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

side of jesus? man, did i fuck up on that one. i have no diseases, i have no wish to live. do you wish to file a report on a UFO? don´t be so stupid, jar-jar-jub-jub. dance monkey, dance for your banana, dance monkey. and the monkey gets his revenge on the sick pieces of shit humans who violate monkey ass. something died inside me to make me so bitter - or maybe i am just more aware of how horrible humans really are. i cannot be human! perhaps i am of alien origin, perhaps my soul comes from some place far far away. there cannot be any way that i am part of all of "this" - the human race, the scum, the monkey-fuckers, the child-molesters, the queers, the schwarzes, the violence, the hate. when i see all of what humanity is, it makes me hate. i want to kill myself only to get away from all these monsters. oh god, save me from myself.

 

bloody goddamned morning, draining my soul of precious essence and vital bodily fluids, sick dreams, disasters of global proportions. small dirty thoughts, maybe this life is only a bad dream, maybe heaven is death and release from the pain - holy shit, i hope it is true. i really need all this to fade away. a detroit woman hacked up her husband with an axe, a schwarze killed two police officers, shooting them to death during a routine traffic stop. muslim extremists in iraq are holding a group of people hostage, one extremist is already dead. i got a mojo box. a few girls i knew had one of those, also, ha ha. the US embassy in iraq is under attack. one would think that ami-land would take the hint, that some countries do not want the usa in their country and they do not want the "american way of life" - but the usa is famous for not giving a shit about any country´s opinion or desire. this is the season of joy, it´s christmas time again. i wrote a song about the christmas season. shit, i thought i had it bad back then! now that i am in a real hell, my past christmas times seem like heaven.

 

the profit is all in the pain. i am nothing, i am useless, i am a tear in the rain. i recognize no authority except that which is in myself. a grief shared is half a grief, a joy shared is twice the joy. it is better to live two weeks as a tiger than a whole lifetime as a lamb. only a fool fights in a burning house.

 

only two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity. and i´m not sure about the universe. albert einstein! the best of intentions are not good enough, a man has to know his own limitations.

 

the point os to get a meal, not become one. what holds the world together, as i have learned from bitter experience, is sexual intercourse. henry miller! evil attempts to maintain power by misleading the innocent and suppressing the truth.

 

only the rain will know when the flowers will bloom.

 

Grégor Sean Mac Cormac, 01. December 2004

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

6. The Gospel of Itchy Wiggle Christ

all this talk about god is childish evasion. desperate lies whispered by a frightened, lonely mortal, such as myself, out in a cold, dark, enternal night. there is no god. just as simply as that - there is no god. there is only chaos. vincent van gogh, paraphrased from his time in the borinage!

 

sickness and death, fairly groggy at first, deem the infidels unworthy of life. blind luck to be alive for so long, kill me, kill me, kill me. stop at nothing. how many different ways can i tell you the same story? for reasons unknown, the dreams of my childhood have failed to come true, boo-hoo-hoo. i am fairly certain that no one has their dreams come true. even the spoiled brats who have everything they could want never get what they truly need. it seems there is some kind of inborn dissatisfaction circuit built into the human brain. maybe retards are happy, i´ve never seen one that was unhappy. only maybe if you take away their candy or coloring book. shit, i throw a goddamned shit-fit if my candy is taken away. but then, my idea of candy goes far beyond just chocolate or m+m´s. i mean, mushrooms, LSD blotter acid, micro dot mescaline. these all are a type of candy, are they not? well, they are to a retard like me. but my candy of any sort is rarely taken away from me - i eat it before anyone has a chance to take it away! and i guess i am not so vulnerable or weak that anyone would try taking much away from me. but i could use some of that non-sugar based candy about now, it has been quite a long time - four years to be exact. who knows what life will bring me?

 

time is the fire in which we burn. earth is hell, and heaven is any place we end up after our bodies die. the flesh, our bodies, are prisons binding our souls to this time, this place. when my soul has one foot in the spiritual realm, i am always half the way out of hell. even as i walk among the prisoners on earth, they believe me to be some kind of retard because i am not entirely bound to my flesh prison. if i actually cared what anyone thought about me, i might stay a bit more bound to my own flesh prison. but since i do not give a flying shit what anyone thinks of me, i am retarded, and happy.

 

i firmly crap on this horrible world! damn you all! if i suffer, you must suffer also! you dare to torture a god?

 

sometimes i get questions about how i paint. why i paint, what makes me choose which subjects and so on. i suppose at some point i should write something about it, but i´m not so totally sure that i know for certain, or if what i come up with in my head is quite accurate. to be sure, my work is very intricate - i use very small-gauge brushes for almost an entire painting. it is the very intricate nature of my work that displays my own view that life is a very tedious pursuit. the work i put into a painting is tedious and painstaking - just as i find my life to be. there is very little real joy in my painting, neither in the final physical outcome or the toil i put into the work. i work on average 16 hours per day. and to some this would seem unbearable, that to work so hard every day with very little joy and more than a little bit of hate would seem like madness. until one can realize about me that painting is one of two activities i do that i can do without completely annihilating my higher senses - playing or recording music being the second. anything else like manual labor, eating, sleeping, showering. i find all that a worse tedium than painting or music. if i remembered what sex felt like, i imagine that i would group sex with painting and music - i once enjoyed sexual congress with beautiful girls a very interesting and exhilarating experience, and i devoted quite a bit of time to sex, but since i´ve not touched a girl for over four years, i do not remember enough to be accurate, and to digress and try to pretend i remember is useless. for painting, though, i pour a lot of emotion, mostly hate and anger, into my work. i enjoy working, so maybe that means i enjoy hating things. and for those who know me well, you probably could say this is true. but i enjoy love as well. i love being in love. but that, toom is remiss in my life. i love no one, no one loves me that i know of. maybe that makes painting easier for me. at least, lately it does.

 

there is a second part to my painting - and for those who know me well, they know i am not such a hateful person, so they might wonder how i could paint so much with hate. but it is more a type of inner hate, a total loathing for everything, a hate for the tedious boring horrible existence i lead. inner shit that i do not often display, but it serves me well when i create - but the other side of this is that often people buy or receive my paintings and they are very happy with these little monstrosities - my painting created in hate is bringing some kind of joy to others! so it follows a form of taoist balance - an esoteric trade-off if you will. i don´t hate my paintings, i only use my frustration with life to create the paintings - a type of angst, the prickly needles of a tortured man digging into my bruised and battered soul. ha ha, i´m fairly fucking profound, na?

 

25. December 2004, it is christmas time again! on this cold horrible winter death in michigan, i find myself still in prison and in a fragile state of mind - seemingly always am i on the verge of tears and/or the verge of incredible self-violence. i don´t know who i am anymore, i don´t know much of anything except PAINT. more and more i find myself in complete empathy with vincent van gogh. the life surrounding him and myself was a horrible nightmare - he and i had no love, no joy, no living - only painting. he and i only paint. at the point where our lives diverge, vincent had at least freedom - i am a prisoner in a living hell, filled with horrible faggots and rapists and the most incredible amount of retarded, ignorant, bestial, venal monsters on earth. vincent ran out to the fields to be alone and paint - i am in a steel jungle, completely surrounded by monsters, i am never alone, i am constantly being watched and leered at. but vincent and i share one ability - to escape into our painting, to suspend reality and cast off the shroud of human disease. so it is christmas once again, i am stuck in prison, i am so alone i could die. but in a few short minutes i will pick up my brush and begin again. i´m working on a very large self-portrait of me next to a window with bars, it is very abstract and full of simple and complex analogy, this one will go into a "prisoner art exhibition", some such shit where sicko people get to view and buy artwork by prisoners - i sold a few paintings last year, and this year i will sell more, for very much money - i am probably the best painter in the show - this seems arrogant of me to aver, but. prisoners are a bunch of simple-headed morons. none