Whoops! I forgot to tell you: The world was supposed to have nuclear wars on September 12, 2006!
When you see a crazy guy in a sandwich board warning you of the end of the world, you usually just politely walk around him and yell, “HORSESHIT!” as loudly as you can silently in your mind. People have been predicting the end of the world for as long as religion’s been around. Eventually someone’s going to get it right — the end will come and boy won’t we be sorry for not having listened to him! Or the other 20,000 before him. You can understand why Doomsdaying is such a popular pastime: Humans have a psychological need to belong to a group, especially to an elite, exclusive group. Extra-credit if the group possesses special knowledge of the afterlife. Everyone wants to know the unknowable! Humans need spiritual connections, be it religion, drugs or psychic readings. Ever known a dude who insisted that India is as spiritual as it gets and who spared no expense to buy cheap tapestries and burn nag champa as the key to spiritual awakening? Humans need to feel a link to great power. Humans like the sound of their voice when they’re giving advice (myself included.) Humans are paranoiacs. Humans are assholes. Mix this stuff together in a reactive bowl and like a flavor-tainted marinara sauce, you get Doomsday Prediction Assholes.
I’m really, really, really sorry that I’m late in reporting the September 12, 2006 nuclear wars. I totally dropped the ball on that. I’d seen this newsleter before — My friend Bob slipped a copy onto my patio in April 2006 and we had a laugh about needing to get our shit together ASAP. Of course when September 12, 2006 came and went we mostly forgot about the doom predicted by the great prophet Yisrayl Hawkins and we laughed it off. As most people do. “My Dear Friends, We must warn the world of nuclear wars that will start no later than September 12, 2006.” Hmm.. Well I definitely admire his conviction. NO LATER THAN SEPTEMBER 12 is pretty specific! Far more specific than anything that hack Sylvia Browne would likely commit to.
Today as I was out at the apartment’s communal recycling bin, I found the old House of Yahweh Newsletter underneath a cat food tin, so I nabbed it and scanned it. I was again aroused with curiosity, so I searched the old Internets for “The House Of Yahweh”. Looks like the great Hawkins fucked up again in 2008, and even earlier in 2000 as demonstrated here. I guess the plan is to scare as many people as you can, make quick money, fade into obscurity, and then come back for another bite.
You can research his horseshit on your own — I’m not a debunking site, I’m just a humorist with a hatred for flim-flam. I have presented you with a copy of the front page of his newsletter for your amusement. Click on the newsletter and it will open in a new window so you can read the sweet tidbits.
[c] 2009 Russ of America
On page 3 (not shown) the Last Days’ Witness Hawkins gives readers permission to make unlimited copies.
After all of the major religions have it out with one another once and for all in the upcoming religious wars, the only two things that will remain alive on earth will be cockroaches and atheists.
The atheists will look confusedly at the roaches and ask pensively, “What the FUCK just happened?!” The roaches will shrug their exo-shoulders, and scurry away. The atheists will smoosh them with a shoe and embark upon a new human journey based on a re-evaluated, scientifically supported, atheistic, anthropologically sound morality, which will prosper and flourish and eventually fracture and denominationalize, only to result in yet another warrior holocaust, the end of which will yield more atheists and more smooshed roaches.
The Getty Villa has something that I’ve seen a few dozen times in life: A pool of water with coins in it. I doubt the Getty people put the coins in there. I suppose it’s possible, but I’d guess that it’s a contingent of plebian visitors who are mucking up the pool with coins. My first assumption would have been that the Getty caters to a more selective, cultured audience who might refrain from dumping their pocket change into a classy reflective pool, but having seen the practice with my own two lying eyes, what I’ve known for years has been proven true again: For whatever reason, humans cannot resist throwing coins into a body of water. People usually won’t ditch coins deliberately in the ocean or in lakes, maybe because you lose visual connection after you dump it into the surf, but if you put a pool or a fountain in the middle of a mall or any centralized walking space, especially if you might take a date there, without fail some jackoffs will have thrown handfuls of coins into it. I wonder if it’s the same people who put chewing gum under restaurant tables. Who the fuck is doing that?
The coins-in-pool phenomenon reaffirms my hypothesis that the quickest and surest way for me to achieve my fortune is to create a chain of trendy wishing-wells not unlike Starbucks. I could call it Mybucks, because that’s literally what it would be. Naw, that’s a stupid fucking name. By the time I cut the ribbon I’ll have a way better name because I’ll hire a marketing strategy genius to brand my wishing well as really upper-crust and to convince people that my wishing well chain is the absolute best in the entire world. Creme de la creme. I’d sort of want the Cognac XO analog to wishing wells, whatever that is. A wishing well that inspires loyalty. A wishing well that will make people scoff at the other wishing wells the way they scoff at cheap coffee, cheap cigars or cheap wine. “Sorry man, but I only use Russ of America brand wishing wells, they’re way better than that stupid seagull shit-encrusted wishing well in Marina Del Rey. My cousin is a wishing well expert and he says that the RCoA brand is tops and that I should accept no substitutes on account of I’m a superstitious high roller!” And yes, I’d want to have exclusive contracts with top casinos, hotels, and other venues to install about 200 of my wishing wells all throughout Vegas. Ooh, and in Dubai! I’ll be the Dubai wishing well mogul! I’m not sure if wishing is against the Islamic faith, but you can guarantee that if there are people in Dubai, and a wishing well in Dubai, then Dubai people will put Dubai coins in the wishing well in Dubai, Islam or not. It’s science.
Whomever designs this wishing well would have to make it a real sweet piece of ass. Maybe delicious-looking imported Italian marble or some kind of special fountain that shoots water out of gorgeous robotic chrome nipples. Sexy blue and purple lighting for after hours like a space-age bachelor pad. Maybe some mist and a disco ball. Esquivel playing softly from speakers hidden in fake boulders. I’m not sure. But it’d be a hell of a sight to see whatever it looked like. Shiny, clean, sexy, smooth, sleek and mod. Maybe we’d have a different design theme for each well. Kind of like Fry’s Electronics. Zen, space ships, ancient Egypt, old Holland, verdant Irish knolls, lots of gold trim and frescoes. Like a really classy miniature golf course. There’d probably be a way to pick lottery numbers and special designer cubby holes in which to aim your coins if you wanted to wish for people’s health and other jive like that. But not bullseyes because we don’t want the thing to look like a fuckin’ SkeeBall. And as part of the branding we’d spread some propaganda so that people knew that my chain of wishing wells are extra famous for giving extra good luck, especially if you put extra money into the wishing well. Fuck pennies, you cheap motherfucker! Throw a roll of quarters in there if you want to maybe have your wish come true. Wrap a $20 around a pebble and toss it in. Don’t worry, we have dryers. It’s not very scientific, but if people give money to psychics on the belief that those thieving turds can discern the future by playing solitaire with a spooky deck of cards, I don’t see why that same person wouldn’t give me all of their spare change on the unrealistic expectation that they’d somehow prosper for it. Humans are ridiculously superstitious and they deserve to voluntarily empty their pockets for my benefit, and in this economy (here we go again with that expression…) I don’t mind helping them out.
Brother, can you spare a dime?
[c] 2009 Russ of America
(Gratitudes to my lovely bebbeboo for discovering that nasty weave fountain with me in November 2008)
PS: Yes, I’m aware that the title of this article is grammatically incorrect.
I’m pretty sure that you are reading my blog. I was drinking Turkish coffee this morning and was reading the coffee grounds at the bottom of the cup per usual when I divined an image of you along with a shape resembling a percent sign. From these facts I understood it to be true that you or your assistants are actively reading the 400% More Jackoff Magic blog, and I thank you for your attention. Sylvia, I have the grave misfortune of predicting that you will die a horrible, natural death. Please allow me to explain.
I wanted to write to you to apprise of you of a vision that I had about you last night. First however, I want to mention my credentials. I’ve consider myself a medium for thirty or so years or so, with talents god-given to me by the grace of the Lord and blessed by two Roman Catholic bishops, six priests and a chocolate Easter bunny. One of my earlier experiences in divination occurred when I was a little boy. A friend of mine, Francisquito, had a dog who disappeared one day. The dog’s name was Adobo. We used to call him Francisquito (the boy, not the dog, because the dog was named Adobo) or Little Francis (the boy) because Francisquito was tiny. Francisquito wasn’t any larger than one of those plastic Swiss Army Knives they have as window displays in knife stores. Francisquito looked all over the neighborhood for Adobo but to no success. His family canvassed the neighborhood with fliers all day and went door-to-door and wrangled all of the kids and able-bodied adults to look for the dog. After an exhausting day I fell asleep and had a dream that Francisquito was looking for his dog. I was picking up a wooden image. I couldn’t tell initially what it was, but I knew that there was wood involved. And cloth. I was seeing something of cloth attached directly to the wooden thing. I saw that Francisquito found his dog underneath this wooden structure. I remember being very confused about this structure in my dream and I told myself in my dream to look closer and closer until I could really make out what it was, because otherwise what good would that information be? As I got closer I could see very clearly that Adobo was sleeping underneath a bed (wooden frame, covered in cloth,) and on top of the bed was a colorful printed sheet and comforter. There were a lot of greens and whites. I swear it was one of the most vivid dreams I ever remember having. Anyway, as soon as I woke up the next morning I ran to tell my mother about my dream and she poo-poohed me. I told her again, but she waved me off until the third time when I finally convinced her to peel back my Green Lantern sheets and to look under my bed, and there was the dog Adobo, asleep. Francisquito was so happy to have him back, and I thought his family would give me a reward and that Francisquito and I would be really good friends, but we didn’t talk very much after that day.
On September 10th, 2001 I predicted the 9/11 attack, but I misinterpreted the date it was going to happen as 11/9, and I figured that I would start making warning phone calls sometime in early October. Well obviously when I woke up the next day I didn’t have to worry about making any phone calls because, well, you know.
Sylvia, I wanted to tell you about a vision of you I had last night when I slept. I don’t call them dreams because in regular dreams people don’t see things that could happen or they don’t get to talk to people who have passed over. They usually have dreams about flying or shopping or work or their high school reunions. I have dreams like that too but they are different from the visions I have. I also have visions when I am awake, so that proves that I’m not just dreaming. Anyway last night when I was asleep after watching an old Montel that I’d TiVo’d, and then after watching Conan O’Brien, I fell asleep and had you in my prayers because although you weren’t on that episode of Montel that I watched, I was thinking of you as I watched it, and I figured that I’d just put out my feelers and see if I could pick up anything that might be going on in your sphere. So I put out my “Soul Antennas”, as psychic Doris Jacobs said to do in her self-published book Dreamnology: The Technology of Dream’n, and I felt something important. Within a few seconds of meditating on you, I got a sense of tightness in my chest. I saw an ugly woman with hair of straw struggling to breathe in a hospital room. I felt as though there was a weight on my chest, kind of like all of the cats in my house sleeping on my chest at once. The weight traveled back to the woman and I could see her laboring under this tightness. The woman had old, lazy hands with tacky acrylics at the ends of her stained-brown fingers. When she spoke, her voice, raspy and coarse, splintered the MDF cabinets in the hospital room. Each time she cried for medication a cabinet disintegrated. In the corner of the room I saw a tall, metal tank of some kind, reminiscent of those that might contain medical oxygen. The tank was scuffed and dirty, with clear tubes running around it, up into her face.
I’m not sure where I’m picking this information up from, but I assure you it’s god-inspired. Sylvia, I am posting this so that you will read it and prepare yourself for the heavenly peace that will follow this horrific tragedy. I really had to meditate on this dream to be sure that my interpretation is accurate, and I’m pretty sure. The dream told me that you, Sylvia Browne, will die of emphysema, complications related to COPD, advanced heart disease or lung cancer. Or possibly something related to the throat or mouth. It’s dark, whatever it is, and it is spreading. That which I have predicted will come true because I believe in it. I’m sorry to have broken this news. It must be difficult to hear, as it was difficult for his parents to hear when you incorrectly described Shawn Hornbeck’s abductor, Opal Jo Jennings’ white slavery, a woman who was “shot” in the chest and the firefighter who drowned in the Twin Towers on 9/11. I hope I can be of assistance to you by providing you with more psychic dreams such as these. I charge $850 for each half-hour of my readings.
Who cares? Republican hero George W. Bush smoked the tweeds, Obama smoked, Clinton tried to smoke, but his greens were too harsh to inhale — but still he tried! He tried very hard! Are we seriously spending time with this? Do we really think that Phelps did something wrong? He smoked some grass. The same grass the Rastafarians say Jah Almighty put upon this earth to smoke. This was the same Jah who put those Bob Marley and Grateful Dead blacklight posters on your parents’ wall. Jah wanted us to smoke the shit out of them weeds, and so we did. What the fuck did Phelps do that was so out of the ordinary, anthropologically?
If your parents smoked grass, and if you smoked grass, you have no legitimate complaint against this Michael Phelps kid. Grass appears to be a totally natural part of our culture. If it was good enough for your mother in the 60s, and probably your grandmother in the 80s, then it should be good enough for your 2008 national sports hero. Although contemporary opponents argue that the pot of the 60s wasn’t NEARLY as strong as the pot of the 21st century — but what exactly does that mean? If the pot of today is 20x more powerful as the pot of the 60s, does that mean that you would get 20x more stoned? Or does it mean that you are smoking 1/20 as much as you used to get achieve the equivalent amount of stonedation?
Athletes shouldn’t be our role models. I don’t want jocks teaching children about drugs, sex, alcohol and morality. The only thing I want a jock to teach a child is how to avoid crotch rot and athlete’s foot. But many of my peers across the nation disagree with me and think that athletes make for the best babysitters. Scientists would be a better choice for role models than athletes. And even scientists aren’t the best choice. Kids should have PARENTS as role models, because even SCIENTISTS are smoking weed. And if your scientists are smoking weed, you should probably ask them what’s so special about it, because maybe they’d have a scientific answer involving anthropology. Bruce Parry from the TV program “Going Tribal” knows what I’m talking about. He not only helps white-skinned people understand isolated, indigenous cultures, but he also convinces these cultures that he’s their child, he goes through their coming-of-age rituals and experiments with their psychopharmacopoeia. But for you to be so incredulous when a 20-something year-old America kid smokes pot to the extent that you plan to eviscerate him and strip him of the insane number of Olympic medals he’s achieved, is absolutely ridiculous. Mixed-martial-arts fighter Nick Diaz had to forfeit his loss to Takanori Gomi for his use of marijuana. I’m sorry, but marijuana can’t be considered a performance-enhancing drug unless you’re an artist, funk musician or comedian.
I’ve heard of people who play the lottery and pray earnestly that they win. I’m sure that God loves a gambler. He must! After all, you took a gamble on him (instead of one of those other gods) so why wouldn’t he reward you? It seems the honorable thing to do. On the other hand, I wonder how God’s cabinet handles these kinds of requests. Does he have a reason to reward a person who asks to win the lottery? Would he? Is it in his divine grace, or would he favor someone who, instead of praying to win the lottery, prayed instead that there would be significant tax cuts for all individuals. If I were running things I’d reward the person who prays for the good of all humankind instead of the good of one person. Then again, if I were in charge of the universe, I’d be more lax in my rules. I’d let you get into heaven without accepting Jesus Christ as your personal savior, as long as you were doing good deeds. But as the pious will tell you, God works in mysterious ways and His will can’t be predicted or explained. I’m just sayin’ that it would be a nicer gesture that a greater number of people would save a couple of grand per year rather than one person getting $100,000,000.00. It just seems more fair from my unheavenly perspective.
I wonder a lot of things, and that often prevents me from having a day job.
I greatly enjoy cooking. It’s a fun, artistic and loving pastime in which to indulge. I’ve had quite a bit of experience creating my own recipes and recently have come up with a number of homeopathic meals. On a crisp winter evening there’s very little that I enjoy more than a good, rich, homeopathic soup. Few things warm the heart quite like it and it brings comfort and relief to any poor soul laid up in bed with a wicked chest cold.
Homeopathic Chicken Soup
PREP TIME: 15 minutes
COOK TIME: 2 days
You will need:
2 six-quart soup pots
1 tablespoon butter
1 whole chicken, quartered if you like.
2 large carrots, diced
2 stalks celery, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 large onion, coarsely chopped
1 tablespoon thyme
2 bay leaves
In a large soup pot, heat butter. Add onion and saute until translucent. Add garlic and saute for 30 seconds. Working quickly, add whole chicken, chopped carrots, celery, thyme and bay leaves and a tablespoon of salt. Cover the ingredients with approximately 6 quarts of cold, filtered water and bring to boil over a medium-high flame. Once boiling, reduce flame to medium and cover for approximately 1 hour or until chicken begins to separate from the bone. Occasionally skim froth from the top of the mixture as it boils.
Once the vegetables are tender and the chicken has cooked thoroughly, strain the soup into a second large pot.
After thoroughly washing the first soup pot, take one eye-dropper full of broth and transfer only one drop to the clean first pot. Discard remaining 6 quarts of chicken broth.
To the single drop of chicken broth add 99 drops cold water and bring to boil over medium-high heat for 1 second. Filter the broth again through fine cheesecloth into a clean soup pot. Succuss 100 times, up, down, left, right, forward, backward. Be careful to avoid splashing or burning.
Remove 1 dropper full of the new diluted broth. Wash the original pot again and then add one drop of the refined broth. Add another 99 drops water and bring to boil, reducing to medium-high for 1 second. Again succuss 100 times, up, down, left, right, forward, backward.
Repeat dilution and succussion process 30-60x to make the chicken taste even better than you can possibly imagine.
This folksy remedy operates on the principle like treats like and deliciousness treats deliciousness. So if you let a chicken peck out your eye, this homeopathic soup would cure blindness caused by chicken-pecking, but only if you were peckish for chicken, because homeopathy is not limited by wordplay. It would also cure avian flu and any human disease that was chicken-related, or any disease caused by deliciousness. So if you ate a delicious pork chop and got trichinosis, you should immediately make a batch of Homeopathic Chicken Soup to cure the deliciousness that caused your original disease. Makes perfect sense, right? If this doesn’t make sense, it’s because you are closed-minded and aren’t receptive to 200 years of proven non-allopathic remedies that might cure deliciousness, and we pity you and pray for you.
Don’t forget to garnish with 1/10000000000000 poppy seed and serve immediately while hot.
Around the second week of December I like to play this game where I ask friends and acquaintances questions that could be interpreted as me fishing for Christmas gift ideas. I’m not actually fishing for ideas though, I’m just asking questions that will make them think I’m fishing for ideas. For example:
“Hey, you used to play the saxophone, right?”
“Do you still remember how to play?”
“Yeah, I’m a little rusty but I could still play some songs.”
“Do you own a saxophone?”
“Is it in good shape?”
“It could use a polishing, but it’ll get the job done. Why?”
“Just curious. What size shoe do you wear?”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Do you like high-tops or low-tops?”
“Do you have the first season of Barney Miller on DVD?”
“No, why do you ask?”
They won’t press the issue because in the back of their heads they’re thinking of Christmas and they don’t want to spoil their Christmas surprise. Then they go home and wonder what kind of sneakers or saxophone I’m going to buy them and then they look forward to the Barney Miller DVDs and then when Christmas comes around and I didn’t get them a goddamn thing they wonder why the fuck I was asking all of those questions if I wasn’t going to buy them anything, but it serves them right for being so materialistic.
Is the “science” of criminal profiling similar to psychic “cold reading”? Seems like they would deal in a similar set of generalizations. “I’m getting the sense that he was a lonely man. Maybe middle-aged. Had trouble keeping girlfriends, but could get them occasionally. I’m picking up on the letter M. Is there a Mary or Margaret or Emily in your family? Yes? She wants me to tell you that everything is okay and that she’s at peace in heaven, God rest her soul, amen.”
The difficult-to-categorize, but extraordinarily brilliant musical group Talking Heads said, “Facts just twist the truth around. Facts are living turned inside-out.” That’s a profound excerpt, I think. As they are have a published opinion on facts, this expert, authoritative citation I’ve quoted is good-enough to support my argument, even if I may have misquoted them or taken their ideas out of context.
I believe in ghosts, UFOs, angels, goblins, sprites, spirits, fairies, poltergeists, leprechauns, chupacabras, space aliens, any kind of loch monster, bigfeet, dragons, children of the corn, the Shining, psychics, necromancy, demonic possession, satanism, witchcraft (light, dark and caramel crunch,) Roman, Greek, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu and Christian gods, The Force, santeria, voodoo, zombies, the occcult, Aleister Crowley, Criss Angel, Teller but not Penn, The Mighty Atom, Hans Christian Anderson, Smurfs, the mythical Soma, Spanish fly, Hulda Clark’s zappicator, the healing power of magnets, homeopathy, hexagonal water, herbal penis enlargement and the legend of menehune.
All of you non-believers need to stop hating on me, you haters. Hatred is bad and it’s totally illegal to hate on me and you are hating with pure hatred streaming out of your hate-filled eyeballs. Why you hating so much, hater? Hatey Haterson. If you don’t believe in any of that stuff you’re just a no-good skeptic and you have no faith. Hater skeptic. You have no faith and I’ll pray for you.