 Remember when Hannibal Lector was all the rage? Years ago, before zombies replaced him in the fickle heart of the public. Well this is the true story of what happened to Hannibal Lector, written by one who was there, which I can now share with you because all the guilty parties are dead and beyond the law's convoluted reach. The names have not been changed to protect the innocent-- assuming there are any.... ******** The Silence of the Hacks ******** I don't want to rain on little ole Thomas Harris' parade or put a spoke in his wheel--it's just that I'm sick and dog-tired of all these tenth rate so-called "writers" harvesting kudos and million-dollar advances for writing pure trash all the time. I mean what's the point? Hannibal Lecter can go take a long jump off a short pier--so what if the Queen Herself knighted the slimy little jerk? It just proves what a tribe of perverted bums our Leaders are, don't it? Because you are never told the truth, Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury. You are once again being fed a LIE and right now I'm going to tell you the way it really happened (which is nothing like it's reported in the so-called News of the Day, Hannibal the Cannibal being the hot story of the moment). Anyway, a bunch of us got together and said we wuz sick and dog-tired of the reading public being such a ninny, needing something as DUMB as mere cannibalism to get them to go to their bookstore and buy a book. At that time Hannibal Lecter was right here in Shoreline, Washington, which is the suburb of Seattle where me and my buddies live. He was hiding out here; it's the one place the cops would never think to look for him. One night late we formed a sort of a posse you might call it, with ropes and all.. We went to Hannibal's door and knocked loudly. When he opened the door we jumped him. We drug him out (him yellin and screamin and waving his fists, but he aint in all that good a shape from being in prison too long). He wasn't wearing his scary mask that the Warden made him wear in prison, and it woulda been more exciting if he was wearing it, but he wasn't. So we knocked Hannibal down and kicked him till he shut up whimpering. Then we drug him to that big ole maple tree that grows in front of his house--you pass it on your way to walk your dog in Boeing Creek Park; you'd probably remember the exact spot if you thought about it, anyway we put one end of that rope in a noose around his neck, threw the other end over a limb of the maple tree and we all pulled, yelling "Yo-Ho!" becuz we was feelin good. Ole Hannibal he kicked a bunch but pretty soon he was dead with his tongue stickin way out. When he was all done kicking we cut the sonofabitch down and threw the body in the trunk of my ole Chrysler New Yorker. Then we all drove back to my house. We drug old Hannibal by the legs around to my back yard which is where we cut him up using a chain saw. First the head, then the legs--we sawed the legs into nice roast-size chunks like any good butcher would do. Then the arms. Then the torso. Old Jerry wrapped most of the parts in Glad Wrap and popped them in the two old freezers on my porch. They'd do nice for Sundays all through the winter--then we fired up my barbecue, filled it with good well-seasoned hickory charcoal for a slow simmer and we took and roasted old Hannibal's left thigh just as neat as you please. Cooking time was two hours, then we placed the roast on a platter and I carved and served (bein as how it was my house), then we filled up our jelly glasses with some full-bodied Chianti, 1984 with a mellow yet tangy and pleasingly fruity bouquet, and we all fell to eatin. "More fava beans, anyone?" Caroline asked. "I'm sure enjoyin this roast," Sidney said. "This mustard crust is my favorite." We all smacked our lips, that roast was so good. The most delicious meat I ever et. I had three helpings, four glasses of Chianti and a whole mess of fava beans. Bianca, she cut herself another big slice, poured gravy on it and cut it up and et it, making smacking noises, it was so prime. "Mmm, mmm! Don't that just hit the spot. Best roast I ever bit into," then went back for more. There was some charred bits; I carved them off and threw them to my two cats Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas. Pretty soon everyone said "Good night" and drove off belching and picking their teeth, and I fell onto the couch in the living room where I sleep, thinking-- "Well it's not MY fault that my wholesome, honest, uplifting books get rejected because the public can't stomach that kind of stuff! I mean what the hell, better luck next time." And so saying, I rolled over, farted loudly and fell into a deep, satisfying sleep, happy as a clam in clover. And that's what REALLY happened to Hannibal the Cannibal. That other stuff they try to feed you ? That is a pure lie. Don't fall for it. Why let them manipulate your mind? Go for the truth every time; it's a lot more pro-survival. -Jody Scott 
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 "The expression “bread and circuses“ captures a certain cynical political view that the masses can be kept happy with fast food (think Cartman’s “Cheesy Poofs” on South Park) and faster entertainment (NASCAR races, NFL games, and the like)." -William Astore, Huffington Post the more things change the more they stay the same..... * * * * * * * * From Jody's blog, circa 1995, and still apt today: So here we are, standing on the courthouse steps, just the two of us. I've been meaning to talk to you for some time now--how is Justin? That's your hubby's name isn't it--Justin? Well I'm sure glad to hear that his obnostic diaphluvis is better after the operation, and you are lookin' wonderful yourself! You'd never know you had that, uh, whaddayacallit, removed--but I better hurry; it looks like rain. Look, over there on the roof of the Capitol Building it seems to be raining already and I see you have no umbrella so I'll make this as fast as possible. I don't know about you, but this "edifice" we're standing in front of gives me the creeps and the Supreme Court is even worse. I hate the sight of that sucker. And I'll tell you why. All that type of phony Greco-Roman architecture, well, it just downright chills my blood. I think it's because I can't help thinking of humanity as a tribe of savages, you know? Oh I know we're supposed to keep saying "Aren't we wonderful!" over and over and patting ourselves on the back until we break an arm, but-- Gee. It seems to me that instead of being "wonderful" what we really are is a downtrodden race still ruled by the same old hierarchy, the same henchmen who've always passed the power down from father to son while they pretend to be Hotties all new and different, and so on. Know what I mean? We are war-crazed barbarians with our hands in each other's pockets, in love with Government-sponsored carnage--and now don't get me wrong, I think that humans are basically good and anyone who tries to teach you otherwise is nothing but a damn criminal. And speaking of teaching--  In my view, what's been done to ordinary folks is a high crime and they're not even aware of it. Ask yourself, "Am I being manipulated"--No, on second thought don't ask yourself that; it might drive you nuts. But are you aware that the people who use the word "Education" most often are those very people who have no idea of what the human mind is, or how to educate it? They've failed steadily for the last 2000 years and more because they are like Tommy Pickles, the hero of "Rugrats" who always says to the other babies, "Hey! I got a idea!"--and this is exactly what all your politicians are doing all the time. "Hey! I got a idea!" That's how we run all of our affairs. We are too infantile to have any genuine management skills or technologies (except the usual electronic tweakies, our sole specialty. Aren't we wonderful? Ohhhh, yeah). All these rule-makers with their endless little Eureka schemes--but I was talking about the Supreme Court Building. You think piles like that are not constructed to intimidate us? "Look at me! I'm so Greco-Roman I'm about to DAH! Why, I'm just gorgeous! I AM Rome! I am Rome, hear me roar, you poor little jerks who can't even mark your ballots correctly. But just look at my big white columns! I'm so SERIOUS and IMPORTANT I can hardly stand it." Etc., etc., ad nauseum.  Personally I'm sick and tired of buildings that try to intimidate me. Take that guy Clarence Thomas for instance. He tours a group of high school kids and tells them "We Supremes always put our personal prejudices aside and do what is right." Is this lying hypocrisy or what would you call it? I wasn't consulted when they hired this guy (for LIFE! Can you imagine such an outrage to the so-called human spirit?) but in any case, I'm firing Clarence Thomas and hiring Gary Coleman in his place. Gary has assured me that he is an honest man and no hypocrite and will be happy to change his first name to Tom because a black gentleman called Tom is desperately needed on the Supremes--and, he can learn as much Law as the rest of them in six months of night school. So congratulations, Tom Coleman our new S.C. Justice, and long may you wave.
But anyway I was telling you, every time I see the S.C. Building I suffer a panic attack. "Oh my God, it's the Romans! Coming over the hill to wipe out our poor, sad, little, dirty, common-folk village! Run for cover you suckers, our Masters are about to give us what-for." The truth is that Rome would be jealous of our cruel jailing of millions of non-violent people. They had nothing as spectacular as that. Nothing. All they had was a fair amount of roadside crucifixions--but it's a numbers game and the average Roman Emperor would seethe with jealousy over how many no-threat, non-violent folks we keep behind bars because it's truly phenomenal by any yardstick including the most brutal you can imagine. Me, I've maintained that human society hasn't changed an iota since the days of the Caesars because people are in a deep, profound trance. You do all the Approved things but never feel truly satisfied, and I am here to change all that. But not right now--because big drops are beginning to patter down on us and the Courthouse steps are getting slipperier by the minute (if such a thing is possible) and --hear that deep-throated growl of thunder on the western horizon? Wow, it's really comin' down now so goodbye, we must hurry and rush off each to her separate destination (or "Fate" if you want to call it that)--and, hey: I look forward to our next conversation, because I really like you. -Jody Scott "The people, united, shall never be divided" - old protest chant   The Dog Owners of my neighborhood were understandably angry and upset when City Hall recently passed a new "leash law." Most of us have been walking our mutts in the park across the street from my house for many years now. We're the ones who always kept the place clean and beautiful (ours is an exceptionally lovely park with rugged terrain and 300-year-old trees. In the past there were trout in the creek but local overbuilding managed to destroy them)-- by removing cans, paper and miscellaneous garbage strewn around by partying teenagers, by shoring up eroding trails along the creekbed with rocks and fallen timber and especially by always picking up after our pooches... all of whom are well-trained, loving animals, as most dogs are and should be except when they've been brutalized by insane humans. Then one day we were forced to incorporate as a city (at gunpoint you might say) with a Council that loves to pass more laws and throw its weight around-- fining citizens for this or that infraction of its clammy rules, churning out endless new legislation that we are asked to fall upon our knees and obey ("Because it's The Law!" as idiots say), assessing fees for whatever it can dream up and all the rest of it... Just as most City Councils are in the habit of doing (but not the good ones). The first to be ticketed was Kathy, a Korean lady who recently suffered a stroke. The daily walk in the park with her little pug-dog, Bug, was her only exercise and Bug's too. This little guy can't walk very well. He's old and arthritic. It was easy for the cop to catch up with this pair; Kathy walks on ahead swinging her good arm to get her exercise and Bug, waddling and panting, tongue lolling, struggles to keep up... a very dangerous little mutt, Bug. But let me put that in the past tense because those two do not stroll in our park any more. Welcome to America, Kathy! The second to be ticketed was Jasper Cunningham and was he ever mad! Jasper has a sweet, gentle Golden Retriever named Mica. Like all the park regulars, Mica is beautifully trained. He would never dream of harming a soul. But like every dog he needs his daily run down the hill where people do not walk. His owner said: "They're ticketing the wrong people! Dogs don't run you off the path with their bikes and motorized razor scooters, dogs don't build fires at the base of trees that were growing here before Columbus landed, dogs don't shoot birds or dump their beer empties in the river--" Jasper managed to talk the judge into a half-price ticket, $60 instead of $120 because he said he hadn't been warned but that didn't lessen his anger at the unfairness of another cruel, blind law handed down to us from "above." Yes, there are attack dogs in the world (just as there are attack people) but to penalize everyone is not only less than sane but inevitably leads to worse problems. Why not enforce those laws already on the books-- laws that go after criminals (to call them what they are for a change): people who treat animals viciously and create the "attack dog" problem in the first place? The law looks the other way when it comes to them. That, at any rate, was Jasper's argument. "It's because dogs don't vote, pay taxes or support these lousy politicians," he fumed. And then the inevitable happened. One afternoon around four o'clock, Reba and Steve and I were out walking our canine family members--minus their leashes of course. Every day we hike down to a small hollow that boasts a pretty little clearing where we can toss tennis balls around and have the dogs chase them and come racing back, tennis ball in smiling mouth (if you don't think dogs can smile you've been sadly miseducated. I'm told that even young Arctic foxes who have never seen a human before--the lucky little devils--love this tennis ball game. Just as much as we do). But that day, something bad happened. First of all there was a man with two little kids in the clearing. None of us knew the man, he wasn't one of the regulars and the minute he saw our dogs he went into the type of hysterical fit we had seen before. He did and said all the usual things ("Oh my God! Keep them away from me! You can't be here," etc.-- picking up a stone and so on), infecting his children with his raw hysteria. And note well: this is the fellow responsible for the murder of whole species. He has no empathy for the animals that occupy the same planet as he does; he believes he is "superior" to them and that they will attack him, therefore he is justified in doing whatever he likes to them. The question to ask this guy is, "What have you done to an animal?" He's clearly exhibiting symptoms of guilt and fear of retribution. This man needs help, not new laws to bolster his insanely reactive behavior. But he soon gathered his young and stalked off. A few minutes later a police officer appeared over the brow of the hill, walking toward us. He approached Steve first. His ticket book open in his hand. "Your dog isn't wearing a leash," he pointed out brilliantly. "That's against the law in this park." Steve began to remonstrate (that means like, protest a bit when you know you are in the right) and at the same time Reba, who always carries a baseball bat on her walks to send the tennis ball spinning a little farther and faster and also to protect against stalkers and suchlike-- Reba snuck up behind the cop. Just as the cop was saying, "The law states that each of you are subject to a $120 fine or you can appear in court with or without a lawyer to present argument--" That was the exact moment when Reba hauled off and whacked the officer in the head with her Louisville slugger. When the bat connected with the cop's skull, the sound was like a watermelon being dropped ten stories down to a cement alley. SMOOSHHH! Reba wiped her bat with handfuls of grass. "That's one dead-looking cop," she observed. And it was true. Stretched full length, partly on the pebbled path and partly on the grassy verge, he was not only bloody as a newly beheaded chicken but also extremely dead. Then as the days passed, nothing much changed. Everybody came to look at the dead cop: shoppers on their way to the Fred Meyer store, grade school children walking home, even the J.C. track team running its laps would jog a trifle slower to take a leisurely squint at what lay half on, and half off, the pebbly path. Highschool kids dropped by to lay bets on the number of ants crawling in and out of the corpse's nose and open mouth in any given ten minute period. Boy Scout Troop 84 made a special project of monitoring the extra growth spurred in adjoining vegetation by runoff from the fresh fertilizer; it gave them something to do on an otherwise boring rainy day. The whole neighborhood came to stop by and gawk. And as the weeks passed we laid bets as to what would rot away first; would it be his uniform or his flesh? What would you guess? Let's see if you are right, shall we? Well, by golly, the uniform won. That tough blue weave took a long time to decompose, longer than the fellow himself, and shreds of it wound up covering his fairly white, smooth bones--but everything eventually comes to an end and today when I walk by the spot with my dog all I see are a couple pieces of whitish skull, some rotted blue uniform and finally--not a bit rusted, in fact still gleaming in the sun and hardly changed at all by time, weather, or worms-- that impressive badge of authority, his shield. -Jody Scott  Written by Jody more than a dozen years ago, but still applicable today. Still a good intro to the mind of Jody Scott.
Dear Reader, Publishers tell me that you are too bovine, pampered, lazy and dependent on that feedbag of cloyingly pernicious flattery that has been hung on the American nose by corporate con artists--or to put it in plain English they say that YOU are too busy acting the part of a brainwashed zombie on the treadmill of a most asinine consumerism to desire anything in the way of literature that might be daring, or genuinely original, or subversive or Really Far Out instead of down on its flabby, trembling knees to the Same Old Same-Old that is being shoved down our collective throat like so much sugar-coated, Prozac-laced Ritalin sprinkled on the weird orange gunk that passes for cheese in what used to be America the Land of the Free (remember?), uh--excuse me; hold on a minute, I may have gone too far here (...); URP! Gross. Horrible. Oy vey... Gag, choke, spew; choke some more; gasp, stumble to the curb and bend over...I may blow these awful cookies at any second but you do get the point, I hope. (wipes mouth, straightens manfully to continue diatribe in milder tone) Is ithis point of view the truth, dear reader? Or is it just what the puppet masters want to be true? Their deeply held, never admitted assumptions are that you are stupid, spoiled children who must be flattered, never spoken a difficult truth to and manipulated as "consumers" so as to form an efficient market for boring books which are merely commodities the same as widgets, computers or loaves of bread. Ideas that truly challenge, writing that is truly original, these things do not fit neatly into an established slot and so will never be seen by YOU. There exists an army of agents, editors, publicists, distributors, etc.,all of whom in the normal course of the insane world of publishing, will make damned sure of that. But now with this wackazoid internet me and thee, dear reader, can actually (more or less) communicate directly. WOW! So the purpose of this site is to entertain YOU, the reader--and to make you acquainted with the mind of Jody Scott, ME, the writer--an unconventional, iconoclastic, underappreciated, ink-stained wretch (like all writers). So please read on if you are ready to experience something new and possibly unpleasant, painful, thrilling, enlightening, annoying or at least not within the bounds of ordinary conventional thinking-- otherwise why would I bother with the tough job of putting together such a website in the first place, huh, if not for your delectation in the interests of true communication for once in our pitifully unfree but idiotically boastful, short, painful yet wildly exhilarating little lives? Waddaya say, are you with me for a change, partner? Yours truly, Jody Scott |
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