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

stomach and guts screaming in pain. i barely made it to the toilet and then had a total religious experience, complete with moanings of "oh god!", "jesus", "oh shit!" and other words of exasperation. i lost a lot of blood as well as fecal matter and water and only the gods know what else. i am dying, i think. or at least, something is not right in me. i fail to see whether it really matters. when the mind and spirit are not well, the body follows quickly behind - so what is wrong with my body, whatever it is, is only a product of the sickness in my mind and spirit. perhaps if i am able to be free one day, i might be able to heal my mind and spirit. those two have been thru an awful lot of shit over the years, most of it bad, most of what i´ve been thru would be enough to drive any 50 people to suicide - and here i am in prison, my crowning glory of "the worst thing that ever happened to me" - so maybe i will bounce back from this horrible experience as i have bounced back from all the other shit i have been thru. but i have doubts - just as with the death of my mother - i have never really recovered from that loss, and i tink i may never recover completely. this prison experience just may stay with me forever. i can see myself having extremely nasty nightmares about this godforsaken place - shit, i have nightmares every night, and i´m still in this living hell! - but, i am a great believer in the therapeutic effects of alcohol and hallucinogenic drugs, so it may be prudent for me to seek "therapy" immediately upon my release, if that day ever comes, which i doubt - but hope springs eternal. and even if my soul and mind are completely crushed, there is always this small bit of hope inside me. it is untouchable, and it is the reason i have not killed myself yet. when that hope dies, then it will be time for me to say "adios, muchachos" - but in the meantime, that little bit of hope is also a form of torture, because for what is keeping me alive is also subjecting me to the horrible daily torture of existing in this prison, the worst place on earth. the worst conceivable place for me to be in. prison is worse than even poland!

 

creeping jesus, crap, crud, christ on a cross. dirty fingernails on the hands of the punk-rock street girl. much more to come. hungry families are getting what they need this holiday season in detroit: they will starve to death, they will suffer the sins of the father in the land of sin and homosexuality: america the beautiful, the cruel, the tyrannical monster. no sushi-bar where you are going, boy, only steel bars. Jassir Arafat finally died in paris last night. paris? what the hell was he doing in paris? i used to enjoy paris myself. the wine, the women. i passed out drunk many times in montmartre. i heard some ami tourists say once, "look! there is a real paris artist!", while they were pointing at me! ha ha, ja, i am an artist, and a fine conniseur of cheap french wine.

 

bodies being dragged behind a pick-up truck, chained to the bumper, getting the skin burned and ripped from the bones, screams and blood, pain and fear, and laughter streaming from the driver of the truck, he is happy, he is enrapt in his job, his job is to destroy, he is the destroyer, and when he has gone ten miles, when the bodies are dead and stripped of all skin and any semblance of human quality, he will hunt for more, always more, filthy, venal, stinking people, sick, dieased, ugly people, human beings that do not deserve to be called human beings or people, the skum are all diseased perverts, whores, prostitutes, nasty bitches who take their clothes off for the camera of their pimp, the jungle poodles, the faggots, the shit-steppers. the driver will find them, he will destroy them, this world needs to be cleansed of the filth, and he is the destroyer, and he will never stop cleaning. he will only stop at the clown store to pick out his supply of pancake make-up and a few cases of bushmills irish whiskey. the clown is born, and in his goodness, the world will have to make room. there is no living space that can fit the clown, so he must make room, the sick must fail.

 

war hero or war criminal, it is all a matter of your point of view - but it is my guess that i will be tossed around in the hands of the michigan nazis until i am safely in the clutches of the nazi who wants most to torture me to death. but, a hunter who stands beside a tree hides half of the forest from his eyes. so i need to step away from my mental tree and see the entire forest. ja, good luck, itchy.

 

a black prostitute woman who was high on crack cocaine was run down in the middle of a busy street last night in detroit. the street was very near my old house, where i unfortunately used to live. i find myself thinking it was probably better that the whore was run down. i am at least ambivalent about any kind of violence in detroit or the entire usa. i find myself hoping uncle osama strikes the usa again soon. maybe it is natural that i see all americans as nazis, and therefore my captors. kill´em all.

 

there is a destination for everyone. what is yours? what is mine? where the hell is the game of life leading me or anyone else? perhaps i am being a bit nietzschean, but what if i am god. what if i am being tortured and kept in this nazi-american prison as sort of sick test? jesus was tortured and killed, and then made into a god. maybe i will be made a god once i am finally killed or driven to kill myself. who the hell knows? in the end, despite all that one believes, none of us really know. you play the game of "faith", and hope you make the right choice. what if being "good", and doing all you can to get to heaven is just a sucker´s choice, and you end up in heaven that is full of shit, and filled with a bunch of sick whining assholes like all the born-again, try-again, christians? what if evil and selfishness are what gets you eventually into hell, and in hell are all the sinfull delicious pleasures that one craves but denies one´s self throughout life? what if when we die, his satanic majesty lucifer rewards me with a small cottage in the hades-version of ireland, and my cottage is next to a river filled with whiskey, and rosanna arquette and jennifer tilly are waiting in a big feather bed for me, waiting to pleasure me for endless hours? could this happen? WHY NOT? my idea, or fantasy, is just as valid as any fucked-in-the-head christian or jew or muslim ball-licking dog. i can´t think that jesus, if he is real, is very happy with me. besided, if heaven is filled with the kind of assholes i know who call themselves "christian", i really don´t wish to spend eternity with those ass-fucking losers. if hell is populated by beautiful women, and i can have friends like kurt cobain, sid vicious, jim morrison, and ian curtis - all suicides, and hence condemned to spend eternity in hell according to christians, who only want to scare people into not committing suicide so that they can collect as much tax money as possible from the living-but-suffering bodies, the pope needs to pay for his solid gold toilet somehow, well, if the people i respect and the women i crave sexually are all in hell - i want to go there. i would be in much better company, and "old nick", or the devil, satan, lucifer, or as i sometimes call him, "dad", would probably reward me for my nefarious deeds done in this life and in my past lives. as the saying goes, it is better to rule in hell rather than be a slave in heaven. besides, if jesus exists, i expect he is REALLY pissed off at me.

 

it is a dark and cold saturday morning, something like 06:00. a funny strange thing is, that i wake up normally, usually, and i go to breakfast and all, then i come back and go to sleep for an hour or so, and i can´t for the life in me remember anything i did when i wake up - it is as if i did not get up and go to breakfast at all. i have only two guys that i could call my friend in here, cole and cheney - and cheney usually goes to breakfast with me, and he swears that i actually go to breakfast and talk normally, or, normally for me, which is some kind of mumbling and cursing under my breath at all the stinking loud-mouth faggot jungle-poodles. but i do not remember going to breakfast or even waking up. this is the effect of the bizarre medicine i take for my migraine headaches. the pills create a "functional zombie" effect on my mind for the first twelve hours after i take the medicine. i must say that the shit is working quite well, despite the zombie effect. i do not have migraine headaches anymore - but i am missing half of my day! every day i take the pills. i suppose it is a good trade-off. i think too godddamned much anyway - maybe it is a good thing that the drug is kicking the ass of my hyperactive mind. besides, removing half of my waking life in this hell-hole prison is a total blessing - it is time and torture that the michigan nazis cannot have or take from me, altho they are the ones who are inadvertently giving me the zombie drugs. a base form of irony, i guess. there are many ironic factions to my sordid existence. this life really sucks - i´m not so happy, or "luck to be "alive". well, i will go eat my saturday morning waffles, come back, go back to sleep, and i will not even remember writing this. good morning, deutschland, how are you?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

5. The Gospel of Itchy Wiggle Christ

mostly cloudy, always mostly cloudy in the cold frigid hell of michigan, rain pouring down forever, jesus taking a piss all over michigan with his circumcision dick, piss down all over the evil michigan nazis. a nice US marine soldier was caught on video tape shooting an iraqi citizen who was unarmed - as if it is perfectly fine for US soldiers to shoot iraqi citizens as long as they have a gun in their hands. it doesn´t matter either way to the united states