Kerry Thornley - The Dreadlock Recollections

Such manifestations are not unusual in history, if that's any consolation to the scandalized. In India the indigenous personnel made up stories to tell their British conquerors about the Lingam and the Japanese have, and still celebrate, similar traditions.

So anyway there's scant excuse to distract ourselves with the sillies, although I'm among the first to appreciate the temptations for the humorist. (In other words, be assured my studies in sociology indicate our nation will survive this crisis.) After all, Benj. Franklin wrote essays about farting and we survived that, didn't we? In fact I think it is a comment on the times that whether or not Geo. Washington smoked hemp is more controversial. So I ain't worried.

What I am worried about is how long will discussing this matter postpone attention to the link between the JFK assassination and the Indo-China War, with which I am fully as much connected as with my penile extension, and possibly more permanently (due to circumstances Cool Hand Luke could probably tell you about if you could find him).

Have you ever wondered why what with Communist Cuba only 90 miles from home we went halfway around the globe to shoot at Asians with our draftees, instead? If that subject is slightly more important to me than my own prick, how much so for the rest of humanity?

So I'm as you can imagine of a double bind, since I'm certainly not inclined to give up sex at this point altogether, yet, as Camden Bernares (author of Zen Without Zen Masters ) says, I tend to think with my gonads, involuntarily, when my individual sexual rights are being grossly violated with gunboat diplomacy at the alleged behest of flying saucers. So it isn't so much that I find the matter embarrassing as incredible. Like, who'd ever believe it? Meanwhile, these Florida short-shorts that are in fashion cause me to waste valuable time that could be better spent serving the nation thinking about all kinds of things.

So, although I've got at least one excuse They haven't, I'm fully as guilty of thinking incessantly about my meager sex life as any Arch Conspirator. And that's as far as the double bind goes, because as a hitchhiker who could be maimed anyway any day in a car wreck, what with the statistics, I (possibly I alone) don't worry about whether I'll be ritually castrated or not.

Being psychologically emasculated when I occasionally do crawl into bed with someone is problem enough and I sympathize with any of your CID or CIA agents that were subjected to such treatment at the hands of the Swiss Navy or whoever they are in this undeclared war of the bedroom that may have contributed heavily to John Fitzgerald Kennedy's demise, for all I know.

And although the Indochina War is not being fought for whoever we fought it for by the Chinese, so that, in strict accordance with your job descriptions, there is no problem for you in Asia, I've always been told that preventing future wars requires understanding past wars, not exactly your MOs either, I realize.

But I've already contacted the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence twice, the Atlanta Commissioner of Public Safety three times and when I don't go through channels I just wind up dealing with a lot of Dutch agents who probably aren't even connected with the Hague. (It seems that Howard Hunt, stationed on the Triple Underpass, was employed that fateful day in Dallas by the Bilderbergers!)

So this is an international problem that, although this data is suppressed, ranges far beyond the nature of the social environment of my next orgasm, although between hunt and the Dutch you'd not likely discover as much without my prompting in these nutty looking epistles, which a lazy postal inspector, bureaucrats being what they are, just might let slip through as harmless crankery, though I doubt it, since these days how I scratch my ass even receives unmerited attention, in line at the Post Office and elsewhere. I tell you, our Republic isn't what it used to be! Call me an alarmist if you will, I say these are terrible times.

Today it struck me, for instance, that I'm the type of person legend might just as easily wind up reporting last seen parachuting off the Jerry Thomas Memorial Bridge into a submarine hold, and although it hasn't happened yet, it would be just the type of thing to appeal to these Jungian maniacs who manipulate events. So there's no telling

how much time we have, gentlemen, to get down to brass tacks. Especially since that bridge is between Riviera Beach and Singer Island and Stephanie Coffin isn't going to wait forever.

One of my pet peeves, while I am at it, is the way the Conspiracy, which I understand is controlled at least in part by the US military, parodies left anarchist values in order to discredit them by applying them out of the basic affinity-group which is the active ingredient and backbone of anarchist communist social organization. In other words, for example, anarchists say that humans, like all higher mammals, are herd creatures that, if they lived in tightly knit, self-selecting, voluntary affinity groups with a high degree of intimacy, would be only too happy to contribute their labors to society free of charge. Here in the alienated world of conspiracy politics there is a custom called "beer" wherein you are expected to work for unknown absentee bosses for no pay. I suspect this is a capitalist plot to discredit the communist anarchist notion of voluntary (unpaid) production. Shit like that I don't need. If I wanted to discuss anarchism with idiots I'd find a home for the mentally retarded. There are even what they call "draft beers" so you gentlemen might want to look into the matter to find out if any bartenders are practicing selective service without a Federal permit.

I know of no other case quite as unique as my own. If nothing else, it certainly is unusual. I can assure you that even the Pope in the Vatican thinks about me, and yet I'm not famous. And he isn't the only one among titles and names you would readily recognize, some of them reports of whose deaths have been greatly exaggerated, such as Nelson Rockefeller. So I find the usual half-assed civic safeguards of human rights don't work for me at all. At the risk of sounding paranoid, I don't think it is a coincidence that I am famous only among conspiracies.

They allege, although I've been unable to validate as much, that Justice Warren Burger of the Supreme Court was blackmailed to say, in a secret hearing, that my rights aren't being violated. (I realize that Justice Berger's extorters are probably past military age, and there is probably no way you can force them to go fight in El Salvador and, besides, preventing a war in Latin America is among my priorities at this time).

Me and Lee Harvey Oswald and David Buckner, of Marine Air Control Squadron Nine, probably signed away our legal rights that fateful day early in 1959 when we were asked by a man working with base security to volunteer in helping Dwight David Eisenhower to meet a request, made in secret of course, by Fidel Castro, to rid his new revolutionary government in Havana of Russian agents.

Although, I think this project failed, I've noticed in retrospect that 1959 was the year I began experiencing nocturnal hallucinations, which until 1979 I vacillated between dismissing as non-uncommon psychological phenomena and direct messages from Great God Almighty Himself, the Big CO in the Sky.

By the time I realized I'm a Manchurian Candidate instead of a holy man it was nevertheless too late to altogether avoid a paranoiac sense of grandeur, since I was by then aware of enough other things going on, most of them involving Republicans, to make me at least repugnant to someone as famous as Gerald Ford. It just ain't the same as being the Avatar I once fancied myself, though, and quite frankly I'm bored with the whole experience. From what it once seemed, my status can only attain the level of a mundane imitation henceforth and I'm in no mood to settle for Ford when I expected the Lord.