Immortally Wounded

It is possible to keep blogging on a daily basis from this religious blog because the crimes against me were so SINFUL. Television is a moral cesspool right now and I think you're risking your immortal soul by watching it. But that's up to you. I have better, more productive ways to spend my limited time in this world. For instance, I wrote two more brand new, all new scripts this morning as soon as I woke up. Really great abstract humour. Wish I could share it with you but I want to keep it original so my lawyers can compare their originality with all the scripts I shared online for which I suffered so many brutal false accusations of being a hack and a fraud. I'm also working on my final illustration for my Tartar War poem. Gee, I hope I'm drawing the water right. Should I go check my drawing from that slideshow? Yeah, that's just a drawing of water with orcas in the background, right? I suppose those pricks stole that poem they don't know how to write from me too. I can only accuse them of the crimes I saw them commit with my own eyes, which I reported constantly online to a culpable U.S. president and his underlings for the whole year of 2007. Speaking of immortality, do you recall when I said that great poets are immortal? That was when I was first posting my poems in 2006 and 2007. I said that the fame of great poets outlasts the fame of contemporary stars. So wouldn't that give a greasy fraud show like Saturday Night Live a motive to destroy my poetry, in order to avert the immortality of their fraud victim? Am I a great poet? Apparently they thought so or they wouldn't have stolen whole volumes of my poetry and broadcast it as cheap comedy sketches. Did anyone notice how beautifully written those verses were when they were on TV? No, they were too busy looking at Jay Leno's face and Ellen's face and Tina Fey's face and Mike Myers face, etc, etc, and associating the beauty of my work with their faces. But what if they had never stolen my poems? Would I still be a great poet? Well, you were never given a chance to find that out, but I will say one thing on my behalf: people wanted to read my poems. Think about that one for a minute. Do people normally want to read poems? Don't they normally find poems boring? And yet people enjoyed my poems so much that Saturday Night Live had to steal them to try to destroy my poetic immortality. I think that a poet who writes poems that people want to read might just be a great poet for that alone. Having both of my parents die on me within eight months of each other has reaffirmed my faith in God and in the existence of a beautiful afterlife, as well as in the existence of Hell. However much a non-believer may wish to laugh at me for believing that I will see my loved ones again one day, my faith gives me hope. As for believing in Hell, these evil stars and their friends reaffirm my belief in that place every day. If God can turn such monsters loose in this world, I'm quite sure it can get a whole lot worse in the next one. Let me address now one of the ugly phrases I had stuffed into my brain for the better part of 2010: that was your heaven. I will aim my words directly at the source of this remark. What was my heaven? Your nasty fraud? You think you spent my heaven on your crime? Did you think I wanted to stand in front of millions of people with someone else's work and lie to them with it? If I had to spend even a few seconds in your heaven, I'd want to slit my wrists. You don't know my heaven any more than you know how to write my songs or how to write my poems or how to draw my pictures or how to write my comedy scripts or how to write my statements. And stay out of my brain because I'm really in a legally strong position now and I will be taking my record of these assaults to a copyright lawyer who will take them seriously enough to prosecute them. You don't want to end up like that person I heard saying from his cell a while ago you're lucky you're not here. He thinks going to prison is just a matter of luck. Yeah, was Charles Manson ever unlucky.
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