Serial Killer's Regrets

 

Virus

Part 10 of 30

Full Disclosure: I’ve never been a serial killer, not even a suspect. I’ve never known a serial killer, and I’ve never known anyone (knowingly) who’s known a serial killer. It's possible just by the phenomena of coincidence that may have unknowingly been in the same place as a serial killer, because I go out in society, to the grocery store, other stores, parades, and other events, and a serial killer, unknown to me, may have been there. Hell, he or she may have stood right next to me, and for all I know may have sized me up as a victim in a particularly desperate spree. I just don’t know, although I definitely hope not. Oh, if only serial killers were a little more open about their intentions and their whereabouts, without actually killing us it'd still be useful for law enforcement. Note: I do live in The Big City, so it could be that every other person I see is a serial killer, but so far they’ve been apparently very secretive.

Even now, I could look up online for the basic character and methods of operation that the typical serial killer has or uses. But that would not fit the purposes of this blog, since that’s information anyone could also look up if they’re interested. If you’re the type of person interested in such things, and maybe a little too interested, I will offer a friendly request to you not to try to get to know me. Let’s just part as friends, and not really even friends, two strangers bound to stay that way. I’m happy on my own with my own interests, and the fact that I’m writing this blog doesn’t mean that I have any abiding interest in the subject.

One could, however, well imagine some of the personal distinctions of a serial killer. Whose personalities would no doubt have quite the range, everything from the newbie serial killer, who meant merely to be a one-off killer but it got the best of him and he went too far, to the more hardened hombre, who watches scary movies while laughing, then goes on his rounds much like a plague but with a human purpose and drive. Scary stuff.

The virus is a kind of serial killer, but naturally, insofar as we know, without a purposeful drive to kill. It’s a combination of factors of that which kills coming into contact with that which can be killed. Bacteria, chemical combinations, body parts susceptible to molecular conflicts, a quick-acting or slow-acting agent that attacks without discernible purpose but appears to have but one goal, the complete break down of tissues, sinews, vessels, bells and whistles, and the other body parts that doctors know about but the rest of us are clueless concerning. It’s disgusting at one level -- body parts on the fritz -- naturally, but it’s technically nothing other than the breakdown common to beings with finite life, where eventually one thing or another gets you.

The big difference between our misunderstood friend, the human serial killer, who may have at least fleeting regrets such as “Why? Why? Why?” and nature, is nature has no qualms about doing its thing, regardless of how we feel about it. And probably usually the human serial killer -- being a nasty sort -- is more like nature in that regard.

A Target For Assassins

Paranoia

Part 15 of 30

It'd be a terrible, strange, not-very-nice feeling to be marked for assassination. I can see it from every angle, me in my innocence walking along minding my own business, then from the shooter's scope with the hairline bullseye, the gun barrel letting him discern the precise bearings. What a dirty skunk he is to want to shoot me, the most innocent do-gooder and go-getter in the world! Before me the world was basically lost in a jungle of misery and confusion, then with a few run-of-the mill blog posts enlightenment came to the masses. It only happened relatively recently that I went to a hypnotist who helped me give up all reticence when it came to writing and just puke it out. Since then the world's been a better place. I hardly recognize it.

But there are cases where even if you're a great guy you're still an assassination risk, and I suppose they could mistake me for someone else. Some people say I look like Einstein, some say I remind them of Martin Luther King, and others say I resemble Butch Smith, a childhood friend. So if I thought long enough about it -- that's long enough -- I could get really paranoid. To think, a mob boss is out there somewhere hiding in my humble neighborhood. There’d be no better cover. Then he goes out seven or eight times to walk his dog -- like me -- and the sight of me humbly picking up dog poop is so offensive that he wants to make me a victim. He radios to the gang: “I'm going for a head shot." That's terrible!

So without professional security, I have a lot of bases to cover. My next defense might be plastic surgery. They operate on me with plastic knives and forks, no clinking of metal to alert the assassins at their rendezvous nest, full of vipers. An eye-tuck here, a nose-tuck there, next thing I’m barely recognizable to myself in the mirror. Even my mother wouldn’t recognize me, although she's passed on.

Even if there aren’t any actual assassins gunning for me -- and this is where the real value to my schemes reside -- there are lots of attacks on other people, guns blazing, knives coming down at a 45 degree angle, people poisoned, you name it. The other day there was someone shot out of a cannon and he landed on the interstate and 12 cars ran over him trying to avoid him. That's another cause I promote: "Avoid Distracted Driving." They’re screwing with their radio, reaching to the glove compartment for make-up to apply on the trip, lipstick, or trying to hit the kids in the backseat, or just putting it on cruise control and drifting off for a catnap. It’s far too easy to imagine 12 cars running over an assassination victim if he's crossing the road.

Despite the risks, I still need to go out today, pick up a friend from a medical appointment, and of course tend to the dog, her business. If you should comment on this and I fail to answer you, assuming you deserve an answer, please call the police and let them know: "A guy from your area has just been assassinated. Please send help and a body bag. What's he look like? Sort of like his old friend Butch Smith. Or try Einstein or Martin Luther King, Jr."

Terribly Bad Explosive Temper

Part 12 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

Here's some sad hotheads, Helen and McClellan, who in the end couldn't stand each other but never really broke up, perhaps going for some dubious award. We hear such stories occasionally but never expected it of someone we actually knew.

Of course I would've preferred they got along perfectly. The way it was at first for Helen and McClellan. Feeling up each other all the time. Bragging how they were made for each other. The only dinner guests I've had french-kiss at the dinner table. But it was a fairly wanton restaurant, the waitresses with their outfit down to here and shorts tucked in, a little wedged in back, a cute look.

For years they said McClellan completed her and Helen him. And everywhere Helen went, McClellan was sure to go. If McClellan ordered butterscotch tutti frutti, Helen chimed in, “Make it a deuce!” If Helen put a log on the fire, McClellan had a chainsaw near and ran out to fetch a single stick at the very least. Neither thought he was better than her, and her idea was just the opposite but the same. And each had a beautiful voice for lowly yodeling when the magic moment arrived. I overheard this singing down the hall a couple times, gladdening my heart. Only ruined by the squeaky bed springs; by itself it would've made a great ringtone.

How tough it was, then, to have them suddenly at loggerheads. It just started, no one knew why. They just bumped heads over every trivial nothing, and their hearts were beaten and battered in unnecessary struggles to the point of threatening one other, with his or her voice in full-throated derisive minor chords: “You go your way, I’ll go mine!” Countered with, “I will go my way, you go yours!” A tough read for anyone who knew them, his devotion, her devotion, and the devotion they had in common. Like two halves of your heart -- opposite sides -- shriveling up and dying.

And now more bad news. They're gone. And I don't know which I’ll miss more. McClellan was a friend. We were friends from our youth. Then there was my friendship with Helen, which started out me trying to avoid her as much as possible to keep McClellan's jealousy under control. But it turned out Helen was the most jealous, because I was more naturally drawn to McClellan as old friends. And boy to boy friendship action shouldn't have been an issue, because it's easy to be a friend without there being anything more. I wouldn’t cross that boundary for love or money, as crazy as Helen turned out to be.

But now it’s all gone by the boards. The days of what-ifs have passed. The time for finger-pointing’s still here but to no profit. Nothing, absolutely zero net unless it’d just be one of life’s lessons worth learning. That if you’ve got a couple of hotheads, it doesn’t matter what “love” they have for each other, they're going to eventually explode, and there’s always the danger that they'll both be foolishly annihilated.

It started out like nothing. But built from there. Each surreptitiously, completely on the sly, neither one suspecting, and their friends suspecting nothing, managing to accumulate an arsenal. And they studied up on homemade bombs. Someone should’ve known! Then rented out adjacent abandoned malls, such a huge unexpected undertaking that they could do it in plain sight without anyone realizing. Then coincidentally, without synchronization, each lured the other to their respective mall and each ... [if only I could've stopped it] .... plunged the plunger.

Yes, it happened, leaving a hole in our state the size of Wyoming, making the news. So now, after so much mushy romance, they’re dead and gone… Finis, done, outta here, BOOM! I have huge regrets. Seeing how mismatched they turned out to be, I myself probably should've killed McClellan and gone after Helen.

Oatmeal La La Land

You haven't seen me here a few days. I hate to say why, exactly, but I owe you something. I've just been so seriously strung out I haven't been myself. I couldn't think. I barely knew my own name. I forgot everything I care about, including this blog.

Even now it's coming and going -- I could black out at any moment -- but I'm fighting through the blank spots, and using what I have left of "my legendary discipline." That's right -- even if it seems an eternity ago -- I had legendary discipline. Now, I'm wasted. Nearly shot. Haven't even got the discipline to---- sorry, drawing a blank.

The sad truth is, I'm addicted to oatmeal. God, it feels good to admit it publicly! Of course the biggest problem with oatmeal is they came up with a way for a quick fix. Used to be it took 45 minutes or all the way up to 3 hours to cook a decent batch. I blame the microwave oven industry, because they made us impatient. In the old days, I'd cook a batch, eat it, and pass out before I could cook another. Now it's bang bang bang, three batches and one massive jag of craziness.

So I was almost out of oatmeal, OK? And I was already hopped up on two batches. It was 3 in the morning. I went out and couldn't tell, in my haze, if the grocery store was open or the lights were just in my head. I sat there hunched over the steering wheel, when ... Dammit! ... two or three guys identifying themselves as cops -- they had red lights -- pulled me out of my car.

And I lost my cool. I was all up in their face. "What gives, assholes?!" and it went downhill from there. They could tell I was out of it, but why? I told them the honest to God truth, "I'm an oatmeal addict and you got me ... looking for another fix."

"Oatmeal," the mean-looking one sneered. He and the other mean-looking one talked it over. "Obviously slang for some narcotic, but which one?" These geniuses were talking it over and I saw nothing but haze. Even their talk was haze. They radioed in, then a TV crew showed up and I stripped naked and was gang-tackled by all three mean-looking cops in the ditch. "Give me oatmeal!" I cried as they roughed me up.

Later, I woke up and saw the insides of a hospital, and these mean bastards were there to make sure I didn't snap the gurney straps. The doctor was running blood tests. He said my sorghum and honey counts were elevated out of this world, sweeteners of choice, and that, yes, I indeed had oatmeal in my system.

I couldn't control myself. I went from docile to manic to feverishly crazed in seconds -- the oatmeal high oscillated between utterly flabby weakness to concentrated super human powers. And I felt the powers kick in. Everyone backed up as I eviscerated that hospital room; thankfully, the cops didn't know if they should open fire in a hospital zone.

Going down the hall, my back flap open to the breeze, I made it most of the way to freedom, and was rounding the corner when the meanest-looking cop hit me with a poison dart, hit my butt, piercing one side then crossing over and piercing the other. A double whammy of poison! I woke up two days later, confined in a treatment center.

A Nazi psychiatrist -- this is how Hitler got his start -- swore his way up one list of deities and down another to compel me to talk. "Vhat ees dis 'ottmail' you be smoking!?" "Smoking Ottmail?" I asked, confused, the haze a constant. I passed out and dreamt a beautiful dream, of a Willie Wonka-like world, with rivers of oatmeal (beautiful), but also quicksand bogs (ugly). When Hitler himself appeared, his mustache disgustingly soaked in drippy cinnamon oatmeal-- I woke up.

I blinked a few times, very refreshed, my mind completely detoxed off oatmeal, and vowed to live a clean life. When they took me to breakfast and ignorantly served me oatmeal! Immediately hooking me again...

Using my powers, I killed everyone in my way, stole an armored car, and crashed the gate. Then at the grocery store, instead of parking, I crashed the car through the front windows, craving another box of oatmeal -- and this time -- Damn the World! --  I would eat it with whole milk!

Now I'm home and on my eighth bowl. I'm writing this -- maybe the final post ever on this blog -- with the bastards even now at the door. I fear I'll have to shed even more blood before I'm able to enjoy my oatmeal supper and retire for the night, perchance to dream.

My Rant on Ants

Welcome to another rant on ants. Rants on ants are always the go-to essay for all great writers when they have nothing else to say. Because -- and this is where you nod -- we all have the same problem with the little buggers.

Emerson did a rant, as every yawning 8th grader can tell you, in his essay on Self-Reliance:

All men's prayers to be rid of ants are a disease of the will, making a disease of their creeds. You must do it yourself! But they say with those foolish Israelites, 'Let God smite this pestilence, lest we die trying. Heed thou, comfort any man of us, and we will receive thy help.' Everywhere I am hindered of my brother's despair for ants, because simply shutting his own door is no relief; to say otherwise is to believe fables, both against man's ability and of God's desire. Every mind may prove itself a mind of uncommon activity and power, with the innate cleverness to smite ants quite apart from Divinity!

Locke, Lavoisier, Hutton, Bentham, and Fourier, each one took up mental arms and successfully killed ants, for the most part. The system one chooses will be in proportion to the depth of the thought, and so the disposal of ants is within the reach of each pupil, if not for complacency. Exercising self-reliance, the pupil shares the delight of the learned in subordinating them to man's greater will, as a girl who has just learned botany enjoys seeing a new earth and new seasons thereby.

And yet how many will not learn, will not act! They do not yet perceive, that light, unsystematic, indomitable, will break into any cabin, even theirs. Let them chirp awhile and call it their own, until they're overrun with ants! Yet, if they are honest and do well, presently their problem, common to all, will die away and vanish, and the immortal light, all young and joyful, million-orbed, million-colored, will beam over the universe as on the first morning, before the first ant darkened this sod. 

And I believe it was De Quincey, in Confessions of an English Opium Eater, who observed:

If a man “whose talk is of ants” should become an opium-eater, the probability is that (if he is not too dull to dream at all) he will dream about ants.

Heh, that's a good advertisement for opium! I'd love to see some before and after pictures of opium-eaters! I'll bet they about scratch themselves to death in their sleep! Then they wake up, eat some more, go back to sleep and finish the job. All thanks to ants.

--BEGINNING OF MY ANT RANT: "Everything's Little, Everything's Big" --

I've been killing ants. I hate killing, but sometimes I just have to do it. Like when I'm overrun with them.

Thinking of ants, I observe that they seem to be very tribal. At least that's what I imagine about them. Queen ants, drones, sort of similar to bees. One of the weird things about ants is how much weight they can carry in relation to themselves. Like me trying to carry all the groceries in at once. That's why I choose plastic, although it's a killer on the hands.

That said, ants are also the ultimate punctual being, showing up at the butt crack of midnight the first day of spring. Somehow -- planned obsolescence -- the poison from last year expired yesterday and is ineffectual! Weird, because I know when I hit obsolescence it only made me bigger and better.

So that leaves me trying to kill them one by one, a hopeless task only presenting a tiny glimmer of hope by the certain knowledge that though they're numerous, they're not infinite. Were they infinite, I'd have to step up the pace of killing to keep up. Although, strictly, anything infinite necessarily tramples itself to death.

Falling short of that, it's up to me to kill them, even if it's against my conscience. I feel sad for the Queen, back in the nest, going, "WTF's going on with the drones? Either a revolt or some guy killed them." She has other worries too. The last few drones, seeing she offers no protection, might quickly evolve a patriarchal society, arming up for mutual protection. Leaving her to submit, accept a ceremonial role, and occasionally dress as a humble nurse to console the wounded in battle.

The thing that freaks me out about killing ants is how they must look under a microscope. Because I know if I had better eyes, they'd look immense and a horror. Then I'd see the true terror of the whole thing. I'm already thinking of it and feeling sick. This also goes for any truly microscopic being, but I have to say it's not sentimentality; I just prefer living and letting live, but, you know, you hate to be overrun. Too much mercy's a thankless thing.

Still, think of how big an ant is compared to a truly microscopic being. They're like a redwood! Now imagine the downside of that. Ants have to poop. Can you picture the droppings from something the size of a redwood all over your Formica counter? Not to mention the food on your counter, bananas, etc.

But here's the killer to the whole thing. Regardless of what we do, the future is wide open for ants and other vermin. Because, friends, I hate to break it to you, but I don't see the human species making it literally millions of years. But ants no doubt will...

Something like this is happening: We're macro but live in micro time. They're micro but live in macro time. We think we're "so bad" because our country's a little over 200 years old. Big deal. The creatures in macro time don't even think about celebrating till it's been a million years. So we destroy our environment, stupidly, because of this micro time thinking. But ants -- all they need is air, water, and whatever food happens to be handy, so macro time is theirs.

Someday, though---- Someday, long after we're gone, maybe they'll be like us. Maybe the little will become big, the size of dinosaurs, and demand too much from their environment. Until a meteor, the ultimate ant poison, comes blasting from the distant reaches of outer space, and finally gives them their comeuppance. And who knows? This is a great thought, who knows if it's one of our own space probes, arranged by our smartest scientists 100 million years in the past, that is the very thing to tilt that meteor toward earth! Isn't that great? That ants become complacent, being rid of us for 100 million years, and yet we still manage to kill them in the end.

My Dreams of Open Carry

My dreams of open carry are coming true! And this is even one of those weird things I never thought would happen, like flying cars. I figured the Old West was gone and we'd never get it back.

This is true, that as a kid watching westerns, I always complained that they carried guns all the time and we couldn't. Our guns were hanging on a rack -- unlocked, mind you -- and we only took them down for hunting or cleaning or showing someone.

Parents didn't believe in safety as much then, which was OK, because we did all right. We had the run of the town. We played lots of war games, cowboys and indians, and killed each other all the time, only in our imagination. Even though we had guns, we never actually killed anyone. Although I remember having a grievance against the sheriff one time. All water under bridge...

I gave up all hope of open carry -- walking around with holsters, dangling guns down to your knees. Never thought I'd live to see it, but now... All praise and glory! They're back!

Frankly, I don't know how long it'll last. His term is only so long. Meaning, we need to groom future black presidents so we never have to go back to a ban. There's definite benefits to a generalized paranoia, which we're reaping now.

Only, I don't see any decent candidates being groomed. On the bright side, we might get a woman president for eight years. Of course that'd give our testosterone a workout, meaning open carry would be safe. Yet, it's all temporary. What we need is a constitutional amendment -- call it the Second Amendment Part B -- that presidents can only be black and/or women.

The worst case scenario for open carry is that we get another white man like Bush, especially like Bush. He had that whole ignorant good-old-boy thing going so strong there wasn't ever the slightest temptation to allow open carry. And the more dishonest he was -- we frankly didn't have time to plumb the depths -- the more people liked him. I still see various idiot assholes on Facebook pining for those supposedly "good old days" of a white male president, with absolutely no understanding of what it meant for open carry.

I personally haven't taken the gun plunge yet. The openness of open carry is still a little too primitive for my taste. If you kill someone you still have to account for it. I want it like the westerns. You do your killing, you have a drink and play cards undisputed. Or go upstairs to Diamond Lil's room and do whatever they did back then. Teach her a thing or two with your barrel.

Do Bugs Deserve to Live?

The first answer is, yes, they deserve to live, just so they're not doing it in my home. Which seems to be their first choice, even though they have the whole vast outdoors. But you can see it from their point of view, the vast outdoors has too many bugs.

I actually like bugs, I like nature, thinking of nature out there. To hear them at night is a joy. The only ones outside I hate are mosquitoes and chiggers and anything that immediately attacks me. Live and let live -- I say to the bugs -- and we'll get along swell.

Lately, I've been overrun with little fruit flies, since I've been eating more fruit. I don't know if they come in with the fruit -- my first guess -- or they're flying by and smell it. It's a definite downside to eating healthy, since I haven't seen any red meat flies, Cheetos flies, or candy flies. There no doubt are meat flies, but probably around the Amazon, where other weird things are.

The little fruit flies aren't hard to catch, squish, or otherwise annihilate, but so far it's just been one at a time when they're bugging me. I haven't gone after them systematically. There probably is a fruit-flavored poison for them, but I haven't looked into it.

As to whether bugs in your home deserve to live, I will apply three rules before jumping to my ultimate answer of "No, no, hell no!"

First, the Wild Boar rule. The Wild Boar rule is the rule of the ridiculous extreme, but it covers lesser pests. I would not be able to live in a house with a raging wild boar. I would do whatever it took to get it out, be it gun, arrow, poison, or dynamite. That'd actually be a good reality show -- like they do with gators -- guys coming around to clear your house of wild boars. Or even insect guys coming around to relocate insects back to their own wild habitat.

So, do bugs deserve to live in your home? Going by the Wild Boar rule, clearly not. It'd be nice if they left of their own freewill, but since they don't know anything of the nuisance they are, they probably won't. Another implication of the Wild Boar rule is that if the bugs were in your home in sufficient quantity, enough to make huge clouds, they'd probably kill you. So whether it's one or a million, it's all the same thing.

The second rule to consider is the Barney Fife rule, which is, whatever the problem, Nip it in the bud. It's true. If we nipped more stuff in the bud -- everything from weeds all the way up to mass murderers -- what a wonderful world it would be. We'd have fewer problems. Maybe we should develop a whole army of people -- the Nippers -- to do this. Or robots. What could go wrong? I can think of lots. This idea needs to be nipped in the bud. See how easy that was? Bugs in your house is the bud that needs to be nipped. They're not endangered species, they don't deserve to live in your home.

And if anyone quibbles about killing, I'm applying an even more awesome rule, the third rule, the Bhagavad Gita rule. Gita for the Mosquita! Have you read it? It's actually a wonderful writing, despite the weird-looking title. The hero, Arjuna, doesn't want to kill the opposing army. But God, in Krishna form, tells him he must. The answer is that the true self (the inner bug) is indestructible, enduring, unborn, and unchanging. The embodied self (of the bug) discards its little body, just as a man discards worn out clothes, to take on new bodies. Which sounds frightening, but it doesn't necessarily mean Super Bugs, only the next role of the self in evolutionary destiny. (BG, 2:21f).

I'm not even Hindu and I think that's cool! I'm doing these fruit flies a favor! The next Wild Boar you kill in your kitchen might one day be a saint!

To review, we have these three rules, and whether we apply one or all three, bugs do not deserve to live in your home.

Crime Meets Group Dynamics

I read the crime news on a daily basis. I've always been fascinated how people "put themselves out there" to be criminals, despite the enormous risks they take for what so often is a relatively small reward. Is it really worth it, for example, even if you got $50,000 in a bank robbery, if there's a good chance you'll spend 10 years in prison? Even without a partner that's only $5,000 a year, and with a partner it drops. You could've gotten a paper route and made that much, with freedom to boot.

"Me?" the idiot argues, "I'd never get caught!" Oh yeah, it's foolproof! When there's video cameras everywhere, and they know which direction you came from and which direction you went before you left. They're not amateurs, they've done this before. Ever heard of radioing ahead? So there you are, at the end of a lonely dirt road, nothing in front of you but a raging river, and the cops closing in like mad. You decide to take your first and last look at the loot, which promptly blows up in your face with red dye. As one bank robber I read about said, "I just went home and waited to be arrested."

As for the life of crime, throw in a partner -- or several partners, a whole gang -- and naturally it's worse, because you have to depend on the nebulous code of 'Honor Among Thieves' holding up. Codes and honor are only as good as the people involved. If you're hanging out with pure scum, the scum of the earth, what kind of honor and code should you expect? I wouldn't risk it for less than minimum wage, certainly with the prospects of prison, getting to look at a big shower room and a wall of toilets with no doors. Then there's the barbed wire outside. The birds are flying overhead, and you've got five minutes till lock down.

Still, we're talking about humanity, right? That's the species we're thinking of, right? Well, like it or not, I'm ultimately not prejudiced when it comes to people and their need for good group dynamics counseling. After all, I've always seen a basic understanding of group dynamics as everyone's right, maybe even more so than food or air. Because what good are food and air if you can't survive your peers? You step into a crowded cell and say the wrong thing, "I'll take the bottom bunk," having no understanding, and, SLIT, you're a dead man. So criminals deserve at least this much, the basics.

Now, since you probably haven't got much time to live -- let's assume the worst -- I will keep it very basic. We'll put the "3 R's of Group Dynamics" out there as they relate to a gang of criminals. (I'm actually the originator of the "3 R's," which is in most textbooks on group dynamics, so I know what I'm talking about.)

OK, take a look at the above illustration. Looks very much like a free-for-all, a melee. I see a gun waving in the air and another guy with both arms up, frantic. Someone else has apparently struck the guy with the gun. And there's someone crashed on the floor against the wall. The scene captures a terrible moment. Which probably could have been prevented, in part if not entirely, with some knowledge of group dynamics. Let's say you're the gang leader. This isn't what you wanted!

How could a knowledge of the "3 R's" have made for a better situation? The "3 R's" are 1) aRrange, 2) Reconnoiter, and, 3) Ruminate.

A good "aRrangement," before anyone showed up, might have included some comfortable chairs. You as the leader, then, are going to elicit more support and loyalty from your underlings if you keep everything very even, such as matching chairs, not a bigger one for you or anyone else. Good lighting is critical, too, especially among criminals, not too low, not too bright. Also, you don't want a lot of shadows, which only serve to raise people's suspicions, leading to paranoia, leading to an eruption. Shadows are where things are hidden. And anything else you can do to establish a good comfort level, while also looking out for people's feelings, is a key part of "aRanging." Are there pitchers of cold water handy? Thoughtful aRanging is always the basis of a good meeting.

The 2nd "R," Reconnoitering, means your job isn't done with aRanging. Far from it. Reconnoitering means paying close attention to the group's needs as your time together progresses. With the criminal type, you will want to hone in on any change in the dynamics. Are they as comfortable 20 minutes into the meeting as they were at the beginning? Are you seeing any strange twitching, reaching inside coat pockets, hands hidden, sweaty brows? Are you hearing any heavy breathing, any muffled clicks of gun hammers? Reconnoitering will catch all that, without, and this is critical, without making it obvious what you're doing. At the first sign of trouble, instead of reacting directly to the threat, you should redirect simply, perhaps by freshening people's drinks. Give them a chance to stretch. Look for the least comfortable guy and compliment him for something, how you've always admired his skill set with munitions, or whatever it might be.

By the way, the word "Reconnoitering" literally means "knowing again." You're not leaving things to chance, you're knowing things again and again, you're keeping your awareness alert, and when you do, you'll find that you generally live to see tomorrow. No mad escape by diving through the window for you!

The 3rd "R", Ruminating, is one I often use in groups as a kind of post-meeting diagnostic tool. What could I have done differently? How could it have gone more smoothly? But Ruminating is also key to a meeting in progress, which can either loop back to further aRranging or further Reconnoitering. That's certainly how I would primarily use it in a meeting of criminals! In such a group, I'm not leaving anything for later; I'll handle it now, or sooner. Later may never come! For survival purposes, and also to ensure the gang's integrity as a gang, that it not erupt into a melee, you will Ruminate often. If someone is acting up in any way, use Rumination toward further aRranging. But once behavior is on track, use it toward further Reconnoitering.

Using these pointers, the basics of group dynamics, you will have more confidence to conduct your meeting in a successful way. Even with a gang of criminals! Then, and this of course is the ultimate reward, depending on what you as a group decide, which job to do -- a big robbery or rubbing someone out -- it's more likely to be a great success. I wish you all the best.

Revisiting The Wood Manhood Relics

FOUR DIFFERENT HIPSTAMATIC PICTURES FOR GREATER VALIDITY OF THE EVIDENCE

Summary of The Wood Manhood Affair: In India, one of Master's chelas (students) was disobedient to the work of seeking oneness with the Divine. Instead, he, Brother Unsettled, abused his member on chain-link fences, wood surfaces, and trees. The result was his turning to wood. His now-wooden manhood was preserved, to serve as a spiritual lesson and warning to others. I have custody of the relics. The yoni-shaped wood appears to have been Unsettled's only true comfort.

Being the custodian of sacred relics is a big responsibility. First, there is the physical tending to them. Second, there are inquiries I get from time to time as to their whereabouts and condition, as well as requests to see them and/or touch them. Most of these requests are denied; frankly, I think that's a sick request. But it's understandable that chelas would want to know how they are. In short, they're just fine.

It's been some time now since my post in July 2011, which made me think the whole thing needed to be revisited. At least insofar as how the relics are doing. And lest anyone thinks they can simply come on my property and take the relics, no, it won't be that simple. They are kept in a safe deposit box at the bank.

I know you'll find this interesting. First, about the photos, that's four Hipstamatic photos of the wooden manhood of Brother Unsettled, plus the yoni, plus an extraneous piece of wood, the little chip. If you examine the evidence carefully, you will see one photo is slightly different from the rest. Very interesting!

Anyway, to examine the relics, I went ... I got myself together and went ... to the bank and to the safe deposit box. If you've ever done this, you know you have to be prepared for the real life equivalent of a video game, with many challenging passages along the way.

Of course I had my ID and the passwords memorized. Then arriving at the bank, I had to machete my way through a gauntlet of part-time bank employees, arranged to test my resolve for the task. Next, there were 10 secretaries, each with one letter or alphanumeric character of the first password. Finally, I got to Sue, the little lady next to the vault. I offered Sue my identification once again and a special password that only Sue and I know.

At the threshold of the vault, I took a deep breath and sought heaven for strength to withstand the ordeal. Of course I removed the sacred golden sword from the wall before passing through gate after gate. I was surprised (but not shocked) when two guardian lions sprang out. I slew them, then in quick progression a dozen leopards, a half dozen king cobras, and a school of Great White sharks. It was like I was back in the Amazon when vampire bats swooped down and immediately attacked my pith helmet.

Going further, I cut myself through the thickest vines I've ever seen, huge thick SOBs. I didn't even know vines came that thick. They were either vines or a giant's legs, now I'm not sure which. Do vines bleed and bellow out "Oww"? Then it was a giant, or maybe a whole family. All the vines out of the way, I swam up the falls, 100 feet if it was an inch. Being a good vertical swimmer, this wasn't as hard as it sounds.

Making it to land, I rounded a corner and found another guard. But this guy was a dried up skeleton, there at the base of the wall. Obviously paid by the hour, he had fallen asleep and died. I saw the final key in amongst his dust and bones! I entered the box room and unlocked the box. This set off the final safeguard, three or four mousetraps, which hurt like hell!

All done, I pulled out the metal container. When I opened it, there they were, the relics laid out on the softest red velvet. It was at this point that I took the pictures seen above. It about took my breath away, to see Brother Unsettled's wooden remains, the most vital parts of himself that had given him such fits. It was cautionary to me: Do not rebel, do not let it go to waste. I sat right there, right that very minute, and entered into the greatest devotional ecstasy.

All in all, I was amazed at how well preserved the relics were, even in this normal stuffy bank.

The Killer With Devil Eyes

What a terrible night it turned out to be! And I even left home telling myself nothing was going to happen, I would be fine. I thought I would be. I left with the best of intentions.

And then it happened... We were out, at a hamburger restaurant, where basically all they sell is hamburgers and french fries, and I looked out on the darkened night, then up at some of the other diners. Suddenly a guy turns around and makes eye contact with me for just a fraction of a second before he turned back to his meal. I felt a chill go up my already cool spine as the thought bore down on me: "The killer with devil eyes!" Or to flesh it out more completely, "Maybe that guy's the killer with devil eyes!"

Of course I don't know that he was. He didn't kill anyone right then, and as it turned out I wasn't killed later in the parking lot. Although, God knows, the night wasn't over yet. And I kept feeling that terrible chill.

The guy never looked at me again, not unless he was looking at my reflection in the window. Which I'll probably never know. But one think I do know, my thoughts were racing in my mind like lightning. The security I'd just felt was shattered. In one moment my world collapsed. Because how would I know? Even if it wasn't him, maybe the killer with devil eyes was somewhere nearby. Are our thoughts and fears ever false and/or coincidental?

I had a hard time eating my meal, which by now was getting cold, although I put up a fairly good facade of a guy still enjoying his meal. I picked at it. Was the killer behind me, one of the cooks? They seem like jolly good fellows, but what do you expect from a killer in the moments before he has the joy of killing?

Then I had another terrible thought: What about the two boys over there with their parents. They were like five and seven. If they're not currently killers, maybe they will be someday. One of them could very easily grow up to be the killer with devil eyes. After all, the mass murderers of tomorrow are already with us today. A few video games, an angry father, and too many greasy burgers, and a kid's suddenly off the beam.

We made our way to the car, me not stating my suspicions. I thought there's no reason to alarm my partner. Just get to the damned car, check the damned backseat before getting in, and head for home. And then it happened ... wouldn't you know it? The car was low on gas! I had to pull into a gas station. No one seemed to be following me. I pulled up to one of the front pumps, one where it'd be harder to block me in, and got out. I whispered a quick prayer, my eyes scanning the windows of the nearby apartment complex. The minute I saw a rifle barrel I would be down, my prayer being twofold, that he wouldn't blow up the gas pump, and that the receipt printer would work, sparing me an unprotected jaunt inside.

Thankfully, nothing happened. It wasn't my time, my number wasn't up. But the fear still remains. If not tonight, when? And where? Where is he, the killer with devil eyes? Is he a man ... or maybe a woman?

Flaming Wreckage -- Tony's Dead

Well, I said I was going to kill Tony -- Mr. Big of the Organization -- and I did! So now that makes me, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward, the new Mr. Big.

Here's how the whole thing went down:

Tony was ensconced in his office, as expected. I put my gun together and went up to his floor. The eight divisions, the gauntlet of guards, lined the hall -- The Shivs, The Battalion, The Hangmen, The Pulverizers, The Psychos, The Mincemeaters, The Republicans, and The Ethnic Slurs. I knew my way was well-greased, thanks to all the ducats and material goods distributed.

I passed through, walking very confidently, then I started noticing a bunch of grins. But were they good grins or bad grins? Were they with me or against me? I felt a trickle of sweat on my forehead as I realized I might be walking into a trap. What if I got to Tony's office just as these bulls closed in on me, to kill me, and perhaps abuse my body? By now I had no choice but to keep going. To turn back meant I was dead anyway.

Finally, I got to Tony's door, knowing this was the moment of truth. And it turned out I was worried about nothing. The last couple of guards kicked in the door and motioned me in. I pulled up the gun, and was ready to blow Tony's head off without a smile or a word, certainly without mercy. Then I saw what they were grinning about, Tony's bullet-ridden body was in a heap in the middle of the room. The guards themselves, in a gesture of loyalty to me, had killed him themselves. I felt a little pissed off to be deprived of the pleasure, but what am I going to say?

Seriously, this wasn't anything like what I pictured. I was hoping, you know, maybe Tony and I would struggle and the gun would go off. Then he would flee to the window, having planned his escape in a situation like this. Out the window he would go, closely followed by me, and up the fire escape to the top of the building. Then a helicopter comes down, and Tony's grabbing at the landing gear, without a second to spare, and they lift off, me shooting like a madman.

He might easily escape were the pilot to whip the machine around and take evasive action. But I'm relentless, knowing if he escaped, I'd be finished. So there I am, aiming carefully, with time for only one last killer shot. The bullet goes through Tony's head and also pierces the copter's fuel supply -- the equivalent of the machine's lifeblood. The whole thing bursts into flames, Tony's on fire, and everything explodes and crashes to the ground, debris spreading over the courthouse lawn, with pieces later found as far away as the next county.

To have him simply heaped there in the room, thanks to the guards, seemed very anticlimactic. And I wanted to give them the biggest ass-chewing they'd ever had. But all I could do was offer them my thanks, a smile, and a few high fives. The lummoxes meant well. And being the new Mr. Big means taking caution where caution is due, which is not to say I won't throw it to the wind tomorrow. So my decision was to celebrate Tony's demise as the guards' gift to me.

But here's the rub. I'm thinking, If they'd do this to Tony, they'd do it to me. So we're not through here! But, again, I must leave that for later. For now, I need to keep a low profile. With the helicopter debris and so much destruction, and Tony's bullet-ridden body blown all over the courthouse lawn -- it's all very conspicuous -- the police investigation will have a lot of urgency. At the very least, there will be the appearance of all due diligence. The sons of bitches will be loaded for bear!

Bad News -- You're Being Blackmailed Again

It was a terrifying experience for Rutledge to be blackmailed by me. So he was greatly relieved to find out it was just me fulfilling his self-confessed fetish. He claimed that was exactly what he wanted!

I'd pretty much forgotten about it and moved on, when Rutledge came into my office saying he wanted me to do the same thing to one of the other guys, Granger. I said, "Yeah, Granger would shit his pants, even though he also said he'd like the danger of being blackmailed." Granger's wife is totally suspicious that he spends his check on booze, hookers, and gambling. So far, though, what she doesn't know hasn't hurt her...

I rubbed my hands and said, "Yesssss! Our Mr. Granger is in for it ... big time!" Rutledge and I laughed and slapped high fives. But I warned him not to say anything under any circumstances, no matter what. He crossed his heart and said "hope to die." I put a bead on his heart and said, "Don't worry, you will." With that, his smile disappeared, till I said, "Cheer up, Granger's gonna get it!"

The joke here, though, wouldn't be on Granger. Rutledge was going to get it again! So Rutledge leaves and Granger comes out of the bathroom, and I said, "You heard everything?" He nodded. We began making our plans. Then I scratched out a note and told him to deliver it, pronto!

A few minutes later, I placed a call to Rutledge. When he picked up, he heard heavy breathing on the line. Then an unfamiliar voice, my voice again disguised. "Rutledge, I understand you're a regular over at the hotel, with everything that implies." He tried to deny it. He might have been suspicious, so I referred to myself in the third person to deflect it: "And I understand you're working with that shithead, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward, whose guts I hate with a purple passion, a hatred beyond words. I'd love to see Wayward take a long walk off a short pier." He clearly didn't like where this conversation was going! His breath was heavy and I could feel the moisture of his perspiration through the line, nearly short-circuiting the connection.

My demand once again was for money, this time $5,000. Or I would go to his wife with all the disgusting lowdown, plus, the police would hear some "very interesting" news of his involvement in a recent diamond heist, among other jobs. Rutledge knew he was nailed, and this time it could be no joke. The resignation in his voice was heartbreaking as he asked where to make the drop. I referred to a particular garbage can at a playground on the east side of town. He said he knew it well. I said that wasn't where he would make the drop, but where he would find his instructions for the next step.

I said "my boys" were watching the garbage can, "so don't be late," and I gave this final warning: "If you double-cross us in any way, if you contact Wayward, my order on you is shoot to kill." I finished the call with only about 10 seconds of maniacal laughter, not wanting to use all my minutes this early in the month.

OK, some time passed, giving me and Granger time to wonder what the hell was going on. I remembered the note in the garbage can word for word: "Rutledge, we hope you enjoyed our little fun. How's the fetish going? -- Wayward and Granger."

About two hours passed -- you'd expect the bastard back sooner! -- when Rutledge came busting into my apartment. He was well-lubed, obviously having stopped by a drinking hole for liquid courage, to do--- to do what he felt he must! Which was to kill me. Thankfully, the booze made him so unsteady, he merely shot four or five shots into my walls and ceiling.

Granger sneaked behind him and knocked the gun down, after which we laughed our asses off. It took a while, but soon drunk Rutledge was also able to laugh, and the three of us left that particular subject arm in arm, singing the old song about "15 men on a dead man's chest."

Rutledge had the 5 grand on him still. I peeled off $100 and sent him down the hall with one of our more patient hookers.

I'm Really Having A Hard Time Killing

When I gave up my normal life for my present life of crime, there were certain things I was sure of. One, that I would really enjoy it, especially the thrills. Thus far I am completely convinced it was the best choice. In fact, my conviction goes so far as to proclaim, This is the only life worth living, the life of a criminal. But, two, I was also sure my reputation would take a hit, and it has.

I'm like anyone else. All this time, I've had the sense that my readers looked up to me, and even looked to me as a role model. I've gotten your emails, and have treasured the confidences you've placed with me about the hang-ups in your lives. For a while, yes, I answered them one by one, giving advice on how to overcome certain difficulties. Then when it got too much, I set it all aside, feeling the mountain of need was too much for one lone man. But I kept you in my thoughts and prayers, always wanting the best for you. And along with that, I was careful to set the best example I could, knowing that in looking up to me you would be greatly encouraged.

I should probably just admit it, now that I've turned to a life of crime, you've been a lot less willing to trust me. My blog traffic has completely fallen off. I figured you'd still be checking in just to see if I'd "returned to my senses" and rejoined normal society. The short answer to that is, I haven't! But it doesn't mean I'm not still the same basically good person somewhere down deep. Because I still am!

How is this for evidence: I'm really having a hard time killing people. It's damned tough. I've had the opportunity for probably 15 hits so far. That's all these guys think of, needing to kill an enemy for some perceived slight. The "normal" side of me says that's going way overboard. You should try to work things out. He might be your enemy today, but with patience -- and dare I say, grace, forgiveness -- you might work it out and be best of friends. But, no, that's not in their basic nature, for whatever reason. Shaken as babies?

So a couple times, frankly just to take the edge off their nerves, so I myself wouldn't be killed, I've had to go out and off a couple of guys. Their offenses were explained to me, albeit feverishly and without benefit of adequately knowing the other guy's side of the story. I've watched these guys go ballistic over getting revenge, knowing, saying to myself, their relief would be brief. Why don't you off them yourself? I'd ask. And you probably know the answer, They've got a lookout for me! But you, meaning me, could get in there and pop them, and no one would be the wiser.

It's distasteful to me to have to do it, but it's hard to quibble with the reasoning. I'm a newbie. I don't quite have the gritty, sour look of a hardened criminal yet. I might be the pizza guy. I might just be an honest neighbor out for his exercise. I have that friendly look. I wave over the hedge, "Great night, isn't it!" But then, I pull out the gun and pop 'em right in the temple, and I'm off. So I had two jobs like that. Idiots who had it coming.

The only killing I've done for myself -- and I swear there's only been one so far -- is the Ciggie who tried to scare me off from Tastee Freez the other day. I hated that roughneck son of a bitch telling me that I couldn't go to Tastee Freez! Imagine the nerve of the guy, a bonafide hoodlum if ever there was one. Well, I drove by a few times, and, guess who I see? Him, standing there with one foot on the side of the building and the other foot naturally supporting his body weight. He looked like what he precisely was, a real creep.

What I did next I know sounds coldblooded. But I didn't want him to get the jump on me. And the best way to do that is to take him completely by surprise, and kill him without the slightest mercy. I parked in the farm implements parking lot just west of there, across the street. I darted across the road to the north, then came up behind the building. It was amazing. He didn't know what hit him, just one deadly blast in the vital organs. I didn't wait to do an autopsy -- I was gone before he hit the ground! But I shall return to the scene of the crime very soon, for a refreshing sundae!

I confess these incidents not to titillate or to brag, but only to throw myself on the mercy of my readership. I'm not so bad! It's only three killings ... out of a dozen or more that I could have done by now. So you can still trust me. I'm still here for you.

Why The Old Vets Are So Quiet

I still haven't given up on the theme of the sex lives our soldiers and sailors in World War II. You might remember, I asked, "Did World War II Soldiers Have Sex?" Then I followed that with, "Should World War II Soldiers Have Had Sex?" Later, "I Forgive World War II Soldiers For Having Sex." But just because I forgave them doesn't mean I shouldn't explore the issue a little further. I get a lot of hits on these stories, and that's good for my ego.

WW II veterans are dying off at a staggering rate, and they're about gone. So any light the remaining ones could shed on this issue would be helpful, both for the historical record and for their peace of mind at having come clean. My word to them would be, Any vow of silence you made to your brothers in arms, surely you have kept up your end of the bargain. They're gone, but you remain. Bygones being bygones, come clean already!

As for the historical record, historians like to have a little fun, too. We think of  historians sitting in big ivory towers memorizing names and dates and quizzing one another every few hours. But that's probably just a stereotype. I think there has to be more to it. Frankly, I'm positive they're like the rest of us -- horny bastards -- and would appreciate a little lasciviousness in their work. So, please, veterans, let's get going before you die completely, so the scholarly assessments can proceed. What were your sexual exploits overseas?

You ever notice how quiet WW II vets have always been about their time away? I've known quite a few and except for one lone exception, I've never known any to recount their sexual exploits. The one exception told me just the barest bones story, some generalized experience he had with at least one prostitute. The details, alas, were lacking, and at that time I didn't have the same resolve as now in getting to the bottom of it.

As for the rest, maybe they were embarrassed to discuss something that is admittedly best left unsaid. Or perhaps they wanted to keep up a front in the presence of wives, girlfriends, and mothers that they had maintained their innocence. We could give them the benefit of the doubt and say veterans have historically been quiet about what they did in wars. But what if this is exactly the reason why! That they were having crazy sex, whether in ancient times or more recently, and simply didn't want to come clean!

The ones we've known, many of them, have gladly bragged about everything else, their boat, car, and family. It's kind of weird that they wouldn't be telling us everything they did in the war. But people think they're just reluctant because of the trauma, the life/death issues, all too deep for words. Balderdash! If you're a survivor, you're going to crow about it, unless there's a good reason not to, like covering up sex.

I'd like to get the confidence of a few of them, although with age it's getting harder and harder. They can always pretend to be deaf or out of it. But say I did. Say I had five of them at a table, and they think it's finally OK to talk about how many guys they killed. They're going on and on and I'm such an encouraging presence. Then I lay on them, "What'd you do for sex?" Suddenly they clam up, so we all know!

That's what it's always been. To disguise the real root of their silence, they chose to be silent on the whole war experience. All this time they were just bustin' to tell us how many guys they killed, and all the rest, but had they dared, inevitably mom and grandma and girlfriend and wife would've known. Because they'd have to go suddenly quiet when we turned to sex.

In a way, it's a tragedy. They came home as victors but had to carry a guilty conscience for decades. Their complexes grew and grew and eventually took over, to the point that they wouldn't have been able to say anything about it if they wanted. Finally, for the ones who died, they look up, see the lights of glory and mistake them for the red lights of a house in France; in their mind, they're suddenly 19, their face lights up, and they die with a smile.

A Step By Step Hiatus

Getting from place to place to me is constantly an experience calling for reflection. Seriously. I can't put one foot in front of the other, it seems, without doing what Neil Armstrong did on the moon, which is considering it in its historical context and framing it with the right words. It's with a great struggle right now that I'm even able to type this paragraph in under 10 minutes. It all has to be done step by step.

Here's what I'm considering: I've got it set before me, as everyone knows, a titanic battle, a battle of wits, perhaps to the death of one or both of us, with my hiatus, who has overgrown all bounds and now is the dominant force in our house. I say 'dominant force' and I mean it, but we shall see, because perhaps I will prove to have been the dominant force all along, depending on how it all works out.

At this point I haven't got what it would take to kill the thing by violent means. I have only my hands and feet -- my body -- as all the weapons have been confiscated and hidden. And in this I feel some regret, that over the years I didn't do what it would've taken for my body to be a lethal weapon, like they say in the movies. I suppose I could've learned karate or jiu-jitsu, in which case I would be able, with the skills of karate, to chop the thing to death. (Hah! Huuh! Kuh-rack!) Or with jiu-jitsu I could walk up to shake its hand, then flip it over my hip, then stand back in a menacing pose, a threatening look of scorn on my face, and watch it crawl scared out the North door. Evil cometh from the North, and to the North it must return!

But in the absence of the martial arts, those skills, and in the absence of good old fashioned American weaponry, I need to rely on my wits. My wits might get the job done, although I'm sure they're not as honed as they could be either. I'm a little soft. But if I ever get out of here alive I need to do something about that. Like check out the self-help books at the mall that say You've got the power in you, etc. Hmm, that's an idea. I think they do have books that say that, You've got the power in you. And if those books are true at all, then it stands to reason that I've got the power in me right now, even without reading them. Somehow I've known all along that I've got the power in me or I wouldn't know about the books, so why would I now need page after page of explaining what I've already got? We shall see!

I'm looking over at the big lug. He's a creature who exists in several rooms at once, being stretched out and amorphously crawling or inching out here and there, depending on where his consciousness decrees his particular parts should be. What I'm seeing just there in the corner seems to be in a state of slumber, getting his mental refreshment. But that doesn't mean that the part of him in the kitchen would necessarily be sleeping; in fact I think I just heard some gargling from the kitchen area and I know Grandma's in her room asleep.

My big idea is to ignore him into shrinking, then when he's shrunken to the point of being manageable, hope that I see the weapons -- my sacred swords among them -- so that I can hack what remains to little bits. I don't know what might happen after that. I might find a little tail and fling him in the road like a dead mouse.

The whole job of ignoring is starting ... right NOW ... then it will go step by step until the job is done ...

Wait a second. Someone should say something historic, like me. I need to say something like with the moon landing ... Let me work something up:

"I'm writing this today as a person with an unusual problem. I took a hiatus from many of my responsibilities. But somehow it appears to have become a living creature, who now is holding me captive, having taken over my life and house. My grandmother's life is also in danger. I am going to try my level best, relying not on weapons but my wits, to kill the monster. I may not live, but it is my intention, of course, which should go without saying, that I want to live and I want it to die. We shall see what happens. To God be the glory."

OK, I said that ... then crossed myself in a very ritualistic way, bowing to the three good directions, East, West, and South.

Ignoring Or Nurturing A Hiatus

To ignore something in the proper way means withholding from it the attention it craves. With the goal being to ignore it and hope it goes away. That's what I do with tornado warnings and I haven't been hit yet.

Withholding life support and heroic measures from a dying person -- perhaps your mother, father, brother, sister, or grandparent -- is a form of ignoring them. It's not that you don't appreciate all the good times in life you've shared, all the laughs you've had together together, but to prolong their life at this critical juncture, right when your insurance has run out, would be devastating to all. And unless you're a seriously committed Republican or with Al Qaeda or some other dysfunctional ideological cell group, you hate human suffering.

I guess we all know about ignoring and nurturing things. But it's not always true that ignoring something makes it go away. Like, just looking around the room here, if you ignore dust bunnies they don't go away; they get bigger and become full grown dust rabbits, and you know how rabbits multiply. If you ignore mold or toilet bacteria it doesn't go away either. With mold, it eats through boxes, walls, bread, oranges. And of course with toilet bacteria, if it gets too thick in there, pretty soon they're throwing up grappling hooks and catching hold of you, and next thing you know you're stuffing your pants with Sani Flush pads.

I'm actually trying to think of some good examples of things that go away when they're ignored. Maybe I need to rethink this. If you ignore the cat it just gets hungrier and won't let you have any peace. If you ignore the dog you have puddles and poop everywhere. If you ignore your mail it piles up. If you ignore basic hygiene you stink. If you ignore maintaining your car it breaks down and ends up as parts for someone who doesn't.

Dogs, cats, mail, the car ... these are the concrete things of your everyday life and they need tended to. But those things don't apply to my hiatus. The best I can say is hiatuses are different. They better be because ignoring it is what I'm going to do!

My hiatus has become a big bloated unwelcome oafish leech, trading off my good name and living off the fat of someone else's land. It's lounging around the house like it owns the place. At first it was slithering, inching along, very lethargic, like a house guest reticent to make itself too comfortable at someone else's expense. But with constant attention and being in the spotlight for so long, now it's strutting proudly from room to room, comfortable like Hugh Hefner. And I'm seething every time I see it, with every little annoying movement accentuated.

I would love to take the biggest butcher knife I could hold and hack it to bits. Then I'd drill right to its rotten core, if there is one, and take its life force, its consciousness, its center, and do something with it. What? I don't know. It'd be cool to keep it in a dish, hooked up to wires like "The Brain That Wouldn't Die." And to make sure it was plexiglassed in so it couldn't escape back to the wild, with minimal airholes. Then I could sit and fire up a few electrodes and watch it dance to my tune for a change.

But like I said, at this point I don't have access to butcher knives or any sharp objects. They've all been confiscated and hidden. He's well aware of much of what's going on, but not this scheme I've got to shrink him by ignoring him. So it has a good chance of working. Then when I get him shrunk down to a manageable size, maybe I'll be able to snuff out his life, or put him on life support and moisten his lips like once a month. If he dies, I could be like one of those boolah boolah witchdoctors and have a shrunken hiatus on my wall.

How To Kill A Hiatus

First, let me say I'm not a natural born killer. I don't like killing but am a strong believer in the doctrine Kill or Be Killed. So if a guy is coming at me with a knife, and my precious life is in mortal danger, then his precious life is in mortal danger. I'd rather be a lover than a fighter. Just don't bring a knife. Which goes double for Garrett Al.

I don't like killing animals. If people leave carp out of the water after catching them, it bugs me. I don't go hunting anymore just because I don't want a bunch of baby squirrels up in the nest wondering what's keeping Mom with dinner. I do eat animals -- slices of them, chops, steaks, legs, wings, filets, fish sticks, baby back ribs -- for dinner myself, but they're all pre-killed before they get to the grocery store. They've got a guy who does that in the factory. Black tights, no shirt, hairy back, black hood, medieval axe. Very mean.

But I've been scheming in the last few weeks how to kill my hiatus. Maybe it's not even here. Let me explain. I see it but maybe it's not literally here.* But like I've said several times, what I see is a huge blob filling my house, who has hidden my swords, knives, battle axes, even an old compass from the junk drawer. Grandpa's old guns are also missing. The only thing in the gun case is some pink blob slime.

The blob himself is constantly here, who is a lazy layabout who likes to eat and drink. Everywhere you go he's there looking at you with little holes that seem like eyes. He blocks the door, he's always underfoot. Like right now, my hand is resting on a mouse pad that's about three inches thicker than usual and breathing.

I'm sure he could read this, but nothing is hindering me so maybe he's just giving me enough rope to hang myself. Or maybe he wants to know my plans. Or maybe he's not paying attention. He seems to be roused more by body language. Like if I raise my hand apparently in anger or make a loud noise, that's when he's spooked. Even when it's accidental. We had some breeze. I pushed the door shut and the breeze caught it and it slammed. In an instant the hiatus had me pinned against the wall, a meaty tentacle against my neck so I couldn't breathe. At least I knew enough not to fight back. Just relax like a 'possum.

And that's what I'm thinking will be the key to killing him. Relax. Don't do anything. Ignore him. Which is ironic, because just like you fight fire with fire, it takes a hiatus to kill a hiatus. Whatever you're doing feeds him. So do nothing, ignore him, relax and take a load off, and he might just die. Then with the new little hiatus you're taking, kill it while it's still in the crib.

As to the benefits of ignoring things, I used to hear it a million times, Instead of going to the doctor, "ignore it and it'll go away." And I've tested it and it's pretty much true. You can see it with common everyday things. If you ignore food it goes bad. Put it in the refrigerator and forget it. It won't be the same when you get back. It's like it's too depressed to go so it just curls up and rots. This even happened with the toothpaste a couple weeks ago. It ended up in a drawer. Then about six months later we ran out of toothpaste. I thought I'd use the one I saw in the drawer. But when I tried to, the toothpaste inside had literally dried up and hardened. Which means ignoring something makes a difference. And who hasn't noticed that air leaves tires when they're ignored, like on on your bike in the winter?

I might just try it. He'll be starved for attention. But this could be a disaster. He might see my plans and thwart me. Then whatever little hiatus I'm taking as a means of killing the bigger guy, he would grow to the point that the world was overrun by my inbreeding hiatuses. Vicious cycle and nasty thought. Somewhere under there are hiatus genitals. I better take another look at this mouse pad.

*Now, one other thing. I said above that maybe my hiatus is not literally here. That's true. It could be a hallucination. Like the olfactory hallucinations I get, smelling things that others don't smell. But I'm still thinking I might be able to kill it by ignoring it, maybe even more easily if it's not even here to begin with. And there'll be a rich payoff, because either way he'll be gone.