That is not a life . . . . goddam it, that is not a life, reconditioning yourself to meet the sulphur day . . . how could anyone live up the potential? The lost dream . . .
Curse you, in the dark of night, curse you, the number cruntchers. All you- sports wielding junkies, all you magnet-avoiding technocrats. Hmm, a few years ago I got rid of my telescope, perhaps I need to reinvest in the universal vision machine.

My sulpherous poetry means nothing, don't let it take light, bring light unto yourself and stand up to the false and quite silly laws that pretend to bind you. All your friends and associates are waiting for you to be real. Remember, there is such thing as natural fruit.
most unnattractive word of the week: SCRAPE
most overused word of the week: NEED
least used word of 2004: LATHARGIC

ADC.com would like to inform the casual reader that a quick, deft, mirror to the southern olfactory oraface will abate many, if not all, of the aforementioned symptoms. What that last scentence means is open to public investigation. I won't hide behind lies, and the fact that I was raised on bullshit. Hee Haw my ass. It's all sound, ladies and gentelmen. Sound. The big note. All two people who are reading this, hi, I like your cats.

To our readers who believe in a guy called jesus, hey sorry to break it to you, but the so called 'jesus myth' has been going around for so long that it's sad and pathetic when you look at it. All of the same myths crop up of a sun that appears and leads his children into the light, please. I used to belive there was a literal guy named jesus that went around and did good deeds. Water into wine and all that. hehe. Bullshit. They are all stories. Stories. It's not that I don't understand the inpact and social impact of these god-son stories, but there was no 'son of god named jesus'. Go play nintendo, you muff. I think the game for you is Enduro. Did anyone else see Team america:world police>? The best part was the music, "Team america. lick my balls!" Ahh, I can sleep well at night.


Polls. What do we call these mysterious forces, bending reality behind the scenes? Poltergiests. Those little tricksters! Are they behind the fact that I can't get a single bowling ball with the right size grip in the entire tri-state area encluding Rosemont? I thourly reject that appeasement with a resounding, if not quite deafening "Fuck you.". Cosmic resounding thought, not just dust in the wind. Tis next bit is a tribute to those innocent web typers who inadvertantly, lost thire material because of an internet hiccup. Read into this statement what you will. *as I click save* Does anyone have any bible questions? Whenever intelectual dialogue becomes to deep for many folks, they play the religion card! The religion card says everything, every single nuance of any public discussion, can be boiled down into two simple ideolouges:

1. Do what god says or the devil will fuck you up.
2. Do what the bible says or god will fuck you up.

Take your pick. Have fun thanks for playing, remember 40% of the profits from this lotto go to underfunded school districts that were recently recovering from hurricane LArry. He was a bitch. But he never called girls he didn't like bitches. Or pussies, or cunts. Girls don't like those words. Take it from Larry, he has sisters.
On underpants, keep them fresh. There is nothing more looked down upon, more reviled in this modern world, that would be 2004, than brown underpants on a new recruit. We want breathen that are morally pure, but most importaintly, romatically challanged. No, don't think Elvis Presley, like all the dough does, but move beyond that, to a place when doughnut dewdrops fall in lazy protracted patterns, slow shifting clicks of deer sillouhettes that were only a reality on your dashboard before you hit the heater. Who was the fellow with the high lip? The girl who decended popular fictio n with her stories of fantastic adventures behind bright lights and glamour? Who could trancend the revelry and mayhem of the modern picture film and walk away unscathed, or even better . . . pockets full. . .?
God I am sick of us fighting amongst one another. Why is it so hard to see we are all one? We prove it every day with our modern sciences. Through discoveries in energy, medicine, history, humor, and humility. Anyone want some strawberry shortcake? Mmmmmm. A good cake, tasty.



I feel the winds of change approaching. I smell it. It smells like an old mildewed cabbage patch doll rubbed with KY jelly within a boyscout tent run rampant with ants under a lunar eclipse. Hey, I hope you all see the eclipse. it will hit here in like an hour! Whee! did you all see the pictures of Cassini? Amazing and they are gonna get pictures that are 100 times the resolution/magnification that we are seeing! Seas of methane! That's gonna be rich. Bada bada bap
Oy vay. Hey everyone go and read about Pats' vision quest and tell him what you feel regarding the militarization of space. The Patster has all the issues sorted out and can give you guideance in specific areas of question . . .
"Will I ever be a commander on an elete photon armed galactic battle cruser and who would I be fighting and what coulour would my uniform be?"
"If I can go back in time and alliveiate this situation, why am I having to allieviate the situation to begin with?"
"Besides our innate, patriotic duty of galactic service, what's the deal with me getting my space mail thirty years after my sister sent it?"
Space. Time. My dick. What do all these things have in common? That's right, nothing. You'll never have enough space or time in your busy schedule to fit my dick in. Whereever we go we are-and where ever we are we go. Did I mention I have an excercise wheel in my apartment? The hand installed it after I aced that cheese maze. That game is easy, I just don't like it when they connect those electrodes to my brain and nutsack. Zowwie! That shit smarts! But I know that I am helping human evolution because humans have always evolved by tampering with their own DNA. Plus I get $12.50 an hour. And let me tell you, that buys a LOT of beer after the rent is paid and the months catfood is bought.
Well, Halloween is upon us and they say that in terms of the most masks sold of a certain presidents/senators face, that candidate will take the election. I also read that a Redskins football game determines the outoutcome of the Nov.2 election. That's like saying if I jerked off twice last night, Bush wins. How scientific. Polls! The poltergeists! Boo! It's halloween! I'm dressing up this year as the guy who stays home and gives out candy. Spooky, eh?

Chapter One
Tiptoeing up to the edge of the balcony, dripping in sweat from the landing. Now to go again? 1 2 3 . . . jump! Falling, grab! No too wet! grabbing! Arg! the tension on my arm! but I am safe! Must climb up and out. A window grate! It's open! Ahh, the luck is with me. Dripping in sweat mixed with rainwater, I tumble into the third floor vestabule which in the dim moonlight I can see contains a large dresser opposite a headboard functioning above a sweet scented, dapperd silked beadspread lying across a magnificent kings double. On a very easternly appearing nightstand constructed of reinforced bamboo, there lays upon a scroll of violet velvet a rusty antique eighteenth century alarm clock, a small glass bottle of diffrent coloured pills of various sizes, and an unopened can of sardines.
"Captain Larry's Salted Sardines." the label read.
I picked up the rusty clock and old copper residue literally crumbled off it and fell to the floor, turning my starched white gloves amber with dust. The clock was not ticking. As it assumeitably had not for over 100 years. There was a small slot on the back lower right half of the timepeice which was presumeably for a small key or . . . or a paperclip. An old eighteenth century alarm clock, a 13 1/4 oz. can of Captain Larry's Sardines and hmm, these pills. Now that I directed my attention to the small somewhat browning glass bottle, I only then noticed the myrad diversity of pills and their ever pulsating discoulouration between blinding neon vibrantness to a pale, discolourd, milky blandness every few seconds. Picking up the antique bottle I realized it was more like an old rubber glue bottle with the big brush cap and the wider jelly type base than the medicinal bottles I had seen in the war. For this bottle was an aged glass, and we didn't see nothing but broken glass out on the battlefield. Glass wouldn't last out there, but neither could a mans' asperations under that cold, black star. It's weight was no more than a small 20 to 30 pound rucksack but it was more. Not a weight, but a feeling of heaviness, no, oppression would fall upon your shoulders, malice would gnaw at your toenails while dispair kicked up his heels on your forehead. Famine just watches, bemused, smoking silently in the corner.
Some might think the situation was humorous, perhaps even be so cavalier to say I was leadfooted or micromanaged my time in the moonlit bedroom, or I mismanaged the resources offered to me by fate on that bewildering winter night with the ceaceless rain.
But I say "No."
I grabbed the pills, the sardines, and the rusty clock and carefully moved toward the left most ajoining door, to hopefully decend the monistary from within. But my foot clicked across a small bump, no bigger than a thimble, under the elaborate Indian rug I proceeded upon. In half a second, four simultanious shots were fired. I managed to avoid two as my extensive training in russian ballet gave me an edge over material objects and helped me dance around their mettalic death. But alas, I was hit by two of the hot lead slugs. Number one found a permanent home in the back of my right skull. Somehow, though it knocked me out, and I lost a shitload of blood, it didn't penatrate the skull itelf, but lodged itself right above my right cerebellum. For some reason this inadvertaintly corrected me of a genetic colour blindness I had possesed my entire life. I used to have special glasses available only to me that I had to get imported from Sweden. They were supposedly FBI and CIA issue only, but gradualy the general public cought wind of the promise of curing their kids of the dread colour blindness. I was one of the first test subjects. Tests were given:
Could we navigate the english channel with two live turkeys, seven spools of high quality thread, and one lonley transvestite? Many tried. Many more failed. But I was, miraculously, one of the few that ever saw that boot camp on Cassini and it's two moons. And that's something I'll never forget. Minus my copper toe that is. Oh yeah, that other bullet which fired after I stumbled upon that boobytrap in the ancient monistary went somehow downward, scraping the back of my breast, and taking off my second toe from the right on my left foot. Bled like a motherfucker, but I applied some silly putty and compressed the blood flow.
Would I reach Lil' Davie? Was he even still alive? And should I hit the bottle of pulsating pills to alliviate my injuries? Thank goodness my Christmas glasses weren't broken in the springing of that cleverly laid trap. I can't tell red from green without them.