The gospel of Itchy Wiggle Christ by Gregory-John McCormick, Ralf Dellhofen (best way to read books .TXT) 📕

jägermeister i added to my breakfast also helped. i remember listening to iggy pop, the first "stooges" album, really drunk at 09:30 in the morning. something about a girl named alexandria, she was a heroin addict. it´s all so blisteringly unclear. there seems to be a direct correlation between alcohol consumption and my ability to remember anything. perhaps, i have yet to test this theory, i´ve got a few more years left of drinking and hypothesizing to do. if i ever go free, that is.

 

night night night, sleep sleep sleep. my existence in hell will be extinguished if only but for a few hours, but it is a blessed time for this hopeless wretch. won´t you join my teaparty? i used to cart around a copy of "alice in wonderland" to pubs in berlin. people used to think i was crazy, i would draw pictures of scenes from the book. then i took some mushrooms. play more with claymores! time to urinate, time to contemplate. it´s getting so dark. i tried to work today but the police refused to turn on the lights. i had to paint in the dark. who the fuck knows what the hell i painted.

 

tragedy strikes in a drunken moment, laying in the street, all torn up. i was drunk once, ha ha, "once", long ago on the outskirts of belfast, i was walking home from the pub, it was 01:30 or so in the morning. a carload of english soldiers stopped me. a fight ensued, they thought they would get the best of me, thinking i was some helpless drunk paddy, but the fight ended up badly for them, there were four of them. at the end, two lay on the street out cold, the other two drove off and left them, assumingly to go get help. i ran away and hid in an abandoned factory building. i sat awake all night, still had whiskey. the bottle had not broken in the fight, miraculously. so i drank and smoked camels and expected to get picked up, but it didn´t happen. at 07:00 i snuck back to the pub and kept on drinking. strangest thing, almost the same thing happened eight years later in the republic or irland, down near skibbereen. that one was with irish boys, and altho a few went down, i also got hit fairly hard with a hurling stick or some similar kind of club across my right eye. it looked terrible, but my heart hurt more, getting in a fight with irish kids. i mean, 18 or 20 year old "kids" - i am an old fuck now. slugging it out with english shithead soldiers, well. i couldn´t give a flying shit but i could have been killed. so many times i could have been killed, and never was. and all for what? so i could spend and waste my life in this goddamned nazi michigan prison? i almost wish i would have died in belfast. or actually fallen to my death off that five-story roof in germany, or overdosed in detroit. jajaja, what is life for? goodnight, farewell.

 

morning back ache, a disturbance in the force, master yoda got pissed off drunk last night and smashed apart R2D2. he will be arrested and charged with droid-battering and serve 20 years in the michigan penal colony for social delinquents. master yoda will there be raped in his tiny little asshole by the gorilla monsters that make up most of the prison population. maybe he will even contract a fatal blood disease and die all together. poor master yoda. who will teach luke skywalker the ways of the force? aha! darth itchy, lord of the dark!

 

hurricane tropical storms hitting the usa, a price this country must pay for it´s evil and depravity. letting the population sink into immoral sickness, the CIA providing drugs to the masses to keep their minds off of how the government controls their so-called freedom. puppets and pinocchios and the evil fucks who pull the strings. george bush is no anti-christ, only a sorry excuse for one. if he were, there would be a new holocaust in this country to wipe out the wretched. and with these words i realize i am at the top of the list of the most hopelessly wretched. the whole suicide trip, if you will. travis bickle once said a real rain will come and wash the filth off these streets. i only keep wondering when that fucking rain will come. and strangely, i once knew a girl named elizabeth bickle. a strange one, i used to fuck under abnormal circumstances. i wonder if she was related to travis. i wonder if i am retarded. i am certainly abnormal. father dagda, sweet brighid, what i wouldn´t do for a bottle of bushmills right now. it is only 06:23 in the morning, but i´ve never turned down the chance to start my day off by getting shit-faced, clown-assed drunk. i´ve not had alcohol for over four years. my poor liver hates me now. i hate this world, i hate what it has done to me. i hate myself and what i have become. christopher columbus was not italian, he was a spanish catalonian. so much for the big celebrations by italians in america on columbus day. columbus should be scourged for finding america. his discovery caused the death and disintegration of the indigenous american indian population, worse than hitler...but the winners write history, so it is "okay" that the amis killed the indians and stole their country. columbus was a piece of shit. his discovery led to my ultimate demise. damn his spanish soul to hell, and may george washington rot in the pit as well. i hate this country and i want to go home to germany. this country keeps me imprisoned and gives no reason why i cannot go home. this country keeps me separated from my friends and the woman i love, for no reason other than the underlying fact that they make money to keep me in prison. there is evil in this world, and it´s name is america. i would not even use the ami flag to wipe my shitty ass, because i do not want the red-white-and-blue-flag of evil touching my soiled anus - 02. August 2004

 

03.August 2004. little sick leprechaun boy, puking out blood and shitting out the same. see the stars fall from the sky, see tears fall from his eyes. vomit is my best friend, let´s me know i´m alive. small bottles of absinth are floating around my head, around my crown of thorns. absolute insanity setting in and i still want to be normal, but it won´t be. the virus of deception is crawling thru my blood, growing, multiplying, infesting me. i am in so much pain that i do not any longer seem to feel it. i walk like a zombie, i think nothing, i say nothing, bunny rabbits evade me. bunny slippers cover my twisted gnarled feet. try to think of something simple. try to envision the end. i can go anywhere, i can do anything, i am the disease, i am the cure. i didn´t see it coming.

 

part of the problem seems to be that i cannot imagine my life ending with a fizzle. i expected a huge explosion. it´s better to burn out than to fade away. and i am fading. and it hurts. my heart is weakened. my brain has less use than a bowl of oatmeal. god is a german shepherd telling me what to do. there is nowhere left to go. someone is knocking at the door, and i am so goddamned afraid to answer it. fire in the sky, my dumb irish ass. they have not visited me lately, the spirits in flesh, the aliens. they used to come around all the time, especially when i took acid, haha. are there any better jokes i could tell? any wider i could smile? bet me. the smell, the touch of a female. the taste of irish whiskey burning down my throat. a dark cool room. i never asked for much, but i certainly never asked for this. goodnight my princess.

 

wake up, gnashing the teeth, cursing my existence. no escape. good intensions with bad consequences. this message is sponsored by his most satanic majesty. i can never have any type of normal day if i wake up and become irritated, and it is impossible to wake up in here without being irritated - seeing this sick perverted monsters, smelling the scent of diseased minds and impure desires, social sickness, shit, foul shit running thru the veins of these monsters. so i never have a normal day, i´m always waking up in the middle of hell. all roads are closed. dreams are destroyed. ominous clouds of black hate pouring over the horizon, 50 centimeters of urine rain from god on high drizzles over my soul, drowning me in the sea of total despair. this life is only for suffering, so at least i guess i am good at living life - i suffer every fucking moment i am alive.

 

do you know how to make the gods really laugh? tell them the plans for your life. the enemy is everywhere. we fight to stay alive, but we have forgotten how to live. if you can´t sleep, you can´t dream, and if you can´t dream, there is no point in being alive. i was born and bred into faith; any god that would gain my faith would do extremely well.

 

bracken, lichen, moss, algae. growing on my brain, little mushrooms growing on my tongue, but the little fuckers don´t have a chance in hell of survival, because i keep eating them to get that psilocybin rush of play-sure. disease is in my family, i am the carrier of all that has ever gone wrong in the human family. i have evolved into an ultra-sensitive brain-dead slug, slithering away from the great lab experimenter´s electrical shock machine. but i can´t slither away fast enough to avoid some serious soul-burning pain, so i must endure it all. the great lab experimenter has the face of michelangelo´s god on the sistine chapel´s ceiling. and the god-lab-experimenter is smiling evilly down on my slug-like quivering body, he enjoys torturing me. there is no real reason why he applies electric shock to me. he just likes it. and i have come to accept the pain. it is normal now. i live in pain, i live in sickness, i live in fear but acceptance of my life being nothing but a tool of pleasure for some twisted insane god to poke and prod at for his own sick enjoyment. nothing is real anymore, is it?

 

if you are not happy, take the low road, lad. take the low road. there is a preferable time to shut up and listen. rodents clicking their yellow teeth within the confines of my mind. i sit and write and eat malted chocolate milk balls. i´m upset about everything. i dread the waking day. purple blood. dirty shit-stained fingers. a screaming and crying retarded boy on an outhouse toilet trying to pull the constipated fecal matter from his ass. but the fecal matter is more than likely a toy car he shoved up there a week before. i pissed in the bathroom sink, i shit on the kitchen floor and used the drapes to wipe my ass. it´s a long trip, we will need a snack. this is not a boating accident. holy shit, there is stupid crap on television. sometimes a rose is just a rose, and sometimes when i shit on someone´s kitchen floor, it is no accident. was i wrong? jesus, i spend half of my life second-guessing myself. i have less than half of my life yet to live, and it seems i should stop shitting on other people´s floors and start shitting on my own. it would be marvelous to piss myself off enough to stop myself from being such