Hello Darkness! The Official Blog of Helen Keller

Folks,

There's been a big buildup of questions regarding this particular category. Almost everybody had an entry and a lot of them were good. However, much like the shitty Highlander movies, there can be only one.

Which one? Or, rather, which won? Read on:

JULIUS NAPOLEON JESUS CHRIST ALVAR HANSO AWARD



This award is to be presented to the poster who is simply off his fucking nut. And there can be no other winner than Gerry Duffett. Honest to Christ, I read through the multiple Gerry nominations (I had considered pulling a total Katherine Harris and flipping a fond "up yours" to you fanaholics so I could bash Gangstalking some more) but reading his posts caused epilepsy, a stroke and an anyeurism to burst all simultaneously but miraculously cancelling each other out to the effect that I just burped a little. I'm no doctor but I've watched House and I think that's what happened.

Son of a bitch.

When I was reading Gerry's treatise on being poisoned at a truck stop which led to the resignation of the RCMP Commissioner before the Commissioner resigned, I thought I was living in the Twilight Zone. Except, instead of Terror at 20,000 Feet, it was an invitation to meet the Terror living on Lawrence Avenue in Scarborough. Wait, no, fuck, that was Dennis Baker who got the RCMP Commissioner shitcanned. My bad folks. Sometimes the rivers of insanity run far over their own banks and into others.

dbaker, Gangstalking and saga all have nutty ideas. Plain nutty. But Gerry has that je-ne-sais-quois about him which allows him to rise above doubt. There is no doubting that Gerry truly believes that sinsister forces lay in wait for him at a truck-stop with a carton of poisoned duck-eggs, ready to fuck over not only his breakfast, but also his life! Maybe they crouched behind some drum-cans near the kitchen entrance, spieing away eagerly for Gerry to lumber on over to Dixie from Lawrence (for those not familiar with Toronto or the GTA, Lawrence Ave in Scarborough is a hike to Dixie Road in Mississauga. Bea Arthur here didn't rocket-fart himself there, Lord only knows how he did it.) and have himself some grits. Next thing you know, CSIS agents carrying on the work of Jesus Christ care of the Herrod's in London were injecting nanomachines into Gerry's butter pats.

You have to wonder sometimes if these people were at one point sane and when, where, how and why they went flying off the fucking rails, into a ditch, rolled a few times and crumpled face down in poo-water. What happened? Did Gerry pull this shit in kindergarten? Was the teacher banging the chalk-erasers together a sign that the lamb had broken the first seal? Did he rip the eye decals off his Tranformers so they couldn't watch him headbutt dents in soup-cans? What gives?

Anyway, here's hoping that one day medical science can figure things out so that we can understand what it is that goes on in Gerry Duffet's melted head that makes us all laugh in place of outright screeching terror!

Tinfoil hats off to you Gerry and congratulations on the win!