choking d**** and murdering tricks

"Murder’s out of tune,
And sweet revenge grows harsh."

~ William Shakespeare (Othello)

Jack the Ripper was identified. After 126 years, the victims' families can finally get the closure they deserve. Or rather, the countless authors that have written on the subject of this mystery "ripper" can finally publish that epilogue chapter they've been dying to get to since that first edition.

This is great news for amateur detectives and armchair investigators but to the average fellow it means very little. To the serially criminal fellow though, it means that any schmuck with some money and a bit of ingenuity can join in on the hunt for your "red october"*. However, the authorities would most likely limit the available caseload that can be worked by any old asshole to those "unsolved mysteries" or "cold cases" that gather dust in evidence rooms across the world. Basically, if a crime was just committed then it's the police that will be doing the policing instead of "Arnold the Auctioner"** who won an auction for some murder memorabilia who then called his friend "Donald the Doctor"*** to do some "science".

DNA evidence in the 126 year old murder case of Jack the Ripper has brought about a resolution to the caper though there will probably be no convictions on the matter as dear "Jack" was actually an insane hairdresser and likely mentally unfit to stand trial even if he were still alive. Aaron Kosminski, also known as "Jack the Ripper", was a Polish immigrant that butchered some prostitutes in London in the late 19th century. Also, he was a chronic masturbator.**** This is where a joke about polish people could go but there's nothing to joke about here because it seems like dear "Jack" was really just in it to win it: choking dicks and murdering tricks. Kosminski is one of the greatest serial killers to ever pick up a blade. He lived a long life (for the time) and died of gangrene in a lunatic asylum after butchering whores and scaring the shit out of everyone that lived in one of the world's largest cities (at the time). If there were ever a poster child/boy/man for "successful serial killers", Aaron Kosminski is assuredly that man-child.

So, what does this all mean to the aspiring serial killer today? If a 126 year old "cold case" can come up gangbusters because of some old semen, what about more recent murders? What about more recent murders involving semen? DNA is the greatest enemy in the serial killer's extensive list of enemies (nosy neighbors, smart police, savvy detectives, witnesses, etc) and here is further proof of the power this particular foe wields against the would-be murderer. However, hopeful serial killers need not fret overly so because there is still a string of unsolved serial killings and uncaught murderer idols out there to offer hope to the weary. Next time you find yourself hesitating with blade in hand, think of the killers out there still "at large" or "free to kill again" like the "Zodiac killer" or the "Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run" or even the "Frankford Slasher" and just go ahead and sink that blade in deep so you can finally find that sweet release.

*"October" is the name of your blade and "red" means it's covered in blood, in this particular metaphor.

**Russell Edwards, "businessman", 48 years old

***Doctor Jari Louhelanain, "doctor", unknown age

****"Kosminski has always been one of the three most credible suspects. He is often described as having been a hairdresser in Whitechapel, the occupation written on his admission papers to the workhouse in 1890. What is certain is he was seriously mentally ill, probably a paranoid schizophrenic who suffered auditory hallucinations and described as a misogynist prone to ‘self-abuse’ – a euphemism for masturbation." - serially killing that dick

he goes by the street name of "jack-off johnson"

“Sadness gives depth, happiness gives height. Sadness gives roots, happiness gives branches. Happiness is like a tree going into the sky, and sadness is like the roots going down into the womb of the earth. Both are needed, and the higher a tree goes, the deeper it goes simultaneously. The bigger the tree, the bigger will be its roots. In fact, it is always in proportion. That's its balance.” 

- Osho Rajneesh

(some Indian dude that had many names)

As the earnest young gentleman progresses onwards towards the inevitable darkness of eternity and without the certainty of purpose he'd hoped that would bring, he often needs to stop and take stock of things. As he nears decrepitude, cantankerousness, and his future as a helpless invalid the young man ought to take a *moral inventory. ** ***

The above is basically the text book definition of "mortality" with all of the insidiousness and evil it implies. The great killer of vitality: somber thoughts of death and its inevitable (and occasionally imminent) arrival. The vivacious youth running down the hall of the imperial star destroyer being chased by some shadowy figure casting long and ominous shadows. It's only in the third act of this mini play that the author reveals it was only a cleaning droid and the "vivaciousness" was merely artistic license being applied to a "pretty groovy trip from like, the other weekend."**** *****

More often than he wants, that "trail of remembrance" brings with it joy as well as pain. It's impossible to look back on any tragedy and not also find a bit of hope. Just as suffering, pain, and death are part of the human natural condition, hope is the natural human mental condition. Our hero looks back on his painful days and that sweet sorrow he hoped to hold on to slips through his fingers and gets lost in the waters of memory. That's actually why the greeks always associated memory with water.^

There's no immediacy to life anymore and our hero can't help but begrudgingly give in to the flow of the river because try though he might, he can never seem to stand in the same river twice. There's different waters constantly moving past and the fish all look strange and if he watches long enough, even the rocks and mud under his feet slowly move under the onslaught of the ceaseless current.

Insanity is something elusive, clearly. However, it can be loosely defined (metaphorically) by standing in a river and trying to grab hold of the same molecules of water with successive grabs. It won't happen and the gentle man can turn into a vile, angry demon that looks like he's pretending to be a bear catching salmon as he furiously paws at the river water.^^ Scientists have claimed it is possible to do something like this (theoretically) but scientists are all assholes dressed in lab coats.^^^

If our man refuses to let go of the past he runs the risk never finding the future. The opposite is also true.^^^^ This is because his hands would get all wrinkly like he spent too much time in the tub and no one would want to talk to him because his street name would be "Jack-Off Johnson" because everyone would (wrongfully) assume his hands were so wrinkly due to excessive masturbation. No one means to imply masturbation is wrong, it's just unseemly to go out in public all the time looking like he just rubbed one out in the bathroom.^^^^^

The unseemly man shies from his responsibilities to share the wisdom of the rivers. The scientist would rather let the rivers all dry up in their global warming pyramid scheme to control all the water than even intelligently join in the discourse of river wisdom. The foolish man drowns.

The true gentleman, however, knows all these things about rivers and masturbating and pretty groovy trips and he decides instead to share his knowledge and educate the masses. In his benevolence, he sees fit to share the backlog of wisdom~ as well as any future river wisdom or any other wisdom gleaned from metaphors with natural phenomenas.~~


*"Whatever the fuck that means"
**Using an old "netbook" (which is basically just marketing slang for a tiny ass laptop with a terribly awkward keyboard layout) that I salvaged from wherever computers go when they get shitty from running some weird windows/ubuntu bastard and want to just give up and die. Computer island, I'd imagine. For the curious: Inspiron 910 currently running Linux Mint 13 Xfce - only a few minor issues with the wireless but that only took a little bit of head-scratching and some good old fashioned downloading packages from their near idiot proof software center.
***This reminds me of my old history paper writing days except the web editor I'm using to type this (on aforementioned awkward keyboard) doesn't allow me to do proper looking footnotes. Asterisks are working for now but I can't imagine a ninth or tenth "footnote" not looking textually strange.
****Time frame approximate.
*****Even though I used two "footnotes" to footnote about these "footnotes", I am still going to switch to an alternative signifier of for these "footnotes" since five asterisks looks excessive and I dare not attempt six because that's just excessive. Additionally, the more "footnotes" I have will make this look all that more well researched even though I'm really only referencing myself.
^True story, even though the greeks (then and now) are generally a despicable people.
^^Obviously this is artistic license as well because there was no mention of the man roaring in any fashion and bears ALWAYS roar when they try and catch salmon because they're so fierce.
^^^I have no idea if scientists have made this claim but it sure sounds like some ludicrous shit those haughty assholes would say.
^^^^No idea, this may or may not be true.
^^^^^Masturbate (or do vigorous sex (and smoke weed)) everyday.
~You can find this in the recent outpouring of posts to this here old "web" "site". Ye Olde Blog, as I like to call it.
~~Ideally, the forthcoming outpouring of posts to Ye Olde Blog.  

the room stunk like a whorehouse in mid-July

I recently was a party to one of the oddest, and strangely most fulfilling, experiences of my life. There are so many names we could have used but we finally settled on "Whack Fest '08."

On the most basic level, Whack Fest was just a bunch of dudes jerking off in a room. It was so much more than that though, there were rules and codes of conduct that needed to be followed. It was a game, a contest of wills and determination. By the end of it, there were so many tissues around the room someone might have thought there was a flu epidemic and we were under quarantine. Things got wild, to say the least.

We'd decided that the only way to tell who was the manliest man in a group of men was to see who could beat themselves up the most in one day. Whack fest was all about survival, making it to the end of the day while also proving to your fellow men that you were able to produce quantity as well as quality. It was the most American thing we could think to do, not that we were assaulting ourselves for the troops or anything.

Things started out as you'd expect with a roomful of dudes going to town on themselves. There was a TV playing a stream of porn titles throughout the day. A couple of laptops were strewn around pointed at different websites. Some over-eager contestants tried to race ahead and lead the pack while others decided to go the way of the tortoise and pace themselves. I can't imagine a loser being declared amongst our lewd group, but there would definitely be a winner that stood tall above the rest.

Conversation for the first couple rounds was flowing freely. We would talk about school and the weather in between and during flogging sessions. Some complained about politics until the rapture would make them forget why they were upset in the first place. It was just us dudes exercising our right to be free-spirited and natural. Natural, of course, meant naked. We decided to go totally bare out of necessity rather than try and wear any type of clothing that would only become so soiled it would need to be burned after the game was over.

Our initial enthusiasm quickly wore off as the horror of what we were doing started to sink in. I remember looking over at "Weird Balls" and seeing tears rolling down his face. He was really beating his dude up. He was beating dude like he owed him a couple years worth of back rent. In Weird Balls' eyes there was sadness and fear. Of course he was sad, he was abusing himself almost to the point of self-mutilation. I think he was afraid because he knew he liked it and the capacity to enjoy that kind of abuse is a very scary thing indeed.

It was weird that we settled in to relative synchronization but as round 5 came and went, everyone still seemed to be going strong. "Dirty Dick" jumped up, covered in sweat and fluids with his eyes all bloodshot and asked everyone if that was where we wanted to be when Jesus came back. I answered him with a series of grunts as I proudly marched onwards to round 6. As I shook it off, I looked Dirty Dick in the eyes and told him he could quit at any time. I imagine that I was a frightening sight to behold with one hand choking myself purple and the other proudly locked on my hip. Dirty Dick came to his senses and started in on himself again but for the rest of the day he was quiet save for a few times I heard him reciting the lord's prayer.



By round 7 or 8 everyone had settled comfortably into a spot in the room and there wasn't as much moving around anymore. "Hairy Ass" stopped talking and started hanging his head low as he turned his back on us to sit and look out the window. He probably wanted to keep in touch with the outside world because we weren't exactly human anymore. We'd all become robots, our primary objective was self-gratification. This was the goal, but it was slowly becoming less gratifying and more like work. We'd finally reached the most important phase of the endurance trial. Since it felt like work, only those with the strength and will power would outlast the rest.

Covered in drool, tears and about as much semen as the navy, the room stunk like a whorehouse in mid-July if the air-conditioning was broke and it was dollar day. Someone suggested a change of venue. I don't remember a lot of the details by this point, but I knew I wasn't going anywhere. I was slumped against the wall, slowly pumping away while my eyelids drooped and sweat began pooling around my ass on the floor. It was a pretty good spot to be, I remember reflecting, for when Jesus came back.

Immanuel Kant once said that 'a man gives up his personality when he uses himself merely as a means for the gratification of an animal drive.' He was right. I was a heaving, sweating beast with only the intention of winning on my mind. Every time I minded my own business was a step closer to winning. I'll be damned if I wasn't stewing in my juices though, in more ways than one. I learned the joys of being ambidextrous as I was left to my own devices more often in the later rounds.

There was one quitter before, but round 10 saw a wave of people tagging out because they "couldn't take it any longer" or "felt sick from the stink" or "were afraid if they continued they would never be able to sleep again." 4 people were left after the 10th round. Myself, Dirty Dick, Hairy Ass and as I started calling the final man "Mr Kleenex" because of the stack of dirty rags he had surrounding himself. He was like an island surrounded by balled up tissue and tears.

The four of us would last another 6 rounds without much to mention. The only thing missing from this sinner's sauna was the steam. It was hotter than satan's asshole in that room and the air was thick and humid. The window was almost completely covered in condensation when Hairy Ass finally decided to call it quits. He said nothing. He did not even bother to pick up his clothes and after about a half hour we realized he wasn't coming back. We didn't see him for a couple days afterwards either. I imagine it was the shame he was feeling that kept him away from the rest of us for those few days. I know I had trouble looking these warriors in the eye for a while. Then there were only three.

Another round over and Dirty Dick congratulated us for lasting so long and picked his things up and left. He seemed smugly full of self loathing as he walked out with no confidence in his step. What happened next has never been repeated until now.

It took a few moments to see clearly through the haze what had happened, but Mr Kleenex and myself realized at about the same time that we were really the only two left. I made eye contact with him and with a nod from each of us, we locked stares and wouldn't break it until there was a winner. When one of us would start revving our engine up to the red-line, the other would try as hard as they could to follow suit. I watched another man's pupils dilate in release 3 times before I'd had enough. I couldn't take it anymore. My hands and man were battered and bruised and I felt so dirty that I knew even an hour in the shower with scalding water couldn't make me clean again.

Exhausted, beaten up and sorry for being alive, I slumped all the way to the floor and fell asleep in my own muck and mire for I don't remember how long. When I woke up, Mr Kleenex was gone and I knew that it didn't really matter that he went one more round than I, neither of us would have ever gloated about our victory. There were no losers, like I said. Curiously though, there were no winners either. None ever spoke of it again in fact, so winning and losing lost all meaning.

No one's talked about that day since it happened and I doubt anyone ever will. I made up some descriptive names to be used so as to protect the innocent. That's horseshit though, as I was there, and in that room there were no innocents. You can't watch a group of men shake their steak and walk away thinking everything is going to be all lollipops and dandelions ever again. Part of me died in that room, and not the part that I was trying so hard to choke to death. In that death, though, came about the birth of a new part of me. Sure, I can now say that I was a part of one of the greatest adventures into social experimentation that ever existed, but I can also say I truly know what it is to be human.