Who Whacked Jack?

So, most of the JFK papers have now been released, as promised, although a few are still being held back at the insistence of the CIA. The common opinion is that nothing particularly new or radical has been unearthed. There’s a rather wild story about a guy at a Cambridge newspaper receiving an anonymous call along the lines of “telephone the American embassy for the big news”, half an hour before the assassination. It’s the sort of thing that will have the conspiracy theorists chomping at the bit, but isn’t anything that interests me.

No, the release that caught my attention was a memo written by everyone’s favourite cross-dressing megalomaniac, J Edgar Hoover.

“The thing I am concerned about, and so is Mr Katzenbach, is having something issued so that we can convince the public that Oswald is the real assassin,”

Had Hoover written this three months, or even three weeks into the investigation, it might not sound so fishy. The truth is he wrote it three days into the investigation. He actually wrote it before a man with known mobster ties, walked unchallenged into the police station where Oswald was being held, and shot him dead, live on TV.

Three days after a president gets shot, would you not think the head of the Federal Bureau of INVESTIGATION would be interested in discovering the facts, rather than dictating his own opinion to the public?

At best, you can say this is evidence of shoddy police work. At worst you could say it points to Hoover being determined the truth should never out. He refused to consider, from day one, that Oswald may be part of a conspiracy. Even when Oswald said he was a patsy, right before a mafia gunman killed him, Hoover stuck to his own version of events.

Is there any reason the head of the FBI, a man who helped bring to justice such notorious criminals as Dillinger and Bonnie and Clyde, would want to cover up the murder of the president? Well, that depends. Hoover was notorious for hating Catholics and Liberals. JFK was a liberal catholic. JFK insisted Hoover should investigate the mafia. Hoover had ignored the mafia’s existence for twenty years. Hoover was widely regarded to be homosexual, a fact he strove to hide his entire life, therefore was entirely open to blackmail should anyone happen to possess a photograph of him getting up to kinky mischief with a man, which the mafia frequently claimed they did.

Hoover directed more time and resources into investigating the Black Panthers than he did the KKK. He had his agents collect dirt on politicians and celebrities so he could stash it for personal leverage. He was the whisperer behind the McCarthy Witch Trials. He ran the FBI as a personal army. He was a racist, homophobic voyeur.

I think the real question should be, is there any reason we should believe a single word that came out of Hoover’s mouth? Given what has come to light since his death, that he was a ‘corrupt, human sewer’, should we believe the snap judgement he pedalled in November of 1963, before Kennedy’s body was even cold, that Oswald acted alone?

Hoover held power over the USA for half a century. His influence over everyone, from the police to the president, should not be underestimated. Anyone who knows him merely as a figure of fun, as a harmless old tranny, really needs to do a bit of research.

I advance no theories. I only ask you consider whether there is scope for doubting the official explanation, given the character of the man who made it. 

JFK: Is There Any Reason To Believe It Wasn’t A Cover Up?

This Thursday the legendary ‘Secret JFK Papers’ are due to be released, and as the subject fascinates me so much, I thought I’d write a quick blog about it. I have no conspiracy theories to advance, I simply want to question the reliability of the conclusion Oswald acted alone, given it was reached by one of the shadiest characters in American history.

Who conducted the investigation and blamed the killing solely on Oswald?

The FBI, under the leadership of J. Edgar Hoover. Hoover was in charge of the agency for some fifty years; people were terrified of him due to the vast number of secret ‘dirt’ files he held on every public figure in America. No president was able to get rid of him, in fact he died still in office aged seventy-seven.

Who had recently come under pressure from the Kennedys to investigate the mafia, after steadfastly ignoring their activities for two decades?

J Edgar Hoover. He long turned a blind eye to organised crime, preferring to hunt down sexual deviants and commies.

Which leading persecutor of homosexuals did the mafia claim to have photographed in a compromising position with a man?

J Edgar Hoover. There is no evidence to suspect he was gay, other than his constantly being seen kissing and holding hands with his lifelong male lover.

Who was in charge of collating FBI evidence to hand over to the Warren Commission, which would ultimately back the agency’s findings?

J Edgar Hoover.

Which agency was found to have been in contact with Oswald in the months before the assassination, but destroyed documentary evidence in a bid to hide the fact from the Warren Commission?

The FBI, under the leadership of J Edgar Hoover.

Who was discovered to have illegally conducted secret ‘COINTELPRO’ operations, aimed at discrediting left wing figures, including Martin Luther King Jr?

J Edgar Hoover. He even had one of his goons write a letter to MLK urging him to commit suicide, on the day he won his Nobel Peace Prize.

Who, in the decades since his death, has been described variously as ‘The worst public servant in history’, ‘Corrupt’, ‘Virtually a Nazi’ and ‘Possibly suffering a personality disorder’?

Richard Nixon. No – just kidding – it was J Edgar Hoover.

So, there you have it. Do we really have any reason to doubt the integrity of a corrupt, self-loathing Nazi? Should we simply dismiss as lies the words of a man, purely on the basis he lied about every other single fucking thing in existence?

I don’t know. You be the judge.

And see how I never even mentioned the fact he liked to wear a dress?

There's a Hole in My Pants

It has now been sixteen months since the ex decided to make her move to La-la land permanent, went skipping off to dedicate herself to the pursuit of whimsy and abdicated all responsibility, financial and otherwise. Times have been tough, but at long last I’m reaching the point where most of the debt I had dumped on me is paid off.

When poverty sets in, the first thing to suffer is the pants. With no further need to inspire hot lust in a female companion, and no spare cash to make such an outlandish luxury purchase as replacement undies, the existing stockpile falls into neglect and eventually withers and dies. The contents of my bottom drawer have been in terminal decline this past year, and as we approach the winter I find myself down to my final pair of functioning underpants.

Imagine my horror, then, as this morning whilst getting dressed I saw they have a hole in them.

Pant deterioration normally follows a predictable path; first the elastic goes, then the hems fray and eventually gaps begin to appear in the gusset. But the hole I noticed this morning was something entirely different. This aperture is located slap, bang in the centre of the lower, rear coverage. A suspicious mind may draw the conclusion it was deliberately put there to allow easy access to the back passage.

I wish it to be known, just in case I should get run over by a bus and wake up in hospital, that the hole in my pants is definitely not any kind of kinky sexual device. I have absolutely no idea how it got there. Perhaps a curious moth decided to take a nibble, or a stray bullet passed through the material while they were hung out on the line.

Whatever the cause, these punctured pants will soon find themselves consigned to history, as I turn an important corner in my life. Next month I will have money to spend, and I thoroughly intend to invest in a job lot of cheap, foreign pants, which should last me the coming decade at the very least.

I have been down, but I am not out. Onwards and upwards. New pants beckon, and maybe even one day a new lady to share them with.

SJ Smith is back, motherfuckers.

From The Anals Of The House Of Fox . . .

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August Update

The trouble with keeping a blog is I can never think of anything interesting to write. My life is pretty tedious. Exciting events or newsworthy happenings are few and far between. So, what can I write about?

Um.

How about that amazing dream I had, where the German bombers turned into star ships, and there was this almighty aerial battle, and Chewbacca was flying a spitfire armed with laser cannons? Pretty cool stuff, but unlikely to help shift erotic books. Note to self; don’t mention the war.

I am currently writing a brutal horror novel, in the hopes I can widen my appeal and perhaps have something on the market that people may even admit to owning. After bashing out five thousand words a day for the past week, I have now hit the wall, and it’s getting difficult. I’m finding myself doing anything other than getting on with the book; watering the plants, tidying my sock drawer, playing stupid Facebook games. Why the hell do you think I’m actually bothering to write this crappy blog? It’s a distraction; nothing more. Got to be disciplined; got to get on with it. This one must not turn out like the last four attempts, false starts all of them.

Right. Blog done. What now? Should I commit to a thousand words, or go count the loose change in the penny jar? Hmm.

Homemade Bogie Wine

It’s a question I am frequently asked; is it possible to make your own wine from bogies?

In these days of austerity, every penny counts, so the idea of a never-ending supply of free booze is one we all yearn for. With this in mind, the good news is yes, you can make your own wine from bogies, and in this article, I’m going to teach you how.

Selecting your Bogies

Bogies, or boogers as our American cousins wrongly call them, are an ideal ingredient for fermentation. Rich in minerals and vitamins, and with a zesty, slightly salty bouquet, bogies can be used as a substitute for grapes to begin brewing your own plonk almost immediately. A good, daily rummage up the schnozz can yield anything up to three or four grams, but if you’re serious about making wine then you’re going to have be more ambitious with your harvest. Fortunately, most people don’t know the value of their nasal cargo, and foolishly throw their bogies in the bin. So why not get your friends and family to contribute their bogies to your effort? You can always offer them a bottle of the finished product in return for their help.

If you don’t have a wide social circle, then another possibility is to go bogie foraging in and around your local area. Most strangers will happily let you shove your finger up their nostrils to dig out a nugget or two, but make sure you obtain permission from the nose owner first. And while all bogies can be utilised in winemaking, you should try to avoid those coming from coke addicts or coal miners.

Pubes

Once you have collected your bogies, you will need to get your hands on a couple of other ingredients. First of all, pubes. Pubes are what will give the wine its body and colour; black pubes produce a heavy, dark drink, while blonde pubes will make for a lighter, more refreshing beverage. Ginger pubes should be avoided, as they lead to instability during the latter stages of the brew, although more experienced winemakers swear they use nothing else.

Yeast

Winemaking shops will charge you a small fortune for yeast, but why fork out hard earned cash when you have a readymade yeast factory in the shape of your wife’s tuppence? With a few lifestyle changes, she’ll soon be pumping out enough of the stuff to keep you in free booze until the end of your days.

Get her into some tight-fitting underwear, insist she use a harshly perfumed soap and hide all the yoghurt, and within a week you’ll be ready to harvest your yeast. When your wife’s complaining and scratching reaches unbearable proportions, take a teaspoon and scrape up any grey discharge from in and around her flappy bits. Leave what you collect to dry in a warm, airy place such as a windowsill, then simply pop it in the fridge until you’re ready to use it.

Method

Now for the exciting part. Place your bogies into a bucket and pour in a gallon of water, then get your feet in there and squish those bogies into a mush. Some recipes recommend washing your feet first, but personally I find this step unnecessary. Once the bogies have reached the consistency of snot, throw in a handful of pubes and pitch in the yeast. Now place your concoction in a cupboard and forget about it for a while.

If, after a week, your wine is foaming and giving off an ungodly stench, then you’re on the right tracks. Leave to ferment for another three months, then pour into old Lidl own brand cola bottles. After a further six months your creation should be ready to sample. Invite a few friends around and watch the look on their faces when you tell them this wine cost you not one penny.

Taken from the forthcoming book ‘Getting Shitfaced on a Budget’, by SJ Smith.

Disclaimer; SJ Smith accepts no responsibility for acute poisoning or death resulting from this recipe. Brewers of this beverage do so at their own risk.

Where's My Pants Version 2.0

I am faced with a crisis of epic proportions. As I sit typing these words, I am literally pant-less.

Upon perfecting the prototype Self-Cleaning underpants, I gave the rest of my underwear away; stuck it all in one of those charity bags they keep shoving through the door. My pants are probably now being worn by some street urchin in Bangladesh. I never thought I’d miss them, not with my Perma-Pants in place.

But after the devious Sebastian Minky stole my Perma-Pants, I am now faced with the hideous prospect of going commando for the rest of my days. I cannot allow this to happen. I have to get my pants back.

Before I go into any detail about my devious pant-retrieval plan, I feel a brief history lesson is in order; a little background information on those damned Minky Brothers, just to make sure you fully understand the vastness of the task I am facing.

Minky Bros Ltd began life in the early eighteen-hundreds, founded by Tobias and Ebenezer, a couple of hardcore Christian fundamentalists who held the belief that cleanliness was right up there with Godliness. They sold handmade soap, guaranteed to wash away sin from even the dirtiest parts of your body, from a market stall in their hometown of Cob. Success came quickly; from the stall they graduated to a shop, to two shops to three. By eighteen-fifty they were exporting soap all over the world, keeping the British Empire clean.

Their fame and reputation grew. As Queen Victoria bestowed upon them a Royal Warrant, she was heard to confide to the Archbishop of Canterbury, “Ever since I started using Minky Bros Cunt Soap, my giblets have been as clean as a whistle”.

At the advent of the new century, Minky Bros Ltd set out to realise its vision of an entirely clean and fragrant world, and work began on the building of a new town. Cleanville, as it became known, housed the Minky Bros workforce and their families; by day the menfolk toiled in the factory, while the women scrubbed every nook and cranny. A nineteen-twenty gazetteer said of Cleanville, ‘the pavements are so spotless you could eat your dinner off them’.  

To this day, Minky Bros remains a leading manufacturer of soap and laundry detergent. They boast a bestselling range of intimate hygiene products, with such famous household brands as Pube Shampoo, Foaming Cock Wash and Minge Polish under their umbrella. It is said that every home in Britain has at least one Minky Bros product lurking somewhere within its cupboards.

Of course, the owners are multi-millionaires, and of course, they don’t like the idea of some upstart like me threatening their business interests with my Self-Cleaning underpants. But I will not be cowed; I will strike back at these oligarchs and take back what is rightfully mine.

Pant-Wars starts here.