bring the noyz

yes, that's right. . .

Fuck.
|

The second chapter in my tale of Tata Bennard:
_________

To: dr.noyz@yahoo.com
Subject: Urgent
From: "buchi" (tata6@myway.com)
Date: Sun, 28 May 2006 00:55:27 -0400 (EDT)

Dear Polymer Noyz,

I am very happy to recieve your email,Firstly I assure you that this business will be very successful and has no legal implications whatsoever as I have investigated and found out that no risk involved.

So you have to feel very free with me as I am now beggining to trust you and promise that I will never let you down, I want to have that promise from you also.

At this time what is needed now is the A/c information where you want the money to be transfered so that I will apply for the Release of the Fund according to Inheritance procedure.If you can be fast,the Transfer can be concluded under 10 banking days but you should keep the business to yourself You should not tell your bank that money is coming to your account because they may ask you questions that you may not be able to answer. I will tell you what and when to tell your bank with all the necessary document to back the source and origin of the fund as legitimate fund that do not originate from drug or money laundry.Here is the data needed by the Bank for the processing.

Beneficiary Name:...........
Account number..............
Bank Name:..................
Bank Address:...............
Swift Code:.................
Your Telephone & Fax No:..............

On receipt of the above information and a strong assurance from you that my trust and confidence in you is not misplaced,I will apply for release on your behalf with your account Details,This will enable the Bank process the payment Officially to your account and Foreign exchange Approval will be issued you by the National Treasury Department Of Finance in your favour legalizing the transfer so that your Government or your Bank will not question about source\origin of the Fund as the National Treasury Department Of Finace has already Legalized\Authorize the Transfer under the back up cover of repatriation of earning\investing scheme.

After the processing and subsequent Approval by the Bank, you will be required to travel to the Bank' Offshore Fudiciary Office at hong kong,holland london and malayasia to endorse the Release order of the Funds According to international Law of inheritace.
After the signing,the fund will be transferred to your account in your present and you will call your bank to confirm receipt of the fund in your account.

I am planning to meet with you two days ahead of the money going into your A/c. I want you to repose your full trust and confidence in me because this a great opportunity for us and it will be of great benefit for our generations generations.

After the proper sharing of the first $6 Million, we will be together and I will have the remaining balance transferred to your account and we will also share the same as I stated earlier.

I need your tel nos both private and office for easy communication a Waiting anxiously to hear from you.

God Bless You.

Mr. Bennard.
__________

The international Law of inheritance? Wow. That shit is piled high and deep. My turn!

Date: Mon, 29 May 2006 08:58:31 -0700 (PDT)
From: "polymer noyz" (dr.noyz@yahoo.com)
Subject: Re: Urgent
To: tata6@myway.com
Dearest Mr. Bennard

Let me begin by congratulating you on your prompt response to my previous correspondence. It pleasures me greatly. I am beginning to trust you and your promise that you will not let me down.

I reassure you that I have spoken not of this matter with another living soul, save my beloved black Labrador Retriever Sophie. I assure you that I am a good and decent man and not the deviant described in press accounts. I assure you of my innocence in my current legal entanglement. "Animal cruelty"? Hardly, as Sophie is frequently the instigator in our romps.

However, before I feel very free with you I hope you will grant me one small favor and provide some information to easy my concerns. I understand that in some cultures, business is conducted as though it were gambling affair of cards with each player slowly revealing their hands until one is victor and one is vanquished. That is not my belief. I believe that business affairs should be conducted as if by young lovers, each in turn slowly revealing greater glimpses of their nubile flesh until their collapes in passionate ecstacy of profits.

Please allow me the indulgence of continuing my metaphor. As you are the seductor in this circumstance, please go first and provide me with additional information so that I may better repose my full trust and confidence in you.

You state you are in Africa. Where in Africa? I recall from my primary school studies of geography that Africa is a very large place with many diverse ecosystems. Are you by chance in or near a jungle? Are there lions? Tigers? Bears?

Oh my.

I trust that you are far from the shores of Namibia. How painful it must be for you to witness your ebony brethren whore themselves for the vanities of the American filmstars who hide from their beauty and their fame so that the product of their passion may be produced with privacy. Brangelina indeed! An entire nation appears to have bowed before their wealth and answers their plantation calls with cries of "yes mas'er". And to name the child Shiloh of all things! Will they name their next child Gettysburg or Sherman's March to Atlanta?

My new friend, I urge you to provide satisfactory responses to my queries, for I am anxious to more fully reveal myself to you so that this business venture may successfully proceed. As I have stated, it's how I best believe the business game is played.

It is your turn.

most sincerely,

The Good Doctor Polymer Noyz
|

The last scamming bastard has yet to write me back. Sob.

Oh well, guess I'll just bite at another line. . .
__________

Date: Fri, 26 May 2006 00:32:14 +0100 (GMT+01:00)
From: "Mr Tata" (tatabuchi@virgilio.it)
Subject: From mr bennard

Hello Dear,

My name is Mr. Bennard Tata and I work in the International Operation Department in a Bank here in Africa. On a routine inspection I discovered a dormant domiciliary account with a BAL. Of $36,000,000.00 (Thirty Six Million USD) on further discreet investigation, I also discovered that the account holder has long since passed away (dead) leaving no beneficiary to the account. The bank will approve this money to any foreigner because the former operator of the a/c is a foreigner and from Iraq in particular and I am certainly sure that he is dead, and nobody will come again for the claim of this money

A foreigner can only claim this money with legal claims to the account Holder, therefore I need your cooperation in this transaction.

I will provide the necessary information needed in order to claim this money,
But you will need to open an account where this can be transferred. If interested send your private Telephone No. And Fax number including full details of the account to be used for the Deposit I wish for utmost confidentiality in handling this transaction as my job and the future of my family would be jeopardized if it were breached.

I want to assure you that the transaction is without risk if due process is followed accordingly.

Finally, I will give you 45% for your corporation. Contact immediately for more information.

Sincerely,

Mr. Bennard Tata .
__________

"Hello Dear"?!?!? Sweet, fucking sweet. My reply. . .
__________

Date: Sat, 27 May 2006 21:32:18 -0700 (PDT)
From: "polymer noyz" (dr.noyz@yahoo.com)
Subject: Re: From mr bennard
To: tata6@myway.com

Dear Mister Bennard Tata,

It is surely a sign of the grace of the Good Lord Above that I with much joy received your recent correspondence. Bismillah indeed! Your recent joyous news may soon provide the means to a far more satisfactory end that I believed possible a few scant days hence. Your proposal strikes me at the hour of my darkest need. Please sir, as we are both honest men of business, it is in the interest of negotiation that I trust you will grant me the indulgence to further elucidate my position.

Yes oh yes, it is quite true that for many years I have well understood the rather prudish and puritan nature of the community in which I reside. Typically such narrow-mindedness in the local populace would have long since sent me packing, but alas, to see the flowers here in springtime and to drive the boulevards lined with cherry blossoms. . . Surely sir, you also appreciate the beauty of nature in the multitude of its divine forms.

Ah yes, the beauty of nature in all its divine forms.

I fear my current situation is the result of a rather honest misunderstanding, and much like the plot of most episodes of the 1970's American television program "Three's Company" was built on such a premise, I can only pray that my circumstances also come to such a comic conclusion.

You see my good sir, I live in a town that loves animals. Dogs are welcome in most restaurants, you may find cats in carts at the corner grocery. My urban neighbors raise chickens. Goats freely roam the neighborhood, rummaging through garbage and eating old plastic bottles of Dr Pepper.

While I knew most in my community loved animals as do all good people, I was sadly mistaken as to where those in my community place the limits on their love.

I am neither a barbarian nor a heathen in the field. My parents, God Rest Their Souls, were wonderfully educated and open-minded people who raised and educated me in the traditions of the Three Great Monotheistic Faiths. I am well aware of the immoral nature of my actions. But when Sophie, my beautiful and beloved black Labrador Retriever, looks at me with her big brown eyes as her long pink tongue hangs so seductively from the side of her mouth. . .

Do not judge me sir, for I need not remind you that Adam also gave into temptation.

And yes, while I knew my actions were immoral, I did not know they were illegal until the local District Attorney brought it to my attention while together we viewed a videotape allegedly made by one of my neighbors rather late on a Sunday evening.

For the past 72 hours a rather suspicious looking white van occupied by a man in dark sunglasses has been sitting on the curb opposite my driveway. I have no doubt that I am being surveiled. At this time I am unable to provide you with either a private Telephone No. And/Or Fax number including full details of the account to be used for the Deposit. Please respond to this electronic correspondence with additional information as to how we may proceed with this transaction.

Now that you have a better understanding of my need for the finances to restore my good name, I know you will also understand that your offer of 45% is a very generous offer, much too generous for one such as myself in such dire straits. As my legal expenses exponentially rise, I will gladly settle for 30%, provided we can conclude this transaction most expediently.

I anxiously await your response,

Doctor Polymer Noyz
|

Yesterday brought a brief respite from the ongoing drama of The Boy. . .

It was graduation day at school. This year's class was a class of one, a student of mine. This posting is in his honor.

AISD Marks a Special Graduation

Rosedale graduation celebrates milestones

I spoke on Jonathan's behalf. I composed the speech largely in my mind between the hours of 2:00 - 4:00 am Sunday night/Monday morning while pacing The Boy's hospital room obsessing over numbers on his pulse oximeter. I hastily wrote down what I could remember of it less than an hour before I had to deliver it. So basically, what I'm saying is, while it may be inspired, it is probably not my best effort.

This is what I said:

I first met Jonathan in the summer of 1996 during our extended summer session. He was a student in my afternoon class. As I remember it, he came into school almost everyday barefoot, because at that time he didn't like to wear shoes, and he was dirty. He was dirty not because he was not well cared for, he was dirty because he spent the mornings at his father's small engine repair shop. He frequently arrived with a dirty face and dirty hands, and his clothes smelled like grease and oil.

I thought it was perfect. Like Tom Sawyer. I thought Jonathan was a perfect example of a typical American boy, carefree and curious with a sense of adventure and exploration that frequently bordered on mischievous.

I've always suspected that Jonathan's love of shiny jangly metal things, such as keys and chains, grew out of those mornings spent at his father's shop. On more than one occasion this has left a teacher what happened to his keys.

Like all good young men, Jonathan is determined and strong-willed. Once he has decided on a course of action there is no stopping him. This is true whether he is walking laps in the gym during P.E., helping to package materials at Golfsmith, or trying to sneak into the kitchen early at mealtime.

Over the years Jonathan has grown into a handsome young man, he has not lost his energetic enthusiasm. He loves to walk around around campus and visit other classrooms, focusing his attention on the classrooms where he believes he is most likely to get a snack. If he had his way he would doubtlessly spend his days wandering the halls, frequently stopping by Stella's room to charm almonds, crackers, or chips out of his friend Paul. His contagious and engaging smile frequently charmed many school staff members out of their snacks.

Yes, Jonathan has the boyish charm of Tom Sawyer. When he cocks his head to the side and looks at you with an impish grin, you can't help but wonder if in his mind you're the one whitewashing the fence.

Today Jonathan, my student, my friend, you are preparing to leave your school days and your adolescence behind, and head off into the brave new adult world.

Before you go Jonathan, I ask all of us assembled in your honor, to join me in saluting you with your unique gesture to communicate both extreme elation or incredulous "I can't believe you're making me do this" anger, depending on the context of the situation.

As this is a festive occasion, it is the elation and joy I wish to convey.

So please everybody, raise your left hand before your face. . .

Jonathan, I bite my hand at you.
|

The Boy is home from the hospital.

smile. . .

He has made remarkable progress since Friday. But he is not fully recovered from his most recent and scariest yet bout of pneumonia. He is getting better, but we still have a long way to go. He remains on oxygen, his respirations are generally crazy fast, and his lungs still sound like crap.

The good news is The Boy is well enough for the hospital doctor to release him, but I fear, no, I know in my heart that week to come will be very long and the nights will bring little sleep for The Wife and I.

Right now, we are all very, very tired.

yawn. . .

All for the love of The Boy. . .
|

16 plus hours at the hospital.

Again self-medicating as before.

Kept moving by adrenaline fires fueled by caffeine. Damn, that Devil Starbuck sure does make a damn fine cup of coffee.

Home now. Physically exhausted to the point of total body pain. But the mind. . . oh yes, the mind keeps spinning, spinning, spinning. Sometimes you just gotta do something to shut down the machine.

Don't know how The Wife is doing it. I tried to talk her into being the one to come tonight, she is in far greater need of rest. She said, "If I go home, I'll just be a mess. I'd rather just be a mess here."

Never come between a momma bear and her cub.

It's like this super-human mom power just fucking took over. It is amazing to behold. Far less sleep than I. She knows too much. Her education adds to her anxiety because she more fully understands the gravity of the situation and is kept awake by thoughts of the myriad things that can still go wrong. Damn I love her.

But I slightly digress. . .

The Boy remains sick. Really sick. Apparently he's come down with a rather nasty case of pneumonia.

Fuck. It is our greatest fear realized. It always is. The Boy has respiratory issues on the best of days. They pose the greatest continual threat to his health. Throw in some nasty bug and "Presto!"

Although the prognosis remains positive, we are not yet completely back from the edge of being totally fucked.

Good news: Out of the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU), into a room on a regular floor. Wonderful afternoon, seriously entertaining thoughts of leaving tomorrow.

Bad news: Bit of a relapse of the whole can't fucking breathe because his lungs are blocked with mucous thing at about six this evening. When I left the hospital we were right back where we started yesterday, minus being back in the fishbowl of the PICU.

Optimisitic news: The Wife and I had a nice chat with the doctor right before I left. I think they are finally starting to get it and hopefully realize that we know our kid better than they do so they should just shut the fuck up and listen to the things we tell them. We are not some fucking rednecks with a regular sick kid. We are highly trained, experienced and educated. The Boy is indeed a unique creature, not at all wired or constructed like the rest of us. He is The Boy, our boy. We know him, we love him. We fucking understand. Shut your fucking pie-hole and think twice before lecturing us about meeting The Boy's medical needs. We know the medical shit. We live with it every goddamned day. So either fuck off or listen!

Sorry, I was ranting. Just feeling a little frustration with recent events and with the overall healthcare system. I'm just really fucking tired and just want to bring my kid fucking home.

Sigh. . .

Again, out of the PICU but not out of the woods. . .
|

Saturday morning. I got a few hours of sleep that was days overdue. I am still feeling emotionally and physically exhausted, but am well enough rested to proceed. Sleep has brought a renewed sense of optimism.

I do not think that today is going to suck giant ass quite as badly as I did last night. I now believe today will only suck more moderate sized ass.

The Wife has not called. This is a case where no news is indeed good news.

I am off to rejoin my family and spend another very long day at the hospital.

All for the love of The Boy. . .
|

Last night, The Wife and I went to see The Violent Femmes. I love the Violent Femmes. Did you know, you can't fuck with the Violent Femmes? You can not fuck with this band. It's true. I heard someone say it once on a recording.

The Violent Femmes: midwestern minimalist music for socially awkward serial killers. I love it.

Tonight, I was gonna write a hopefully charming and witty review. Not so much one of the musical perfomance, I'll leave that for the clamour of the critics. I was gonna write more about the entire show. I wanted to write about being first beside, and then surrounded by a gaggle of Tecate sucking coeds who jabbered incessantly. I wanted to convey with humor my annoyance at the way they stood on either side of us and gestured wildly, thumb tapping on their cell phones and actually text messaging each other about the state of their real and imagined social relationships. Only once did they pause briefly to sing, with neither sense nor understanding of the irony of their actions:

When I'm out walking I strut my stuff yeah I'm so strung out
I'm high as a kite I just might stop to check you out
let me go on
like I blister in the sun
let me go on
big hands I know your the one
body and beats I stain my sheets I don't even know why
my girlfriend she's at the end she is starting to cry
let me go on
like I blister in the sun
let me go on
big hands I know your the one

I was gonna write about all that. But now I'm not. Now, none of it matters. Hell, none of it ever did. It never does. We delude ourselves into giving meaning to the trivial, falsely secure in the the thin comfort of our daily affairs.

Situations evolve, events spiral.

Instead I myself sitting here, self-medicating myself with a Sprite laced with a double shot of medium grade tequila into a more relaxed mind state. Again and again I listen while Bob Marley repeatedly tells me

Don't worry about a thing, 'cause every little thing's gonna be all right

I have just returned home. I have just left The Boy snuggled in the arms of The Wife a few miles from here.

It's been a bad day.

No, it's nothing really new, no roads untravelled here. All this week The Boy has been putting us all through the paces of his various respiratory issues and ailments. He is quite sick. It happens every once and awhile. It's part of the nature of The Boy.

Today was the exception. The Boy went a little farther down that road than we have been before. It's not a pretty place.

Tonight The Boy and The Wife rest uncomfortably at the local Pediatric Intensive Care Unit.

They are in a small room, cramped with the cold sterility of monitors and machines. The wall shared with the corridor is made entirely of windows.

It is an odd place and disconcerting place.

While there, you will sometimes find that you can no longer look at the frail plugged-in and tuned-out body of The Boy because you will invevitably explode into tears. You need to look briefly away.

You will stare either at the nothingness or obsessively watch the numbers on the monitors, silently cursing and praying they move in the right directions. You can't help but to peer out at the doctors and nurses who parade by, looking at you and your child as though you are the new attraction while making notes on their clipboards.

When I left The Boy was receiving 7 plus liters of oxygen per whatever the fuck unit they use. I may not know the unit but I know it's a whole fucking lot. He's connected to all the machines, up to and including the one that goes "ping". It is sometimes a struggle, but he is breathing on his own. His heart is racing, his respirations are shallow and way to fucking fast. The doctors and nurses repeatedly mentioned the option of something called "intubation" in tones that vary from serious and concerned to sometimes almost patronizing.

I get the general idea, but I am still somewhat blissfully ignorant of exactly what that means, involves, and entails. The Recent Nursing School Graduate Wife recoils in fear at the sound of the word.

I just hope your right, Bob. I hope and pray you are right.
|

Okay. So it's been quite a while, let's play. . .

To: The Good Doctor Polymer Noyz
Date: Sat, 15 Apr 2006 13:58:41 +0100 (GMT+01:00)
From: elisa.zamora9@virgilio.it
Subject: FROM SELECT AWARD

FROM SELECT AWARD
FROM THE DESK OF THE DIRECT
SELECTLOTTO INTERNATIONAL
AWARD NL.
PROMOTION/PRIZE AWARD DEPT.
DAAWERK 100A, 1103KA
AMSTERDAM
THE NETHERLANDS.
CONGRATULATION!!!

We are pleased to inform you the result of the computer random selection for the SELECT LOTTERY International program held on 15th April, 2006.Your personal or company
email address, attached to ticket number 205-11465886-629, with serial number 3772-99 drew the lucky numbers 7-14-17-23-31-44, and consequently won the lottery in the 2nd category.

The email lottery draws was conducted from an exclusive list of 800,000.000 e-
mail addresses of individual, companies, and corporate bodies picked by an advanced automated random computer search ballot system from the Internet. All participants email addresses were extracted/selected through a computer balloting system drawn from 800,000.000 email addresses from all over the world as part of our International
Promotions Program, which is conducted annually. No tickets were sold. It was a promotional program from our software department in promoting the benefit of the Internet usage.

You have therefore been approved for a lump sum pay out of (nine hundred thousand united state dollars)$900,000:00 in cash credited to file REF NO: Ref.No NLD/2300786008/06.Batch No 10/044/SLN This is from total prize money of $200 million shared among several international lucky winners in this category.

CONGRATULATIONS!!! Your funds have now been deposited and insured with our affiliate security firm for transfer into your nominated bank account either by means of wire transfers through any of our correspondent banks or any other means suitable to you. We also
advice that you keep your winning information very confidential as our security policy demands to avoid double claims/impersonation and unwarranted taking advantage of this program by participants. To begin your claims, you are urgently requested to contact our claims agent (Regional Finance) Amsterdam-Netherlands immediately with your telephone\ number and fax numbers, and make sure you quote your, REF NO: NLD/2300786008/06,Batch No: 10/044/SLN your name and contact details in
all your correspondence with the finance institute. Your allocated claims agent details are as follows.

Company Name:Regional Finance
Officer in Charge: Mr.Andrea peter
Tel/Fax:0031-847-404-155
E-mail:
regionalfin001@netscape.net

Remember, all winnings must be claim not later than 1st of May 2006. After this date all unclaimed funds will be return to the promotion company.

Yours sincerely,
Mrs Eliza Zamora(Lottery Coordinator)
_______________

Alright, I'll bite. . .

Date: Sun, 14 May 2006 10:01:18 -700 (PDT)
From: The Good Doctor Polymer Noyz
Subject: REF NO: NLD/2300786008/06,Batch No: 10/044/SLN
To: regionalfin001@netscape.net
CC: elisa.zamora9@virgilio.it

To the Amazing Mister Andrea Peter,

Good sir, I beg of thee I am not too late in giving answer to your correspondence. Recent unfortunate circumstances have prevented a more prompt response. Having received your electronic correspondence informing my of my SELECT LOTTERY International award winnings, I felt in need of a celebratory beverage. I was in route to a local watering hole to enjoy the indulgence of an icy cold Lone Star Longneck. A local resident, blonde, proportionally petite with pouty lips and sky-blue eyes, in her early thirties was apparently distracted by the excessive volume she was allowing her four and six year old boys to watch a backseat Sponge Bob DVD while they bickered behind her in a 2006 Chevy Suburban. She failed to notice the crimson change of the light and subsequently gave me quite a tap on the backside.

Well sir, what would you have done? The same as I no doubt.

I was chatting her up and exchanging insurance information, quite certain that she was 85% convinced to meet me later on that evening at my home for martinis and to discuss the deplorable state of her marriage. It is true, most men really don't understand. As she was spiking 98% convinced the local constabulary arrived to investigate the scene.

Blast! Damn blast it! I was seconds away from securing the opportunity to give her quite a good tap on the backside.

For the moment fortune was still with me, the young officer was distracted by the sight of a small roughly heart-shaped tattoo. It was barely visible on the right side of her tanned aerobically toned lower abdomen slightly above the sinking waistband of her low-rise designer jeans. Had he not been distracted, he surely would have quite rightfully sensed the immediate need to conduct a field sobriety test, on me, not the MILF.

At his request, I returned to my car to obtain my vehicle title information from my glove box. Although exactly how remains a mystery to me, I inadvertantly bumped the trunk release mechanism.

It was at this moment that my fortune changed.

With the trunk of my car now opened wider than a cheerleader on prom night, it was only a brief moment before the young officer happened to notice a small collection of gardening tools in my trunk. An unobtrusive, otherwise un-unique collection of gardening tools, except for all the blood with which they appeared to be covered.

Then things quickly spiraled out of control.

While I have little doubt that bloodied gardening tools would arouse the suspicion of any trained law enforcement official, the young officer's awareness was heightened by recent news reports about a local coed who was last seen by a homeless man foolishly walking alone to her car following a night's festivities in the downtown entertainment district. Rumour has it the perpetrator was convinced the dirty dingy bastard was drunkenly unconscious or he would have never been so brazen in snagging the snatch.

Well sir, as you well imagine, I was promptly apprehended. A subsequent search of my home was rather revealing. I assure you as an honest man of business, I am as baffled as the police as to how those images got onto my computer.

Due to the dedication of my defense attorney and the hard work of an area private investigator who knows exactly where the judge airs his dirty laundry, my indictment has been postponed "pending further investigation". I was subsequently released at a rather hefty bail, or rather as I tend to view it, an investment in freedom. A hefty investment indeed! I sadly now find myself in rather dire financial straits.

I pray you understand sir, the reason for my delay in reply and agree with both my need for urgency and the urgency of my need.

As you are also an honest man of business, you doubtlessly understand how bogged down with bureaucracy the wheels of business can become. I am quite prepared to lubricate and grease those wheels so that the machine of this transaction may move forward. I am confident we can reach an agreement that is agreeable to all parties involved. Please sir, contact me through response to this electronic correspondence as quickly as possible. I am quite eager to take whatever steps our needed to secure a transfer of funds from your affiliate security firm into my nominated bank account either by means of wire transfers through any of your correspondent banks or any other means suitable to me.

I thank you for your time, and pray that Divine Providence shine brightly down upon you. Godspeed!

humbly and sincerely,

The Good Doctor Polymer Noyz
|

"I hate Illinois Nazis."

And I assume, ones from Alabama as well.

So um, there's that Judge Moore fella and now this guy. Is Alabama working on a new state motto?

Alabama: as fucked as Florida but with fascist Nazi bastards!

Um yeah, that's the ticket.

"I am astonished as anyone has ever been that anyone is running for public office in Alabama on that platform," said Tyson.

Sweet home Alabama?

My ass.


|

Or rather, as at least for now we still have the freedom to say it --

Jesus H Fucking Christ!

My dear reader, if you have not already done so I implore thee and beseech thee from the very bowels of Christ to take whatever steps for you are necessary and for the love of Mary blessed mother and all things sacred, by all means read this mother fucking gah'damned article:

Kindom Coming: The Rise of Christian Nationalism

Sweet Moses testicles!

Sure, it starts out funny enough:

May 12, 2006 | A teenage modern dance troupe dressed all in black took their places on the stage of the First Baptist Church of Pleasant Grove, a suburb of Birmingham, Alabama. Two dancers, donning black overcoats, crossed their arms menacingly. As a Christian pop ballad swelled on the speakers, a boy wearing judicial robes walked out. Holding a Ten Commandments tablet that seemed to be made of cardboard, he was playing former Alabama Supreme Court justice Roy Moore. The trench-coated thugs approached him, miming a violent rebuke and forcing him to the other end of the stage, sans Commandments.

There, a cluster of dancers impersonating liberal activists waved signs with slogans like "No Moore!" and "Keep God Out!! No God in Court." The boy Moore danced a harangue, first lurching toward his tormentors and then cringing back in outrage before breaking through their line to lunge for his monument. But the dancers in trench coats -- agents of atheism -- got hold of it first and took it away, leaving him abject on the floor. As the song's uplifting chorus played -- "After you've done all you can, you just stand" -- a dancer in a white robe, playing either an angel or God himself, came forward and helped the Moore character to his feet.

The performance ended to enthusiastic applause from a crowd that included many Alabama judges and politicians, as well as Roy Moore himself, a gaunt man with a courtly manner and the wrath of Leviticus in his eyes.

But soon there after it gets fucking scary:

Still, it's worth noting that thousands of Americans nationwide have flocked to rallies at which military men don uniforms and pledge to seize the reins of power in America on behalf of Christianity. In many places, local religious leaders and politicians lend their support to AVIDD's cause. And at least some of the people at these rallies speak with seething resentment about the tyranny of Jews over America's Christian majority.

"People who call themselves Jews represent maybe 2 or 3 percent of our people," Cabaniss told me after a January 2005 rally in Austin. "Christians represent a huge percent, and we don't believe that a small percentage should destroy the values of the larger percentage."

I asked Cabaniss, a thin, white-haired man who wore a suit with a red, white, and blue tie and a U.S. Army baseball cap, whether he was saying that American Jews have too much power. "It appears that way," he replied. "They're a driving force behind trying to take everything to do with Christianity out of our system. That's the part that makes us very upset."

Ed Hamilton, who'd come to the rally from San Antonio, interjected, "There are very wealthy Jews in high places, and they have significant control over a lot of financial matters and some political matters. They have disproportionate amount of influence in our financial structure."

We were standing outside the Texas Capitol building on a sunny Saturday morning. A few hundred people from across the state had turned out for the rally, which began at 10 a.m. Three or four men in military uniforms sat with their wives on chairs at the top of the Capitol steps. Next to them sat an old man dressed as Uncle Sam in a tall Stars and Stripes top hat, a red, white, and blue suit, and a pointy white beard. Four other men supported tall, coffin-shaped signs labeled with the names of objectionable Supreme Court rulings.

Okay, that was as surreal as it is scary. But this, this glimpse into their minds is spine chillingly frightening:

Just as political Islam is often called Islamism to differentiate the fascist political doctrine from the faith, the ideology laid out in these papers could be called Christianism. The documents outline a complete political program, with a "biblically correct" position on issues like taxes (God favors a flat rate), public schools (generally frowned upon), and the media and the arts ("We deny that any pornography and other blasphemy are permissible as art or 'free speech'").

In a 1988 letter to supporters, Grimstead announced the completion of a high school curriculum "using the COR Worldview Documents as textbooks." Since then, there's been a proliferation of schools, books, and seminars devoted to inculcating the correct Christian worldview in students and activists. Charles Colson accepts one hundred people annually into his yearlong "worldview training" courses, which include meetings in Washington, D.C., online seminars, "mentoring," and several hours of homework each week. "The program will be heavily weighted towards how to think," Colson's Web site says. It's intended for those who work in churches, media, law, government, and education, and who can thus teach others to think the same way.

Those who don't have a year to spare can attend one of more than a dozen Worldview Weekend conferences held every year in churches nationwide. Popular speakers include the revisionist Christian nationalist historian David Barton, David Limbaugh (Rush's born-again brother), and evangelical former sitcom star Kirk Cameron. In 2003, Tom DeLay was a featured speaker at a Worldview Weekend at Rick Scarborough's former church in Pearland, Texas. He told the crowd, "Only Christianity offers a comprehensive worldview that covers all areas of life and thought, every aspect of creation. Only Christianity offers a way to live in response to the realities that we find in this world. Only Christianity."

Kirk Cameron? Okay, Kirk Cameron is more goofy than scary, but the rest of it. . . yikes!

Christianism? Fucking frightening. Those people are at least misguided or at most deceptive lying goat sodomizing hypocritical bastards.

I briefly have a feeling that someday we will be fighting them if not literally for our lives, then for all that our lives mean. Won't you join me?
|

. . . with thanks to Anderson Cooper, 'cuz I really haven't paid that much attention to the news over the past couple of days. Thank God people like him are there to monitor the world for me and tell me what I need to know.

This guy is kooky, way kooky, and not in that lend me your comb type of way.
|

somewhat related to the first, but not entirely. . .

When inadvertantly allowed to sit out until they reach room temperature, jello shots have the same consistency as swallowing a glob of coughed up phlegm, except they are much tastier minus the whole burning sensation of the really cheap vodka used in their production.

That is all.

For now.
|

I am frequently the victim of my own expectations.
|

This is truly the most reprehensible thing I have read recently:

An Army of one wrong recruit

Remember folks, they're doing it with our money in alleged service to our country.

The fucking cunts. I'd rant more but I'm so disgusted and repulsed I'm gonna go throw up.

String the bastards up, the whole lot of 'em.
|

One day in a nuclear age
They may understand our rage
They build machines that they can't control
And bury the waste in a great big hole
-- Sting

Howdy, how ya' doing you centuries in the future human or humanish or humanoid or para-supra-human cyborg type of creature?

Wait. I'll bet by then "Hola! Como esta?" is a more appropriate and easily understood greeting.

Well, I um. . . just wanted to say hello, what's the weather like?

Oh, you ask what's this? Yes of course, I understand, this is, or rather was from your perspective, a tree.

What happened to them? That's a good question. As it turned out. . . well, you know how it turned out, you have the Blessed Wisdom of the Sacred Neil. They were all kept equal by hatchet, axe, and saw.

I just wanna remind y'all to be careful out there.
|

From the very beginning let me make one thing perfectly clear: I am not writing this now because I want to do so, I am writing this now because I need to do so.

Please consider this a compulsion for catharsis, if you will.

As I write this a party rages on. . . okay not exactly rages, but there is very definitely a party going on behind me, at the home of an unknown neighbor.

(i love you too!!!!!!! - The Wife suddenly appears, leans over me and types as she comes out to say tell me goodnight before she goes to bed. Her final exam is Monday morning. Monday afternoon she will be finished with nursing school. Yeah! But until then, the remainder of her weekend will be full of textbooks and notes about things nursing and medical concepts that I vaguely understand although her vocabulary remains as foreign to me as another language.)

Anyway. . .

Although I remain grateful that you take the time from your busy life to read my humble ramblings, right now I do not write now for you, my dear reader.

(sorry, I could not resist the pun of the homonym)

This rambling is addressed to you. Although it has been many months since your last visit, believe me my friend, I have not forgotten. Still, I thank you for taking the time to once again visit me within a dream.

As I write this and the party behind not exactly rages I am sipping on a Moosehead, a leftover from last weekend's celebration. What once seemed so luxurious and exotic to those who came of age through experience if not yet legally when these guys were kings, now seems only a fitting beverage to pass an evening with a drink and friend. Like always, I raise it high and pour some out, "to the brotha that ain't here".

You bastard, you would should have would have been here. But you chose a different path.

In a way, you always did.

Last night you came by for a visit.

Last night as I lay sleeping, The Wife and I came by the apartment you and I once shared. Except it wasn't exactly our old apartment, such are the ways of dreams, but rather a combination of many of the apartments where we once lived and celebrated our little victories.

As we walked up, you were walking out the front door with your arms full of record albums. You placed them down at the end of the sidewalk in the parking lot out front. Around you lay stacks and piles of your other possessions.

You greeted us and embraced us warmly, as you always did. I asked, "What are you doing?"

"I'm having a garage sale!" you replied with your trademark enthusiasm, "Except, I'm not really selling anything." You must have sensed my puzzled look, "I'm giving it away."

"A garage sale? Giving it away?" I queried. "Are you moving?"

You paused briefly, and then answered in a tone of voice that suggested more of a jestful riddle than a reply, "I will be leaving soon." Forever the intellectual prankster, you frequently answered questions with that tone of voice.

Then a clap of thunder from the night storms interupts. I glance at the clock. 2:30 am or so, it's time to get up and check on The Boy. I do so. I gently turn him over, tuck him back in under the covers and tell him I love him. He does not stir. I quickly and quietly return to bed.

Time obviously passes, how much I do not know. Again The Wife and I approach the old apartment that is both ours and all the other ones from that era. Your stacks and piles of stuff are diminished but still there. A few yards away at the end of the walkway the front door rests open.

The Wife and I enter. It is comfortable and familiar but the feeling is not right. As I stand in the living room, The Wife walks down the hallway and turns through your open bedroom door. She exits as quickly as she enters, calmly turns to face me and says quietly, "You don't need to go in there."

No, I don't. My perspective shifts and I briefly see through her eyes what she has seen.

You were right, you were leaving. You have left. Your bloodied body remains lying on the beer stained and cigarette burned carpet.

Thunder again. I glance at the clock. The alarm will go off in about ten minutes.

Now it don't take no freakin' Freudian psychiatrist to interpret the symbolism and meaning of that dream. No sir, not by a longshot, so I will neither dwell on nor describe it at present.

I will say this though my friend, I was and remain surprised by such a visit.

I should not surprised. You both remain frequently in my thoughts if now only occassionally in my rantings.

But still I was.

It was not so much your presence that was surprising, it was the power of it. It shook me from my sleep as much as the thunder.

So now tonight I sit outside in the cool of the night's breeze listening without a hint of irony to The Remembering.

I pop a Shiner Bock, raise it high and again I toast. . .

To the brotha that ain't here. . .

In the days of summers so long
We danced as evenings sang their song

|

From today's electronic correspondence. . .

TO: Richard Cohen (cohenr@washpost.com)
FROM: The Good Doctor Polymer Noyz (dr.noyz@yahoo.com)
DATE: May 4, 2006
SUBJECT: So not funny? HA!

Sir,

I have a question regarding your recent column criticizing Stephen Colbert's appearance at the White House Correspondents' Association dinner.

Was it difficult to see the words on the screen as you typed with George Bush's balls slapping you in the eyes as you sucked his ass?

Ho ho, now that's funny.

peace love and pancakes,

The Good Doctor Polymer Noyz
|