Dear LPSG * members, (and to all of our apologists)


We place this question before you, the new hard rock band URIC ACID, ‘Are they just taking the piss?’


Pardon this minor depression. I was just kicked out of the ONLY group that I have ever aspired to. I was just recently asked to leave the LARGE PENIS SUPPORT GROUP (which really exists), for FALSIFYING DOCUMENTS. So I exaggerated a little.


Enjoy our free sample selection from new group, the SERENGHETI AIRPLANES! Jazz/Rock/Hip Hop will never be the same again!


Your mother is so old, when she goes to the doctor for a check-up, they refer her to a palaeontologist.


If you love your life, YOU WIN!


I just recently read in the International Herald Tribune an article regarding TINNITUS.
I have had this ‘malady’ since the age of very young, before the ‘teens. I used to astonish friends as a child by showing that I had ‘perfect pitch’ meaning, among other things, the ability to name a note simply by hearing it by ear. “Wow, that’s awesome, you have perfect pitch, which is very rare”. Thing was, I had long before determined that the pitch of my tinnitus (a ringing in the ears) was in the relative key of D, so from D, I could follow the scale and arrive at the proper note. Naturally I never told others that my so called ‘handicap’ was the reason for those ‘skills’. My wife Francesca has suggested that I were given tinnitus in order to block out most of the crap I grew up being forced to listen to and consider. In many ways I agree. It also very early taught me that we all have our own tone, which we must be willing to integrate into life if we are to be happy and cognizant of the wonders of life. I still have it, and can ‘tune’ into and out of it now at will. Even after very loud concerts, it only bugs me for a few small hours, before it returns to normal. The universe was said to have begun with TONE (the word OM represents this. And as your friend Dorothy reminds, THERE IS NO PLACE LIKE OM). Tinnitus is another fancy medical term for ONE’S OWN TONE being heard, breaking through. Something using the gift and mystery of tone, feeds my sensibility. Medicine to cure it? Not on your life. LEAVE MY DISABILITY ALONE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH! Even now, there are times when I am being spoken to in ways that are programmed and I simply tune into the key of D, to make it all go away, that I do not willingly absorb opposition to my own sensibility, which has as much right to exist as any other swinging dick who has ever walked this verdant earth. As it does for each who carry the blood. Be warned, TINNITUS is a call to music and its lifelong meditation. Or, simply a call to tuning into your inner voice. The BELL that calls us within.


We are not willing to verify at this time whether or not TIGER WOODS has ever been a member of the LPSG. Some files are kept private at the behest of whomever client requests.


Symbolism and magic are connected. With right intention, simply drawing the correct shape, BRINGS AN ENERGY TO ATTEND AND COMPLETE THAT SHAPE, in all of its dimensions, at least physically. Therefore to draw a square is to find the spirits of nature, its atoms, protons, neutrons, and salad croutons, being drawn to complete the metaphysical structure of any form which corresponds to 3 dimensional space. Anyone who has ever gotten drunk or stoned enough can pretty much vouch for this. Even day to day eyesight can sometimes glimpse the other dimensional reality behind ALL THINGS. In essence all blueprints are just 2 dimensional holograms. A line drawn in the sand may as well be a castle from other points of view. Nature abhors a vacuum, as husbands abhor vacuum cleaner salesmen.




Loving one’s life generates good karma.


IT IS ABOUT HIGH TIME that we have an alternative to Washington, D.C. I nominate WASHINGTON, A.C. To be located right next to available properties close to the White House. Maybe an abandoned strip mall. Then if you get a copy of both blueprints and fold them together at the correct points, you then get the wonderful parallel universe where all things work called WASHINGTON AC/DC.


When APOLLO found out that MERCURY had already copyrighted the word ‘APOLOGIST’, you can believe he flew into a rage and demanded that ZEUS be Deus, or at least RONNIE JAMES DIO, and do something to correct such blatant brand theft. Mercury, argued that he shouldn’t be held responsible for being quicker on the uptake than Apollo, who had grown lazy in his God powers and assumptions. If Mercury were into linguistics and Apollo couldn’t tell linguistics from linguini, why should he, Mercury (and strangely enough, nicknamed Freddy), have to be held back from moving things forward? But to Apollo, the fact that one day space missions would be named after him hadn’t as of yet registered with him as a possibility, as a mark of the great respect that his legacy would ensure. Anyway, it was far too far into the future and like most of the ancient Gods, Apollo had very little patience for patience. When he wanted things, he wanted them THEN. Why did it matter that Mercury came up with the word? Clearly it were based on his own name, and although he were not sure whether it were meant as a compliment, he still felt that the word should be used to designate only those who spoke on behalf of APOLLO. Eventually ZEUS worked things out. He had to. Or the time would have come when the mighty goddess DIANA would have come to him demanding a royalty whenever the concept of DIANETICS were discussed, and even the great ancient father of all Gods ZEUS, doesn’t want to fuck with the very well connected SCIENTOLOGISTS, especially in Hollywood……….


One drawback to MADDEN NFL (and btw, John Madden is a God), is that when I am watching the real MIAMI DOLPHINS, it maddens me greatly that they do not show the same initiative and brute power as my fabled XBOX squad, who AVERAGES 40 points a game while giving up only 3. Naturally we are undefeated, as shall we remain for as long as we have THE REPLAY BUTTON, which is why God inspired this technology. If my good Lord wanted me to lose, he would not have given this idea to some 23 year old stoner sitting in a cubicle in Seattle somewhere. So what if I am 47 years old? Why can’t my team play in real life as dominant and as radical as when I am playing them online? Why do they go and raise my expectations with their excellent Xbox unity? Why can’t my running backs average close to 200 yards a contest when playing real players? What’s the difference, on a real field or a video filed, YOU STILL HAVE TO FAKE OUT THE DEFENDER, break tackles and score. Ultimately, it may not matter to the league whether their teams and logo’s are watched or played for as long as they are getting paid. Logo is logo, business is business, and I find myself dangerously slipping away from boring telecasts in order to involve myself more fully into the game on a visceral level. The result is that I stay mad at my team for underachieving. Why won’t they listen to me and my leadership? So far, I am the best coach that they have had since the grand master Don Shula ran the team, who once, while I were attending DeLAND HIGH SCHOOL in Florida, came to our school to look at the new NAUTILUS equipment that our school was one of the first to have possession of, even before NFL teams. As fate would have it, the mighty SHULA, took a quick look at me and asked: “I’ve seen you before haven’t I?”


When a tug of war ensues over possession of your PSYCHE, and the other side will not let go, then YOU must. Though not easy, a psyche can be replaced. Or befriend a schizophrenic and adopt one of theirs.


Waiting for other’s approval will keep you in line. Standing in line waiting for approval, which keeps you there. Unless an elected official, WHO NEEDS APPROVAL? If it must get done, do it.




In stealing the alien spaceship, the engineers were able to concoct it as a time machine that they were able to use to ‘back engineer’ our very own human history by manipulating our collective memory. Gaps in our collective knowledge were thereby erased. Not due to the erosion of our collective ‘mind-field’, WHICH IS THE GRID OF EARTH, (known also among other things as ‘Ley Lines’), but to the manipulation of time itself through time travel, which the other Aliens we captured earned because they were not from a tribe of warmongering idiots as are we. Placing what we are taught to refer to as ‘satellites’, into our orbit, acts as a fence keeping vital energies away from us, and our urgent messages from reaching out into space where other beings are. It were they who stole HOFFA, not the MOB. Hoffa knew things. He knew what I will risk my life by telling you now. HE KNEW THAT THERE WAS A THIRD ALIEN, never discussed until now, WHO ESCAPED and that WE HAVE BEEN FRANTICALLY SEARCHING FOR SINCE. He too is capable, even without this stolen lightship, to traverse space/time with his mental capacities. Nor does he wish to ‘change our world’. The truth is a bit less glamorous. He wants his comrades bodies back. Which, even incinerated, he could restore back to workable form until they got home where more sophisticated realities await them. His comrades were tortured until they gave a few secrets which gave the evil scientists in our world, the keys to unlocking both the genetic and time codes. The grave panic is that, should he so desire, he could come back to destroy our world. JUSTLIKETHAT. He and his tribe keep a colony on the side of the moon of least use to us. It is kind of like their IRAQ. It is a stalemate, a truce. For as long as we hold their heritage hostage, they are checking our moves that we do not go beyond our very small local galaxy, and therefore fewer advances. The search for the THIRD ALIEN WERE EVEN THE CAUSE OF MOST WARS, though better ‘covers’ were created for those staged events. It is all about using what technology we have back engineered to SMOKE OUT THE THIRD ALIEN. He knows too much and should he chance to reveal even some of it, total chaos would destroy what fruits the world ripens which we have not already ourselves weakened by our lust for greed and more of it. Following those blindly following those walking off of a cliff, though selling it as an extreme sport. TAXES ARE A FORM OF WAR, and he would say that, so we have to track his web footed person down, with those big gigantic eyes seeing all and through it, unless he embarrass our bankers with the facts and the HISTORY which are mainly creative alibi’s. THE THIRD ALIEN IS THE HIGHEST LEVEL OF CONCERN FOR NATIONAL SECURITY. Who survived the now fabled crash at ROSWELL, and upon awakening to its horrors, determined that the best way for him to hide was in plain sight. He managed to split his consciousness into two parts. One would traverse from WITHIN space/time, the varying dimensions available to his field of awareness, which was fluent and quite ancient. The other part would find a suitable earth woman and at the right time, send his radar mind into her, that she form a child. And he would use THAT child, using him as he had learned to use and master spacecraft, as he had learned to influence all matter around him. To him, there were no objects, all material were subjects to his will. He would destroy the world of those who had forced him into hiding all of those desperate, wheezingly frantic years ago. And since, from the tissue and DNA taken so brutally from his civilization, many nuclear Frankenstein age projects were hatched. None of which, time would convincingly prove, had any but the most possible destructive effect that it could possibly, destructively have. Of course, even with all of his powers, it may yet prove difficult for the THIRD ALIEN to re-gather all of the source material he came to collect. Along with AREA 51, the explosive genetic matter is scattered over a few hidden facilities, some even hidden in plain sight.


Unless you feel karmically drawn to it, never get between a person having a fight with themselves. It is usually thankless and you wind up with more scratches than they do. It is like a great spiritual aphorism I once heard disguised as a ‘joke’. An elderly Jewish man walks in on his wife of 50 years and best friend making love. The startled man looks at his friend, atop his gasping wife, and says: “Maury, I HAVE to, BUT YOU?”


The THIRD ALIEN finally found a place to rest. At least for a while. For he knew that with the capabilities the engineers had taken from his captured spacecraft, they were like an eye in the sky, always searching for him. Searching to verify that any strange birth were not an incarnation of the TIME JUMPING THIRD ALIEN. Searching reports that phenomena did not occur which might yield a clue to the whereabouts of the THIRD ALIEN. So he understood that all rest was measured in quantum time, not human time. And that all blood lost would have to be counted in stripes. Human time never included enough rest and he could only remain ‘human’ in form for so many hours a day. He found it best to travel ‘parallel’ to time and go backwards or forwards as necessity invited. Now he found himself, as a brief respite, in the ancient land of the Pharaoh’s, his ancestors in many genetic ways. He found himself in the ancient land of EGYPT. When not in human form he could brave all temperatures, all temptations. While in use of it and possessed by it, he were subject to all of the varying degrees of wonderment and confusion which accompanies life in these mortal fields. And so, while gazing at a woman watering her camel in the desert by a pale blue pool, he fell madly in hostage to her love. For anyone to have seen what that day he had seen would be to understand how easily it may have been to have fallen into the hair of such a voluptuous will. To have been overcome by the desire which inflames all things vivid and just, ignites all that prays, and possesses a thing completely while trembling beneath its weight. The sun stood back from her. It backlit her the way a gentlemen stands aside for a passing lady. It softened her, though it did not pale her reflection. And the manner in which she tenderly stroked the neck of her camel aroused in the Alien a sensation of empathy for human love. In his chosen human form, a young roustabout Earl of Egypt, a son of privilege, he approached her.
From the previous distance he stood while having first set eyes on her, the mind’s eye now sees, as perhaps a director of film sees, that their mutual outline looking into the gaze of one another, would be set against the haze of coolly shifting sands, and in a bit more distance, rivulets of heat moving across the far sands like snakes. She would one day come to hate him for leaving her speechless. But there wasn’t much to say. Within hours, their bodies became a mesh of writhing limber limbs, undulating answers to well posed questions. A spongy gel adhering to its own climb. A dance at the nipple ring of death. A menace breaking the back of love, then loving itself for having a broken back. For what felt like a full season, they were wrapped around the other as a shawl wraps so convincingly around the shoulders of a fine boned matron in a classic Russian novel. She were powerful. She were a witch, when they had a great deal of political support and controlled lots of lands. He had suddenly disappeared just one time too many for her and her sleepless nights. He were certainly not sure that she could ever come to understand his ‘secret life’. Those sacred hours away had to be for they preserved his life for as long as he were not discovered by the men looking for THE THIRD ALIEN. But women are women, and never more so than when called to the high task of loving a man. What the Third Alien did not see in his human form was that to a woman, loving a man, loving an alien, the difference? He could not in his limited time in that form see that as clearly as he would upon reflection one day. Meanwhile, as it happens, one of the Queen’s favourite ‘advisors’, his beloved, had before leaving the palace where she ‘consulted’ with the Queen, stopped by the Queen’s private chapel and placed a curse on him. As she cried in the chapel, her tears cursed his fate. It was his fault. He had swayed too much her heart in the direction of meditation upon itself and all of the unpredictable things that fly out when opened. She were always in two minds and she hated that. Once her mind was forceful and free. Now it floated much of the time. It wasn’t her, and damn him. He would pay. She recalled how once, during a night of passion so fervent that even the moon draped wolves cried out in howls of exasperated echoes, THE THIRD ALIEN, known to her as SHEKMET, had, with their eyes locked into a breathing cycle not unlike that of two eagles mating in free fall, shown her his capacity for shape shifting by showing his ardour for her first as a man, then as a lion, and upon reaching the nirvana that their embrace fulfilled, an eagle in flight. This had most expressly moved the heart she had suffered before to hide. That her duties allowed her to ignore while attending to matters of state. But he had gone and reached in and turned on the switch, which upon its reversal avenges its love with equal measures of what it once surrendered as mercy. Like dancing with a bear. Which is ok for as long as you remember that the bear will not stop dancing simply because you get tired. Bear stop dancing when bear get tired. Which may outlast the warranty on your dancing shoes. THE THIRD ALIEN knew things which could shift time, but he was still getting use to this Shekmet routine. He just knew that he loved a girl and that even the knowledge of advanced science was no match for that. She too knew a few things about the manipulation of space/time. WHO KNOWS THE MIND KNOWS SPACE/TIME. She were taught it in the legendary, ancient HALLS OF AMENTI. She was going to teach the young Shekmet, her ground shaking lover, a thing or two about disloyalty to a HIGH PRIESTESS OF EGYPT. In the very early dynasty years.
She placed a curse upon him that for his betrayal, she would turn him and her notion of his wanderlust, into stone. And to commemorate this misguided notion, the belief that his disappearances were for dalliances with other fair ladies of the court to whom she had bragged his prowess into their mind’s captive eye, thirsty for all breathtaking detail. She would take the land that she had been allotted by the Queen for her own burial and make a statue of him there. Deciding to symbolize him as the three other beings that he had revealed himself to contain, a man arrested by the bliss of blending bodies, a lion who in ecstasy becomes full ‘loin’, an eagle skyward piercing clouds as of yet hidden in the blueprints of the stars yet to send them. From that fated night of inuring promises and pledges of eternal fealty, from the desert swells arose THE SPHINX. All the THIRD ALIEN knew was that one moment he were asleep, resting in the desert while rejuvenating the time he were allowed to spend absorbed in and by a human body. The last thing he recalls is a dream where he woke up and found himself as a statue in the desert, all alone, Pre-Pyramid. Being made to assume the forms by which he had used to enchant the heart of a woman, and, in her mind at least, to break the spirit of the same heart. If hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, then museums worldwide have known no gift like a High Priestess of Ancient Egypt who fell in love with a man light years ahead in scope, though as dumb as doorstops in the ways of earthly love and its shadow, vengeance. That frozen man became the mystery which over the years has sat, burning along with the reptiles that shelter in its wake, that wondrous riddle known to us as THE SPHINX. The curse was that he would remain that figure until her heart had healed. Then she would reverse the spell and allow him to move on. What of him awoke from the dream escaped to be able to move throughout time as survival demanded. What did not were bade to remain the Sphinx as such, until such a time as he could find the solution to his predicament. OR he would have to wait for her heart to return to the point where she felt her revenge sated. Problem was, she told the Queen, a confidant, of her powerful curse on her mysterious lover. Once, however, the Queen of the ancient early houses suspected that the same lover of her favourite High Priestess might in fact be THE THIRD ALIEN, she quietly had her killed. She had her tenderly put to death as she favoured her and her great beauty. A simple poisoning. You fall asleep and never wake up. There was no way that the Queen were willing to risk something as commonplace as a friendship, for passing up the opportunity to possess for herself, and her kingdom come, what power she could utilize from that living vital statue of consciousness trapped in stone, THE SPHINX. He only had to find a way to break both witches spells upon him and break out of his world class tomb. Naturally, as happens in tragedy, he survived the death of both women and forgotten as once a real man, lived out what days the winds shaped around him. It would take some many years before the right opportunity would arise to allow this portion of THE THIRD ALIEN’S trapped life, to bring itself to completion. Meanwhile, what of its consciousness escaped the curse, would use the curse, THE SPHINX, as a base of operations for what causes would influence evolution as a beneficiary while it was stuck there. All in all, it were a great place to hide.






Your mother’s butt is so big, it is spread out over many jokes.


I have a foolproof predictive measure that I use to gauge whether the upcoming year will be fortuitous or not. I find a ‘babe’ calendar, FHM, PIRELLI, etc and go to my month of March. If I think the babe is fine, IT WILL BE A GOOD YEAR!


Woody yawned. He was tired. He was always tired. The medications made sure that he more often than not, would be. But still, it wasn’t all bad. It had its days. After what had felt an eternity, finally the woodpecker was able to use his wood to secure for his wood nature some ‘action’. A ‘cougar’, seeing him alone on his concrete pole, or rather, seeing him vulnerable and available to her on his pole, used her strong scratch claws to climb his pole where he were chained, and have her wicked and delighted way with him. But, the woodpecker had himself dreamt of such scenarios. And now the indignity of him living a ruptured life chained to a cement pole, whose flag he was, was assuaged by this sensual encounter with this female feline form. The cougar pretty much raped him. He pretty much delighted in being taken as if he were an electric sex toy being used by a bitch in the gripping throes of deep forest heat. A heat that exhausts, a heat that restores. A lust that lasts. So, for now at least, captivity had its benefits. And as quickly as she came, she left again. Though it may be fairer to say that as SOON as she came, she got up and left. Leaving Woody alone with his imagination to re-position himself into any piece of what memory left a smile on his face. She had rocked his aviary world. She KNEW.
Now, in a moment of peaceful reflection, more than a few miles from his normal migraine filled existence, he felt in balance with his karma as it were. And in one particular moment while his feathers flapped in frenzy, he had seen a brief glimpse of the first ZOO-ATHALON. Which had started with NOAH. It contained just enough vision to suggest to the woodpecker that there were a connection between where NOAH’S ARK were built and the area where THE SPHINX now is.
It seemed to his aviary mind that the ZOO-ATHALON were some sort of pilgrimage the animals made to retrace their steps from their beginning to their end. But he weren’t sure, for as quickly as those visions came, they disappeared. Then after the immense pleasure which gave a most anointed respite to his blistering bouts with seismic seizures, he felt it important to reserve this episode from his venerable DR.DEEMUS. His state appointed therapist didn’t need to know everything. He just needed to know what he needed to hear. It kept the meds coming, it kept the peace. For now, this was sound logic, this was the plan. To play it close to the vest until such a time as the wind could through providence, free the woodpecker and help him blow this joint. Help him avoid the sure-fire bullets of those snipers employed to keep the woodpecker and his tribe, beneath the forest canopy.
It had gotten so oppressive for the animals which remained, that the forest marshals investigated even if someone laughed. They felt that laughter undermined their authority. When authority can only undermine itself. But hey, Woody had gotten laid. THANK GOD FOR COUGARS, thought he. And from the cougar, the woodpecker had acquired a new nickname, ‘WILF’.


With his aloneness being stretched out until it rivalled even the sands themselves for longevity, THE SPHINX, shrouded in enigma, thought out loud to itself. As THE THIRD ALIEN or a least a suitable portion thereof, thinking out loud produced the effect of sending out sound-waves which would correspond to the frequency waves his other hidden incarnations were on. This with the hope of procuring for himself a visit from another of his lives which might assist him in breaking out of his tomb. His statuary crypt. Upon the animals pilgrimage to him, he were able to take in a great deal of energy to send outwards, though he could only send out his ‘loud-waves’ only so often as to do so too randomly might induce in the atmosphere, ions which prefigure earthquakes, tsunami’s and other ‘acts of God’ phenomena. He had to trust that one day, a bold one would come who was capable of hearing him because he was ALSO him in another form, a nuanced trick of the light. He had to trust that that one would know what to do, how to listen and what to listen for. This were a task for a human life. With gathering force, the THIRD ALIEN, this part of him trapped and bound, was drawing to him the one who could free him. He could feel that his time were short. He could also feel, increasingly, the wishes of some small courageous bird somewhere way off in the distance, forced to feed from unfertile fields and their fallow seed. He was moved by how much it seemed to matter to this small bird, in distress, that he connect with the mighty SPHINX. He made up in his large stone mind that he were going to arrange for the bird to find his way into the deserts by invading his dream-space and going to him. Though trapped within the form of the Sphinx, the Third Alien could still transport his consciousness backwards and forwards through time as deemed necessary. He just couldn’t free his manifesting body, his physical capabilities until being free of his granite coffin, carved into the shapes he revealed upon the most passionate of all nights with his ancient Priestess lover. The one who had cursed him and had him turned to stone. The one who died of a broken heart before being able to reverse and break the spell, thereby freeing him. The one whose Queen had killed in order to preserve for herself and kingdom, the powers and mystery of THE SPHINX. And having survived them all, the appointment awaited the brave spirit who would encounter the ancient ruin and help set it free again. Little did the Sphinx, nor the woodpecker know of how much use they would wind up being to the other.


AND THERE HE WAS. No more mystery, no more endless dreaming and waiting. Except, this too was a dream wasn’t it? He were asleep, though afraid to arouse himself to prove it unless he disturb it and send it away again. He would not send it away, not after all of his time praying. THE SPHINX! ‘Yes, Woodpecker friend, I AM HERE. What do you require of me?’ Woody stammered, “OK, so you’re really the Sphinx?” ‘I am indeed’. “WOW, this is so totally cool, can you free me?” The Sphinx thought this an amusing irony. He had availed himself to a woodpecker chained to a pole, while he, the grand Sphinx, were himself looking to be freed from HIS pole. One’s pole being horizontal, the other vertical. ‘I believe I may be able to, we shall see’. Answered the ancient statue, available even on key-chains and belt buckles and even now a hotel in Las Vegas. “I have so many things to ask you, where do I begin?” Taking the woodpeckers question into mind, the Sphinx replied, mentally, as he could communicate with the woodpecker telepathically, ‘Relax friend, we have all the time you need. You will not awaken until you are ready. Or until you are ‘Freddy’, but that’s another joke’. Queried the woodpecker, “Why do they have me here?” ‘They have you here because you are mad at yourself for seeing who they are. You can choose to see them as they are without being mad at yourself for seeing them. They are who they are. Why be mad?’ It had never heretofore occurred to the woodpecker that he was angry at himself for being aware of the world around him. That he didn’t have to beat himself up for caring. Being blind has its price, but so then does being awake. And thoughts cost a penny at least either way.
Proffered the woodpecker, “This life hurts”. Offered the Sphinx, sensitive as he were to the claims of captivity, ‘And in the sweetest way, until we return to our joy, our native state’. This startled the mind of the migraine ridden woodpecker. He were finally face to face with his most fervent wish. To have an audience with the living lord of all beasts, THE SPHINX. “So you are saying that I deserve this?” asked the woodpecker. ‘No. I am saying that you have arrived at this point. How do you wish to continue, more angry or more free?’ Fluttered the flustered woodpecker, “But, Lord Sphinx, how could I not be angry? They are tearing up the whole forest! They have enchained me!” ‘Woody’, (answered the Sphinx), ‘YOUR ANGER HAS ENCHAINED YOU. Conditions are conditions, the question is, where are you? What are you? Are you a slave to conditions, a witness to conditions, or a master of the flow of conditions? You can choose’. “Lord Sphinx, I do not understand”. In this instant it began to dawn upon the Sphinx, as the rising desert sun dawns upon his fabled back, that he too were beginning to see the symmetry in what he were telling the forest bird who so worshipped him. That what he were saying to the bird applied as well to him. So he ignored this and continued. ‘My friend, anger is a gift. Like all good things, it is best when you let it flow. When you hang on to it, you get used to it, and while getting used to it, you build a philosophy to support and justify hanging on to it. And THE ANGER BECOMES THE ‘THING’. You now hate yourself so much, that you only trust yourself in chains. Your humiliation is your own verdict upon your shame. SHIFT HAPPENS. Question always is, WHERE ARE YOU?’ To the woodpecker, this felt like epiphanies that he would be able to spend the rest of his life digesting.
One moment he were being sexed by a cougar, the next, facing the grand master Lord Sphinx. The MC of all great mysteries. Sincerely asked the woodpecker, “Would you bless me that I am able to see this more clearly?” ‘Listen, the blessing is your existence and your awareness of it. That you CARE is already a light unto itself. Just remember this, WHEN THE CHAIN NO LONGER MATTERS TO YOU, YOU WILL HAVE BROKEN THE CHAIN’. The wood dweller knew that that last bit of information would remain with him for awhile. He knew it would serve to help dislodge him from his imposed sentence, once he figured out exactly how. Meanwhile he blurted out, as if his dream were attached to a meter that was rapidly running out of time, “But what about the other animals, they are vanishing”. Said the Sphinx, ‘They are vanishing because change comes. Evolution is not always as nice and easy as it appears in hindsight. We vanish when we must. And knowing when to vanish serves time. Do you understand?’ Asked the wood bird, “Then why do I not vanish also?” ‘Because you are far too mad at yourself to vanish. In order to vanish you must let yourself go. By holding on to all of your old anger, you trap your old self into an old form. To vanish your life, it must first be lived. Live your anger, but do not wrap your life around it as you are wrapped around your pole’. This had not yet occurred to the woodpecker. But instantly it made sense as if it had penetrated his furrowed brow like a searchlight attached to a pine needle. He could even now glean a small piece of the means of escape explained by his encounter with the Sphinx. Replied the woodpecker (whose favourite song was now, thanks to the ‘cougar’, ‘JUNGLE BOOGIE’), “That rocks, thank you, I will work with that knowledge granted to me by your kind visit. Thank you ever so much for coming to me”. He were told by the Sphinx that should he find himself capable, the replica of him in LAS VEGAS would suffice for a visitation. “You mean that thing is real?” Laughed the ancient one, ‘If you see me, Yes! Everything alive to itself can be seen. If you SEE it there, then it IS there being seen. If you feel me, I am there. And as for you, you were called to STAND AND DELIVER’. The SPHINX began to recede. The picture in the woodpeckers minds eye was getting fuzzy, the transmission getting weaker, fading to mute grey. Had he another coin to put in the picture box, he would have but this were not that kind of machine driven thing. This was vision, visitation. An audience with a dream.
Now back to the cold blinding reality of his concrete pole. The one he kept having to beat his poor head against, hurting himself. Not being able to detach himself from his most primal need, and then suffering the indignity of having that instinct demeaned as a pathology. Still, filling his heart was the notion that time would soon bend to include the exit for his escape. An escape from woods, now dark and deep. ROBERT FROST, these woods would recognize. Whose poems have already eulogized the loss of those leaves which remain. On those trees as of yet standing, which remain close to but not close enough to shelter what shame the woodpecker must still carry like a dead weight upon his flaming throbbing breast. Intuitively Woody blurted out a question fizzing like seltzer in his mind. “What, Lord Sphinx is THE ZOO-ATHALON?” As the Sphinx faded from the woodpecker he were barely heard to say, ‘Among other things, dear one, IT IS THE PROCESSION OF THE EQUINOXES’.


LIBERATION VS. THE HOUSE OF LIBERTY! And that was when the woodpecker awoke from his unique source of inspiration. The SPHINX experience would carry him for quite some time. Then afterwards, he had drifted in and out of sleep, as if he needed more time to integrate the dream he had been given of the venerable SPHINX. He would have to gauge how much he were able to tell his DR. DEEMUS, the state appointed ‘Head Doctor’ that Woody was assigned for being too much like a woodpecker in woodpecker unfriendly times. For having a name identical to a well known and protected animation figure beloved of children and stoners the world over. And worse, for not bringing in revenue like the beloved cartoon character regularly does. No ‘brand enhancement’ exercises for this Woody. Meanwhile he had also been having recurring episodes of seeing strange Alien like large eyed beings gathering in greater number in these woods. Very spooky, suspicious and not a little scary. He couldn’t yet be sure whether those beings with the large saucer eyes were for his woods or against. Time would tell, if he didn’t flee first. Why hadn’t he thought of what he had heard from the Sphinx? That the Zoo-athalon was symbolic of the archetypal procession, the parade which follows the path of itself, to return again to itself. This alone were enough to convince the woodpecker that time would come around and free him. The procession would return to retrieve him, gather him up in its wake. The woods and its vanishing breeds. But when the Sphinx said, ‘Among other things’, he implied that the Zoo-athalon illustrated other realities as well. Woody thought to himself not to tell Deemus, who was automatically programmed to belittle any notions that the bird had that he had a mind capable of human expanse and flexibility. Of course he didn’t. No woodpecker in their right mind would wish for anything but a woodpecker’s mind, which is pretty certain about the space it needs to occupy according to its day to day needs. It was simply that the way birds processed information came out different from the way humans do, that way, they do not bump into each other as much as they go about living their daily meditations. Plus, Woody would get too annoyed and overworked at the broad meanness of the doctor’s assumptions. They were not only human-centric, they were arrogant and caustic. Bracing, and the woodpecker was having none of that in these blurry days of blinding fury. These chains will break! If he told too much, it would be deemed a ‘medical emergency’ and he would wind up groggy and overmedicated. And even more pissed. But in the meantime, the Sphinx had advised him to more consciously use his situation as a part of his daily affirmations. He was just passing through some time that would pass. It wasn’t much of Woody’s business that the Sphinx were jostling his own super consciousness with that which he spoke to the bird. Was not Sphinx also a bird? This bode well for both Woody and the Sphinx. Though the Sphinx was not yet ready to tell the woodpecker what he had in mind that the bird might be able to do for him. It would involve the use of the same natural skills now posing so much threat to the forest marshals and the way they like to run life on their portion of the grid.


The main difference between FICTION and HISTORY is that fiction is less expensive to maintain.


People who live in glass houses should invite more Rolling Stones.


People who listen to Phillip Glass should listen in stone houses. Good for reverb.


People who live in glass houses shouldn’t try to kill two birds with one stone.


Less is more when you have enough. When you don’t more is more.


My main problem with watching ESPN/SKY is that far too many football games are getting in the way of the commercials. We accept the branded world we live in and with. No problem. Except to such excess that it begins to drive the sane away. The constant unyielding loop of brands dizzies the synapses, which we are sure is much of the point. But enough. Less, OK? It now dawns on us that for every 3 hour telecast, some of the world’s finest and best conditioned athletes play for only roughly a total of less than 15 minutes. Which is never more apparent than when having taped a broadcast to be seen in more watchful hours. I wind up fast forwarding more than I spend watching and surely that doesn’t sound right. No wonder networks are so willing to spend third world budgets on the NFL, which has now been gutted for the sake of commercials and has lost this old bean as a customer, especially since now, the only real value of the teams is in their logo’s which are more exciting to interact with on MADDEN NFL, which if nothing else, has preserved some of the integrity which has been stripped from the actual league of flesh and blood players itself. Greed is one affair. A desperate greed is an ugly human emotion.


A black man’s life is never calibrated to its own but to how it affects the other lives and opinions around it.


“Yes Doctor, I have been having my usual fish encounters in dreamland. Maybe it’s the ‘meds’, but I keep dreaming of terrapins and chasing beautiful mermaids. Last night I dreamt that I was chasing a mermaid and had to beat back a Mullet who was swimming after her also. You know, ever since word got back to them about their influence on fashion and hairstyles, it has gone to the Mullet’s heads. They chase everything now”. The Doctor enjoyed the symbolism inherent in Woody’s dream world. It was vibrant and colourful and easy to gain a grasp of. Dreams spoke volumes in sign language to the dreamer. Revived connection to the wave, gave shape to the shadows that cling to the sloping walls of the mind’s interior wedge. And for all of the woodpeckers sometimes vitriolic outbursts, he were known by the good doctor to be a good soul. Just one in need of monitoring and medication. One who could use such a good doctor as were DEEMUS, to ‘burp’ him back to health. To reinstate vigour to his mental confidence, to firm up the bones of his stamina. The therapist ventured further, ‘Why terrapins, you suppose?’ Said Woody, “Maybe because they are relaxing to swim with”. ‘But did you ever manage to catch the mermaid, Woody?’ Answered the woodpecker, “In fact I did, and she let me kiss her, but it was strange”. ‘And why was it strange to you?’ WOODY: “Because she tasted like chicken”. Dr. Deemus were not always certain whether he were being ‘put on’, or whether the bird were literally describing the contents of his parallel world. But to the veteran doctor, it didn’t matter. Everything that a patient said were of value to the overall evaluation of the patient’s psychological state. And projections were their own language of symbolism which spoke another truth. Clearing his throat in a physician like manner, the wily therapist mentioned that right before the end of their last session, the bird had wanted to ask a question which time prevented from being put forth. “Oh Yeah”, offered the woodpecker, “Why do your cute little white babies all seem to look like WINSTON CHURCHILL for their first 6 months. Is it in honour of him?” Deemus had never thought of this, but upon the bird having mentioned it, it was a visual that the doctor could see in his mind. ‘Isn’t that kind of racist Woody?’ asked the doctor. “It’s not racist if a woodpecker says it. We just notice things from the distance we are kept at”. A wan smile crept across the parched and pinched lips of the therapist. This was certainly a bird full of surprises he thought. He adjusted his tie beneath his white lab coat. He exhaled another question. ‘Would you mind telling me Woody, your thoughts on the decade just passed?’ “The Zips? They sucked”. ‘And now, why would you say that?’ “Because Doctor, I spent the whole decade paranoid that even before my woods disappeared completely, we may still have been sucked up by the HADRON COLLIDER and been relocated to outer space. Like something crazy out of MONTY PYTHON but without the jokes”. Peering into the woodpeckers eyes, as if he were a hypnotist, DEEMUS asked, his brow tweaked with concern, ‘What would make you fear such a thing?’ And without hesitation the enchained bird replied, “Because YOU guys are playing with it. What’s not to be nervous about?”
‘You are saying that you have a distrust of human science, Woody?’ “I am saying that, where you go, destruction follows. Mindless often. And that with a beast as unpredictable and dangerous as a giant particle collider, smoke is bound to leave a trail and blood is sure to follow”. There was not much point in arguing with the woodpecker, even the good doctor understood where such a sentiment might come from. One man’s idea of expansion might be another man’s idea of extinction. One man’s particle capacitor was another man’s time machine. Even the human tribe were in conflict and debate about this, so dispelling the notion of human destruction laid waste to all directions its footprints touch was for nought, much as the woodpecker supposed the last decade to be. Be that as it may, it still unnerved the state appointed psychotherapist to hear woodpeckers concerning themselves with such difficult and agitated subjects. The world was getting too much when winged creatures worried about bombs and giant particle colliders, or any and all matters nuclear. The doctor, on behalf of his beloved human race suggested to the forest dweller that he might wish to have more faith in human organization. The bird winced at this and said, “Listen doc, trying to organize thieves is like trying to kick a turd up a hill. It gets messy”. Deemus were shocked to hear the woodpecker express himself in such unguarded graphic terms. It were an image bound to lodge in the mind and disturb its appetite before lunch. But patience is important to doctors as they interact with their patients. DEEMUS: ‘I am sure that the scientists are doing the best they can’.
“Yeah, but they are still scientists who work for thieves”. And with that, the good and loyal doctor of the state allowed a brief moment to pass while the bird blew out what steam were still boiling in his small but strong breast. Steam which he sometimes used to project thought bubbles where he could read his own mind, like in a newspaper comic strip. Attested Woody, “Doctor, sometimes I have what I call ‘OVERLAP SENSATIONS’. Do you know what those are?” ‘Tell me’. Explained the woodpecker, “Sometimes I am waking up from a dream only to quickly seem to wake up into another dream being dreamed by someone dreaming me. Does that make sense?” The doctor had never heard of it, nor had anything like such ever been written up in the medical journals. He did however have enough experience to understand that most of the time the real answers came from the patients and not from the physicians. ‘Explain more if you can’, suggested the doc. “Well, it’s like waking up from a dream and overhearing the contents of another. Sometimes I can even anticipate what the next brief snatch of dream will be, then as soon as it comes, it is gone. Then there are times when I wake up from a dream at the exact moment when something I wake up to, completes the dream I just woke up from”. Even to Woody, that sounded pretty much as lucid as it were going to get. He couldn’t explain more, it were one of those things. Queried the doctor, ‘Is it possible that these are mirrors to your SPLIT MIND EPISODES? It may be that you are able to witness both divided aspects of your mind each having their ‘spasms’. It may be a very positive sign that you are now seeming to integrate these split minds by becoming more aware of them. Have you considered this?’ To Woody, at least as far as it goes, this sounded plausible. And helpful. Anyway, despite his reluctance to attend the sessions with the doc, what else had he to do but sit strapped in to a concrete pole, with hard reinforced cement and brood about the loss of various things and his crushing isolation from his friends? To the woodpecker however, it equally made sense that his splitting headaches would split anyone’s mind wide open, out of mercy if nought else. Even a Rhino having one of Woody’s migraines would go and immediately have rhinoplasty. His head sometimes rang out as if having collided with an atomic blast. As if he had flown into a helicopter blade and survived enough to wish that he hadn’t. But hey, thought the bird inside his thought bubble, an opposite point of view at least keeps you company at night during the long needle frosting hours. The doctor asked, before resigning the session to its conclusion, ‘Do you like having these Overlap Sensations?’ Woody coughed, “Actually Doc, I’d rather be having OVERNIGHT SENSATIONS, if you know what I mean”. And upon saying this and producing from the doctor a groan, in that very breath and again contained inside his steam powered thought bubble, was the connection finally made between his dreams of TERRAPINS, and its linguistic twin, THERAPIST. He now got that the sea turtle represented his DR. DEEMUS. Reassuring in one way, scary to think about in another. But what was the point of a split mind if you didn’t use both of them? Now the bird would be escorted back to his pole after being dismissed from the session and listen to his iPod, which he had been given by the forest marshals for good behaviour. They had been kind enough to have left it wrapped inside a pun at the foot of his pole on the hill side. A blue and yellow pun that they knew the bird would appreciate. His favourite singer of late had become MALVINA REYNOLDS. So, to the woodpeckers delight, he had found waiting for him, after the last session with Deemus, all of her songs on his new iPod, tucked inside a little box.


Me and my dear wife Francesca announce that, yes, the rumours are true and that she is pregnant with our first born, a son. With the grace and the spirit of continuance, he is due to touch down in June. So far he is healthy and we are most grateful and happy.


Your father is so stupid, he thought MIXED METAPHORS were bar snacks.


A salute of respect to late great master CHARLIE RICH, an American original.


In your love garden grows many things. Particular to your life and your imagination.
Love them all. Objects as well as people. Sometimes objects are more real than people. Love your life and all of the things that you have wrapped your arms around. You deserve to love and be loved.


1) BONUS TRACK- FREEDOM DOESN’T ASK FOR RIGHTS, IT ASSUMES THEM. Who haggles over rights has yet no freedom. A man must first recognize his freedom to see the rights that he already has.


OUR GREATEST ACT OF INTEGRATION is between our two poles of existence, OBJECTIVITY and SUBJECTIVITY. This is the cross WE carry. Getting those two aligned is what consumes the greater portion of our daily meditations. We stand between them. We stand on them. We stand by them. They also act as our shields.


The crime of the PROTESTANTS is that they saw the black spirit as something to break and not to raise. They inherited the magnificent bounty of the black experience, it’s well travelled soul, for next to nothing save suspicion and insults to its nature. And chains we are still trying to break. To encourage the belief that we deserve nothing good until we die is spiritual suicide and is a crime, to which you shall be held accountable. Spiritual harassment is also a crime.


The key to a good multivitamin and why they are recommended (the ones easiest for you to absorb), is that it stabilizes the emotions to the physical body. The effect being that you feel more solvent and grounded at the same time. The key of keeping your immune system well is staying grounded with it, keeping it close to you and not letting it float around too much. The immune system is a great friend to us and great friend to be good to. Eat, drink, sleep and love well and take a few extra pills and vitamins if they add to your sense of wellbeing. Why else is it there?


..and when it is time, DON’T BE AFRAID TO BE THE CAPTAIN OF YOUR OWN SHIP. And let it be known that who disagrees, CAN DISCUSS IT WITH THE WAVES.


Someone in government once said, NEVER LET A CRISIS GO TO WASTE, so as it pertains to the very convenient crisis in HAITI…….


Sometimes CHARITIES are TROJAN HORSES allowing ‘agencies’ (whatever their front), to divide up the spoils among themselves upon being brought in to ‘relieve’ stricken countries. It is war by INTELLIGENCE. By the time the place is cleaned up, it has been ‘relieved’ of a great deal of whatever autonomy it may have possessed before, or were caught in the act of reaching towards. Of course many charities are real and good and doing the best they can in a corrupt environment, especially when trying to work in some nations known to be hostile to them. But do take heed, sometimes our intelligence agencies and military alliances gets up to bullshit for which they should be held accountable in what we call a democratic society, or BOYS WILL BE BOYS and purchase, invest in and try out NEW TOYS and newly claimed territories. This smells like one of those things.
We must be willing to be held accountable for how much we are willing to sacrifice for FIELD EXERCISES. And it did seem to come at an opportune time for the current election cycle, as these things so very often do. We have satellite programs that can manipulate earthquakes.


This space reserved for MELBA MOORE. Parking space reserved elsewhere. Thank you.


I started out placing women on pedestals. After puberty, I preferred them on their backs.


A shout out of respects to the master JOHN DENVER, who aided my childhood with his songs. May his God bless his spirit.


Listening to too much is how we become hypnotized.
SELF-HYPNOSIS is the ‘hip’ gnosis.


Melba Moore private parking reserved here.


Let Rock history show that SOUNDSCAN was NOT a friend to it. It was a snake swallowing its own tail until only its face and fangs were left. When it became about the first two weeks, it died. It launched new forms of bribery. And took away the chance success of a record based on it being a sleeper and building a grass roots response. The spooky Men in Black CAME TO KILL THE MUSIC. They are to be applauded for a job well done.


IF YOU ARE NOT IN THE WHALES’ MOUTH, then he must be sitting inside yours.


THE BREAKUP OF OLD CONSCIOUSNESS IS FUN, once we let its terrors go.


Devaluing ourselves for gain, still finds us having to make up the difference somewhere. ‘Shortfall’ may please the times though it can not fool nor cheat eternity and the balance of justice. Selling ourselves short is theft. And there is no other way around this.


The impulse to lose your mind will always be stronger when there are people running after it.


Your mother has skin so tough, when she goes to get facials, the dermatologist has her SAND BLASTED.


Accepting the presence of an Army is one thing. Negotiating their departure quite another.




There is reportedly a new breed of sexual variant noticed by researchers at the University of Adversity South. The HOMER-SEXUAL. Men who apparently can only achieve orgasm while wearing HOMER SIMPSON slippers or merchandise. This makes Master DAN CASTELLETTA, the voice of Homer, a Sex God. Well done. It also applies to those who when nearing orgasm, shout out ‘DOH’.


The most important thing to know in life is yourself.


Because my audience were seen as a political alliance (due to its unique ‘demographic’ makeup), it were seen as a threat, as ‘premature’ and got swiftly cancelled by the ‘empire’. Handled by the usual dirty tricks divisions (to make it look plausible and to stir up collateral damages), the ‘agencies’ whom the record companies serve in their backroom parallel worlds. If a mind is a terrible thing to waste, destroying another’ is a painful price to bear. Time bears this out.


IF YOU BELIEVE IN THE RIGHT WAY, it will find you.


The problem with talent is that as soon as it is recognized, IT STOPS BEING RAISED AND STARTS BEING GROOMED. Once ‘grooming’ begins, being ‘raised’ becomes a threat.


MASTURBATION IS GOOD FOR THE SPIRIT. It is good maintenance work.


There is no conspiracy when you consider that conspiracy is itself the law. Otherwise it is simply business as per usual. AND ALL DAY.


Though wisdom may bear the greater tax, ignorance bears the greater price.


IGNORANCE is being closed to yourself, regardless of your IQ.


I am by nature suspicious of any work or job to which I must be appointed. I have learned from the University of Hard Way State to only trust what these hands can grab and secure for themselves. If something has to hang over my head, it is not for me to do but for someone else.


Scalar records group THE DISCO PLANTATION, whose last project was the seminal Hip Hop protest ‘I AIN’T GONNA WORK ON MAGGIE’S BEATS NO MORE’, announces their next release arrives in April. It is being called a radical departure from their previous work, a ‘foray into classical mash-ups and re-mixes and fresh rhythms’. It is titled, ‘WAITING FOR THE OTHER SCHUBERT TO FALL’.




We all have complaints. Only perspective can put forth an argument. Maturity teaches the difference between argument and complaint. Silence bares the cost of both.


The only real question of delusion is whether you serve it or it serves you.


For however we are meant to see PANDORA’S BOX, I saw it as a picnic basket and ate everything in it, from its butterflies and treacle to its succulent bats. And eventually it came all back out again, each time showing me a different angle of light, a darker tone of depth.


Between having to choose following your reputation versus inspiration, choose inspiration, which leads on, while reputation rusts and stalls.


Your sister is so fat, when she farts, an alarm goes off first. It’s called a burp.


With all due respect to the present administration, transferring prisoners held in Guantanamo and placing them in American prisons is a deeply flawed idea. Let’s see. Take those men we accuse of being masterminds or involved with, and transfer them into our own system to act as intellectual viruses of the consciousness we suspect them of carrying and disseminating. In effect, GIVING THEM THE SPACE AND TIME TO RECRUIT AND LAUNCH MORE ‘SLEEPER CELLS’ IN AMERICAN JAILS. Hello! Either end the charade of the experience, including show trials , let them go back home, no doubt to seethe about us and recruit more enemies on our behalf, or kill them, outright, like soldiers of war. Otherwise we are playing with a fire that we can ill afford the Chinese having to put out. A word to those who wish to hear.


Your definition of love, what you have arrived at, what it means to you, is sacred. Only a fool negotiates it.


Even if it is now passé, I’m glad that my sex tape never leaked out. The one with me, the nun and that penguin, especially since the penguin was much bigger than I thought.


….but more on that with the release of my self help book, ‘EVERYTHING I KNOW ABOUT SEX, I LEARNED FROM CHARLIE SHEEN’.


One way to raise the value of our currency would be to put some artists on the bills. SMOKEY ROBINSON should have his face on something which can be spent and traded for valued goods. He is that great that even George Washington would share dollar time with him. Ask the Beatles how great. Ask Master Dylan how great. Why can we not have Ray Charles on some coins, Ellington? Why should we be deprived of the experience of being able to ask: WHERE CAN I CASH IN THESE SPRINGSTEENS when abroad? Where is the Marilyn Monroe 50 dollar bill?
Who says that the money always has to be used to depict heroic politicians? They are not the only ones who feed and nourish culture. They are not our only heroes. They are among them. Abraham Lincoln is like on three things already currency wise. Surely Master Frank Sinatra can replace him on something. I would feel lucky walking around and jingling Sinatra coins in my pockets. But back to the master SMOKE, he who taught a whole generation of great songwriters, a new way to write. And one day, SAM COOKE will have a statue in Times Square, if not in Chicago, where one is long overdue. It is fair to say that we are still coming to terms with just how vast a spirit and body of influence master Cooke was. His reverberations are still being felt. He was an Angel of God. And as grand master Muhammed Ali called him, THE GREATEST ROCK AND ROLL SINGER WHO EVER LIVED. And at least as pivotal a songwriter as were his contemporary and friend, master BUDDY HOLLY. A choir of angels lived in his lungs! He did not just bring the church to pop, he brought the Lord himself to it. And let us not get me started on Maestra ARETHA.


Don’t you sometimes feel that you are STANDING ON THE SHOULDERS OF GNATS?


…and just in case, Justin Time always set his watch 5 minutes early.


Pedantic perhaps, but do you think a self conscious POLE would feel paranoid and exposed going SKIING? (Think about it, wait for it, then boo me later).


We are very grateful for your participation in our concert opportunities. We thank you very much and will see you again when we can. It is an honour to present this new music to you.


There is a sport catching on, WIFE TOSSING. It is where you and your wife compete with other couples whereby all competitions comprise the wife being carried by the husband or vice versa. Had I known of this competition earlier, I might have gotten married sooner. I can think of someone in particular that we would have loved to have tossed around a field with many people watching. Perhaps this year, THE LARGE PENIS SUPPORT GROUP can stage their own Wife Tossing events. Though I wouldn’t toss my wife. She’s definitely a keeper.


…mind you the LPSG’s last event, our annual COW TIPPING Olympics haven’t been as well attended since taking on a prominent PETA representative as a board member. I mean, come on, what is so wrong or ‘anti-ethical’ about painting bulls-eyes on cattle for rubber arrow competitions? It’s not like the paint doesn’t w