Monday, June 30, 2008

"Your soul contains all that is found in insects, pigs and vermin."

The J-7 mailbag--That's all she/he/it/shim wrote, that stalwart of J-7, old Bobby Crane. You know, Colonel Hogan, that goy who was murdered by John Carpenter (not the director). Most sites get these emails at some point or another, but I acknowledge the intensity of this material on this site. The senders hope to throw the recipient off-base, get them to feel beleaguered, embattled, and depressed. Well, that works if they're a conformist who cares what others think.

Unlike most Americans, I'm not one. So, my reaction is to actually enjoy when someone I dislike gets this angry and writes me something like this. It's my candy, my television. It cures whatever ails me. Bobby came around right before the end of the Palfrey trial. Their sell was interesting, and they weren't alone: I was close to the Palfrey case, and some wanted "access" to the late madam, and myself. Oh yeah, and they were offended by some things I wrote too...

One of them was the ambulance chasing L.A. attorney Sam Deskin (do a word search on this site with his name, enjoy), who had approached Palfrey sometime around January of this year for exclusive access and control of her phone records for deeper research and publication (for money, you got it). Sam once tried to get our sites fused together, and I stupidly agreed to this not knowing who he was or what he was about (money, crass power-grabs). Luckily, the blog software and his own site's were incompatible. Ah yes, there were several others who will remain nameless--but then along came "Bobby" (oooohhhh!).

Bobby wanted me to stop writing comments of praise about Sen. Barack Obama's former preacher, the Rev. Wright. I still agree with the majority of statements made by Wright, who could be described as someone practicing liberation theology. Bobby said I was being offensive..."as shit." Yeah, a real rocket scientist, that. Then, after the rude approach, Bobby plied me with the confidence game, very clever.

This is the gist: "Hey, we can be friends. I have this site you once passed through, and I'm trying to create an alliance of progressive sites that will communicate directly with Democratic national candidates--but you'll have to change your writing." I'm paraphrasing.

Since I was only born the day-before-yesterday, it didn't work. I was wise to the ruse. Do I think it's something scary, some kind of a conspiracy? Of course not, unless you count assholism as a global cabal (hmmmm...). And so, as chronicled in other parts of this blog, I told Bobby to fuck-off and that "I don't care what you think about anything at all." As as a matter of fact, I don't care what the readers of this piece think either.

To make things short, Bobby got more-and-more abusive--I'd already beaten him to it on that count. But Bobby and his ilk never got it and never will: I enjoy the bile, the hate, and the rejection. I like watching scoundrels writhe in agony. It's my badge of honor in what I consider to be a virtually soulless world void of much humanity, a place of idiots and meat puppets. I see conformists who wish to be liked by everyone as very pathetic creatures indeed. Do I believe I'm right about everything on this blog? Of course not, I'm human, but it's my right to express myself. But let's get to the crux, the original message that comprises the title of this piece, because it's all she wrote.

"Your soul contains all that is found in insects, pigs and vermin." I'm unsure why anybody would think this would offend me, especially someone who has no problem using a panoply of expletives (especially "fuck," popular favorite). But let's get a little quasi-scientific here: what's found in "insects, pigs and vermin"? The same elements that make up all life on earth, meaning hydrogen, oxygen, and of course, carbon. Yes, Bobby is a dumb-ass, and I'm being irritating. What's a soul made of? This is where the pixie-dust factor comes-into-play. Who fucking knows? Who cares? Exactly. I sure don't.

Bobby and his ilk are my entertainment, my video game. I love Bobby. Bobby makes me laugh at how impotent and ineffectual most of us are, myself included. But he also makes me feel a lot smarter, and that's always good for the ego, let's be honest. He's the proverbial duck in the barrel that I can shoot at. Any other takers? Snips, snails, and puppy dog tails--that's what your momma eats for brefist.' Thanks Bobby. Thanks for being ewe.

Postscript, 07.03.2008: I'm leaning towards it being Rob Cappriccioso of Bighead DC, he's probably still smarting from that whole Sam Donaldson flap.

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