tip-toeing through the black-eyed susans with jim goad
a jailhouse regression
conducted by robert x

Perhaps Pat Benatar sang it best.... from HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT, lyrics by Edward Schwartz Well you're the real tough cookie with the long history Of breaking little hearts, like the one in me That's O.K., lets see how you do it Put up your dukes, lets get down to it! You come on with a "come on", you don't fight fair But that's O.K., see if I care! Knock me down, it's all in vain I'll get right back on my feet again! Well you're the real tough cookie with the long history Of breaking little hearts, like the one in me Before I put another notch in my lipstick case You better make sure you put me in my place Hit Me With Your Best Shot! Come On, Hit Me With Your Best Shot! Hit Me With Your Best Shot! Fire Away! It is a noble thing to go to prison for your beliefs. It is a testament to one's heroic levels of social conscience. That is, unless you believe some women need to be knocked unconscious once in a while. Then the shimmering glow of heroic selflessness seems somehow tarnished in society's eyes. Go figure. James T. Goad may not be a hero to most people. He is, however, a journalist.

He produced four issues of the magazine ANSWER Me! Suffice it to say, that if issue #4, the Rape Issue, was introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Mainstream America on the national news, and the mandatory magazine and talk shows in its wake, Jim Goad would be easily the most hated man in America. With the death threats and harassment that would follow, Jim is probably quite lucky that he still retains his underground credentials. That's not to say he is unknown. After an obscenity trial, mention in a White House shooting, having his publication pulled from store shelves, and the like, Jim has racked up his share of notoriety. While I haven't covered every single detail of the Goad experience in this article, it's enough for you to jump to your own conclusions about this literary pariah. The actions that have backed up Jim Goad's writings have secured his lead position in what some would wrongly label as the "misanthropic avant-garde".

Which is something that is viewed by most people the same way my father viewed punk rock, and my grandfather viewed rock & roll, they don't get it, and they don't want to. "I don't give a damn what the significance is supposed to be, it's ugly." It's good to know that at Western Civilization's most enlightened stage, someone can still dig up a legitimate taboo or two. It's just too bad that much of the truth in the world still requires a disclaimer, or at least an apology. You may not think of Jim Goad as a hero, but I bet his publisher does.... Robert X: In a liberal-humanist, victim-oriented society, no one is really to blame for his or her own actions.

Robert X: Assuming that St. Peter is a bleeding-heart, politically correct Freudian, what incidents or situations would you claim as responsible for tainting your nurturing environment, i.e., what fucked-up shit happened when you were a kid that made you turn out to be who you are? Remember that your soul is on the line, and you HAVE to tell him what he wants to hear!

Jim Goad: Yo, I hate Freudian reductivism as much as the next feller, but I'd hesitate to entirely discount it. You can't blame your actions entirely on nature... or nurture...or free will. But I like the notion of free will, if only for its romanticism. As Led Zep said, "Yes, there are two paths you can go on/But in the long run/There's still time to change the road you're on." To what degree was sour-titted rearing responsible for what I've become?

In terms of personality traits, I acquired a mixture of molten anger from my father and chilly sadism from mom. By constantly treating me as The Bad Seed, my parents probably taught me to take too much responsibility for my actions. By blaming me for everything that was wrong with their lives, they gave me a willingness to court perhaps more trouble than I deserve. Violence? My father punched my mother in the stomach while she was pregnant with me-that probably rustled up the placenta a bit. I received beatings from both parents which only stopped when I began hitting them back in my teens. I believe that violence has been imprinted on my character; it's inter-cellular. But one experience-a non-violent one-sticks out as particularly formative.

I was only 3 or 4 years old and said the word "shit" in my mother's presence. As punishment, she made me stand on our stairs and repeat the word "shit" for a solid half-hour, forcing me to miss my favorite TV program, "The Dick Van Dyke Show." In a sense, I've been chanting the word "shit" ever since.

How and why did ANSWER Me! come about?

ANSWER Me! was the distillation of everything they told me I couldn't do in journalism school. I had tried writing for mainstream publications, but without fail, the editors would always excise my favorite passages, arguing that they were in poor taste or would drive away advertisers. ANSWER Me! was intended as a concentrated dose of everything that wound up on the cutting-room floor. Ultimately, no other forum but my own would allow me to express how I felt about the world. I was, and remain, dangerously hostile. I was certain that if I didn't get my aggression out in print, it would manifest itself in physical violence. ANSWER Me! became the literary equivalent of a physical assault. I had taken a tip from a John Waters essay where he recommended turning your ugliest trait into a marketable commodity. In my case, I took an unrelenting anger and declared it to be a virtue. ANSWER Me! #1 was hatched in 1991, at a time when everyone except the white male was encouraged to be angry, so I was filling a vacant marketing niche. The magazine was also a blowtorch in the face of slacker aesthetics. Punk rock had started out by alleging that passion was more important than craft; fifteen years later, it had thrown away both passion and craft, encouraging everyone to lazily squirt out disinterested, anti-intellectual diarrhea. I wanted to create something where you could tell that the writer sweated over every word. My attitude was that picking up a pen and facing a sheet of paper was like hoisting an AK-47 and walking onto a battlefield. For inspiration, I leaned heavily on early 80's hardcore punk and late 80's gangsta rap-the sort of groups who, upon first listen, astonished you with the magnum force of their hostility. I wasn't trying to offend, because the very idea of offensiveness is ludicrous; ANSWER Me! was nonfiction-how can you be offended by reality? The only fact which I find offensive is my own mortality. Everything else should be fair game.

The image you put forth is that of a white-trash intellectual. Why do you think that is so offensive to certain people?

I ain't no Marxist, but I believe that social classes exist and that they are fundamentally divided along economic lines. I further believe that slavery in America was rooted much less in racial hatred than it was in the preordained economic blueprints of European feudalism and the slave cultures of antiquity. Given this framework of historical oppression-and I don't encourage anyone to whine about oppression, but if you acknowledge it in one place, you should acknowledge it everywhere that it occurs-it stands to reason that the white economic elites have been abusing their own brethren for far longer than they ever mistreated Africans. A person usually experiences greater guilt for having harmed someone close to them than for having harmed a stranger. Therefore, it has been much easier for rich whites to accept the blame for what they've done to blacks than the demonstrably more extensive abuse they've heaped upon poor whites. The black intellectual, shaking off his psychic chains and boldly assailing his oppressors, was once America's biggest fear. But black intellectuals have largely been appeased, if only symbolically. The white-trash intellectual is potentially much more revolutionary, for he correctly asserts that injustice has always been color-blind.

When that Hispanic cat from Colorado, Francisco Duran, busted off a few caps at the White House, they found a copy of ANSWER Me! in his car. Did you experience an increase in circulation as a result?

From what I have been able to determine (his defense lawyers stopped returning my calls), Duran didn't have a copy of ANSWER Me! in his van, but he DID quote a line from ANSWER Me! #2 in a note which was found among his belongings. This was the line: "Can you imagine a higher moral calling than to destroy someone's dreams with one bullet...?" When the story broke, all four issues of ANSWER Me! had already sold out. Adam Parfrey suggested reprinting a special commemorative "Duran Edition" of issue 2. The issue's original cover featured a Nick Bougas drawing of a man blowing out his own brains with a revolver. I was going to ask Nick to redo the drawing to portray Bill Clinton shooting himself. When I was informed that the tourist who videotaped Duran's rampage was found dead three weeks after filming the incident-of food poisoning in Brazil, no less- I felt sucked into a bad Oliver Stone movie of which I wanted no part. Duran's lawyers wound up not calling me to testify. Duran received a sentence of 45 years to life. A year or so after his conviction, I received a letter from him. It was unsealed, as if government officials wanted me to know they were watching. Duran apologized for getting me into trouble, requested Anton LaVey's address, and signed his letter "Francisco Martin Duran-The White House Shooter."

The RAPE issue of ANSWER Me! has to be one of the most controversial and/or offensive periodical editions in recent history (Boyz II Men on the cover of Tiger Beat, notwithstanding). Explain the underlying message to all the squares that think you are just a depraved son-of-a-bitch.

First off, I had become annoyed with ANSWER Me!'s popularity after three issues and desperately sought to winnow down my fan base to the true believers. I had tired of morons who wore Manson T-shirts but gasped at the very idea of date rape. I wanted readers who were willing to feel the violence and not look away, who didn't view it all as some sort of cute postmodern joke to be enjoyed from within the comfort of their studio apartments. ANSWER Me! #4 was released into an ideological climate where Valerie Solanas's S.C.U.M. MANIFESTO - in which she seriously calls for the extinction of the male gender- was considered politically brave, while my own "Let's Hear it for Violence Toward Women!" - which was intended as a JOKE - caused an obscenity trial.

The timing of the issue couldn't have been better - it was released at the height of the idiotic Riot Grrrl movement, which implausibly alleged that acting like a screeching cunt would somehow disprove men's sexist allegation that women acted like screeching cunts. I have no problem with man hatred -in fact, I rather enjoy it, but what I found hypocritical is that feminists masked their hatred as something noble and empowering. What they were saying about men was harsher and more negative than any allegedly sexist comments by men. Again, I don't mind their bile-it's that they don't play fair about it. I thought that platitudes such as "all men are rapists" and "pornography causes violence toward women" weren't only inaccurate, they were insane, and I dismantled them piece-by-piece. And in a section which all critics avoided, I demolished the notion that cultural attitudes, rather than biological imperatives, cause rape by proving that rape exists in the animal kingdom. I also thought it puzzling that people considered rape to be worse than all other forms of violence, including murder. They'd allege that rape is worse than murder because the victim must live with the trauma, but what about the survivor of crippling violence? Why is it worse to have been forcibly penetrated for five minutes (ten if you're lucky) than it is to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair because someone bashed your kneecaps with a baseball bat?


Because it has become a gender issue, and those agitants who once only wanted equality have become drunk with their own power and are pushing for unequal standards which work to their own advantage. One woman bought a gun after reading ANSWER Me! #4. One bookstore owner was so appalled, he BURNED all copies that were sent to him. The dummies recoiled, while the smart ones understood. Mission accomplished. I believe that women are born with three holes-one between their legs, one between their buttocks, and one between their ears. Women are irrational and unfit to rule, and that's why men rule everywhere. Feminism is unnatural and will last only as long as men are foolishly willing to relinquish their natural-born power. To give a woman power is like handing a gun to an infant. Men will eventually wise up, and things will return to the unsullied natural state which God-who has a dick-intended.

I suppose, however, that I haven't done a good job of explaining why I'm not a depraved son-of-a-bitch.

ANSWER Me! was known for its interviews of controversial figures on the American scene. Why then would you publish an interview with that worthless drug freak Timothy Leary?

What I looked for in my interview subjects was a willingness to be considered an asshole for their beliefs, so long as those beliefs were sincere.

Leary is often identified with 60's passivity, but I found him angrier and more of an iconoclast than you might expect. Plus, he was imprisoned for his beliefs, which scores MUCHO brownie points with me at this stage of my life. In his Jail Notes, he recalls being held captive by Black Panthers in northern Africa, and his account is anything but flattering. At a time (about ten years ago) when my beliefs were predictably liberal, it was Timothy Leary who gave me the impression that black people were capable of evil. He also had the extreme bad taste to broadcast his death, as it happened, on the Internet. Plus, as an old man, he shacked up with increasingly younger girlfriends, which I found admirable.

It is conceivable that your work, doing the rape issue, and your contribution to Boyd Rice's HATESVILLE! compilation CD, could create a trend toward misogynist chic. How would you envision a weekly hipster club Goad-inspired theme night for trendy, educated, milksops to act out faux machismo and rape fantasies?

I picture an establishment called "The R.A.P.E. Club," with "R.A.P.E." being an acronym for "Radical Aggression Performance Ensemble." Women with thick purple mascara surrounding one eye would mingle with men wearing "wifebeater" T-shirts (tank-top undershirts-ed.) and surgically enhanced hair on their shoulders. Instead of the "wheels of steel," DJs would spin records on the "cycles of abuse." It would play exclusively Country & Western music, which was once determined by a sociological survey as appealing to a higher percentage of misogynists than any other form of popular music. Live entertainment would sometimes be provided by a band called "Restraining Order," composed entirely of abusive husbands. Interracial couples would receive a 2-for-1 admission bargain on "O.J. and Nicole Night." Bartenders would serve drinks such as "The Black Eye" (Vodka and Grape Juice) and "The Bloody Nose" (Tequila and V-8). Instead of condoms, bathroom vending machines would dispense first-aid kits. An auxiliary lounge for people who couldn't find dates would be called "The Victim's Support Group."

Of course, all violence and sexual aggression would be carefully play-acted.

It has always been apparent to me that even though the law has a myopic take on domestic violence, the situations that breed it vary greatly from case to case. A classic scenario being the man who was raised on regular beatings, keeping order the only way he knows how. Then there is the man who only hits when he is drunk. What is generally ignored by society is the woman's role in many cases. While it can be safely assumed that most beaten women are targets of the previously described scenarios, it has to be pointed out a certain number of dysfunctional females exist, who unconsciously, yet systematically encourage or instigate violent episodes with their male partners. Often this could stem from a violent upbringing that fostered an unhealthy confusion in regard to the concepts of the relationship between love and physical abuse. What are your thoughts on this, and where in your personal experience have you found yourself amongst the aforementioned situations?

The problem with "experts" is that they typically have little or no first-hand experience in their field of expertise. The experts on domestic violence tend not to have ever been involved in it personally, or if they have, it's almost exclusively from the standpoint of a so-called victim. How, then, can they claim to understand the perpetrator's mind? Domestic-violence experts invariably view it as a male-on-female issue. However, sociological surveys have almost unanimously found that women more frequently instigate inter-gender violence than do men. The "experts" also allege, however speciously, that all male abusers magically suffer from the same sort of "denial" syndrome when claiming that their victims played a role in violent situations. But what's more sensible is that the victims and their professionally employed sob-sisters are blindly denying that domestic violence is much more complex than a simple good vs. evil morality fable, with man always chewing up woman.

There are undoubtedly situations where male control freaks incessantly batter weak-willed and largely innocent women, but I suspect this isn't the typical D.V. scenario. What is almost never acknowledged is the flip side: female control freaks that consistently pummel the shit out of their male victims, who are less likely to complain because they'd be greeted with laughter rather than sympathy. As I define experts, I am an expert on domestic violence. And I've always been amused by TV-movie depictions of the subject wherein the savage male abuser thrashes the bitch for not folding the towels properly or for adding too much spice to the meatloaf. In my case, being violent NEVER stemmed from a desire to control the woman's behavior, except in a very narrow sense-when that behavior directly and seriously threatened my physical or emotional well-being, I got violent. I've been violent with my ex-wife Debbie and my ex-girlfriend Anne. In neither situation did I ever haul off and belt the woman without what I consider-even now-to be serious instigation. With Debbie, the instigation was always verbal; with Anne it was always physical. Debbie was a compulsive complainer. I'll describe a situation which didn't lead to violence, but which is exemplary of how frustrating it often was to be around her. On a sweltering June day in 1987, we moved in together. Debbie owned hundreds of clothing items, enough to make Imelda Marcos look like a peasant girl. On the night we moved in together, she spent three hours tearing through every item in search of a white sweater she thought was missing. Since it was a hot summer night, she had no need of the sweater. I tried explaining this, but to no avail-she actually cried TEARS looking for the sweater. She finally found it, but not before pushing my nerves to the limit. She ignored all logic in her manic quest to find the sweater, and she didn't care that she was driving me crazy over something totally unimportant. Although this situation didn't lead to violence, similar situations did. She would always seem oblivious to my loudly expressed irritation. I'd always warn her that I was getting angry and she should either find a solution to her little "problem" or quit complaining. But she seemed to thrive on the very act of complaining. I'd try using logic, which failed. I'd try screaming, which failed. Then I'd hit her, which worked. Thus, however "dysfunctionally," I learned how to stop her from doing something I found unbearable: I'd hit her. I hit Debbie about ten times in twelve years. After the first or second time, you would think she'd heed my warning signals, but she didn't; thus I contend that she played at least some role in being hit. I'm not saying she "deserved" being hit, or that her behavior justified my hitting her; what I'm challenging is the domestic-violence experts' allegation that the fact she wound up being hit entirely justifies whatever she did that led up to it. There was more violence with Anne in one year than there was with Debbie in twelve. The pattern was always the same: I'd try to leave her place or I'd tell her to leave mine, and she'd lunge at me physically. I'd often tell her to let go, warning that if she didn't, I'd hit her. Sometimes she'd attack so quickly and violently, I'd have no choice but to hit her. Every time, she'd get the worst of the altercation. After two or three black eyes, you'd think she'd find another way to deal with it, but no. My biggest regret isn't hitting either of them; it's that I got so emotionally involved, I allowed it to get to that point.

Your former lovers (ugh! I hate that term), Debbie Goad and Anne R., have posted negative things about you on the Internet. One such posting alleges that you beat up a deaf man in a parking-space dispute. Do you believe it is unsafe for deaf people to drive, being unable to hear sirens and honking horns?

One night in September, 1969, my brother Bucky - who was born a deaf mute-rented a car in Paris, France. The next morning his dead body was found in a ditch 100 yards from the car. There were approximately 40 stab wounds all over his body. He also had been strangled with his own belt. So yes, I definitely believe it is unsafe for deaf people to drive.

You have written the book The Redneck Manifesto. Do you find it mildly ironic that it is unlikely anyone who qualifies as bona fide Redneck American, will ever read it?

I realized midway through writing the book that my target audience wasn't rednecks, it was the redneck-bashers-the relatively affluent caucasio-liberals who have empathy for all manner of benighted social groups so long as they aren't economically disadvantaged whites. I felt the book had some valid things to say about such leftist hypocrisy.

However, a point that was lost on nearly everyone was that, by portraying rednecks as noble savages, I was actually satirizing the very notion of identity politics. By touting toothless yokels as exemplars of human dignity, I was pushing the notion of social compassion to its illogical extreme. By pleading for sympathy toward white trash- the last group against which one was freely permitted to indulge the very human urge to ridicule- I hoped to create a climate of such stifling sensitivity that it all came tumbling down and everyone was once again fair game to be slurred.

If you were offered a well-paying position in the field of Professional Wrestling that included creative control of your character, what sort of gimmick would you employ?

I'd play a character called "Bruno the Fag-Basher," who taunts all of his opponents with allegations of their homosexuality, yet who himself is so homophobic that he can't bring himself to touch another man and thus loses all his fights.

Who was that crazy guy who had the public-access show and stayed in your basement?

That was Lou Perfidio, a former college pal from Philly. Lou got into legal trouble in Tucson for doing a cable-access show called "The Great Satan At-Large," wherein he portrayed the devil as a talk-show host. We had planned to go on Portland Public Access with a program called "The Nigger Show." Roughly, it was a tragicomic narrative about two skinheads who lose their girlfriends to black guys. In their spurned rage, they do a cable access show-within-a-show called "The Nigger Show," which is filled with inept sloganeering and the crudest stereotypes. Behind the scenes, still smarting from the romantic rejection, the boys convince themselves that their ex-girlfriends couldn't possibly prefer black guys and thus must have been sold into white slavery. So they boldly forge into the ghetto to rescue the kidnapped white maidens. Though a series of subversive activities such as dropping water balloons on Negroes and taking extra newspapers from newsboxes when they have only paid for one, they spark a global race war which they're powerless to stop. To everyone's surprise, the Puerto Ricans win the race war. The protagonists retire to the Oregon woods to eke out a survivalist existence. After a heated campfire argument as to the racial origins of Bigfoot, one of the boys is brutally raped by a Sasquatch.

Why is it the first name James is so often followed by the initial T? [e.g., James T. Kirk (Star Trek); James T. West (Wild Wild West); James T. Goad (Oregon State Penitentiary)]

Do you honestly believe that me or any of the other James T.'s would reveal our secret and thus loosen our hegemonic grip over international financial markets?

The standard contrived interview question here would be "what inspired you to record an album of truck-driver songs?" Considering the rest of the content of this interview, that's a pretty stupid question. I will dispense with the pretense and you can commence with plugging your CD.

To explain that by recording a trucker CD ("Big Red Goad-Truck Drivin' Psycho" available from World Serpent Distribution) I merely intended to foster confusion would tend to dispel that confusion, so I won't even go that far. I'd much rather talk about the projected follow-up: A CD composed entirely of prison tunes: "He's in the Jailhouse Now," "Folsom Prison Blues," "Tupelo County Jail," "I'm a Lonesome Fugitive," "Mama Tried," "The Only Hell my Mama Ever Raised," "Clang, Bang, Clang," etc..

Since we have touched on the subjects of sexual relations, violence, and white-trash Americans, tell us how prison life is affecting you.

I wish I could impress you with stories about razor fights leaving the corridors sticky with blood and of gang rapes in the laundry room, but alas, this is a minimum-security facility in one of the easiest states to do time.

Everyone here is serving three years or less, and no one wants to jeopardize their release date, so you don't have the same sort of high-torqued psychosis attendant to a maximum-security joint glutted with lifers. [note: In January of 2000, I was moved to a maximum-security prison, where I spent 9 months. Ironically, it was mellower than the minimum-security place.] I spent 7 1/2 months in county jail before being transferred here, and jail was immeasurably worse than prison. In jail, I was locked down 22 hours a day in a tiny cell and fed a high-starch, high-fat, zero-nutrition diet which left me physically and emotionally addled. In prison I eat better food (and more of it) than I was able to afford on the outside. Every day I walk for three to five hours in the crisp, misty air and strain every muscle on the weight pile. I could think of worse things to be in prison than a writer, because when I'm not sleeping, eating, exercising, or jerking off, I'm writing. I also enjoy getting mail and therefore keeping at least one thin tentacle extended to the outside world. The worst things are the boredom and lack of privacy. Instead of having a cell, I share an army-barracks-style dormitory with 85 other guys. There are some highly colorful characters here, but most of the fellas are just agonizingly dumb, mired in a perpetual adolescence. You get a lot of fart jokes and people calling each other homos. The challenges are mostly psychological. There is a constant awareness that you can either let this destroy you or make you stronger. The trick is to never think of what you're missing and to be content with what you have. I can look out the window at the purplish-orange sunsets, then lower my eyes and see razor wire. So I don't lower my eyes. I can feel it all making me harder and more intense, yet more focused and self-controlled. I project a pretty fierce exoskeleton. I'm good at generating an ultra-hostile vibe. I don't fuck with anyone, but my demeanor makes it clear that I'm not to be fucked with, either. People tend not to mess with me because I'm quiet and impossible to figure out. You always have to beware of the quiet ones. If my captors' intent was to make me feel as if I'm a bad person and that society is right about everything, then they've failed. I'm learning lessons, but not the ones they want me to learn. I will leave prison both more superhuman and more subhuman than when I entered- but not more human.

I'm not going to ask who your favorite musical groups are, but I would like to know your personal top 10 karaoke performance songs.

In no particular order:
"To All the Girls I've Hit Before" -Willie 'n' Julio
"Only Women Bleed"- Alice Cooper
"Hit Me With Your Best Shot" - Pat Benatar
"Love Is a Battlefield"-Pat Benatar
"And the Thunder Rolls" - Garth Brooks
"Understand Your Man" - Johnny Cash
"Big Girls Don't Cry"- The Four Seasons
"Getting Better"- The Beatles (especially the lyric, "I used to be cruel to my woman/ I beat her and kept her apart from the things that she loved")
That Salt-n-Pepa song about domestic violence
Anything by James Taylor, Jackson Browne, Flavor-Flav, David Soul, Fabian or Ike Turner

Finally, this interview seems to have come full circle. Your upcoming autobiography is titled Shit Magnet. Is this intended to mean that you view yourself as the polar opposite of shit, and are a helpless victim of the laws of physics, forever to be tormented by the parasitic dregs of civilization who are inexplicably drawn to your shitlessness? Or is it acceptance of the presence of some degree of shit characteristics (a recessive shit gene, if you will) that emits some sort of shit musk as a beacon to all the shit of the world? More simply put, does it "take one to know one?"

The proper answer might be "all of the above." The purpose of Shit Magnet is to figure out why I get into so much trouble: an obscenity trial, a White House shooting, a triple Nazi suicide, an ugly divorce, incessant violence, and now prison. It can't all be coincidence. Life would be much easier if I were the robot stud asshole monster I'm portrayed as, but I'm much more complex and troubled than that. I have a strong puritanical streak and don't sleep as soundly as a solid shithead would. There is tremendous energy in danger and calamity and darkness-plus, the chicks dig it. I have a great affinity for shit. I am not shit myself, but I have a very good nose for it. I am a major league Poo Poo scout. I feel simultaneously above the shit and yet somehow caked with it. The shit flies to me because it knows I won't judge it harshly. I viewed myself as the Shepherd of Shit, but lately the sheep have turned on me. My big project will be in determining how not to get myself into trouble, but how to get the rest of the world into trouble. It's the world, not me, that deserves it. The world, not me, should apologize. I face the grand task of becoming a fecal alchemist, of turning shit into fertilizer. My ultimate revenge against society will be to grow daisies atop the shit my life has become.