 
Skewtoons by Jack's buddy James Allen |
 Introduction: Hello. My name is Jack. Jack Jameson. I live in or perhaps with the author, that is, the man currently at the keys. Thus far, I've existed only in his head, surfacing at whiskey hours, but now I've been allowed, sanctioned, authorized to manifest myself here. So, reader, you are lucky. The man at the keys is kind of a pussy. I shouldn't say that, but his stamina is nothing compared to mine, and that's what it's about, stamina. I egg him on, lead him down, and sometimes he has the lack of sense to listen to me. That's when it gets fun. Fun's what we're about, right? I mean, it's America, summer of 2000. We made it past the dreaded millennium (and I was disappointed in the lack of mass suicides). There's nothing for us to fight for. We're no longer in a passionate climate that the sixties supposedly held. A bunch of them from that era are noticeably and annoyingly positive that they lived in some magical fairy land where love and energy were abound in the air so much that the world was changed. I would like to introduce them to those that gave us the seventies, drug addictions, AIDS, and the such. As far as that love goes, there was a lot of hate that characterized that time as well. Who remembers Charles Manson? Those fuckers were subscribing to that school of energy and love, and notice what they did: sort of a microcosm of what the Nazis were trying to do. That was love(?). Hey, I feel that revolution spirit in me, too. I want to be a part of a mass that moves to do colossal change that makes us better, but if you look around, massive change seems so needed, but nothing would be more self-destructive not only to our way of life, but to human existence. We are walking on the thinnest ice ever, so many ways the shithouse can go up in flames and fast. Tiptoeing is our only option, but it might not be enough, so enjoy ourselves without rocking that boat. I'm not talking so much about those environmental threats that may or may not be our fault (they are our fault, by the way) or that we may or may not be able to change (we can change them, but those money hungry motherfuckers keep buying statistics that tell us to keep shitting where we eat because it costs too much to flush a clean toilet), I'm talking about that anger that seeps out everywhere inside all of us. Every once in a while, the dam breaks, and the kids start killing each other, and we have the nerve to be shocked and blame R-rated movies (speaking of that, you wanna see violence? Check out this thing called history, it's got the most violence of all media, and it's all senseless and cruel and terrifying). Many of us are half-way up the clocktowers with ever-improving weapons and ammo to make . . . a statement, . . . a difference, . . . a place for our names in history(?). But then we hear about something fun, some bit of love or party, and we come down to take a sip or a swim in fun, and stop the climb, put the guns aside, and think, "this really isn't so bad." How long we can hold onto it is the difference in how fast we climb that tower to take out a few swine in our individual revolutions against passerbys because we can't reach the real ones, but we're all the real ones. So today, we're all about fun, right? Oh, sure, there's all the usual saving of the world that we can still do, but hasn't that proven hopeless? We do what we can. I still enjoy those small things like that first chance promise of sex you see in the eyes of someone you're trying to say, "hey, chance promise of sex here!" That or how about when you tell a joke to your party and you see people you're not even with or talking to laughing? Or even that silver lining in clouds like when you find people are talking about you, and the mere idea that their lives are so boring that they have to talk about yours just to have something to say. Then, of course, there's what they say, which is cruel or true (the two aren't too far apart, truth and cruelty). At least it's truth, and at least cruel is something going on and somewhere there's a balance of something beautiful happening. Most of the time, the beauty is right behind our shoulders or right under our noses, and we just need to turn and or focus. That's fun when you just accidentally notice it, isn't it? Now, I would like to plug my up-&-coming works: Fuck Your Religion by Jack Jameson Fuck Your Inner Child by Jack Jameson Fuck Your Soapbox by Jack Jameson & of course . . . Fuck You: Jack Jameson's Greatest Hits (import) They'll be in stores once I finish this bag of dope. I keep telling myself that, but the bag doesn't seem to be getting any smaller. Allow me to say that I am capable of being totally lazy and loving it and at the same time, having it make me a bit short-tempered. I am just as capable of working harder than anyone else and outdoing them once I get my bearings. When that happens, I love it, but I have less time to exercise, so I look worse and breath heavier after climbing the many stairs in my mansion. Whatever side of the spectrum I'm at, or if I'm somewhere in between, I am totally confident that I and where I'm at is the real deal, the best possible place and time and person. The man at the keys needs a little reminding of that, too, and thus, we've made friends. Atheists, you are wrong. If you really believe that everything you are and everything that surrounds you is an accident, a coincidence, then you are victims of the easiest, sluttiest, laziest propaganda thought engines ever created (or not created). Coincidence is science's way of saying, "we don't know what the fuck is going on." Until science can cure the common cold, I'm really uninterested in them writing beautiful, mysterious, exotic, miraculous, items in and beyond our world as "we don't know what the fuck . . ." And another thing, fuck doctors! There's a popular idea that lawyers are evil and scum, etc, but doctors are far worse.
I went down to Texas to mess with everyone, and I found that they're all a bunch of pussies. Maybe not so much pussies, but definitely apathetic. Not only are there no cowboys, there are no cows. No horses. The men are spineless, and the women have no personalities. I was pushing everyone in the state around, and they gave me the key to the city of Dallas. I didn't get that one. Texas isn't even as big as it is supposed to be. It's actually about the size of Rhode Island. I went for a run to get some wind, and ended up in Mexico. Being lost, I asked a friendly old woman with no hat which direction Texas was, and she had never heard of it. She then asked if I knew Jim Carrey. I said yes, and moved onward. The dick of death is in my pants. That sounds cool to say, but there is some truth in it. Within the last 12 hours, I encountered a couple of the women I've slept with since the new year. Last night, I ran into one while at a dark club. She'd put on a lot of weight, and that really depressed me. She used to be so hot, such a sight to behold, but she just let it go. She was everything a guy could want, so I didn't want her. Sexy, elegant, mysterious, sensuous (very), sports-loving, great cook, better bartender, spout poetry like air in a way that drove me between her legs. I just couldn't connect with her. Bad timing. But to see such a beauty let herself go is sad. Sad. It's like finding your favorite park ruined by toxic waste. The other one was worse. She fell prey to the pretty girl trap, that's when a girl gets so used to being pretty, that she must do everything to be the prettiest. She has this problem where she can't stop spending money, buying the most expensive of everything, never wearing the same thing twice. Problem is, she has no money of her own. Well, she has a good job, but it's not enough to support her habit. Bills piled up so high, the girl couldn't see her drive. Took to prostitution. Too bad. No pimps, mind you, just find a rich man, and exchange money for sex. Her alcoholism didn't hurt that choice any. I get a phone call from her asking how I'm doing, meaning how's my finances. She woke me up so I fucked her off. I wonder how the others are doing.
On a lighter note, Timmons royally embarrassed me last night in the Take 5 show by introducing me as Conquistador, so I had to do my C-thang, which made all the males uncomfortable and boo-happy whiles the females melted in their seats, but being that none were my type, I pleaded homosexuality. Meanwhile, several fraternity boys miles away had their gaydar go off, formed a mob, and came after me with pitchforks and sticks on fire. I quieted them down with a version of "Hold My Hand" by Hootie and the Blowfish, sung a capella . Then I challenged them all to a drinking contest, where I left them passed out in a ditch. News reports say that upon waking, their own self-loathing at being outwitted, outdrank, and generally out-everydamnthinged led them to being transvestites. They can be easily found on Broad Street (no pun). Several national charters are trying to sue me, but Dad is representing me from Alaska, and we're countersuing on little boys trying to be men tactics. I don't know what that means, but Dad's just that good. This madness must end, and those fuckers are gonna pay. I must admit I would derive pleasure if all the frats started getting sued like the tobacco companies on all the individual counts of rape, cruelty, and death. After their defeat, I would come to their aid, because they do some good things, by then, they did some good things, but no more, because they are surpassed by newer, better, meaner organizations with bigger political ties. Godspeed, see you soon, my brother, JJameson
Jack Jameson: Enemy of Fashion Jack Jameson is Moody Jack Jameson vs. Love Latest Rant
end #1 9-12-2k |
content copyright 2000 the author
art copyright 2000 skewed perspective