Letter to Laetitia:
Pop Culture, The Death of a Planet.


laetitia_casta_part_03

Ah yes, don't be surprised if one group of people standing on the heads of another group of people to get to the top, that some bastards on the bottom with sore heads might not get pissed off.

And I hope that bastards that get pissed off and move to the top, remember where there they came from.

Of course it isn't as bad as it was 150 years ago in Canada. The trees and Natives are gone from there, like they are gone here in Europe and life can be a little more open for all to enjoy.

But.

It is okay if we keep trying to make it better, for all involved. The rich will still want to be rich, we can believe the lie that anyone can be rich and work our asses off to realize it might not be true.

"Could you sum it up in a grammatically correct sentence?"

"No."

"Then let me say it."

"What do you want to say?"

"That's the question I'm asking you."

"All I wanted to do is sit and write for an hour to feel like a writer."

"How about this: things, some things, seem to be getting better. Some things aren't. We are many people here now and can't afford for things to get worse. We have to accept that we are all in this sinking ship together. Standing on other peoples head won't keep the ship from going under."

"That doesn't sum up anything."

"Well, piss on it."

"How about, legalize grass, save the trees, the earth and sky, be nice to your neighbor, don't poke him in the eye."

"All right, but what's that to do with too short over weight women wanting to be millionaires?"

"Everyone wants to be a millionaire, they tell me it's true. The thing is you can be, or something like it, depending on what you do."

"How about if I sell you as a slave and invest the 100 dollars in importing virgins from 3rd world countries so rich fuckers can fuck them without condoms and not worry about diseases?"

"No, the market is full, and they often fuck them to death and make a video of it and somehow it seems like it cost too much to make money that way."

"Well, how about just stealing children and selling them to rich bastards and they can to what they want."

"Because those rich bastards that fuck children, let's avoid euphemisms, rape children, and not all the bastards are rich, deserve to have their genitalia removed and shoved up their asses."

"Why we talking about raping children as a business?"

"The question is what do we do for money and what do we do when we have it?"

"Let's keep the children out of it."

"Yes, good point. Perhaps we can keep a few other sicknesses out of it as well and do something that betters our situation on this planet, even for the children who are being raped."

"Not all children are raped."

"Not all, but more than zero and that is too many."

Laetitia, I don't know how we got to child raping. It is a thing I don't like to think about. But it happens. For money and for fun. I can't think of any other way to make a child's life more of a night mare but I'm sure someone is doing something worse. Maybe you've heard of underground movies where the rapes and murders are real. No? Do you believe there are such films? I haven't seen one. If I did, which since I don't have a video machine, I think I wouldn't like it. Rape and murder is not what I like so much. It somehow goes against my better judgment. I would become a murderer myself if I forgot that I have no right to decide who lives and dies. There are some things though that will drive anyone to violence.

Imagine if you were sold for a movie, raped repeatedly and beaten and kept in a dark sell and pissed on by those who raped you and someone came into your cell in the night with a large knife, cameras rolling, lights bright, he takes a stab at your heart but you have backed away in shock and the knife hits your arm, and he looses his grip, cameras still rolling, you grab the knife so he can't hurt you, but for a second you think: if I could kill the fucker and the bastard behind the camera.

Truth is, you have no time to think then. You have only the time to grab the knife and slash his throat opened. You haven't even time to think of the cameraman, he has to die before he can take stock of the new situation.

You have to push your attacker, the one shooting blood everywhere, into the camera so it knocks the cameraman over so you can cut his throat.

You are now a killer.

They have raped you, humiliated you to no degree of hope and you want them all dead. Every last fuckin' one of the bastards. There is no time to think of your bleeding arm, there is no time for mercy, there is only time for finding the 3 other men who are dressing for the necromantic scene that you were supposed to be prepared for.

"I want to fuck her first. I want to see the blood still pumping out of her heart!"

He has already taken a long line of cocaine and a few hits of other hard-on medicines, has his leather cock ring on and a vibrator in his ass, laughing when he comes out the door.

"Here I come with my big snake, you dead fuckin' whore!"

You see his cock first, coming out the door and chop it off with one swing of your knife. He falls on his face screaming, shitting his vibrator out of his ass.

The other two, fried out of their heads on who the hell knows what, hardly notice his fall. They think they are screams of excitement.

You could run for it now. They are the only two left. But you would not in a movie that was real. The other two must be dead so they don't report you to the police. They have money, they have connections, you have absolutely no case, you are a cheap slut whore in the eyes of the public because these two bastards own the biggest news paper in the city.

What are you going to do. Now you have time to think. The fellow at your feet is not dead but he is in no condition to be of danger and will soon enough die.

Wait and think.

"What the fuck!"

Don't wait any longer. He's looking at you wondering why you aren't dead yet. Stab him in the neck. Fast. You have no room to slice his neck. If you wait more than one tenth of a second longer he will have your arm and you are dead meat.

Dead meat and days before such a beauty.

Stab!

You stabbed him in the neck but he's still not dead. He has your arm and the knife is in his neck but not the right place. This isn't good. Not only is he not dead, his friend is not dead and also on his way to the door.

Bite his arm that has your arm.

Bit it so that you taste his blood. Rip at his eyes. Force the knife to cut through his neck. Nothing else matters for this second but that he is dead.

I need a short break here Laetitia. I hadn't intended on getting you into this, I don't want it to be a reality. There are those who do. Except they would likely be a little more careful about tying you up and you would likely get cut up slowly as you'd be hung from the wall, still alive, still being raped.

But we won't have that here. This is my story and I want only the pure of heart to survive. It is just you and the last one now. The big fucker that funded the project, the one with wife and kids and a political position. He will be the hardest to kill because he has gone down on his knees at the sight of the last death and instead of trying to attack you, he is begging for mercy. The raper of children and the one who has stolen all from you, including your life. But somehow, you are not dead. He is not dead.

You have the knife.


_bunnie stop_


Beside the fact that this isn't the kind of shit I care to write, we have a couple things to think about before we continue or end this story. I'm not going to here. The decision is yours.

This man who is kneeing here in front of you, I don't mean me here, the fellow in the story who has a little of anyone in him, has not really raped you yet. He has only watched so far. He has paid for the other actors, film and cameraman, it is in his underground sanctuary where you are in. He will tell you he has a loving wife and two children. Perhaps you can forget that he has a hunger for power that has lead to the death of innocent children over and over again. Never directly from his hand, only as a side effect from his lust for power. Perhaps he will be willing to admit it as he is before you on the floor begging for his life.

"I'm a good man."

He will say that. He is lower than a rat now. He knows he longs for your humiliation & death and he knows he will kill your mother in front of you before he kills you when he gets his chance again.

If he sees you showing mercy, he will make promises.

History makes the promises impossible. Do you think for a moment that you could take him to the police? Not if you understand that he owns the police.

The fact is; either you kill the bastard or he will most certainly kill you.

But you have waited too long. The doers of his desires are dead, except for the penisless fellow dying on the floor wondering where his life went wrong.

His life went wrong when he let others tell him what he wanted.

You, the innocent, are also a killer.

But alas, this is all fairly unrealistic for most of us so we won't deliberate about it's social significance.

I don't want to suggest that killing all the bastards will help so much. We have to find a way to let the part of us that wants power and blood to co-exist with the innocent that wants hope and beauty.

We can't fuck a chicken.

"Sorry?"

"I want to stop now, I'm sure if Laetitia is reading this, either she thinks I'm a bastard asshole or an asshole bastard."

"Just a little reality, it can't hurt her."

"It's only a small fictitious part of reality."

"That's how some authors make millions."

"Fuck ‘em."

"Kill ‘em too?"

"Fuck you."

And as Po once said. "The world don't close down with a big fuckin' bang, which actually it might, he didn't know about big bombs, it fucks off with a whimper."

"Edgar?"

"Well, he said it a little other."


_bunnie stop_


Let's start today with a little quote from ‘alias grace':

"It is remarkable, I have sense thought, how once a man has a few coins, no matter how he came by them, he thinks right away that he is entitled to them, and to whatever they can buy, and fancies himself cock of the walk."


_bunnie stop_


Dedication or madness. The more I think about it, the less I believe in the madness definition. I am convinced that we all are mad, I don't want to believe this to make it easier to accept my madness. It's just how it is. At least with a dozen pages left of Atwood's book I am reminded of it. Perhaps it is a typical condition of a Canadian writer. Taken from the structure of what we might see Europe as, if we are tired or drunk, and thrown into a land full of wild. Everything had to be killed and cut down to make it safe like Europe.

Remind me about Tarzan comment after.

The door bell rang and I don't want to answer. I want to write and
don't want the distraction. A danger of working at home. Funny, the
pen threaten to run out.

I wanted to go on about the paranoid schizophrenia as the frying pan reminds me something is cooking in it as I write. I don't even want to eat the shit.

I don't even want to know who was at the door. It wasn't Jesus doing his knocking. Perhaps it was my young Jehovah Witness friend who wants to save me. I've tried to tell him it is too late but he will not listen. He has to believe and will see the light his parents have given him.

And since I can't remember what I wanted to do with the paranoid bit about Canadians trying to get the wild out of their surroundings to make it safe, I'll mention Tarzan.

Some believe it is good to read classic literature, especially if you are a writer. And I'd go along with that but I want a word in defense of those choosing to do so because they hunger for it.

It's a little early to call Margret a classic writer before she's even dead but I have been trying desperately to find fault somewhere so I could understand why anyone wouldn't want to read her. All I could think of is that she is brutal beyond anything Stephen King could do, sorry I don't know his works so can't judge. I mean I'm not a judge. I just call it as I read it and one paragraph was all I wanted from Mr. King.

Which leads to why I'd rather read a fifty-year old Tarzan or Dickinson or Atwood. Sure their structure is just as clear to see. A story takes a line and goes. Tarzan pissed me off a few times with the lack of bridge from one thing to another, but who am I to say.

"Ha, you and Bridges!"

"Next topic."

"Feed me, you ass."

"All you do is eat."

"Asshole, it's 17:20 and we've had two pieces of toast between us."

Laetitia, I feed me so I don't get confused to who is who and what is it we are doing in this little writing game. The game that allows me or requires me to be somewhat mad. It's the Canadian way.


_bunnie stop_


Now I have it. She attacked me personally with her character of the doctor doing all the questions. He mostly realized he had no fuckin' idea what the hell was going on and who was playing what game with who. But no, I will eat and draw a picture perhaps and ask you to forgive me if I don't always make sense. I'm still working on it and hope I don't have to pack it in.

But the fear of being alienated and not loved will lead great men to beg and now I eat.


_bunnie stop_


It is necessary that he love Grace but I can't see him trusting her enough to play in her game of madness. We can use madness to our advantage or defense. If I was declared mad I could write all the things I thought about.

"You mean if you wrote all the things you though about..."

"No. I don't think so."

Topicless the man stands.

"You are sitting!"

before the brink of disaster and flirts with death to make him feel alive. How do we know if we are alive. I don't mean physically. I know about the beating of hearts and livers and what not. The question is, is this it? This sitting alone, not interested in the outside world until it comes and pulls me into it.

I'd like to say I was working on Barbaralba but that hasn't happened yet. I drew a few sketches late last night and am reminded how little I've used a pencil to make images. Images sometimes say - bell again. Now I have something to say. Some blond haired German asshole wanted to sell me shares or insurance in his company. And he wanted no nos. And I didn't want him telling me that everyone did it so why not me? And I said I don't want to and hope I have the choice to decide to whom I give money to.

All his techniques were guilt and praise. The advantages of having full coverage when the ambulance comes. I don't want to bet on the ambulance coming. I don't want another insurance card. I don't want to be a nice guy ‘cause I do what everyone else does.

"May you die in an old ambulance!"

"I could have hit him."

"Smash him till he's dead."

I'm fairly good at selling ideas and it makes me resilient enough to deal with these self-righteous savers of the universe and get on the bandwagon.

"It's all done over the bank, for my convenience," he said.

And I said the convenience does me no good if I'm seeing less money in my bank. And what really pissed me off about this horse's ass is he wants me to feel like a horse's ass because I don't cough up my money. It didn't matter to him that I have none. Twelve Marks isn't so much, true, but it's always 12 or 40 marks and then all the Marks are gone and all these great causes still don't have enough money even though we build more bombs and if I want this lie that I'm a nice guy, I'll give a mark to a musician on the street, he is at least doing what he is doing and offering his gift of my puny bit of charity.

So you fuckers who want my money when it looks like I have some, I'm willing to give some out to ease my wretched conscience and if you come to me with a guilt trip when I say no, that will cross you off my list. The Notdienst won't get money form me because they are trying to fuck up my head to get what they want. I've got enough to do trying not to fuck up my own head while fucking up other people's heads. Don't tell me what I need and when I don't want it, the tell me what you need.

The fuckin' give me money thing is starting to piss me off now that I have none. My favorite one is Oral Robert's saying. "Give me 60 million or was it 6 billion, in the next month or God will take me back."

He got his millions unfortunately. I would have lied to see how he dealt with 58 million.

"Okay my sheep fuckers."

"Sheep!"

"Yes, no one is fucking sheep. The sheep are fucking themselves and I have to watch it."

He's say: "God gave me 3 days grace for the other two million but he wants the interest or he brakes my other leg."

There he sands on one leg, the other bent out of shape, or at least he's standing funny with the big cast.

God wants your money is always a good one. For the good of the people, a better society.

Well guess what, if there was a God, which there is not, he wouldn't want your stinking money to build God prisons, ah churches to clutter up the land with paranoia.

I hope that makes it clear that I won't be donating money to these lie institutes, whatever ism or scism. It makes me sick. Which I'll admit is better than being bored like I was before the twat rang my bell the fourth time. He wasn't going to be ignored. He knew I was in here. Listening to Bob Marley.

"Bla bla bla," he said.

"Oh yah."

Allow me to write it in English.

"Can I come in?"

"Sure."

"Nice plants."

"Ya."

"Bla bla bla."

"I agree."

"Bla bla bla."

"But am I not allowed to have the choice to say no I don't want to."

"Only if you are the last piece of shit on Earth."

"Ya well, I've been called worse, maybe we see us next year when you do another drive."

"Fucking Auslander tight wad bastard."

He didn't say that. But I fucked him up at the first when I told him I was only once in an ambulance when I was twelve. But did he let me tell him why, no. He wanted an angle. And I wanted to fuck up his angles because I would have liked to know if he could sit there if he knew there was no money coming. He couldn't and I hope I never see the fucker again. And I hope I have to deal with few of them because I'm almost done being nice. If you sell guilt insurance call it that. Or fuck off and save your illusion for the TV watchers.

"Are you almost done."

"Haven't got started."

"But you are running in circles."

"And my head hurts."


_bunnie stop_



by Joanne B. Washington

read on. laetitia_casta_part_04



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