arrested. Don't believe me? Read this, fucker! "Real" journalism. After completing a creative writing assignment, Lee's teacher felt compelled to alert the English Department chair, who then felt further compelled to contact the school principal, who also felt a strange need to alert local authorties and, via proxy, his Marine recruiter- all because of the kid's completed homework. What was this horrible, dastardly affront to creative writing that could have forced all three of these authority figures to daisy chain their way to the cops? Did young Allen plagiarize some incredible writer? Was he ripping off yours truly? No. Did he hand write a suicide note? Uh-uh. Did he confess some elaborate scheme to kill the President of the United States involving black-ops Vatican agents and an army of illegal immigrants led by the zombified corpses of our founding fathers? I fuckin' wish! No, he wrote this piece of shit. The only thing this kid's guilty of is vomit-inducing grammar.

Lee wrote a short, worthless piece of tripe in which he makes mention of firearm violence, necrophilia, our President's inability to lead, his love of the "Super Mario Bros." video games, and his teacher's craptacular baking. Sounds like a typical round of discussion my senior year, substituting "Super Mario Bros." with whatever you'd call playing "Pong" with sticks and a rock. Was his writing unusual, bordering on disturbing, and slightly theatening? Absolutely. But if we're gonna' flag every writer whose work borders on the disturbed with being possibly psychotic, and definitely, probably, potentionally violent, you'd better throw King and Koontz in some well-lit, padded cell with Michael Gingold, Joe Lansdale, Kim Harrison, and Anne Rice. Then dig up and burn the bones of Lovecraft, Howard, Bloch, and Patricia Highsmith. Throw me in the mix and we've got one hell of a fuckin' party.

Removing human interaction from situations like this is one of the stupidest goddamn things to do, but sadly, one of the most prevalent practices. Instead of sitting down with Allen and asking him why- why he thought making jokes about shooting people and fucking the corpses, his teacher's shitty baking, and inspiring another school shooting were fitting for this assignment- instead of actually talking to the kid, they lambast him for expressing himself in an, albeit, unusual way and potentially ruin any future he sought in the Marines. He's eighteen, he ain't a minor anymore, and this is gonna' stick around with him forever- like herpes, but without the fun of getting it. These educators aren't opening any doors for him, they're slammin' 'em shut on his cock and giggling over it while patting themselves on the back for being brave enough to tattle on some kid's shitty writing.

Last week, when Seung-Hui Cho, the sick motherfucker who killed thirty-two kids at Virginia Tech, was all over the news because of his slaughter, everybody from the students to the media where playing the "blame game" and trying to make the whole ordeal anybody else's fault but the messed up asshole who actually committed the murders. Fingers were pointed at everyone from the faculty, for not keeping their students safer, to the video game industry, for "inspiring violence" in young people, to fuckin' YouTube, quite possibly for exposing us to Nora, the piano playing cat. The fact that Cho had also written some disturbing creative writing pieces was explored, but the little touched-upon fact was that his teacher was denied any response to his writing when she confronted superiors about it.

This hands-free, "not my fuckin' problem" attitude people in positions of authority have is more at fault then Rockstar for making a game where you can kill hookers, or Marilyn Manson for making music about... well, who the fuck knows? Ultimately, the sin is always on the sinner's hands. However, there are always circumstances to be considered in every case, but all too often those circumstances are used to escape from the situation instelf- to shift blame, to lose focus. Cho probably would've shown up one day and killed as many people as he could anyway, whether or not an educator had stepped in and tried to understand the crazy bastard, but they would have at least tried to make that attemp- to make that connection- to bridge that gap between babysitter and mentor. For Allen Lee, at Cary-Grove High School, instead of extending an olive branch for a young man who might need it, his teachers slapped him in the fuckin' taint with it and labled him for future ostracizing.

Man, that'll be one awkward fucking reunion a decade from now.

Dear Earth...

Thanks for being a good sport.

It seems like only, oh, four and a half billion years ago that the sun vomited you up. A few hundred million years later, little microscopic bastards were crawlin' all over ya', fighting to shoot fins and flippers out of their slimy little bodies. Over time, the tiny fuckers got bigger, crawled out of your watery womb, and spilled out all over your sandy thighs kicking and screaming for survival. You took care of us, nurtured us, taught us, punished us when necessary, and eventually, one day, after we decided we knew everything, we started taking care of ourselves.

We got our own places somewhere in the old neighborhood- close enough to keep borrowing shit from you. We got jobs, raised families, taught 'em everything you taught us with our own personal spin on things. You kept watching over us, beaming with pride at times, scowling in disappointment at others. You had to sit there and watch your kids argue about inane bullshit, fighting over ideas and possessions, squabbling over the gifts you gave us. And every time you tried to step in and tell us that we should stop, that we should play nice and share, we told you to jam a cock in it or we'd put you in a fuckin' home.

You're gettin' old, Mom.We're still acting like spoiled fuckin' brats; but at least once a year, we get together and make you a card to tell you we still love you, maybe get you something nice to make you forget what rotten fucks your kids are and how much closer you're getting towards death. Yesterday, we couldn't have cared less, and tomorrow we'll go right back to treating you like shit again, but for today, we love you and we want you to know it.

Happy Mother's Day, Earth.

Happy Unadulterated Drug Abuse Day!

I'm writing this... I think it's midnight. I keep dipping in and out of coherence.

The first thing I did this morning, or yesterday morning, whatever morning this wild holiday started, I weighed myself. Once, long ago, when dinosaurs roamed the freeways and cavemen carpooled to work, I heard that the only way you could overdose on marijuana is if you smoked your weight in it. Being a lazy, indulgent slob (aka an American), I'm comin' in at a sturdy one-eighty. That's... roughly thirty-six thousand dollars worth of pot. A year's salary for Joe Paper Pusher, one dead prize-winning race horse for Jack "The Beastmaster" Zodiac. At eight in the morning, I had one hundred and eighty pounds of marijuana. I woke up early.

Somewhere between nine and noon, I'd made my way to an Indian casino. And when I say "Indian," I mean "Native American," but when I call it a "Native American Casino," they get offended. Normally, I wouldn't give a steaming shit if I offended somebody, but it was a holiday, and I was in a good mood. Pounds of weed'll do that to ya'. I spent about an hour counting cards, waiting for security to nab me and drag me down some seedy hallway to the big guy's office. Never happened. No, instead, the big guy comes right to me. That's class. Vegas, you fucks could take a note from these folk.

His name was Boss Double Down, which sounds like a thrown-out Bond villain, but fuck my dead dog's corpse if it ain't true. And in a stereotypically deep, monotonous voice, he asked me why I was "deceiving Fate." No shit. Not "cheating," or even "conning," but "deceiving Fate." And I responded in my gravelly, dragon-throated voice that it wasn't anything as abstract or transcendental as "Fate" that got me to his office, but cold, calculating guile. He was the man I wanted to see, the man capable of getting me what I wanted. Desert emeralds. The Divine Cacti. Peyote. I'd swindled his operation out of thousands for a mind-altering hallucinogen... and he was okay with it!

He said he'd give me what I wanted, take me where I wanted to go, be my guide, for my winnings. Fifteen minutes later, we were tearing off into the desert in a '69 Pontiac GTO with a glove compartment full of heroin, cocaine, and blotter acid with little pictures of nuns masturbating and a trunk filled with roughly one hundred and thirty pounds of marijuana. One of the conditions of what he was calling our "spirit journey" was that I had to drive, which was ridiculously awkward. There I was, tearing across an endless desert with a needle jutting out of my neck and a face full of white dust driving someone else's car! Awkward. Meanwhile, Double Down was triple-upped. The fucker'd been holding out on me with meth.

Along the way, I inquired about his tribe. He belonged to the Tlingit tribe, but lost his ties. He was pretending to be Navajo or something, like anyone would inquire anymore, to run his business. The Tlingit, pronounced "clinket," had adopted Christianity, and that just didn't jive with ol' Double Down. Where others saw Jesus guiding them through life, Double Down saw Yiel Shan, the wise old raven. Where others found strength in God, he found strength in Kinstaadal, the great brother bear. It was around this time I noticed the silver tower, jamming out of the sky like some cosmic kickstand, or the moon's cock.

We stopped. Double Down approached the sheer silver pole. I was cramming as many narcotics, hallucinogens, and amphetamines into a duffle bag as inhumanly possible. After jamming a fist full of peyote down my throat, we stumbled right through this metallic cord seperating Earth from Heaven, for Heaven it truly was. Inside the silver spire, a huge man covered in eagle's feathers sat on a throne made of half the sun and half the moon with all the stars above, below, and around him; and in a voice that was thunder, he delivered his sermon unto us.

He was Tahit, the Tlingit god of fate. Perched on his right shoulder was Yiel Shan, the wise old raven, and sitting to the left of his throne was Kinstaadal, the great brother bear. I was in deep, man. Crazy deep. It was all over me, and I fuckin' loved it! Overhead, the sky of Heaven shattered like glass, and Double Down started cupping his hands as it rained silver into them. I drank myself towards enlightenment, drowning myself in the moon's tears, when Tahit handed me a wooden goblet filled with fire. I ate the sun, and it burned its way into my heart. We fed the bear entire sheets of acid and gave the wise old raven shotguns of pot smoke. It was beautiful. So beautiful, I blacked out.

I awoke several hours later, several hours ago. It's... almost four in the morning now. I've been drifting in and out recounting my heroic journey today. The smoke, the dope, the mountain of coke, wallpaper of blotter acid, and fistfuls of peyote are all gone, but the memories are still here. And thanks to the Internet, they'll be here longer than me! I reached nirvana at some point today, probably right before I blacked out. For one night in the desert, I drank the moon's tears, tasted the sun's heart, achieved a profound sense of enlightenment, and got seven kinds of fucked up with a bear and a bird. And despite all of this wonder and beauty... I committed several felonies tonight.

A lot of people who could really use it are missing out on some amazing experiences. I hope you all enjoyed your day, too.

Shooting at Virginia Tech

This morning, a young man killed at least thirty people at Virginia Tech.

Between seven and nine this morning, some sick fuck stalked around the campus, killing thirty-one students. The first shots reported were around 7:15, when eight students were killed in a dorm room. While police were investigating this first shooting, half a mile away, at Norris Hall on the other side of the campus, the final shooting took place, where at least twenty more students were killed, as well as the gunman. Nothing much is known about him now, or whether he was killed by police officers or if he shot himself. All that is known is that he's a young Asian-American, around college-age, but not necessarily a student of Virginia Tech.

While the bodies of these poor kids were still warm, blame was already being tossed around, and as is so often the case these days, nobody blamed the sick fuck himself for killing thirty people. On the students' end, understandably, they were screaming for blood from people in positions of authority for not handling this quicker. It's been reported that a lockdown of the campus wasn't initiated until hours after the first shooting, and that between lockdowns is when the second shooting occurred. Not that a lockdown offers much in the way of safety, especially when you're locking freerange targets in a small area with a murdering dogfucker with a gun, but as I'm sure most of you know, most people will settle with the feeling of safety over actual safety.

Meanwhile, the very confused and impotent FBI Special Agent Richard Kolko was already quoted as saying that there was no evidence that the shooting was a terrorist attack, but that "all avenues will be explored." What Kolko meant to say was, "even if the kid was just a Chink, and not a brown person, he could still be connected to brown people, and via proxy be a terrorist, because violence meant to instill panic isn't terrorism unless brown people are involved." You might remember an old quote of his, "in the post-9/11 world, the rules have changed." One of those rules is, it's okay for FBI agents to be ignorant pieces of shit and jerk off for the cameras instead of doing real work.

I feel absolutely horrible for these students, the victims and the survivors, their families and friends, and the faculty at Virginia Tech. Despite the actions he took, I even feel bad for the sick fuck who shot these kids and wound up dead himself, and his friends and family. What I feel worst of all about, though, is that even after they recover from this, from seeing people shot and killed in front of them, these poor kids will never be able to recover from the media-frenzy that surrounds school shootings. They'll be subject to interview after interview from glorified microphone holders asking them if the crazy asshole who killed their friends listened to Marilyn Manson and played GTA3, if he fit in or if he was a quiet mouse nobody knew, and if they thought they'd ever be safe again. And they'll answer. The kid'll wind up being a wallflower nobody knew who listened to angry rock music and played violent video games and the media'll have their fuckin' say about society and influence and blah blah fuckin' blah.

As for how safe they feel, I'm sure they'll say something reassuring for the cameras. "I never thought this could happen to me! We're such a quiet school! I'm shocked, but I'll get over it, and everything will feel normal again." When I'm sure all they'd really like to say is, "Of course I don't feel safe! I never feel safe because cameraman cocksuckers like you deepthroating your mics are always telling me there's someone out there who wants to break into my house while I'm watching reality television and fuck the eyeballs out of my skull and steal all of my shit to fund terrorism!"

God, I feel bad for those kids.

God Fucking Bless The Internet

You're all very lucky to have the Internet.

In this day and age, anything you want to know is at your fingertips. It takes people mere hours to explore new subjects, introduce themselves to new ideas, and form new opinions. What used to take years of devotion and dedication can now be followed vividly with just weeks of mild enthusiasm. Politics, religion, literature, art, music, cinema, sports, you name it, the Internet's got it all. You hop on Google, plug in some key words, and get informed.

Now that you know everything, you probably want to let everyone else know you know. Once again, the Internet's got you covered. There was a time where, if you wanted to validate your opinion about something, you'd have to write the editors of magazines and newspapers and maybe your opinion would see print. It was that, or go to school for journalism and get paid to be opinionated. Today, you just hop on the Internet, whip yourself up a nifty little blog, and start clickety-clackin' away on your keyboard, setting all those opinions free for millions to read.

In an age where everything we want is ours in minutes, where we're constantly exposed to information from the second we wake up until the second we pass out, where everyone's opinions are clearly expressed on the bumper of their cars, we need the Internet for release. You can't have a really serious, opinionated conversation about abortion or gay rights or the government at work, because that line is always there: the one someone's bound to cross, where normal, healthy conversation becomes a poison-fueled, defensive argument. You can't cross that line with people you potentially see every single day.

That's where the Internet comes in again. On the Internet, it doesn't matter what the fuck you say or who you offend saying it, because nobody knows you here, and when you have anonymity, you have freedom. You have the freedom to say what you really think, how you really feel, to an audience you really don't know and really don't give a shit about. That's "Internetegrity." Here, you can be the you you can't be out there. Here, you can speak the truth- no, fuck that!- you can shout the goddamn truth in everyone's face and spit out those little bits of opinion stuck in your teeth after devouring information like a wolf tearing into a gentle fawn.

It's like one of those insanely-violent nature documentaries: not quite snuff, not quite beastiality, but somewhere in between and fucking close enough. On the Internet, you can verbally assault people who can't defend themselves and jerk off giggling while doing it. You can call Pat Robertson a cocksucker or Ann Coulter a cunt (even if you'd still fuck her six ways from Sunday just to say you did), and for every faceless name that thought you were a douchebag for saying or even thinking that there'd be another faceless name cheering you on for being "brave" enough to speak the "truth."

And that's the crux of "blogging," probably the first and last time you'll ever see me use that term. Internetegrity is about being able to turn your opinion into the God-fucking truth. It's about being able to take your shame and hide it in your lower right desk drawer with all your barnyard midget porn. It's about being yourself for people you don't know so you can be someone else around the people you do. It's about freedom and release while being violently, verbally abusive with public figures and not giving two tugs of a dead dog's cock about it. It's fist-fucking everyone else with a handful of acid-tipped razorblades made out of words and opinions and rubbing salt in the cuts.

We're all very lucky to have the Internet.