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

well, the usa is killing me, so one could surmise i am dying for the usa, or at the behest of this land of black evil. today is also the birthday of my mother. she would have been 64. if you don´t know it, dear reader, my mom died of cancer in 1995. i have not been the same since this time, and never will be again. well, today is her birthday, so that is not so grim to remember. only sad. especially to think that all her love and work to raise me has led to me being held in prison for an indeterminate amount of time by the nazi state of michigan for burning a pile of trash. it is very sad.

 

ah, the baby-fucker michael jackson is praying in a christian church this morning, isn´t that sweet? he is in the correct religion for his abnormal and sick sexual appetites. altho when he was a muslim last year it was just as appropriate. all of those in prison are of the same ilk as the "king of pop". it is amazing that monsters like that are allowed to live and have their perverted way in this evil world, and i am imprisoned. it must be because i am so dangerous. and i am so against the "normal" ways of society. faggotry, child-fucking, meat eating, and more. i want to love one woman and have well-raised kids with her, i want to live in peace in ireland and raise goats and take care of animals. ja, i am dangerous. keep me in here, free michael jackson.

 

i have finished ronald mcdonald butchering the ebola-stricken cow. it´s the middle of the day, i´ve worked since seven this morning. thought i would be happier, but since no mail came again today, i´m very sad. this is now the third week i´ve got no mail. maybe it is better that i forget about everyone and stop caring all together, seeing as they don´t give a flying shit about me. i wonder, if "they" knew how bad they make me feel when they don´t write, would they write more, or write me at all? probably not. nothing really matters, anyone can see, nothing really matters to me. happy birthday, mom.

 

almost midnight. sleeptime soon, this day was hell, just shit my brains and blood out. crap-blood, shove off you puke-holes. i need a squishy, where are you, apu? crap-on-a-crutch, they´re milking rats. oh, jaysus-joseph-and-mary, i need to sleep. this is day five of my migraines, it is such a familiar pain now, i just don´t care. i don´t care about anything. just sleep and saying goodbye to this shit world.

 

morning of stupidity, night of disgusting monster sounds that make me want to vomit. screaming monsters acting like three-year-old handicapped babies who eat paint chips for breakfast and dinner. mentally retarded ghetto monsters, so unpleasant and foul, this one writing cannot understand the existence of such things. some hurricane destroying florida, more dead american soldiers in iraq. the hammer is coming down in america - so what? let it. idiots fill this evil world and i stand alone, a wasted slab of human meat among the nameless horde of retards, perverts, meat-eating mcdonald´s customers, killers, rapists, loud-mouths, faggots, stinking useless violent monsters. all hail the human race! this is what freedom has bred for you idiots, and may you suffer intolerably. i wish to disappear into the harz mountains and live with druid-wiccan punks, drink mead, grow magic mushrooms, and lay with unwashed woman-witches.

 

practically all machines have the ability to take over the world. we need unemotional androids to weed out the retards and confine them to a penal colony. put walls up around the united states, and never allow any of the monsters to come out, instill the death penalty for the smallest of crimes, especially "talking in a loud voice" or "using grammatically incorrect english". these monsters should be put to death. the androids could solve a lot of problems and allow normal human beings to live their lives unhindered by american retards. maybe a few of the androids could be made to look like the sexy girl androids on old star trek episodes. those stay in europe.

 

introducing dog-chow little bites. the only question is, will imagination be able to keep us? school´s out for summer, school´s out forever. tiny weasels with SS uniforms are jumping all over me. rabbits with serious heroin habits begging me for spare change. dirty french prostitutes telling me stories about henry miller´s strange sex habits and ask me if i want to try some. i left many an empty bottle of wine at jim morrison´s grave, jim never answered me when i talked to him. i did not ever have sex with a french prostitute, and actually did not see so many, not like henry used to describe. the girls were there, yes, all along points of the champs élysées, wearing neon-fluorescent leotards and looking kind of nasty. but these types are in every major european city, especially berlin. but berlin has much more. sex with french girls is not all americans try to make it. but then again, my experiences are not at all normal, and what i think americans believe is very tainted. all americans desire is big macs and MTV, and to have the government take care of their lazy fat asses. french whores, teenage thai girls in berlin, irish catholic school girls, there is a lot of confusion in this world.

 

in this life you have to take what you want - you sure as hell are not going to get it sitting around waiting for someone to give it to you. i gave the girl the weekend off. bang-bang, surprise, mai-tais from a horny blond. so the night has fallen and greggy is burned out, he has been working since 07:30 this morning, no real breaks, 14 hours of painting, my neck is screaming bloody murder burning pain of wicked hellfire, the migraine pounds like a sledgehammer, six days now of nausea vomit puke headaches. death creeps slowly into my brain, i paint sickness into my pictures, sickness that wells up and vomits out of my creepy dirty soul. i need people to feel what i feel before i am gone from this shit world. or perhaps they will feel it once i am gone, long gone. just like vincent, but i think i´ve sold more in my life than vincent did in his life while he was alive, ha ha. i doubt that my work will sell like his did once i die. nobody wants to pay 20 million dollars for a picture of a retard drooling and spitting up on himself, but then who the fuck knows? i have very little of a grasp on what people want or don´t want, and i certainly don´t give a flying shit. what i write or paint or play is a mirror of the dark sickness of my soul. if my spiritual deformity is marketable, so be it. ask captain ralf what my soul is worth.

 

dripping sweat, dreams of strange girls, one hurting the other and then making her have orgasms. fire and creative thought. french girls, anais nin and uma thurman keeping company. save that burning wretch from the wicked flames of hell. if anyone suffers, it is me. i buried my treasure in a place no one will ever find. i watched a girl pee in another girl´s mouth once, they seemed to enjoy it, or at least showing me what they liked to do. and then i wonder where all these strange dreams and thoughts come from. most of my life with women has been more bizarre than any dream i could come up with. two mexican girls in 1984, two sisters even earlier. that started most of it, sane for the strange girls in highschool. who the hell knows. i´m a deviant, probably, but then again, opportunity always seemed to knock. i answered the door. i can´t help it what girls wanted from me, altho i do not understand it. i can´t stand myself most times, especially now.

 

i fell, too. i´ve been wondering. carry on as i do. i understand it all now. the soul is crippled. i want to walk. can´t explain. leap-frogging lives. so much happened in the past. i see in my past lives, the death, the struggle, the magic. the sigils forever attached to my soul. what did i do, vincent? what did i do, adolf? am i a monster of the only real enlightened being left in this world? why does the world seem so ugly and used and filthy to me? because i saw it in other lives, i lived, now i die. no mail again today. goodnight, and pray for my quick death, all you shitheads out there.

 

ah, your shithead prayers did not work for me, dear reader. fuck, shit, horse-shit, pig-shit. waking up again in hell, head pounding, of course. my eyes as red as pickled beets, eyes full of junk from my subtle but irritating conjunctivitis thing, perhaps it is a genetic irish thing? in detroit a woman is charading as a gas-worker, breaking into people´s houses with a gun, blindfolding people in the houses and stealing their money. another monster is arrested for killing a 92 year old woman and leaving the knife in her chest, over 230 murders in detroit so far this summer. more dead ami soldiers in iraq and afghanistan. and i say to myself, what a wonderful world. christ on a crutch, and people just let this shit go on and on. this is the price of "freedom"?

 

mysterious al-qaeda terrorists are stealing police uniforms and will commit heinous acts of terrorism upon unsuspecting american citizens. what a goddamned shame that is. i watched a few years ago as the planes slammed into new york twin towers. i felt a slight thrill, and then nothing at all. i really didn´t care then, i don´t care now. americans are evil, the usa is evil, and they get all they deserve.

 

amis are using the internet to buy prescription medicines from some companies in ireland, among other countries, ireland! HA! this is interesting. but i don´t know how to feel about it. altho i do not like to see ireland trading anything with the usa, i find it a matter of pride to know that the lower-priced medicine being provided by the irish is helping some old people who cannot afford the high-priced and over-priced medicine in the usa. but on the other hand, old people can´t afford a computer for the internet, so most probably it is more middle-aged americans taking advantage of irish lower-priced medications, and the money the amis save is being used to buy more fucking big macs and whoppers to feed their fat faces.

 

the guilt works like an aphrodisiac. night, alone, yet surrounded by faggot filthy monsters. it´s just me in here, just me. little itchy the devil, son of the archfiend, painter of extraordinaire, HA HA. worked all day again, migraine head-slam-ache and all. it´s seven days straight now of headaches, coming up on 4 weeks of no letters from anyone. altho i doubt there´s a correlation, there´s a connection. probably painting 16 hours a day adds to the neck stress and therefore some kind of added bonus to all the other shit that makes my head scream in shooting horrible agony. shit, i could go on for endless pages about what could or does cause me migraines. but in the end, i still think it is some kind of nasty-assed cancer - a tumor in my brain the size of a grapefruit, eating away all my consciousness. maybe that is why my feelings seem to be dying, or why i have no real desire to bother staying alive. herr tumor in my noggin is eating my soul away. i am death, i am come to destroy the world. this is the trial for my