By Alex Constantine
For years, I didn't post my e-mail address for one reason: Time and again, I hear from women who turn on the charm, profess admiration - and, of course, being a healthy, hormonal male, I fall for it. I believe these women are SENT by an unnamed intelligence agency - a week later, inevitably, the latest terrorist in pantyhose is turning my life upside down, spitting fire and denouncing me for not believing in space aliens, Jewish conspiracies, or something. (One screamed at me a few years ago in a Brazilian restaurant - heads turning our dicrection, waiters glaring - because I've never written about George Soros ... and I HAD written about George Soros.)
So I limp on, and as if on cue, the next affectionate angel from Hell comes along, and the same pattern repeats.
The latest is Melissa Tuggle, a psychochondriac fan of David Icke in San Francisco. She is on oxycontin and believes that she's sick whenever there are chemtrails overhead ...
Melissa sends the usual e-mails, I call her, everything seems to be going fine THIS TIME. One day she asks me about the geopolitical role of the central banks. I explain patiently that they are overrated in right-wing conspiracy literature, Hitler's "international Jewish bankers," grist for Birch Society rants ...
"YOU'RE A FAKE!" she SCREAMS at me - and cites the work of Eustace Mullens - a neo-fascist propagandist closely allied with Willis Carto, and a student of Ezra Pound - to "correct" me.
This would be laughable if it wasn't so pathetically wrong-headed. (Melissa defended Mullens, and informed me, concerning the "international Jewish banking conspiracy," that "Hitler was right!")
I ignore her calls for a year. But she calls me up one morning while I sleep, I pick up, and we are off and running again. (This came, of course, after someone had sent three more women to terrorize me some more and waste my time, wreak havoc, turmoil, etc. One of them actually tried to beat me up.) She turns on the charm - "When's the last time you had sex" - and again I fall for it... again ... again, didn't I say, "never again ... "
A few days of intimate talk later, I call and she is screaming at me because a police car had parked in front of her house that afternoon. Now I am all sorts of foul things ... as if I know something about the cop car ... Another temper tantrum, I'm gone ... and thoroughly confused ...
The CIA - or whomever - seems to have an endless store of shrews to throw my way, and I wouldn't mind so much if they weren't so obscenely SHRILL. My ears still ring like Beethovan's; dooms tumble from tumults ... Come get me, CIA, fly me to Guantanamo. I give up. Water-boarding is preferable to the torments of gender warfare. I'm an aching, bleeding hulk of contusions. Take me away ... P-l-e-a-s-e ... pleasepleaseplease ....
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment