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One Night in Stalingrad
I can recall it only all too clearly. I have no memories that I cherish so fondly, yet regret as deeply, as those of my misspent youth growing up on the banks of the Euphrates. It was a different time in Paris in those days. Old women left their doors unlocked, and in fact hung signs over the door reading "Rapists Welcome." I frequently associated with a gang of starving artists who mostly spent their time discovering new ways to ingest AYAHUASCA, licking postage stamps, and METAPHYSICALLY MUTATING. Seeing as my prostitute of a mother was the leading ayahuasca dealer of the district, I was an instant hit among my newfound peers. I recall this one day when the leader of the gang, Stonewall Jackson, in desperate need of anal nourishment, led us into a new grassbar on the left side of town. The grassbar was called THE HEROIN CRAZE. They served nought but chives, barley, and goldenrod. I ordered a dish of filk, and after my sarcastic science-fictional parody had arrived, Stonewall showed us all his new masterpiece. The title, he said, was ESSENCE OF MAN IN A PERIOD OF UNDERSTATED DISRECKONING, PT. III. My God, if only I could communicate to you the horror, the sudden sense of elation and universal dredge understanding that wafted over me as I lay eyes on that canvas... Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of EYES staring in unison, then as a medley, then as house music, peering out from beneath the SPOONTAIL GANG'S motto, "Dilate, dilate, perpetrate." Never before was I ever so proud to be a member of this generational ethos. Never again would I find such acceptance. One mint julep was the cause of it all.


Brap on...

Breath and Taxes



One Dose of Powder
Robert de Grimston once said, "There comes a time in every man's life when SUICIDE is most definitely the only option, and that is when you just commit suicide." Although that time never came for Robert, who later went on to develop the PROCESS CHURCH, the time has come for me. I have decided I will be committing suicide. WHY IS THIS SPECIAL you may ask. The answer is that I will be ending my life during a four-hour pay-per-view internet telecast extravaganza. Also featured in the CBS/KODAK sponsored event, will be television's MASKED MAGICIAN, the lovely CHARO, and a magnificent rope escape performed by none other than television's "LOU GRANT", Ed Asner. Teenagers have DEFLOWERED each other live via the internet. Pregnant women become not pregnant before millions of PAYING viewers every night. Yet no one to my knowledge has ever ceased to exist on computer screens across the world. Until now, that is. After last week's meeting of COMPULSIONS ANALYSIS, I realized that group therapy formed only the core of THE PROCESS, and left unrecognized all that was essential. Charles Hartshorne was a joke, and true Processians could only understand this. As for the manner of my self-inflicted DEMISE, I configure that it will be either by water or by land. As for the issue of legality regarding this matter, I believe that man has the inborn freedom to die however, whenever, and whomever he wishes. TRUST ME ON THIS ONE FACT. I will KILL myself before you, or DIE IN A HORRIBLE MANNER while trying. Like the wise man once said, "If RABIES SHOTS are outlawed, then only the outlaws will have rabies shots." Order this stunning PPV for only 600 and four dollars, tomorrow night, same time, same station. Until next week...

Brap on,

Breath and Taxes

For more information regarding the Process Church, please visit this website: http://www.religioustolerance.org/process.htm


If it Really is Me
In times of war and CIRCUMSTANCE, there is always a revival of a the musical genre known as RAGTIME. Ragtime music is typically recognized by it's trademark STEREO SHIFTING and PULSATING hyperSPACE drum fills. As early as the 1830's, sailor scouts were known to FUNK, FUCK, and FILCH to the electrophonic Ragtime sounds of pioneering greats, BETTY BRACKET and Ron Howard. The odd thing about Betty Bracket, is the way she expected me to OPEN FIRE on the fenced-in pen of WATER DUCKLINGS without giving it a second or even an initial thought. I assuredly did as I had been told; not wanting to offend the woman. I was beginning to experience hot flashes and AUTOREVERSE REVERBERATIONAL hallucinations. Such hallucinations typically cause the hallucinator to view all non-objects as objects, and all GREEN motion to oscillate aimlessly. Speech is also heard entirely in reverse, allowing all subliminal WORD PATTERNS to be understood readily. Such was the case when Ms. Bracket read me the fourth stanza of her confrontational LOVE typifier, yet all I heard was the sound of a schwa E repeated incessantly. It was becoming more and more difficult to control the automobile, as my REVERSED brain signals began toying with my ability to HAND-ACCELERATE. I shifted the gun to my right hand side, or what I believe was my right hand side, and continued to pedal down BROADWAY, which had acquired the look of a RIGHT HAND MAN. There was no time for dancing with Mr. Brownstone in this day and age. Texas in the 1830's was no boy's town, let me tell you. You would be better of peddling EGGMONGERS in Helsinki then even prancing into Texas. But I was no boy, and only one job could be DONE. I took the gun. I shot ABRAHAM LINCOLN right in his damn chest. And the rest is history. I dropped Betty off at the New Street playhouse for her audition. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek as she exited the old cab and said "Welcome to the business." And that was my introduction to AYAHUASCA, the deadliest peppers around.

Boy: "Ayahuasca, you say?"

Elderly woman behind the counter in a small town: "Damn right, pansy."


Brap on,
Breath and Taxes


Requested By Name
The French Army is at a standstill below my windowsill. As I sit here, braiding my long, blonde locks I focus only on ignoring THE PERSISTENCE OF WAR. This RANK DELIVERANCE is similar to slavery, which in turn is similar to KNEADING THE DOUGH or PUNCHING YOUR WIFE IN THE face. They are all things that the average JOE loves, but would never admit to loving for fear of what the next guy would think. The STANKING GOBLINS of the French Economy continue to perpetuate a standing trade of dried apple slices and 12-sided dice which must be BOUGHT OUT AND BURNED. The scent of the potpourri in her hair entrances me into a psychic tele-conversational delerium, and without warning I'm force-fed pills until the sun rises over Helsinki and my eyes ache as if drenched in orange juice. Or as the Japanese say, golden trunkets. The naked man and naked woman standing before me introduce themselves as the personifications of the APPALACHIAN MOON CHRIST (male) and the great BIRD HARVEST GODDESS OF NORTHERN BERKSHIRE (female). The electronic hymns and pulsating LIGHT-FLASH icons which had permanently branded themselves within my senses and proceeded to decay throughout my being made it difficult, yet amusingly challenging, to swallow food. My sense of TOUCH was permanently DISABLED and DISMANTLED save one square inch of skin located upon my inner left thigh, in which my bright nerve endings were sizzling like SIZZLER'S LOBSTER SPECIAL FOR 10.99 ONLY. Intercourse was engaged. Names were exchanged. Telephone numbers: irrelevant. The point had been made and I exited the BRITISH YOUTH HOSTEL still smiling and folding, unfolding, and refolding the yellow slip of paper she had slipped into my pants pocket as my trousers lay on the floor. Scrawled upon the slip in purple lipstick were the words THANX FOR COMMING (sp). I ENJOIED (sp) DOING DRUKQS WITH YOU. I'LL MEAT YOU IN POLE-LAND, baby. And as simple as that, the revolution had begun.

Yeah, this was a NEW UNIVERSE T-shirt...

Brap on,
Breath and Taxes


Picture: Two men robbed of their New Universe T-Shirts. Long lost brother Pippy Bogdan (left) and Ed Bogdan (right).