Here's A Tip

I would encourage the younger guys -- guys who served in Afghanistan and Iraq -- to watch FIRST BLOOD (1982).  Excellent movie for them.

(See?  Huh?  That'll teach you to be homeless and a veteran...)

Mysteries, Peeves, and Lost Opportunities

I come from a tradition, the rules of which include:  hydrate or die, sleep is not the enemy, eat or else, you can always add to but never take away from, they can't really hurt you, and pull it together when others are falling out.  Over the last few decades, I've done pretty well at observing said rules, and they've saved my life and my sanity.  Still, my origins mean I've had occasional run-ins I've thought are too bad with those (particularly medical professionals and cops) whose rules include catch, hold and release; partition (fences make good neighbors); and never let on that you hear voices.  An unfortunate friction, and a gap I've always wished I could bridge...  Ah, tristesse!

P.S.  I admit I've always felt a bit of resentment that neither the DEA, SFPD's vice division, nor other authorities inclined towards shitty, immature behavior ever created false profiles for yours truly on methy hook-up sites for the sake of defamation.  I really could have used a little edge to my goody two-shoes reputation.  Where's the love, guys?

P.P.S.  I never did figure out the point of all those pocket lasers and wide-angle, telescopic shots.  Why are you waiting for me to be ready for my close-up?

P.P.P.S.  I never did follow up on precisely what emerged when Frankie and company worked me over in order to open the gates of hell a few years back.  Let's hope it was nothing more than an exhausted Virgil towing Dante and Beatrix to an ice cream shop downtown.

P.P.P.S.  Hey Naomi, sorry about the ROSEMARY'S BABY joke.  One shouldn't make that reference to pregnant tweakers.

P.P.P.P.S.  Overall, I've got to say my verdict at this point is, "Awful program, Frankie:  nobody likes to look at splatter."

A Blow To Tweaker Pride

What shame!  What ignominy!  I'm not sure I can ever show my face in public or private or among hallucinated voices ever again...  There I was, so haughty and full of myself, exultant in my victory, thinking the whole time during production that I alone had been cast as the lead in the exciting, groundbreaking DARBY O'GILL AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE II:  METHPOCALYPSE!, when in fact, as I found out during the well-attended screening, that all along I was a bit player billed far down the credits as "Anonymous Terrified Hot Bitch From The 70s #5."  I was more mortified than if I had been Courtney Love turned down for the role of Nancy Spungeon, after she had seen her own lackluster acting thrown into sharp relief onscreen as a second banana she had originally esteemed herself as better than.   At least she still has her hubris, delusion, and self-righteous indignation, whereas I now find myself bereft of every comfort.

Oh, painful reality!  Oh humiliation!

"Why Are We Like This When You're On Drugs?"

The verdict:  Guilty by reason of faking insanity.

The sentence:  Spiritual death by humiliation and degradation.

(Ironically, it wasn't exactly a speedy trial.)

(Also, was I supposed to keep quiet because everyone else involved was ashamed of their behavior?  That is asking a bit much...)

So anyway, I'm wondering if it wouldn't have been better had my sheepish, inarticulate, and only tentatively righteously indignant accusers  just put a dunce cap on my head, placed me naked and backwards on the back of a donkey, herded me past distracted and baffled onlookers down Eddy Street, until I reached where today's American iteration of Savonarola and the weepers whined at me for a few hours about my culpability regarding their disgusting sins.  It definitely would have driven the point, if there was any, home.

And then I could go back to being a scheming, gold-digging hussy on the make for her next unintelligent psychopathic victim.

Yay San Francisco!

A Little More Realism Might Garner Support From Viewers Like Me

You know, if Sesame Street was really preparing kids for life in the real world, somebody would blow their lid at Big Bird for insisting that Snuffleupagus existed, becoming bent out of shape at his irritating delusions and hallucinations; Bert and Ernie would both have Grindr accounts and host all-night, drug-fueled orgies that would go hilariously sour; and Elmo would ruin his life in his addiction and end up at rock bottom getting kicked out of Oscar's garbage can, where he had been staying temporarily since his eviction by a greedy landlord.  Oh, and Maria's mysterious death outside of the Fix-It Shop would age into being a never-solved cold case -- I mean, who the hell has ever seen a cop form the Sesame Street Station even once just walk a beat, let alone make an arrest in a serious crime?

Come to think of it, I'd be afraid to even call 911 in the real Sesame Street.

Officer, Officer...

...I'm scared and horny.  Can I sit on your lap?  You have such a nice, fine, thick bone...

Looking Back...

...(and hoping it doesn't get me turned into a pillar of salt.)

Anyway, when I reflect on the last several years, leading up to the events of October 22, 2014 and the days after, I have to say I don't feel too bad about being ejected from Isengard by Sauron just because he harbored a petty hatred of me, and being forced to move to the Shire.  Besides, orcs are annoying.

Was that a couple of them I saw passing by the other day?  If it was, they probably got their asses handed to them by whoever they bothered in Bag End...

How Dare You

My dad was a sailor, who served on the Kitty Hawk and in Vietnam.  (He wanted me to go to Annapolis, but I balked, and joined the civilian world much to my detriment, but I digress...)  His best friend was a Marine, and I've known Marines my whole life.  I've always loved them, and they've always been good to me.  There are times I couldn't have survived had it not been for a well-intentioned, enterprising young lance corporal.  I love them, and I always will.  (No love for the Core, but I care about those boys -- and girls, 'cuz there are a few BAMs out there...)

How could you?  These boys are on the edge, tweaking and high on heroin and homeless, sometimes selling their bodies after several tours.  Then they have to see that?  Fuck you sonsabitches.  Fuck you.  Those boys are my friends and I swear to god, if you try even a fraction with them of what you tried with me, I will seek you out, find you, and fuck your shit up for good.  Don't you ever dare fuck with them.  They are good men in pain, and I won't let you hurt them.  I am for real.  Call the local judge in the 415 if you want, go ahead -- tell them I threatened you.  It doesn't matter.  Karma actually exists, and you will get what's coming to you for hurting those boys.  There's nowhere to run to escape the consequences of what you've done.  Despair, if you've got the fucking brains to think that far ahead...

The Latest (And If I Had My Say, the Last) Straw

But then, when have I ever had my say?

Oh, right.

Here we go again.  What a sad, terrifying (but is it still mystifying, in 2016?) story.

Of course, if it had happened in San Francisco, the article in the SFGate wouldn't have come out until it could cite a fig-leaf toxicology report from the City's creepy ME at General, cover for the cops, and downplay or neglect to mention the victim's poor grandmother, who also died in a hail of gunfire.

They're lucky I wasn't there, or I probably would have pulled another mean Dark Phoenix number (with of course the little leg up from my usual lovely, anonymous assistants -- always grateful for you guys out there), twisting their porky, hair-trigger asses all over the place.

Goddamn them.  He was just a kid.  And his grandmother!

I don't blame so many people for being afraid to ask for help...

Old Beach Haven Ain't My Home

The old bolsheviks admonished us to kill all the landlords, but in my opinion (one echoing the experiences of Woodie Guthrie), low-income housing profiteers are the worst.  It's ugliest in the middle echelons. #TNDC.

Reno Screamer

I can't be the only one who's fed up with stories of cops shooting naked, unarmed, fucked-up people in public.  It's 2016 and this shit is still going on!

The Company You Keep

Your mama always told you:  if you lie down with dogs, you get fleas.  Personally, I don't know why anyone hangs out with Frank Haros.  That's a surefire way of getting your shit fucked up.  He has cost people their badges.  He is bad news.  You're better off just hanging out with me.

Pleading For The Fourth Amendment

"The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized."

Tenderloin Neighborhood Development Corporation

While I spent the last five years at 212, 230 Eddy Street, San Francisco, CA, trying my best not to do the "hot bitch from the 70s" routine where I shrink up against the wall and scream that they're coming to kill me for hours on end, it never occurred to me to put these questions to the City government, HUD, or the intelligence community (a pinay who lived in Riyadh?  Who are you people fooling...)  Anyway:

- What happened to that hot padre who was killed under mysterious circumstances (some say under a cloud) in Rome all those years ago?  Was his death where TNDC started going wrong?

- What if it's not all in my head and nowhere else besides in my head?  Hmm?

- How did that notorious pig Frank Haros (infamous in the 10 square blocks of the Tenderloin for years to come) able to piss everyone off for so long without paying for it?  I mean, who throws money out the window in people's faces and mentions "owning" someone in a predominately black neighborhood and get away with it, among other atrocities?  How did I luck into being a part of that freak show (albeit part-time)?

- Government-subsidized housing in San Francisco isn't rent-controlled?  What does that bode for TNDC's little system wherein they evict "trouble" tenants?

- What did the sheriff's deputy do when he showed up on the 22nd of October to escort me out and found that a gang of paid police officers had rousted me illegally from the unit?  I should follow up on that one.  (That's pretty sad:  in a town whose police department has no Internal Affairs division, you have to be pretty stupid to get in hot water with the commish...)

- Did anyone laugh at William's "Barbara Hershey from THE ENTITY" jokes?

Other questions may occur to me, but I'm kind of over it...

I'm Ready To Throw My Hands Up...

...Out of sheer exasperation.  I hate the way these cop deaths in NY and FL have been politicized. It just does not seem like the thing for people upset about police brutality to do -- it's the one thing people protesting police brutality would probably never do. Nor do I buy the conspiracy theory that the cops set up the murder of other cops whom they wanted dead (not to say it's inconceivable, but it is extremely unlikely). One of the more common delusions I've heard of from, say, tweakers, schizophrenics, and assorted other paranoiacs is that the cops are "out to get them." Chances are, a little digging into both shooters' pasts will uncover mental health issues -- they probably heard voices and hallucinated police hurting them in some way. I doubt that they themselves were victims of actual police brutality who were on some vengeful rampage. All this talk of assassination and retaliation seems extremely ill-informed, premature and irresponsible.

Reprinted From Facebook

Yeah, so no indictment. [It doesn't matter] whether you call them protests or riots, or what names you call the participants. At some point, words are shown to be the lies they can be, and are of no importance. I approve of the fact that there has been a populist response to the situation. That means people are still pissed off about the injustices ingrained in our culture -- good. Fine. I support any and all instances of civil disobedience in the wake of the jury's decision.

I have never in my history on facebook unfriended anyone. But I will unfriend the first moment I read a post in which the people's response is characterized as riots, if I see any talk of "savages" or "animals," or if I see that fucking ugly as sin meme in which a cop says "This is why we shoot you guys." I'm all for raw humor myself, and have been known to go places that will make South Park fans blush, but that shit -- especially that final meme I just mentioned -- is not cute or funny at fucking all.

EVERY 28 HOURS

(PS:  Much love to the veterans who wrote to protest to their brothers and sisters in the National Guard that the latter please stand down.  Thank you for using your voices in such a way, and bringing your thoughts and feelings to the table -- and as always, for your service to our country.)

Empty Ballroom Blues

Chandler ducked under the temporary blue awning and joined the line outside the Black Hawk at Hyde and Turk, where black and white musicians played side-by-side, where reefer smoke polluted the air.  A lot of single ladies there, even on a rainy day in the middle of November.  The patrons were mostly white, with quite a few exotic-looking folks in the mix.  He loved coming here for cheap cocktails and free conversation -- mostly, it was the latter, for work.

Chandler eyeballed the cloud-breathing crowd.  He noticed some high-tone Marina and Heights types:  some pearls -- real pearls -- and white gloves.

He turned his collar up against the chill, then reached into his pants pocket to make sure he still had a dime for coat check.

Inside the club, a haze of blue-gray smoke hovered over the patrons.  The place was well lit.  Nick Esposito and his sextet had taken the stage, surrounded by a tight knot of black-clad enthusiasts.  The band started into Empty Ballroom Blues -- who knew where they'd end up?  At the tables sat various couples on dates, or quartets of office mates.  Chandler threaded through these to Felicia, the beautiful negress who ran coat check.  She wore an aquamarine, full-length gown cut to mid-thigh, and was shaped like an hourglass.

"Hey Felicia."

"Hey Chandler -- you still running with Jorge?"

"No, but I've run up on a new case."  He surreptitiously passed her a dollar bill and kept his jacket.  "Did two men come in recently, guys who didn't check their bags?"

"Yeah.  Seems to me it was around Thursday, 10:00 PM, last week.  And they stayed for all of 20 minutes or something."

"One of 'em's a dead body -- shoot-out with the cops."

"Bad news."

"Did the other one look like this?"  Chandler held up a photograph.

"That's him.  Purveying heaters, I take it?"

"Something like that.  Guy's a meat packer.  I'd say this is his sideline."  He passed Felicia a dime.  "Call me at the Olympic, room 24.  About midnight."

"You bet.  Hope it doesn't get that hairy."

"Next time, I'll bring flowers."

"Make it a Venus Fly Trap."

They both laughed.



Down at the Ferry Building, under the tall letters that spelled out "Port of San Francisco," Chandler watched the play of lights on the water.  He heard a foghorn, and could make out the looming bank of black, moonless sky threaded with a glowing, white mist.

"Looking for mermaids, stranger?"

Chandler looked up and to his left.  Next to him stood a well-knit young dude with blond hair and the face of an angel.  The boy's fists were jammed into his pea coat pockets.

"Nah, just waiting for my ship to come in."

"I hear you."

"What's your line of work, stranger?"

"The name's Charles -- Charles Temple.  And I'm a student at Berkeley.  Just in town for the weekend.  Before this I was up in Little China.  I got a hotel room on Clay Street."

"Nice.  I'm Chandler, work as a private dick.  Heading in early tonight, expecting a call."

"I'll walk with you.  Where are you staying?"

"The Olympic, on Eddy between Taylor and Jones."

"I know a spot near there."

"Yeah, me too."  The two walked towards Market, under the new Embarcadero Freeway.  "Just so you know," Chandler confided thickly, "I haven't swung that way since the war, well over a decade ago.  You probably weren't out of diapers."

"Oh.  I thought, 'cos you were so close to the docks..."

"Well, I wasn't exactly on the market..."

"What do you normally go for?"

"Something a little more pneumatic.  Shapely trim."

"Listen, brother, you take home one of those 36-24-36 numbers, she's back at your place, she pops the girdle, and you know what you get?"

"What?"

"KABOOM!  Exactly what you deserve:  the whole woman and nothing but.  Now, you can hop on that jelly roll, or we can go get a beer."

"Beer."

"Got a nickel?"

They'd gotten twisted around just north of Market.  The two were near Hotaling and the Financial District, where young guys used to get Shanghaied after one too many.  Through the trap door they'd go, then out to sea.  Chandler and Temple stopped about 40 feet from a rat-swarmed bin.

Temple turned to Chandler.  "You said you were a dick.  You packin'?"

Chandler offered the boy his piece, butt-first.  It was the snub-nosed .38 he'd had since Fleet Week of '41.

Young Temple cradled the weapon in his right hand.  His finger rested over the trigger guard, and he pointed the barrel away from Chandler.  One got the notion this kid could fend for himself.

"Good weight.  I'm used to rifles, really.  My dad hunts deer up in the Colusa mountains.  Anyway, I can smell the oil.  I respect a man who takes the time with what could save his life."

"Yeah, I'm better with rifles, too," said Chandler, feeling awkward and a need to impress this young buck.

There was a rustle of paper behind them.  Temple spun around, and in one eye blink, one fluid motion, cocked the hammer with his left hand and fired a round from the hip.  One of the dog-sized rats keeled over in the same instant.

They were sure never to be noticed in this neighborhood at this time of night.  It was very unlikely anyone around would report gunfire.

"Sweet shot," exclaimed Chandler.  "How'd you do that?"

Temple laughed a little.  "I used to watch the cowboy serials every week as a kid, at the cinema.  I always wanted to shoot a revolver like the hero did.  One day, I bugged my dad until he taught me.  He came out of the war an E-5, back in '39, missing a leg."

"Sounds tough.  Marine?"

"Sailor."

"Well, you pop like that I just might have to hire you as I'm thinking I might need a tail-gunner."

"Beats the calculus."  Temple drew towards Chandler and the two kissed, spontaneously and with the full force of drunken Olympians over the body of bleeding Hyacinth.  Chandler, as he wrestled his new, decidedly lean conquest in the dark, did a quick mental calculation to make sure he could offer the boy what the boy needed should he prove useful...



The antique black phone rang abrasively.  Chandler picked it up, held the speaker to his ear and the mouthpiece to his clenched lips.  "Hello?  Chandler here."

"It's your coat-check girl, the dusky dame done come up out the South to beat the white devil and find trouble in Frisco.  Or if not trouble, at least a new way of elocutin' things."

"Thanks Felicia.  Better safe than sorry.  Quick question."

"Shoot."

"Have I ever struck you as 'sweet' that way?"

"No, why?"

"Never mind.  I guess I never did have a reputation as a tom cat.  It's just, I ran into this kid.  Never met the like before.  He's got me going all sorts of gay!"

"Well, sir, I'll have you know I entertain fantasies of Tyrone Power, which is blatant miscegenation.  I say good night, sir!"  She hung up.



Chandler laid his head on the pomade-stained pillow.  The couple of Benzedrine he'd taken prior to going out were giving him a hard time, but he tried to allow the beer to lull him down.  Whether he slept or not, Conchita would give him a wake-up call around 6 AM.  He planned to take a cab out to Mission and 16th, where this scum bag gun dealer had a day job packing pork.

With the windows closed, Chandler couldn't even hear the theater-bound traffic coming down Eddy Street.  Most of his neighbors were families visiting the City from Humboldt, Napa, Sacramento, Chico.  The doorman and the desk clerk were ample security.  He probably didn't even need any check-ups from Felicia, though the case was a violent crime, and he could have spent some more time lingering with that Charles Temple.  He felt he had something to prove to the young man, whose Berkeley phone number he remembered as Bridge-3786.

Before finally dozing off, Chandler briefly wondered if he himself should go back to college...

Tempting

Ferguson, Rick Perry, the Iraq crisis -- there's so much to continue bashing the other America about.  But it's been a long time since I published Freedom Camp, when the right wing was ascendant, and the Bush Administration was so scary people like me wrote online under pseudonyms (not that it mattered much.)  I'm not interested in being another Roy Edroso or Glenn Greenwald.  My grandmother's COINTELPRO-worthy history and my own Bush-era activism have gotten me in enough trouble.  I still never know when I'll be George Winston-ed out of the blue, or when I'll be able to finally put to rest Orwell references (I find them so tired these days.)  I do know I'm sick to death of thrashing right-wingers, most of whom I don't think of as hateful (as my friend Ruth said of her Arkansas kin -- they're not bad or malicious, they just know what they know, and no matter what they say, they, like the rest of us, take people case-by-case as they come.  They're not cretins, but rather often just fine people who are products of their time and place, and who don't know any better.  Certainly, they mean well.  I believe this.)  In fact, I never want to get in a flame war with DailyKos or About.com trolls again.  I'd even go so far as to say I somewhat regret how sharp-tongued I was with many Bush supporters during those years; too bad I can't take back some of the x-acto-fine lashings I doled out back then.  These days I am a devout Shin Buddhist, and will do my damnedest to say and think only beautiful things.  I'd even go so far as to say I'd love to meet former President Bush; he seems like a very personable guy with lots of good in him.

I guess you could say I "cowarded" out of the partisan war that the left and center-left seem to be winning these days.  I'd much rather outlive my mother after she passes on of old age and natural causes, than be felled by a letter bomb or a Red State dead-ender's made-good-on death threats.

Hence "The Hollow Man."  Occasionally harrowing, and every once in a while too close to the bone -- it is nevertheless an expression of the best of my writing abilities.  I've noticed it speaks to many more thousands of people than Freedom Camp ever did, it exceeds the previous blog in maturity and entertainment value, and it seems to be far more effective a bully pulpit for forwarding my agenda than some snarky, me-too post on a political message board.

(P.S.  Isn't it awkward noticing the CIA when they operate domestically?)

(P.P.S.  Tangential to the previous post-script, a big thumbs up to San Francisco Police Department's handling of a found bomb a couple of months ago.  Completely the opposite of what we'd expect from many East Coast authorities (see the Boston Marathon Bombing -- granted, that one went off, but still...))

Browsing With Cops

It took me a while to get it, but I finally did.  I mean, that's a rare one indeed who didn't grow up playing in the dirt like the rest of us.  You've got to wonder, who could fit that profile?  Do they even shit like a normal person?  Did they ever fight with their parents when they were kids?  What were they like on the school yard?


A librarian once told me, when I was surprised he couldn't give me a fact off the cuff (I though librarians were smart) -- he told me, "I don't know everything, but I know how to find anything out.  That's what librarians are for."  So I go to the library, for their wi-fi and a place to work that isn't my shitty apartment and isn't a precinct full of assholes (God bless 'em.)  Sure, the library's populated with ragamuffin scumbags whose socks stink up the place, but I have respect for the institution.


One dude is checking me out, all hateful, so I sit across from him.  Make sure to open my jacket so he sees my badge and holster.  Yeah, you made me.  So?  I'll ask you for your ID if I give a fuck about your priors.  The feeling's mutual, you know?


I open my Dell laptop and stare for a minute at the screen.  I click on Chrome, and it opens up to Google.  Now here's my problem:  the Internet has my answer, if I can just come up with right question...


Now, I'm looking for a pretty godawful piece of work.  If we had to judge, here's our scale:  the worst person in the world is God himself (we've seen what shitheads angels can be, right?), and the best person in the world is my wife.  Our perp is on one of the lower rungs.  Probably has a deep-seated fear that he is not in fact God, and he wants to be...

I Know I Have A Lot To Complain About...

But what's the point?  It's bad enough that people nevertheless found out about my situation -- how traumatic for them!

Okay, so a bit of belated venting (I've said so many thank-yous and your-welcomes, and will again soon):

I'm trying to avoid home all day today.  The unit is cheap for more than just the usual reasons.  Sometimes it feels like the psychosexual playpen of some worthless pieces of shit who somehow found jobs doing something no one should ever have done (certainly, no one with an iota of scruples asked them to.)  My neighbor continues to stalk me (and not even because he likes it -- his orders were to pretty much harass me to suicide, as though killing me weren't the easiest thing in the world.)  They've (and why the hell on Earth did I have to be the one with not only "Them," but multiple thems, some of whom are, as morality and good taste probably require, nominally on my side?) failed at everything, of course:  causing aphasia was one stated goal, suicide was another, "Elizabethan Drama" AKA Hamlet Murder Spree was another (idiots -- any ethical behavioral specialist would have told them immediately that someone as emotive as I am virtually never turns killer for any reason other than immediate self-defense.)  He or his wondering-why-they're-a-hair's-breadth-from-being-badgeless-if-they're-not-already cronies are reduced to planting bed bugs in my room (my responsibility, of course), and twice have stolen from me.  One of the more worthless little cunts tried to convince my neighbor I could turn homicidal under their tender ministrations -- a laugh as the neighbor she's trying to convince is from the Phillipines and a hell of a lot sharper than she acts.  She knows a killer from murder-bait.  The whole total domination thing continues to be a huge farce, a conspiracy to get revenge on me for being "difficult to work with," and hopefully to achieve sexual gratification for its architect, who is (oh please let that be "was," a past tense reality to be examined by a Senate Subcommittee Hearing I will be too embarrassed on behalf of the wrongdoers to want to know about) employed (or at least given license) by the same people who kept a dossier on my grandmother (COINTELPRO) for the precise reason that they did so (and kept one on me, as well, because of my political activities during the Bush Administration.)

These craptastic fucktards couldn't even successfully get me arrested.  Jesus.  Any twisted pig worth his or her salt could just make it up on the way to booking, for fuck's sake.

"Ooh, look at us, we're so evil...Ooh, and we're getting away with it.  We're going to kill you with lots of bullets and stuff."  That's pretty much what they act like with me.  Yeah, some of the emotional play is clever, but not terribly.  I have a theory that some of them do too much drugs, and maybe the wrong kind.  They make me wish I had more drugs -- MDMA and windowpane are looking lovely right now.  Threaten me for years and then BANG I'm dead.  I just don't know what they're out to accomplish -- mere emotional manipulation (not that hard with me), or successful cognitive capture and perceptual blockage or manipulation?  What does it matter whether or not I perceive my assailant?  What the fuck is the point of ghosting a non-com?  None  of these goals makes sense, as I'm as big and important as any other of the 7 billion assholes skulking about the globe, and really not worth the trouble.  And if I was wanted dead, why that was easily accomplished out of hand years ago.  What does it matter what's going on in my skull?  How does Dr. Caligari-ing me aid humanity in any meaningful sense?

And where did the fucking overwhelming firepower brought to bear on a psy-ops subject come into play?  A baby blue Marine could swish into my hovel and break my neck with two hands.

And what's with the being threatened by my occasionally making sense of some of what's going on?

And how is a conspiracy against little old me in any way impressive?

Of course answers will never be forthcoming.  But I'd really like to know why I'm the chosen one, when I'd much rather be another paranoid schizo loser.

Eat your heart out, MKUltra.

Of course, wouldn't it be funny if the punchline were that I was to me made a fool of?

Um, yeah.  There's a reason I just listened to that inane shit for years -- I was forced to.  If anyone else feels put out by the situation that's been going on, just count your motherfucking lucky stars that you're not me.