140307 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.130)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and thirtieth entry
Crystal Scripture Dot Pattern
How is the dot pattern of healing similar to interpretation of NMR spectroscopy? Reading the spectrograph may be simplified to three primary functions: peaks, noise, and significant moments. Conventions of thresholds and pattern books of play exist within the NMR community but, primarily, they are figuring out noise, looking for peaks, and arguing over (defining) significant moments. The gospels may be analogued similarly. The tree of Ham shows everything since Ham began reliably going to hell with all the rest, all of the methods and variations which became hard coded primary structure, a walking centerpiece in the middle of the community of witches going to hell. The entire world hangs on Ham's left arm (because, going to hell unless he happens to be the _one_ in the Etruscan tomb, he will never achieve the healing fast and show the dot pattern), asking Jesus what's wrong with his hand, and chases him down accusing him over his own dick. This is the culmination of slugging down Abel's nose and then sending forty idiots running forty different stories (which have been designed over thousands of years to abstractly culminate together during significant decision making situations)j blaming him for whatever situation could have possibly resulted in such an injury. Those people descended from cocktail party rainbowtard lineages rarely squeeze out enough alcohol to bother reading scripture, Hebrews similarly wonder why they would bother recounting the bottoms of their toes, but if you're under father Abram's line then the gospel of Matthew should result in,"Well, yeah, that's about the way that it runs. Get in the car, old chap, everybody does it. SEE YA!" If you would like to make some pleasant conversation over which way this or that could have gone if he had decided to balk at getting in the car at this or that time, we have the gospel of Mark for you. If you're working for much much much smaller money than all of that then perhaps you need a little more explanation in each scene, a few more words to help bring your understanding of the whole matter together, and Luke may be more appealing to you. If you feel scholarly and think you're going to go back and look at the references, perhaps not completely understand how the Talmud under a thouand is compressed to Moses around three hundred and then chopped down to Noah around one-fifty about the time Ninevah finally rolls up in all the corners and then Sodom and Gomorrah keeps working the sizes of the steps and the hidden push button controls with the chlorine pool cue shuffling to ratchet people to seventy or eighty, and then Tyre and Sidon's tricks and magic shows add special effects and knockouts to the earliest of years up to that, perhaps you don't feel like understanding the history of the world, but maybe you want to cross reference the earlier mentioned gospels and study how they correlate to the Jewish customs, Levitic teachings, and laws of Moses from which it is descended... we have the big long artistic gospel of John to show each and every scene to you in lng beatiful sweeping motions which demonstrate how many possible different ways it is to be "the one" in each and every scene.
You can be the one, playing with your tongue.
You can be the one, dancing by the door.
You can be the one, givin' them that look.
You can be the one, that doesn't do that (*psst* anymore)
You can be the one, to make a million bucks
You can be the one, to lost it maybe two
You can be the one, sent straight to the box
You can be the one, that everybody is lookin' to!
Don't be the one
Don't be the one
Don't be the one, the one, goin' to hell.
Water is wet
Gravity does weigh
The dome is on the top
and the sun goes that way every day
Please learn how to breathe
How to open up and breathe
How to squeeze through all the fats and work the cells
Don't be the one, don't be the one.
Don't be the one, the one, goin' to hell.
In every scene you could be the one
The one to strike it rich!
You could be the one
The one, goin' to hell.
In the gospels Moses and Elijah arrive and counsel Jesus. Moses tells him to keep stretching out his hand (have you seen my plagues, my boy?) and Elijah tells him,"Kid, if I would have gone for a walk longer than forty days, then maybe I woudn't have gotten in the car and come back as Elisha with a jar of aromatic nard." Jesus was positive that his religion had him scheduled to be a prophet on Monday right after he comes back. Jesus, all the DInah's starting investing in entire housing communities the day you walked out. How do they know Schechem is looking at Dinah? While Shechem is out in the field, she is the only one they keep marching in front of him. Nowadays it's all remote control.
Crystal Scripture Dot Pattern. If you could have a time delay lapse map of the dot healing pattern, along with my record of the days and the crystals I have picked up (and the entire record, if you could), and the daily scripture readings from that time, then you could probably figure it out yourself. Take the daily reading, with the daily healing dot pattern, and whatever artistic cut above crystal of the day (if applicable), maybe the weather report, and if you read that as a book (or perhaps in some compiled form), you could probably figure everything out on your own. Count by twelves along with it, even if you don't manage to put all the syllables in place (establish the Dr. Seuss rhythm in your brain). Every day's scripture gives you a set of syallables to be stuck with, similar to the "In which scene?" consideration for the gospel, every day's dot pattern gives a different area to have a distinct awareness of, especially if you're stuck in public all day long, and every crystla may have a different size shape color and setting, and sometimes the Dr. Seuss rhythm just makes you think of a different joke. The only question is... are you still going to hell?
Humankind's degradation. Lord, Lord, I am trapped in this terrarium with the dome above and hell down below. The lettuce is boxing me and the salad is stalking me trying to twist me into a dog and the phairies are chasing me like mad. So I ate the salad and the lettuce to keep it back, then I had to poop it out. By that time we had firepits with soap pokies, miracles, anvils, and blacksmiths with wires, and plenty of old soap pokies without hands, still poking soap, looking for magnetic north, and with plenty of incandescence, enough to fill a mine full of Christmas lights and pack even more lights into even old skins stuffed in the back of poorly located warehouses. So I tried to dry the poop on the wires, maybe churn it with the dirt and fertilize the soil and grow some of the trees back, but then it began to take on a life of its own! Did I not tell you that I made man from clay? AND THEY DID THE MASH! It got into all sorts of wars and arguments with itself (we were trying to train it to tighten up and achieve real humanity) and keeps shipping itself to hell, floating down in d'Nile and getting resewn together by devotedly blind eunuchs. Now it stays further away, but it is noisier, and it looks more like me. The problem is the same. Lord, Lord, I am stuck in this terrarium, under the dome, with hell down below. The lettuce (less than us) is boxing me and the salad (seven layers of human algae salad floating in d'Nile) is stalking me, trying to roll me into a dog, and the fairies are chasing me around like idiots all the time.
On the way... The humans were sticking their butts to the dome. They wanted to flip inside out and get something to play with. Because even they weren't the first ones squeezed out by life and espoused from the trees. They were the ones _trying_ to flip inside out and get something to play with, because Adam remembered that you need to get really really really hot (but forgot the importance of with soap, by working on it). So all he wanted to do was sit on the dome. Get more dry paper. He'll ge the methanol poisoning, what does he care? Sun's hot enough, he'll resurrect in place up the wa-zoo. The really really ancient ones (but not the first ones) were blind crazy all the time, from the methanol poisoning, descendants of that particular template of Adam's lineage, inside that frame of time of the history of this terrarium. They were devoted to getting hot, but with the excuse of "all I want to do is... get hot", they dreaded actually walking around and working on it, because that's what the leaf pickers do, and we know how long they've been doing it, long enough that we're lucky to have wings when we pass out and fall in our beds, and they still don't make it. By that time the leaf pickers had been on the job so long that they'd lost their parachute with the alcoholics more than once, and they were never working on it, really, enough to roll that back up, they'd rather have another drink at the end of the day and chase the griffon down to the dodo bird with the know-how drunks, 'cuz they're jealous of the ones that get to do nothing but sit and suck their ass to the roof all day long. The drunks chasing the griffons down to dodo birds (real life have feathers, fur is for polymorphs) are already getting lured down to hell where the phairies are waiting with the earliest of dogs. The methanol sickness is a bad turn for the humans when the trees (do talk when you let them grow up past three or four stories: when you landed on this planet, did you bring the chainsaws with you or was it all cut down by the people that magically died out and left it to you set up this way? Doesn't really matter, the phairies are waiting down below, Davey Jones' locker, the hollow-deck, the great grand glorious excavation, the butt-end of you) begin demanding that the humans figure out some way to end the madness... the judges sitting on the roof (yet hotter than the ones leakin' it from the blown parachute on the routes) never actually saw the event, and they cannot bear testimony against their breathren claiming to not have been the one to be stripping the trees. Levites similarly didn't actually see it, similary wish they could just go ahead and put the three thousand to the sword, but in modern days the (really) good Levites will thank you for the coffee compliment, ask if you would like hotcakes, the syrup is over there, would you like the butter with or without the salt?
Adam could still win, at that time, because he could resurrect in place. He wouldn't boil in place. He was accumulating boogers, not really working on it, not working on the left from the right (phairies are straightforward people, they don't breathe left from right very well, you top of the food chain supposedly intergalactic overlord stuck in a box, should keep working on it, instead you instellar son-of-a-bitch wrapped up in your own design pattern ready to unwind decided to give up your universal reputation for a chance to play with a stuffed conglomerate of four fishing poles with an old couch cushion and your own steam pressed clay primed with a few pieces)... so Adam could continue resurrect in place and shout down anybody that would question his judgment about the dogs. Adam was himself big on his own excuses, a junkie for sittin' in place and doin' nothin' because nobody ever makes it anyway and we're all stuck in this stupid dome and we all go to hell anyway and why can't he have something to play with wah wah wah... so if the people began cuttin' down more trees in retribution for the dogs, no big deal to him, keeps more other people sittin' on the dome so that he can hide in the crowd and sit there and brood. When the people sittin' on the dome wore out, then they went through a mental block, and became the people stayin' in the boxes, creating the first monastic unit structure, developing into the first monasteries attempting to help the communities of dwindling original ones, with more runtling offspring with voices which never drop, please, take in our odd son, put him on the numbers, try to get his voice to drop, our lines are running out, we'll pay our workers to move the stones from our lawn and garden and farm to your walls and improve your monastery. That's a good cvsupdate type cap to the running journal material on top of the URL linked book material at the top.
John is here at the library today. He has a class to assist many of the retirement community members (and other community members, but most grow up with cellular telephones with digital operating systems) working their way onto the internet and managing e-mail contact with family and friends long since moved to other cities and married to other people. John is a valuable asset in the computer lab.
140228 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.129a)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and twenty-ninth(a) entry
Following up on the dome treatment, and along the lines of the development of the revolver...
Shro is hot suctioning your butt to the dome. Pick up a few leaves and press some. Humans, then, began to deserve the steam cleaning, the newer and younger ones wanted the same priveleges as the older ones. Begin at a time when falling asleep meant falling more or less into your bower in front of you, then progress to a time when you're lucky you have wings. Along that timeline the trees become upset and twist some into dogs, some begin the modelling project, and some begin finding juice pits. Juice pits become appealing to humans. The older, more experienced, humans have routes watching trees, knowing when their trees are going to leaf, and planning ahead for steam baths. Younger impetuous humans, or less experienced, or simply more of the idiot type, begin stripping trees and, in their steam bath, develop chlorophyll sickness. Experienced herbage growers know of chlorophyll sickness and proper curing techniques. Experienced humans watching trees expecting to leaf would have proper curing techniques for the leaves and, if they suction to the dome hard enough, maybe a small inoculation of methanol, wood alcohol from the leaf fiber, to assist in the chlorophyll sickness. The more impetuous humans, wishing to attain more or less the same effect, develop a friendship with the Lillith type humans hanging out in the juice pits all the time. The humans in the modelling project begin developing their own forms of "lair-n-get-us" as their dens and towers and labyrinths come in contact with things down below. Humans hanging off of the dome also begin playing massive synchronized swimming games, especially once the trees are low enough that falling asleep tests your frame of mind with the wings, and playing games whipping up whirlwinds under the dome. Please don't stir up the insects. Whoops, too late, in combination with the massive modelling project leading to "lair-n-get-us". Bugs come up from below on both sides of the wall and, although lower on food chain IQ, have far larger numbers and orders as high as phairies are quite capable at counting to IQ pushing forty or fifty, and that's quite useful to a population with those sorts of numbers. The Lillith type humans in the juice pits also develop the habit of chasing the real wildlife (has feathers, fur is for polymorphs, modern birds are all remote control and the other side of the result of fishing pole polymorphs). The true wild humans, the "prophets" (before mummy baby type prophet fully inside the model), are stuck with dwindling numbers and choosing friends. No leaves really left to press, all the workers have the routes covered, hacking their way down and stripping the trees, making excuses for the dogs running rampant everywhere. The ones inside the model are hardly much more help, but at least you get to sing with them. The prophets are so well trained that, inside the model, they often fall for the joke of "laugh at this and then walk down that ramp", facing the model's stand-in for them, chuckling a bit, and then walking through the door where the dumbwaiter phairie is waiting with an overlord dog. Later, as the evil of the world racks up, the prophets become --funroll-loops choirs of angels, stacking up underneath (we're not coming out until something is done about this idiocy in the world). They have the same problem as the prophets before them, who to spend time iwth, drunk animal idiots or lair-n-get-us stiffs. The choirs of angels like to sing and, by that time, the technology in the model world for the revolver is point and shoot. No need to walk the angels down the ramps, we'll ship 'em in boxes after we line 'em up in the loft and knock 'em down with the pellet gun.
The world goes to hell.
140228 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.129)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and twenty-ninth entry
I recall, some over seven years ago, I was in the library here in 92037 planning my next report of peanut butter and jelly lunches. One of the library staff approached and asked of my name, if I was, and noticed that my older brother was on the telephone wishing to speak with me. I gave to her the most horrified possible look in the world and flattened myself to the ground, prostrate supplicant, unworthy of anything near to be personally addressed as any more than another dustball collecting in a crack in the basement of the library. I have no idea what course of action was taken with the telephone call after she affirmed with a microsecond smile that it would be improper for me to receive a personal telephone call, even from my older brother, at a random unscheduled point in time in the library.
Henry Wilshire won the fishing contest at the lodge again this year. Another trophy of dried out kelp for him, and that will mean that he will have a big voice in choosing the location of the Christmas party, again. Some things never change. As he tells the story he will likely attribute the win to his fish finder. I have a fish finder, I consider it to be decoration, because I have doubts that it actually works for anything and have been unable to prove it one way or another. His BBQ celebration for the tourny win always includes live speeches to laud and advertise his brand new fish finder (near every year). He is always kind enough to drop by some point before or after and secretly drop two very nice cutlets of fish for me. One of these years I will remember to save them and wait for some bread. Usually I toss them in with a bag of hot chips. Henry Wilshire, seabass extraordinaire. He really knows how to cook fish.
120227 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.128)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and twenty-eighth entry
It shro is hot stickin' yo ass to the dome. Pick up some leaves and press a few. Don't take any off the trees. Why not? You could get a steam bath. The trees will grab you and twist you into a dog, see how you like being laid bare in front of your fellows. Trees don't fly.
It sho' is cold sittin' on the wall. The wall in the babylonian furnace, from personal experience. Use a cloth pad. What's on the other side of that wall? If you are upstairs in a millionaire district then it is a dog wash drag race with eggo race track, and on the other side of that wall are little children with living eyes and reanimated sewn together carnival props with dead ones. If you are downstairs, on the other side of that wall, then the children have no eyes and the dogs have living ones. Hey Noah, look up. Hey Noah, look down. Hey Noah, keep looking left and right while they talk you through the excuses to go to hell.
I choose to remain up here and go for the dome, maybe poke some soap on the way and get a really good steam cleaning when I make it there. Smoking, right next to whistling, is better than speech for prayer. Maybe it will take eight thousand years either way, but I am not going to hell.
Waking up in hell. Listen to "Hell Awaits". That is your new overlord (wolfman jack with living eyes) and your new doctor (a phairie) waking you up in hell. The dog will be under your shoulder and the phairie will be tickling your navel. The whispering in the tune is your regaining consciousness, slowly coming back to life, the dog running his fur over your quail (ribs) and the phairie digging in your belly button. Your tongue will be shoved up your nose, but you won't quite know it yet, because that is how we ship you between areas in power saving mode. When you open your eyes you will have a reaction similar to "WHAT THE FUCK?!". If you would like to practice, go ahead and stick your tongue to the roof of your mouth and act like you are waking up looking at a (real) dog and a phairie digging in your navel, and draw back (like Neo being bugged) screaming "WHAT THE FUCK?" Notice how that sounds very similar to the tune. Then the overlord and the doctor will begin explaining to you things about hell, mostly in eggo, without five second pauses between syllables. I have come up with some entertaining lines to fit the lyrical pattern in the tune, ending with phrases like,"You have never even met a real dog before me" "And now it's one hundred million dollars a day" "Jesus said your soul cannot even be saved", among others. The remote control chicken (spongeblob ritz, a fishing pole is a power-arm sewn together with the hamster wheel, fish are the result of polymorph after not quite drowning) witch (half-dead already, going to hell) division, underneath the paschal lamb kingdom of heaven accounting branch, for the great grand glorious corporation known as hell. What happened to all of the other divisions? Sam-I-Am received an enormous tax break for chicken glove techniques and bought everything else out, subcontracted, poorly imitated, all for show.
Doing it the right way. In what scene. In what scene is Jesus arguably: having sex, making a million dollars, masturbating with or without friends present. We teach little children (not millionaire born to be farm shit eating faggitt ones) about "doing it the right way", and their perception of the arguably, in various interpretations, begins close to 0-0-0. Over life they learn jokes, and various words in various settings cause them to think of various things or remember their own experiences. My perception of arguably, in various interpretations, according to my written work, is about 3-5-9. Millionaires, down to their smallest ones, quickly ramp up to ALL-ALL-ALL. Try counting by twelves and squeezing the farm sh*t out of your brain if you wish to reclaim your right to do it the right way.
Your brother on the field of battle. Your enemy is an evil muthafucka. He does not want to simply shoot you and body bag you. Worse than that, life is more resilient than you think, and you don't just die that easily. You break down like amoeba and keep moving and making noise on the way. Your enemy does not want to kill you. Your enemy wants to ship you to hell, reliably, with as little fight as possible. You ate with your brother, you drank with your brother, you partied with your brother and laughed and cried with him. You went to boot camp with your brother, trained with him, went out to bars with him. When it came to the field of battle, though, your brother ended up with three hands, poo for brains, ozzy filter, a set of treacherous zippos, spongeblob ritz, multiple personality disorder, mood swings every five seconds, placated with a heroin pad, sipping on bioreactor beer from the surgery, and on remote control. Now just what can you do for your brother?
Did you even listen to it with DNR? The attorney wants to know. You have the tape. It's not class A chain of custody evidence material, just cheap tape from a class B electronic device, but maybe it could be useful to build an argument or shed some light. The attorney wants to know. Did you even listen to it with DNR? No reason, really. Just a little question and comment verse response pattern that is common to the legal industry. When he goes out golfing next week he'll make it to hole six or seven, and that will be the time when all the other verse response comments and jokes and greetings have rolled around, and somebody will prompt him "what about that case you have with the people that think they have a tape". Then, as he tees, he will answer either,"*bah* They didn't even bother to listen to it with Dolby Noise Reduction." or "I finally found one that listened to it with DNR". All involved will chuckle and laugh and move on down the fairway. Later on, at the left handed tee, your attorney will have forgotten his wallet. The DNR joke saves his ass when one of his golfing buddies assures him that the tab is paid, no need to go running out to the car. That saves your attorney enormous amounts of grief over the next four or five months in the office and around the golf course. DNR, useful for finding open spaces where "audio bonkers" used to be. DNR, a method to ensure that none of your class B electronic media is capable to record the background audio bonkers in the remote control carnival. Did you even listen to it with DNR? Whether you are the person with the tape, the attorney, the guys on the golf course, the people in the office, or any of the supporting staff anywhere in the middle of that situation, whether or not you eat the million dollar malt-o-meal, somewhere in that loop will be involved all three levels of nation:corporation:tax shelter in the three stage structure of financial modelling necessary to continue shipping everybody reliably to hell.
How do you cross Margaret Thatcher in and around Winston Churchill? Smokin' thwippin' cigarettes (hand-rolled, rough tobacco) and being surrounded by dog faggitt heroin whore church bells. Church bells. They're all remote control heroin whore church bells. The entire town. Every mass. They ring like church bells. Three different car horns in five different directions talk back and forth in a firestorm of environmental noise. They "ring", they do their "thing". Today's weather forecast: intermittant doggie faggitt hailing and scatterbrained doggie faggitt flurries. Yell at the ear, make a noise, use the cell phone, make the child scream, run for your backpack, accost or assault, beg or query... each one rings, one by one. If today is their first day working on you then maybe they need to figure out what's important to you to ring on. They begin with toilets, wash basins, drinking fountains, and "portals" (doors, passageways, narrowed sidewalk areas from trees or parked cars), and move from there. In the practice of staffing the entire f*cking church with nothing but remote control heroin whore ringing bells, I have happily outlined the entire cue by cue observance of the mass. Around town is so obvious when the bird (fifty yards that way) backs up the car horn (three blocks that way) backing up the cell phone call (from down the sidewalk the other way) following the dogsex innuendo scene (across the corner).
So just what is a "dog"? Four fishing poles (not drowned and turned to fish) and an old couch cushion with one of wolfman jack's skulls from the bottom of hell. Phairies have the old bones exchange program for a long time before the formalized kingdom of heaven. Torsos in the closet (honey, call the plumber, is your torso left, right, center, or full justified?) continue making noise, even when stuffed with junk (they'll cough it out). So maybe we try couch cushions, sit on you, keep you compressed. Still doesn't work, need whoopie cushions as excuses (are you those people that still have the old fashioned couch cushions? *gasp of shock and awe* OH! NO NO NO! It's just this whoopie cushion, hahahahah!) The whoopie cushion is a developed excuse, old couch cushions crumple down like boiling seahorses, and original whoopie cushions had a slightly different acrylate content in the poly balloon. Modern homes do not have torso closets or couch cushions, or even whoopie cushions. Modern homes have water meters to count the multiplier on the level of sin debt already leveraged on that structure. Just how old are these jokes?
From the dome to the floor. Shro is hot stickin' yo' ass to the dome, sho' is cold stickin' yo' butt to the wall. Just how old are these jokes?
140211 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.127)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and twenty-seventh entry
In my culture, the only reason to mark somebody with top tits is to label (register) them as a animal sex pedophile. That's surgical swelling. The first Adam-line eunuchs (long after white-brain steam-pressed eunuchs, not necessarily intergendered), before they were needed as "window dressing" (row, row, row your 'bot, gently down the stream, once their impulse has been rocked, they're pretty much window dressing), had swelling at tummy level, lopsided. If you ever begin telling your wife that she's looking off she'll absolutely flip out on you, because now she knows that your excuse channels and hate pumps are lined up to be stupid enough to think she's your real wife, and you should notice those sorts of things, and eunuchs have historically been ashamed of that lopsidedness. Similar to "what's wrong with your hand" or "what's wrong with your wings". Later models now have prearranged swelling areas... boys are no different, out of sight, out of mind, you're all sized and cut to fit long before you see yourself--and you'll never even know you've missed the rest.
These are really before and after shots. Elijah to Elisha. That's what we do in the pyramids. Lots of sewing. (asian dialect) What is under great wall? Same thing under pyramids. Kingdom of So-Ing.
How much does life really suck? When people were flying through the trees and walking on their feet (you believe them to be hands), then, at one time, as the humans pressed together and grouped, then humans began doing what they always do. They complain on each other. There wasn't much to complain about at that time. You need somebody to wash your back because your arm-pit is dripping a tailback--I hate it when the roof leaks, makes everything run. So, in addition to that complaint, there's the "who made that smell?" and "who is moving the bad air?" My butt is so tight to hold a leaf upright with the taint. Okay, after a while humans keep complaining on each other, and now _everybody_ must take a piercing. Only a small one. In the taint. There's nothing there. Your butt should be that tight anyway. This way we know who moved the bad air. If you're not part of the club then, even if one of them moved the feather in the cap, then you're probably the one that needs to go when the bad air moves.
Consider the mathematical crystal correlation with this heart shaped rock I have. The pinhole in the top leaves a decrystalline melting diamond around the middle. And the middle diamond even has a channel to look through.
Pharaoh, just sit here and count until we figure out where your feather piercing taint donut reflected in your a donut brain plaque. Oh, starting to skip, oh, there he went, fell over.
Just how good is their life? The highest honor of their race is to be turned into a hazardous materials killing machine three handed remote control robot. Great and small, big and tall, young and old, two and three handed males alike... all going to hell.
Just how suck is their life? The next-to-final joke is how much more it sucks behind that door. There's always another "kicker".
140210 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.126)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and twenty-sixth entry
I fully support prison buses for the entire town of animal sex snuff pedophile rape perverts.
I did not know that the US gov't provides services to animal sex snuff pedophile rape perverts. For years and years and years, the police, "Kante" in particular, keeps telling me over and over "_they_ don't want you here". Right. There's a 24 ft. passover lamb hanging on the city wall. There's a chicken witch pole out back against the great wall. Nobody in the world really becomes homeless _unless_ some idiot-fag millionaire went to go f*ck their dog and leverage the money against the unsuspecting target. They organize themselves in hate squads and attack teams to make sexual assaults showing off their pedophile and dog sex toys. But the US gov't is taking the side of "they" don't want you here? In the early years I would tell the police,"they are following me around the block" and the answer was always "well, who's they?"
So, when you tell me "they don't want you here", are you ready to stand up for a judge and make that statement, "they"? Do you have a referendum vote? How about the "they" that called on any particular occasion. Did "they" leave their name and number? After years and years and years of hit and run "they" tactic, do we have any real legitimate complaint? Since when does the US gov't provide muscle service for anonymous "they" that put on disgusting dogsex pedophile shows hundreds of times daily?
Prison buses. I fully support prison buses for this entire town of dogsex pedophile faggitts. When we finish here, and get the system smoothed over, then we should move next up to Del Mar and do the same.
140207 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.125)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and twenty-fifth entry
Scroll widget. The waiting for http:// continues to be in the way of the scroll widget. Tabbed browsing was an argument ended now that we have tabbed browsing. But, the scroll widget. The waiting for http:// continues to be a problem for the scroll widget. Why can they not make the priveleges for the scroll widget above that? Tabbed browsing was an argument ended now that feature fest everybody and everybody else must have tabbed browsing else is deprecated and old and worthless. But, the scroll widget. If you would like to play with the scroll widget timing then notice that, if click and hold the scroll widget while glaring at waiting for http://, the size ratio (and, if the buffer, then perhaps aspect) of the scroll widget may change long before the scroll widget becomes available for real use. That's experience to not be extra upset when the visible page shift goes berzerk and you lose the headline you were reading on slashdot, and extra experience to have an idea of which direction and how far to move the mouse to find it, and experience to know if the page frame shift looks to have been (from the glaring at waiting for http:// combined with other environmental indicators) so stupid as to require pgup or pgdn or end or home or something to fix it.
If you didn't know that the world is a stalking game for millionaires to make new ones, the millionaire way, then you really should begin with the wikispaces material.
The people in the kingdom of heaven. They are not really any better off. They could be 20 ft. from the surface and never see daylight. They could be 20 ft. from the bottom of the ocean and feel no worry. They grow up in it. There was a screen saver for the Amiga, drew mazes and walked through them, great algorithm. That is how tightly packed the walls are. They have viewing rooms for sunlight. I remember that same cast glow in some giant enormous public indoor swimming pool gymnasiums around Sochi or Rostov or Odessa. Sochi has recently been in the news for Winter Games. Not a bad place.
Plants grow mold and mold rots. Fur rots. Polymorpheries and their taxidermied reanimated parts rot if poorly maintained. Your dogs are not even dogs. They are prettied up stage models.
Some of the kingdom of heaven folks are allowed to keep their wings. That is part of the accounting process built into the algorithm keeping that maze. They, over the course of their lives, suffer from the "what's wrong with your hand" problem. They don't have chicken gloved wings from passover parties (who knows how that sort of thing translated into the table of the nations for the ones that stay downstairs), they don't have nerve agent points applied to deliberate knuckles, joints, and juncture points with tendons and ligaments... they suffer from the staring. The staring contest is much worse in heaven. Worse than packed with more people behind the wall Asian. They also see more clearly how the lines define their speech and reactions, they make that many more excuses, they see more clearly when the people aroune them are deliberately boxing them into their route to the next door, and they make that many more excuses. That is the way it is with them.
The ones with wings, they begin to cower more around the shoulders, hold the wings in, make more excuses for why the feathers have all fallen off (around forty, I would guess). Like the paschal lamb upstairs they grow up surrounded by groups of people devoted to managing them along their way. Entire kingdoms of monetary units are defined using him as a secret game token marker. We don't really advertise the paschal lamb upstairs except in very ancient choreographed forms devoted to hitting only the excuses that everybody makes. Downstairs, with the wings, they are surrounded that more tightly in the boxes, and the people around them are also that much more trained to go along with the verse response excuses defined in the lines, and they see even more clearly how that works downstairs, and they make that many more excuses.
They have the same option. The "big walk". Some of the ones with wings, in old times, if they were really strong, they made "that walk to see the light of day and save their wings", like the upstairs passover lamb "made fast to save his skin". They also, like Seth, like Ham, like Isaac, like all of the prophets, have those little excuses for why the way was blocked, or they didn't quite do it right, or at least they didn't fall for this that or the other as they walk back into their subwoofer den and probably mr. saturday night special devotions. They all have the explanation for this that or the other, but not the "loud voice", nor the other markers. The game on the prophet hasn't even been close for how many thousands of years?
In the kingdom of heaven they know the way to begin the walk to make it upstairs. Full of backsteps and retreats, never know if you're doing it right, probably get half killed a dozen times in the first six months. How much do you love the Lord?
In the kingdom of heaven they walk to the other door. Pick your lie, make your excuse, walk through the door. The old time prophets upstairs were so well trained that they would "laugh at this and walk down that ramp". When the choirs of angels began stacking up (we see how wicked the world has become and we are not going to unroll until something is done about it), then mankind improved the revolver system to point and shoot and lined them all up in the gallery. JFK is the perfection of the revolver lined up with moving target, at the same corner every time. If you look around the 92037 midtown design district for chasing kids down with dogs, you probably find Martin Luther's soap box, too. John Lennon's front door.
140206 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.124)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and twenty-fourth entry
Recently picked up another shiny. Similar to this one, with far fewer sides and edges and corners, with the same rainbow colors on the facets. A little beaten up on the r-side (one of the ears of the heart is chipped and clipped, but in such a way that it would seem to have been deliberately fashioned), showing the decrystallinity in the center from shaping the heart and polishing the edges and corners. The size is about this.
Last night some idiot was following me around the block, as usual. I am hardly able to go anywhere, sit anywhere, without knowing that there will be a full twenty minutes of scheduled bullsh*t whenever I arrive to the next sitting area. Every seagull, crow, finch, sparrow, hummingbird, car horn from around the block, car alarm from around the block, and piezoelectric tweeter (fire alarms, air fresheners, other randomly available piezoelectric) appears to know and react flawlessly to perfect plain English theatre drama. Nary a dead dog on remote control, however, gives a sh*t about my voice. The dog will rubberneck on my fingertips and act as you in the theatre drama show, but the dog won't even twitch its ears when I begin to pound, pearl, otherwise exhibit a compression or open up my voice.
In the area of whether or not the dogs and car horns should notice... last night the idiot following me around the block waits a ways off for me to lay out the backpack and take out the coffee and tobacco. Then he comes up behind me, like so many of the dog faggitts have in the past (with their dog), breathing heavily... you know, because they've spent seven years stalking me around this block looking for my dick, and they have all the routines and lines in place because they have been completely unchecked the entire time. I had been telling the police, since the very first telephone call and incident, that the people around me were the problem. Now we really know. So the idiot comes up behind me breathing heavily (often they creep up behind me to have the dog breathe heavily, or bark... but six hundred dead remote control dogs daily during daylight care not a whit about my big voice), and I turn around and breathe heavily back at him, as if to question,"WTF are you doing?" Then he wants to stand and stare, at near ten o'clock at night, and then when I counsel him to keep going because I am not looking to meet any new friends in the dark hours, then he begins to argue. Obviously. The argument turns worse, and then he begins threatening to swing, holding up his hands and fists and advancing. I back away to avoid the compulsion to crush his head, and he does what all the other faggitts all the years have done and begins pawing at my backpack and my bags.
So I really turn on the air contest. Concentrate on the nose, concentrate on the frontal lobes, concentrate on pushing the air from the diaphragm. He continues to argue but, on occasion, he backs off and puts his hands on his knees like he is having trouble keeping up with exertion. I was puzzled. He didn't appear to be exerting himself that much to me. *shrug* But, if he's going to keep standing up off his knees and advancing on me again with his fists, then I am going to keep opening up on his eardrum and letting him have it.
Twenty minutes later he finally left and, eventually, the police arrived to ask about an argument. With no injuries and nobody around (as the faggitts always run off to the southeast quadrant across Torrey Pines and Girard), they left.
If I'm lucky maybe he woke up this morning with a head cold. Maybe he was only putting on the show. I'll keep working on that.
One of the primary environmental noises which made me think of the heroin wire remote control and the fully dead (not quite dead yet) remote control, in addition to the impeccable timing all day all year and the neverending swarm of day tourists, is the "johnny one-note" trick. For years of kicking about boogers devotedly (about the past three since the pilgrimage walk), improving my voice every day, getting over completely any susceptibility to the blowgun pulsing air cannon--box fan for laryngitis and common cold, increasing my range on the top bottom and filling in the middle, up to the last year filling up my voice, two months ago developing the "supra voce", three or four weeks of supra voce and now into three or four weeks of a daily schedule, a daily ramp ladder, for improving the supra voce and opening up with bigger sound every morning... each and every day... similar to the "not a point of sewing goes unnoticed" (car horns, bird calls, idiots on cell phones for near every point of sewing I have to display, for all the years that has taken)... each and every day there's the "johnny one-note" waiting around the corner. When working on voice there is much time spent on "ah" and pushing the lower range. That leaves entire minutes when the "ah" note doesn't really change until the next booger, set of boogers, or significant tightening in the entire facial structure. Without fail, and with a frequency and accuracy that made me think, the "johnny one-note" arrives from around the corner. The motorcycle, the car muffler, the airplane engine, the hele-chopper, the idiot on cell phone or talking with friend... all day every day the "johnny one-note" just coincidentally happens to match the note I am working on (and, if I am not working on it, then there is no "johnny one-note" trick waiting around the corners to mock my voice like a mimic child). The johnny one-note may not be as full, may not be as round, but will indeed match the particular "note" each and every time--car muffler, car engine, motorcycle exhaust, airplane, hele-chopper, idiot on cell phone or talking with friend. Johnny one-note after JON after JON all day long.
They are green eggs and ham brain damaged and heart diseased. They are not professional vocalists, and neither are all of the mechanical fill in noises. How else could such an enormous johnny one-note system be so well on demand and calibrated unless it were plug and play, like programming robots? That has always made me wonder. Aside from remote control, aside from secret wire audio network, aside from coordinated plays to chase targets and knowing the layout of the architecture ahead of time (and having hundreds of generations of practice chasing little children around the block and raping them with their dogs, cracking eggs to make the perfect millionaire ohm-let)... how else could such a johnny one-note be effected unless a large number of the participants are that completely on remote control?
Just what percentage of the world on sphinx and great wall is already dead (not quite dead yet), do y's'pose?
140204 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.123)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and twenty-third entry
The truth about the millionaire mob, such as in midtown La Jolla, is that they are upset to be running on a homeless man, a stand-in-mummy (SIM) or in this case the real passover lamb, or any other jobbie that wanders into their area. What they usually do is send the jobbies off to work, secure the neighborhood, and drop a few little children off with fries and a drink and wait for the show to start. Takes many eggs to make an omelet, and millionaires think fairly large of themselves. That is the sound of eight thousand years' worth of half-mangled children wailing from hell; they are not dead yet.
In 53214 I have noted the babylonian furnace area around 84th and National. That is the main intersection to correspond with Torrey Pines and Girard, but the real eggo-run furnaces are not so visible. As here in 92037, the babylonian furnace is set such that nobody sees anything unless the millionaires make the call. In 53214, you need only look down the block from the passover lamb's childhood home at 1202 S. 88, and somewhere down around 937 S. 88 is a little footpath. Two blocks to the west of that, similarly around 1000 on 90th or 91st, is a paved footpath. Up the street (south) from the 88th footpath is a house, around 1121 or so, that is known as "boot's house". Here in 92037 there, similarly, is a small dog which strikingly resembles "boots" which lives just a block or so to the north. Many aspects of the architecture are rotated around and interchanged to allow for local areas and necessary populations. A good example of local area adjustments is, again, available here in 92037, The chicken witch pole viewing area features the Ham, Isaac, and gospel trees in much the same form as depicted in the holy scripture. The front porch of Von's, where the picnic tables are, features three trees in a similar viewing pattern, but the branches are interchanged and moved around. The same rotation and interchange may be seen when comparing the holy scripture tree trio with, for example, the oriental tree trio found in an artwork book a week or so back in the journal entries. The trees in front of Von's reflect the changes at play in the local area, for anybody that may know how to read the patterns.
In the 53214 area there are likely to be found other elements of the chicken witch pole babylonian furnace architectural area. For example, from the dirt path, the passover lamb's childhood home stands at about the spot as the local Roman Catholic church here in 92037. Across the street and up the block.
In the realm of cutting down a person's brain there are several new developments. The excuse channel plus pump word mechanism continues to work well and prove itself. In the early ages, after learning to "talk", the first excuse many children learn is "what?" You say something, you ask them a question, and they give you blank "what?" And that's great, to go along with r-side profiling and dental adjustments, because there is a particular tonality to their "ah" in "what?". As the days and weeks go by, as they read from books and letters, the mortician aspect of the show analyzes to find other words in which they have the same "ah" as "what?" Then go to work on watching for those words, steerng them into those words, and cutting them off... telling them to "say this" or "don't use such a high voice" or ridicule them for whining. That will assist them to deliberately shut down their primary excuse channel, narrow it, use it less frequently, allow the boogers to build up and nudge their brain to find new excuse channels. Hit the children with the same old questions and see what they cough up in place of "what?" Go to work on that. Lather, rinse, repeat. The sound of young children, especially girls (remote control from the kingdom below), going over hopscotch rhymes often has that drastic nasty off-tonality sound to it, especially in groups. That's a common excuse channel for millionaires: "dog means it". You know, like dead chicken glove glory doing the dirty freaknasty because the older kids and mommy and daddy said so. Millionaires actually hate to listen to hopscotch rhymes and children's games because it reminds them of excuse channels long ago blocked off and boogered up.
In the "what?" excuse channel plus hate pump mechanism. The book of Leviticus is the "throw the book at them". The book of leviticus is the most carefully refined set of sounds known to accumulate siphons in the tongue, cut off the sounds, you don't make those anymore. If you sit refining, like pressing paper leaf to the roof of the mouth, you may find that wall. All of the snap-crackle-pop will be up to the front, at the one-fifth to the tip (more or less). That's pharaoh's spitting cobra, quitting the mosque, turning around to show the priests that he _IS_ working on it, and the priests shaking their head sadly at the special effect saying,"Your voice still isn't dropping, you need to use more than the top tip of your tongue to do that."
When you are ready to accept how sick and dying you are, and we've been shipping people to the same hell since long before the kingdom of heaven stood as the accounting proxy and new baby department, then I am able to teach to you how to stay out of hell. Am I superman? Do I have three genetic codes in the sinsus? No. I did this one booger and one long-lost ages-old cousin at a time. You need to stay out of hell.
Hell. Check in for phonies; wake up, debt counseling time, but now it's $100M daily and welcome to hell. Jobbies, tell us your troubles, how much would have been enough just to level some of that out, that's your first day, welcome to hell, after that all you do is clean the cells. The people makin' the big money up on stage, the people cleanin' the cells.
Losing your eyes. Stop crying. How can you do that? Every last bug and phairie and dog down here is practically starving for fresh water (water, water, everywhere, but, like a torso closet, nothing but greasy grime to drink), and you still well up at the eyes. You don't even need those anymore.
Bang your head. You hate hell, you can't take it, you can barely see like a wraith. Try banging the head against the wall. This is before year 100. After that just about everybody in hell is cocked one way or another.
Losing your frontal lobes. Stop whining about hungry. Didn't we already go over this? Here, you've never used these, they'll taste like vacuum cleaner bags, but you've been carrying them uselessly for so long. Must be food for you.
The great grand glorious excavation of your ass; when you decide to accept the monetary offer, beginning around year 4k. Gerbils, gang teams of gerbils (not polymorph carnival gerbils, little faggitts just like you), wearing hard-hats just for effect when the paschal lamb tells you about it. Working 24/7, night and day, laying in groundwork and foundation, timbers and support beams and girders, plumbing, lights... straight up flat out prospectin' on your ass, openin' you up and installing mirrors around every bend. Hell works like the upstairs carnival. We beat you up, we give you a devastating event (like, eat this crow, stupid), and then we ask you if you're ready (just like the millionaires workin' on their kids). Maybe not today, maybe not next week, but the bugs are already sipping off the inside of your dome, and you don't really think about much anymore anyway, so maybe it's okay to let them rack you up, take care of the breathing, take care of the feeding, take care of the feeling and the picking, and just let them go ahead with the excavation. Long, slow, painful, but at least they maintain the temperature for you and you won't need to qualify for the $100M to afford the thin blue blanket tonight, as you have for so many thousands of years.
After the excavation you will be bored (and hurt) enough to begin counting by twelves. Year 5k to 6k. At that time the jobbies are so broken down and peeling away and falling apart that we take even the smallest brooms and mops away (mostly because they cannot hold them any longer). "If you ever could have made it maybe you would have worked yourself to turning over and walking on your feet again, and then you could have used your grease mop to clean the floor, but you didn't, and you're in HELL, now you get down on your knees and use your tongue." That is when the jobbies turn mean and nasty on you, all racked up.
The gulag in the kingdom of heaven is the video game arcade pilotting the secret aviator machines. References included in the Reader's Guide. The aviators are not always very happy with their jobs, and there's little hope of reward in the stewing pot of souls. No, mostly those working in the video game gulag are the worst of the worst of the small time day timer tourist millionaires. Spiteful, vengeful, given to petty games and cheap exploits. The entire career path for them is similar to crack'em up derby bumper cars; while their game works mostly in gumby points and vacation credits, it is part of their game to take down the other's blast shield (make you go f* your dog, often transferrable to the nearest available spousal blast shield unit).
The most reliable time that you have to catch "him", the real "him", the "him" that has been reduced to psychological inch-tallness, locked in the crystal ball, behind the looking glass, with constant dose of heroin and toaster blender sippin' on beer, with the remote control magnetic field fuzz goin' on in the brain all the time. The most reliable time you have to catch him is just before you wake up, in the middle of the night, maybe during a shift change, then the aviator lets the remote control off for a while, watches, waits, and the inch-tall comes out to marvel over you, wish he could tell you that this isn't the way that it is, how could they make you understand which way it is all going, but then you begin to wake up, and the aviator takes over again. Back to remote control. Imagine being locked in that psychological cage while one of the ones that wasn't popped'n'dropped for special duty does whatever it feels like with the remote control. Man's inhumanity to man racks up every time you think you're getting yours. If you were to shove your primer up your nose and find your frontal lobes, let the mulch moter grab hold and pull you in, turn you inside out and leave you flat on the ground waiting to pump yourself up again (depending upon how many gcc -funroll-loops gorbie.dolls you have stacked up, it may take a while to so much as think about the left from the right), then she would have mid-level tits because that's kinda part of the path of the Lord: you will never really do enough situps and crunches to fix that. Keep working on it until you pop your wings back out, figure out one way or another how to use your brain as an oil pan and not an air filter, and suction your butthole to the dome of the sky.
One of the components of prophecy, along with the rooster tail, the comets, solomon's temple and the lunch plate hand, the words of meaning with proof and boogers every few syllables (Ezra's readings)... one of the components of prophecy is that, until I really clear out the frontal lobes, then is not really me talking or elucidating. Is my clearing frontal lobes reflecting on all of the excuses you give under the brain canopy, all the excuses trained in the predestined sound ranges, all of the cards already set up to end in hell. Laryngitis, a terrible disease, could take hundreds or even thousands of years to reach completion and bring you to hell. Alcoholism, in the talmud, for example, takes a long time for you to walk around with that alcohol blown parachute in your ass, but you may still walk around for hundreds of years that way. Not under the law of Moses and sodom/gomorrah since, we pile it all on, make you do it for the money one way or another, gimp you with the alcohol and the turnip cart, the kickboards and the key circuit (make whatever excuse you like for the turnip cart, you get to be the one riding along to your big escape, take this key). Laryngitis, all of the possible routes to lose your voice, has been mapped out, tracked down, refactored, rebuilt, mapped out, refolded, refactored... and now we have all the boxes set up. We know which boxes you will live in, which boxes you will work in, how your voice will lose, what that will make you ineligible for, what you will yet be eligible for after that, what sorts of friends you will need, which friends won't work with your particular losses, we know where you will need to drive, what insurance availabilities will be required to keep you placated (and occupied). We have it all mapped out. 70 or 80 years, then down to hell with the rest.
One of the components of prophecy is that, while I continue to clear out these frontal areas, I don't really say anything new. Is only me reflecting on all of the excuses that you give to me. Maybe, maybe, when I pop those wings and suction to the dome, maybe then I will be able to go through and freely rearrange a few things and make up a few stories. But, while I continue to improve at this rate from this far down (like the rest of you... I thank the Lord I began seven years ago and am now this far ahead of you *pfft*), I am nearly incapable of telling it to you in this voice unless it is the honest to the sky reflected truth from whatever you put into it.
Millionaire towns and districts have quotas for new millionaires. Like a big worldwide corporate structure. There's also a ratio to how large the omelets may be, and I get the idea that 92037 is somewhat lucky in being able to impersonate the prophets while serving up the eggo and beastie feast on the side at ridiculously low cost, passing the buck on to the middle man or little guy somewhere. Maybe has something to do with the scheduled appearance of the paschal lamb and the rewards they bet on. Like any good political party, they ate all the eggo ahead of time and bet on the ticket sales to cover the cost. The dog track in Del Mar was built, coincidentally, about the time that the dog wash eggo race track was needed for the big nobody knows anything homeless show here in 92037. The Del Mar race track represents the amount of runaround and coverup they need to keep the same kind of facade that they had right here at this little walkway in the middle of midtown La Jolla. In areas with dog wash eggo race tracks, entire midtown sized portions of corners of residential districts, a "town local" is an individual or rapunzel (with a store front, door front, or business front, or other secured position) with a guaranteed place in line for any of the little children dropped off with fries and milkshake for the show. Would you like your eggo bothered, agitated, or scared fucking shitless when they knock on your door looking for escape... and you have the dog waiting in the back room?
140201 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.122)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and twenty-second entry
The Mi-Ami sound machine and the super bowl. The miami sound machine is the method by which the rainbowtards cruise around from veal box to veal box to execute their special seven hit combo on the lamb inside and get their special sound. With the construction of the brain canopy and the law of Tor is much easier to see how this works. The brain canopy keeps your frontal lobes in check, and the digital music sounds newer and truer every year. The seven hit combo move is the method to maneuver the lamb into one of the corners and assist them in finding the special little portal to receive a microsound with a little bit of frontal lobe in it. Each and every individual has a few portals available, and in the most stressful times of your life maybe you will be able to plead your case with a little ring of truth. The ring of truth from the Mi-Ami sound machine is then useful to heat up an advertising blurb or a scene in a production because it has that extra ring of truth.
Hate words and excuse channels, the key to the super bowl.
People hate things. Things they hate have a ring of truth but, under the canopy, they are trained to move air around the things they hate in forms of excuses. Hate words,"vanilla milkshake" (for millionaires, that has been mapped to make them think, under the canopy, whether they say it or not, to "green eggs and ham"), "homeless", "raised heels", "drop voice", "grow up", "soccer" (europeans hate "nfl" because that's all messed up, should be "alephen"), "christmas", "birthday", "beer" (you love "whiskey", so the ladies may make you drink, but you will always hate "beer").
Excuse channels for millionaires. "get new", "have more", "fun", "oh okay" (a combination of "get new" and "have more"), "get to do", "dog means it", "hate will stop when you go do it" (rather complicated excuse channel)
The game is to light them up with pressure from a hate word and then precede them with the excuse channels they need to make. Maybe you can make them scream and holler releasing the pressure. WIth your girlfriend eunuchs they play this game. Talk talk talk until you say something they can "hate", "honey I hate that". So you, wanting to make them happy, parrot back all of the things she loves to steer her away from the thing she hates. Those are the excuse channels. She may then go through the roof, get you into an argument following all of the excuses, and qualify you for some tough points.
Take your stressed out friend, drinking alcohol preferably, you know they would rather be someplace else doing something else. Talk about "soccer" until they hate that. Then begin to reminisce about all of the old glory super bowls past. Talk about the hats, the clothes, the punch bowl, the popcorn, the bbq and the hot dogs... and see if you can make them light up their excuses from the thing they hate. As the Hebrew topspin to local dialect for interpretation, the ladies like to manage you with six hit combos.
Previously I had found the treasure in the field (Melchizedek's heart) and the pearl of great price. Today I found another pearl of great price, even larger I believe (have not directly compared them), and today's pearl was smiley cut like a golf ball. So I thought to peel the onion chip off to prove that it was a mere crushed bauble. The onion skin chip peeled off, quite beautiful little lens, and the remainder is still a pearl of great price.
140131 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.121)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and twenty-first entry
New front page material, should assist with the clutter, may go through the present page later.
The world's first patent dispute. Everything leading to it is boondoggle in the setup, everything after it is boondoggle in the filibuster. Patent for "gun which started fire". One side claims to have the "gun which started fire" and the kiln to prove it. The neurodoctors counting pharaoh to death. The other side of the same monastery (boondoggle) has "gun which started fire" on the linen as the bicycle setup for the spindle sticks to keep the thread moving through the linen.
From trees packed to the dome, trees espouse birds, birds develop as humans (take whatever amount of time to do that), humans begin to become semi-sentient and practice modelling the world around them, picking up leaves and pressing them. In the rehab routine, don't forget to roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth and press that--at the tip of the tongue there's a trick to squeeze your salivaries, that's a paper presser trick to clear the siphonies from the numb spots in your tongue. Humans, without fire, except for perhaps a lightning strike (and humans were marvelous at allowing theirs to go out) or the oracle with the eternal methane glow to them, had already walked back and forth and surfaced what they thought was the planet. They were eating the best baklava, they could warm and press the dough for the bread without a problem without fire, they had plenty of sugar and honey supply whenever necessary. They didn't have juice pits yet (coincidentally). This is a really good template to cap to Template TImeline's introduction.
The humans became bored. They could walk the routes and pick up the leaves and press the paper, but why? They had plenty. Sit back, relax. Enjoy. Breathe. Say,"Ah." They became bored.
Sit still and we'll try to knock you out. Here, start counting. Just sit still and we'll walk around you do stuff and try to knock you out. Try counting while we do it. Just keep counting. Sit still, keep counting, and we'll try to knock you out. What else are we doing? Just let us try this. We'll wake you right back up (this time, until we all, as a group of idiots, get bored doing that, because we've already done that last time). See, he's starting to skip and miss. Oh, *plonk* there he went. Okay, wake him up (this time).
Eventually, after enough this times, then you can walk through all the things you get to do to wake him up without quite waking him up yet. Sure, you could throw him to the birds and hope they carry him to the phairies, but the birds are good at knowing how to make him wake up or the trees will make him roll into a dog and then he'll never quit going. So you may learn to take him apart, all the ways, and all the things. Now the brain. When he was beginning to skip and stutter, see these boogers here? That's where he was counting. Maybe the boogers are spaced differently than the last one I showed you, but these are the same ones because we knocked him out the same way. You may learn all of the things you may do to help him get knocked out, which ways to wave your hands, how to direct his eyes, and maybe you set up some of those lines ahead of time. Begin with a throne and a canopy top, eh?
So learn where the counting boogers are. Is that speech? Well, because this is a boondoggle from a patent dispute between the neuros and the people in the linen factory, you know that you already roped the monkeys together to help you pat down all the paper. You know how to steamroll a whitebrain human. Give us one of those white-brains, and we'll put a little booger in their to begin with, warm him up, and then you can work on him like this pharaoh we're taking apart right here and you see if he counts the same numbers. Maybe he begins to limp a little on his walk, too. We'll work on trying to get him to kick out that booger, and then we'll work on knocking him down the same way we did this pharaoh we're taking apart right here.
The humans outside the model are breaking each other down and making noise from bad air. The humans managing the model break down playing with their model inside, the whitebrains get setup. The humans outside run out, the humans inside run out, the white brains staff the positions.
The history of neurological revolvers in the world. Packed, counted, numbered, prepacked, prepacked hard coded (siphon), prepacked hard coded regions develop into barns, barns develop into r-sides, r-sides develop into laws, laws are arranged in kingdoms, kingdoms in Tor, Tor into a net, a net pulled back to a canopy, the canopy topped to the stem.
The architectural lines in the model work with the position of the throne and the lanes of the canopy top.
140130 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.120)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and twentieth entry
The R-side and dental whitening
The r-side. How do you staple a booger into a brain? How do you staple boogers into a white brained steam pressed new baby? Take your tongue out of your nose, bite it. Use these teeth, bite this much. The modern edition managing the lineages to the table of the nations do not even need to know exactly why the book for this box says use these teeth to this depth of tongue. That's the way it's done. As a white brained baby you are run through rows of progressive boxes of various architectural lines, left wall, right way, ceiling, floor, biting various teeth and depth of tongue, and *BANG* stapled that one on. As a white brain that will leave enormous impressions on you. Staple enough r-side together maybe you make a barn. Staple enough barns together maybe to make a curtain. Work on perfecting the curtain and moving it to the greatest possible severity level while maintaining a living functional individual able to accept job training. Then, when shipped upstairs, the women are able to observe the settings for your "ARRRR"-side under the curtain. White brain trained babies, before leaving heaven, are checked and calibrated to ensure that, after the r-side has been set, they will indeed adjust their neck and floats (eyes) to accomodate their r-side settings in quality assurance boxes. Shipped upstairs the ladies, with plenty of room of exuse to not know anything, receive the baby with the r-side.
And that's a good excuse. There obviously is no r-side because you are obviously a naturally grown baby.
With the r-side, they find your best box, the box where your eyes and neck and head are most closest to what they consider "normal" or "good start" (and really, you're stuck in the middle of the mummies' tomb, and that should be obvious), and teach you a word. Then they watch your r-side. Your r-side may be full right, it may be full left, it may be some combination of getting the crap stapled into you at scientifically predetermined paths and routes of settings, but your mom is obviously not looking for it because she's just playing with you as a baby, and she loves you, and wouldn't know anything about any r-side setting and this ridiculous thought that it would have enything to do with your floats (eyes), the way you hold your neck and head (when you're happy, when you're sad, when you are under 15 foot ceilings, when you're stuck in a woodshed).
With your r-side, at your delivery (this is chronological), if you're not a rainbowtard, they can watch your r-side settings change when they hit you with the isopropyl, when they hit you with the multi-amine mix, when they hit you with the grammy of silica. All very important pieces of info for the database tracking you, individually, in the matched eye brain smile r-side system.
Your mother may watch your r-side setting with your first best desalizized breakfast, and the smell you make for it.
Then maybe we work on your r-side settings in your home, in your various rooms, in your relatives houses, teaching you these words along the way. Watching for any side excuse to develop. Because you have not only an r-side, but an entire law of Tor of stapled r-side making a net over some potato chip section of your brain (a cap over about the very surface of the brain stem).
Then we take these yearly photographs of you growing up, because your speech is yet quite simple, and we will match your speech with your smile and work on that neural configuration for you in particular on the r-side.
Then your dentist may give to you the dental x-ray carboard inserts. Of course your dentist is not watching to see which side you wince more on, because you don't have an r-side. Then the people you begin to meet at that time in your life are obviously paying no attention to the changes in your voice and excuses you make for the laryngitis and common colds you get, how your smile falls and in what boxes, after you begin to experience visits to the dental assistant. They're working on your teeth, did you know they had so much interest in the r-side of your smile?
Then... after the database for the r-side configuration and usefulness and scenarios (along with your breathing secret password and its changes along the way), then we can take your wisdom teeth out. We can both work on the material determined to that data and glean new extra information from the common cold, laryngitis, and social setting modifications after that.
Plenty of room for excuses and nobody knows at every level, plenty of room to keep passing the torch and building on historical victories.
But that's all ridiculous, and has been for years since the beginning of BSM and before, because there is no r-side law of Tor potato chip slip capping your air off under eight thousand hertz. That's stupid. That loud voice, that guy must have three genomes in the nose or be a freak or something. Nobody has a voice that good. Even rainbowtards accumulate decay to their golden throats. Everybody has an r-side and, if you ever begin to work on it, then $THEY are the people with the D, and the K, and will show you the G, and they get to check as often as they want to see if you're A, okay?
The t-ru-t-he of the matter, the prophetic interpretation of the saying of the word t-ru-t-he, is t-ha-t you are ruining yourself for the money. and you know it. the flavor of truth, the metallic tinge, is on the glass when you acknowledge that,"Yes, maybe I am going to hell." swill.
140129 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.119)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and nineteenth entry
- "Did you f* the dog?"
- Stop crying or lose your eyes
- Stop whining about hungry. You have kept these frontal lobes in cold storage all of your life, they must be food for you. You have never moved any air through them, they will taste like vacuum cleaner bags. In the polymorph carnival the crow is all frontal lobe. How much you hate any particular crow is related to how far above your voice and it what direction the crow is. Games may be played profiling you vs. different crows and, though you may have bad days and misbehave--overreact to one or underreact to another, you do mostly follow the crow profiling quite well.
Interpreting most anything is similar to finding driving directions. Begin with an Hebrew topspin in mind (s, t, p, f), have a knowledge of the transformations in numerical counting (garden counting with alephel's wingtips--ancient eunuchs weren't counting by ten or twelve but closer to two thousand three hundred and twenty-four at a time, melchizedek one hundred, sons of israel, apostles) over the ages, remember Latin and the Bible, and then finish up in regional languages and local dialects. Works very well.
Balance your speech. I have written of the stressed ah system, ah stresses to oh, especially if they're riding your shoulders, ah massaged politely turns to ee, but watch out for cramps in the ankle and knee, that's your clue that they're pretending to be nice and clipping you off. That develops to the en el er o u, eventually to a e i o u with syllabylic construction, and on into split languages in the talmud.
Begin with (exhale) "Ahhhh" (inhale) "men"
Then ex "Ham" in "Els"
Stress that more, as time goes on, humans become more stupid, the drunks are whining from the juice pits, ex "Home" in "less"
now, over time, "what's the password" becomes a complicated game, with all sorts of allowances for excuses. The further stressing of the oh and the necessary balancing could enlarge and have large ridges cut into the top, for example,ex "Hear O Israel" in "t-he Lord is God".
You need your Ahs and your Ohs (keep your EEs to yourself, we're Hebrews around here, no need to go interpreting dreams for the drunks and the witches making wild excuses), your Hams and your Els. You want a Ham-El, not a Ham-Er. If you have too much R you will need to get your boos, and ladies have whiskey heels to make you drink. They heal you like the phairies, the only way they know how, they pump you full of it and then go-ssssssss-ip it out. Part of the rehab program is training you to keep your s and your t to yourself.
With the in out nature of the human social development, turns as the complixification of the regulated breathing password system descended through all of the available combination and permutations, with a limit set by how much air the humans were taught to move in the regulated breathing combined with the extent of the brain canopy and its progression, and the rewrite, when God wakes up, after the entire world has been sent to hell and failed, is people claiming kingdoms of "the right way!" on their particular Talmud set of broken down approximations.
Full glyph rehabilitation
Are you finger painting or touching up? Did you do the real work first? Has your voice dropped? Is your voice continuing to drop? Are you continuing to work on it? If I attach a light bulb to a microphone, is the glass half empty or half full? Well, the glass is very dim, but it's your special job to help fill it. HAHAHAHAHA! What would you do if you began walking into the contest dog boxes one day and the very dim glass, explained for thousands of years as your special part in the world to help fill it, is suddenly half full, and you can't move it anymore, because the new standard is a pubescent human? Here, blow into this tube, we're checking to see if you're drunk. HARDER HARDER HARDER HARDER!
After you have gone for the walk, after you keep the goose egg wallet balance and residency time, after you begin working on the left right to approach left from right breathing control, have a notice clearing in your voice, probably made it through the two or three months of daily barns, then perhaps you may begin working on the glyph system to accelerate your participation in the Fifo2ed mantra system for rehabilitation. A glyph is a structural arrangement as a quick reference guide to an enormous amount of material beneath it. After the entire field has been filled then, if a high throughput form is necessary, a glyph may be created to maintain particular focal points and important structural lines. A white brained steam pressed individual is very sensitive to adopting glyph methods for passing social situations through the day--which particular points of the shoulders and elbows are necessary to avoid abusive criticism (animal sex perverts take any criticism they can get, from any end of the food chain, and that's a big fault to the tree of life), what constitutes "hurry up" when walking, what constitutes "try harder" and need to fake it because you can't, what exactly is "mind your own business" when all the adults are constantly looking to you for a response?.... You learn both the right and the wrong as a new white brain and the first four weeks of training have beaten you out of really wanting to work on it that hard.
After you have reached a particular level of expertise with the basics of life, in out, up down, open close, left and right, then develop systems of cycles to remember all of the muscles through common daily tasks, much of the small time general maintenance may be then approximated as working on the lips and face, mostly the sinuso region of the Fifo2ed mantras. Batman is a good glyph to hold the face wide up and the eyebrows up. Superman's diamond is another method to remember the shoulders and the outsides of the eyebrows. The Oriental glyph system is always looking for new faces while the old reliable ones have already been set in stone and cut up into dialects. The USPS eagle on the side of their transport vehicles is a very good glyph to remember to keep the cheekbones up and the eyebrows in a sharp line with a good chin. A detailed diamond is a good for the fine tuning of the sinuses. Families and lineages have their own important lines, regions and cultures have modifications, local areas and individuals make their decisions. Nobody goes through and finishes the whole field, everybody is trapped under a brain canopy, possibly hampered in additional ways.
Even if you have a frontal lobotomy, you maintain yourself on _the_ program to make your voice drop, and a larger number of the boogers filtered from your sinuses and nose will collect like tetris. Your body will give you the right ones (because you will be working on it) or you will play tetris and rearrange them on the way. On the other side, cut the tether (Zechariah's out to get you too, if he's too strong, maybe you could be the one, when he wakes up, and we all know that Mel never made it past the door, so Zech gets comfortable in the cart like everybody else always has), kick out the dog, plant a garden (if you really want to play tetris that quickly and are that absolutely obsessed with it, otherwise you will probably stretch out from the inside especially when you learn the left from right compression breathing, with the gurgling abdominal actuator to give yourself confidence and faith that it is working), and go for that walk!
Paschal lamb has always had a ring of truth. Even in his darkest hour, paschal lamb has always had a ring of truth. He's been sized with an antenna so many times inside of his run with cinderella's carriage. That has always been his ring of truth, that nobody else in the world would have, because nobody else in the world has been sized with an antenna for $count_rooster_tail years. The really really really pompous asswipes overseeing the idiot process around the paschal lamb have seen that as his greatest benefit and (hopefully, for the evil ones trying to make money) his greatest downfall. "You have that special ring of truth about you. If only you could build on that you would be just fine." If he builds on it like a barn then maybe it will lead to a slip, trip, or fall somewhere. If he could build on it like clearing out the boogers (go for the walk, get a handle on any open space you have available) then maybe he could make it.
The ring of truth is similar to the isaiah spinal adjustments and the paschal lamb's shoulder. Mummification does wonders for resurrection, but persistent repeated injuries, even if repaired, leave small lines and characteristic artefacts.
140128 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.118)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and eighteenth entry
Lift up your heels. Why not? Well, because it's funny. Learn some excuse, learn some set of excuses. That part of your brain is alive, keep learning the excuses. Humans come preinstalled with that particular "barn". Thousands of years, tens of thousands, of research from the earliest doctors on the earliest pharaohs, and all of the later doctors on the steam pressed white brain new ones, have allowed the practitioners to know within lineages where the raised heels are and how to inflict an injury massive enough to target that section of the brain without leaving an enormous swath of dark matter in the years to follow. That point and many others, together, may be known as the law of Tor. Minor injuries to a fully functional human settle to the surface of the frontal lobes. Injuries may be deeper and more massive, leaving various trails and patterns of accompanying dark matter coordinated to the physical location of the injury. Enough injuries piled on all together, while training and leading the human away from necessary self-improvement practices, may form a surface wall to block out entire regions, even to form a physical plane top to bottom and left to right. Study to the nature of the surface of the plane, as with the raised heels, allows practitioners to inflict the point pattern of the plane and allow the remainder of the frontal region to clear and heel, diminishing lung and vocal capacity while retaining higher functionality without terribly cramping down muscles and joints and motions; blocking out only specific corners and angles, gestures and sounds. Humans tend to be a competitive lot, especially when they box themselves in to close quarters, excuses to the way things are done never cease, and over the years the "coming of age" procedure includes a complete application of a law of Tor. The remainder of aging builds on that and the process is excused as progressive bouts of laryngitis and minor aches and pains to accumulate over the years.
What is your excuse? Make any excuse you like for the dead spots and silent regions in your brain. You will. You will learn, in your language and culture and local architecture, all of the necessary excuses to never need to raise your heels. It is always a joke. You will laugh, you will chuckle, you and everybody around you will never even consider it as the excuses are pushed to earlier and earlier game finales in life. The are many such jokes built into your language and into your culture. Tor modeled a set of six hundred of them reliably known to accomplish the goal. White brained humans, initially for experimental model purposes only, were increasingly being used to fill the population both outside the modelling agency and, coincidentally, the earliest replacements inside the modelling agency could be trained to flawlessly complete the task to steam press a new one and complete its necessary training for its role in the running model. The roles in the running model required progressively worse white-brains to model the real ones hanging out in the juice pits, branding scourging and deforming themselves to hell (would you like to get cut up into twelve pieces all at once or would you like the million dollar payment plan for your stay at the house at gerar? would you like to pre-order your last box of eggo, pray you are able to pay for the extras you want, pray you make it that far), and the real ones denning up and rotting to hell with perversions (melchizedek's two week notice breath; you begin to bore me, get the hell out in two weeks or that guy by the fireplace is beginning to look like a sultan, the light is low and the lines in here are odd).
By the time the real ones figure out many different ways to avoid going to hell (qualify to get poked into soap and make wax, qualify to be rolled into dogs, too many dogs, qualify to be sewn into horses, qualify to make camels, qualify for the experimental monster derby dashes, qualify to be pressed into a brick while we try to figure out how to end the madness and ship everything left to hell), the steam pressed new ones are completely brain capped to the stem and with lifespans to match the models being used in the running model (brain capped to the stem, with a line of sh*t to cover it up, and then brain capped on the stem again with the same law of Tor) the entire time. White brain replacements in the world being modelled went through stages of improvements, there were complaints about behavior and complete lack of any sense, but the real ones kept denning up and dying off, so population vote brought white brains to near equal rights with the ancient real ones that couldn't raise their voice above a whisper.
All their lives long they crave and hope and plan on that final box of eggo, it's selection, it's quality, the side dishes... and the gunboats come upstairs loaded to kill mowin' 'em down.
Breathing. In BSM I calculated a breathing cycle "final anaesthesia and prayer" for in out cycles. Based on Roman Catholic Latin chant modes in the Christian Prayer; the chant modes seek to balance the syllables and the tones used for them across swaths of text and scripture. Sudoku, read these syllables and observe the numbers above (or count the numbers, or elevate the tones, if you wish to be working on the ranges of your voice and the pockets in your brain). Recently the demonstration of the rainbowtard access to brain cannon (there is no global brain microphone, there is no suicide by prophet, st. steven, first martyr, suicide by prophet, had all of the finest jokes but they kept sniffing his speech because they were planning to burn those barns anyway--if you resist a barn you add up pressure and accumulate other blockages in other resonance routes leading to and around it, that's called hatin' on somebody) encouraged me to think about the breathing again. What could you say to at least fill the vocal chamber of your brain scan and create some noise for the idiots with access to the brain cannon? IOUDOCLR... "Aaaaaahhhhhh" "meeeeheeehehheehhehehen" "Aaaaaaaaahhhh" "meeeeehheheheheeehehnn". That sort of thing
Then I began thinking about the doctor with the stethoscope. He's not listening to your breathing or heart, so much really, he's listening to your "password". What do you say on the way out (when you're not thinking about it), and what do you say on the way in (when you're not thinking about it). Doctors then would have a generalized method map for how your brain canopy affects your trained in and out syllables. Knowing how that changes, and how it has changed for you since the last time you were listened to, may give them clues about the entire brain system. They may not have the direct map to all of it, been a long time since the pyramids, but like anybody else in life they likely have little tricks and things to watch for. The doctors do have a game on your recovery. "Ha. You only nicked him that little extra bit with that cut, but he's so stupid, I bet he'll never get that back from the pt he gets in that place." Place your bets. The tricks may then be policed and hoarded and kingdomed by tracking your breathing password. Did you fix it on your own? Did somebody else give it to you? Do we know it well enough (probably) that we know exactly who out there could possibly give it to you and help you fix it? Do you look like you're working on a total improvement program to fix it yourself? Place your bets, follow 'em around... while they go to work on the paschal lamb's underarm tendon with a sawzall. "You only nicked him that little extra bit..."
So then with the breathing password and brain canopy I began to think about sizing the antenna. The telescoping coil spring loaded zippos that the gunboat is packing. Sizing the antenna. They're trying to knock you out, by talking to your doctor and listening to your secret password, knowing exactly where that big dumb spot is, knowing exactly how much your "raised heels" barn has built itself up, knowing exactly how tall you are. Then maybe she missed. Then there's cathetar therapy, a little to the left honey, slowly, okay, now move a little harder, uh-huh... you're not helping her so much as she's helping you around the bend and past the voicebox.
Continuing on the wax museum with booby trapped stage models... there are the "pets" again. Did the amoeba EVER think to walk backwards? Mostly positive that, as a baby, even you walked backwards because it felt funny. The eyes are on the sides of the head. Watch your fishtank. See those fish? They don't swivel their neck around. Fish cannot really swim backwards so well (though even fish get bored enough to try it on occasion, and you may watch if you have the fish tank), but you watch them pivot their eyes, because the eyes are on the side of the head, and it doesn't need to swivel the neck. For having the eyes on the sides of the head your dog directs attention like a human... and it never thought to walk backwards? Maybe in play, maybe tug of war, maybe in fright, but it never thought to walk backwards? Cat, maybe twice I've seen a cat slide backwards a step or two... but they don't do it either. Cats have more forward eyes for that swivel neck attention span. You train your dog to play dead, you train your dog to fetch, train your dog to smile and laugh, train your dog to shake hands, train your dog to pop up out of the woodwork and laugh at your joke so as to surprise you, but your dog has never on its own thought to amoeba backwards a step? If it passed "something" on the sidewalk it will swivel its neck like forward facing attention and turn around like a fish?
Look at those eyes, stupid.
One of the finest tricks we taught the white brains was regulated breathing. Play dead. Now stop breathing. You will need air, eventually, but no time soon. Air is like water on talmud. I decide I need water, but it's around the block, so I decide I need to pick up water. So I walk around the block and drink, and am no longer thirsty, but continue to need to pick up water because it's a good idea. I don't do so at the time because I do not want to carry it. Then I later become thirsty and remember that I should have picked up water. Eventually I pick up water, but am never thirsty at the time, and somehow never really become thirsty for another three or four days, when I drink the water to avoid carrying the weight on the arm. The next cycle of the day (night, day, night day) I will become thirsty again and decide that I need to pick up water, get the drink, and continue to need to pick up water, eventually pick up water, carry the water for days because I am no longer thirsty, drink the water to remove the weight on the arm, and promptly become thirsty again. All week all month all year long. That's air, too. You could rot away quite a bit on methane dried soap before you really play dead enough for us to throw you into the box going to hell.
We taught the white brains the regulated breathing that we would know the moment that they broke through the training, and to keep down all the crap noise in the model towns, and later real towns, being increasingly staffed with trained white brains. Humans are like that. To the bottom of hell you will be asking "WHY?", still trying to blow that smoke ring and work on it.
Because you will never open up your brain canopy, overcome that sphinx, you will allow yourself to "go wild" screaming for air on cue long before you ever drop your voice to move any of that air through your frontal lobes.
140127 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.117a)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and seventeenth(a) entry
The brain canopy model has been working out very well over the course of the day. The brain canopy model for the brain blockages; hard coding in modern day is using rumplestilskin siphons in the bundle of hay down to the brain stem before the table of the nations. The running joke model for the languages, the languages written as yearly paths through the talmud; every language actually has several thousand jokes available to it, from which a pool of six hundred plus are running your local area, from which a pool of six hundred plus are planned to be built into you to assist knocking you into power save mode. The eiffel tower model of six hundred plus scripts, about 120k phonies and 20:1 jobbies, all actors part-time-sharing a wardrobe in the middle. Each eiffel tower proven ahead of time in aqueduct arrangements, mosaics, groomed trees to flagpoles, and all the money for any size arrangement of eiffel towers cross-checked by three-stage rocket paschal designs of nation:corporation:shelter level allotments, stack eiffel towers side by side as necessary.
Morticians have progressively lost their art over the years. The degradation of the adult mummification process, the need for tear gas and bleach in sodom and gomorrah, the need for the model to have her own prep trailer and modern boys don't know what to do with soap anyway.
The cuing system in the sphinx. Cues that travel between the lifetimes counted on mosaics, grouped in aqueducts, choreographed into eiffel towers, from a larger pool of cues prearranged in houses of servants acting in day of atonement parties, entire day of atonement parties of masters packed together as a brick, entire pyramids of bricks arranged into lawn trolls and great garden walls. Take the model area of mid town La Jolla, the design district of 92037, with the chicken witch pole viewing area against the great wall of Jonathan's. Abe Lincoln and Ronald Reagan were sitting right there on the back steps of Evertt-Stunz, each talking with Elijah and Moses about the walk they needed to go to, and the prophet cannon is lined up right there in the wires crisscrossing the chicken witch pole, if you view it from Melchizedek's chair (adjacent lot) slumped over as if secret asian man just popped you out of your skin and is getting ready to take your carcass on a different route over to the german rebuild factory when they continue on their journey from the orient. JFK rides in the car down Torrey Pines, waves to everybody in the babylonian furnace when they reach Girard, turns up to pearl, and makes a lane change to Bishops. She's not putting his head together, she's sitting on the curb there at Bishops and is looking over her shoulder to receive a bag of groceries; messy delivery and the groceries spilled everywhere, including the jar of aromatic nard. Martin Luther steps off of the soap box behind the BevMo, walks across the stage, exit stage back, down the hall, round the corner to the parking garage and BANG!, right there in the cold corner. Martin Luther is like a reincarnation of Moses; doesn't know what's in the bread box, objects when he finds out, "Martin, as you are leaving due to bread box objections, tell us, how many times did you contribute?" "Uh, rr, NINETY-FIVE THESES!". Martin never gets hot with the bread box, he gets clipped in a cold corner, and afterwards they ship the bread box to his congregation and tell them to make money like they owe for startup fees. Sounds like five-loaves two fish to me. How much do you owe, Nathan? Master, even three hundred days' wages wouldn't be enough to keep even a few of them from calling after nightfall all night long.
Peter, Peter, if all of this is true, what are _WE_ to do?
Save yourselves from this corrupt generation.
The booger canopy lines up well with the history of the world. The trees begin to the roof and the trees espouse, then the trees espouse better, and soon the trees are putting out birds; your spouse is like the opposite of you, not terribly useful, but they take care of the interface between you and the universe, the things you really cannot do. Soon the humans realize some sort of sentience. They do well for a while pressing paper and collecting all sorts of good things to eat, rolling dough and honey long before they heat things up much; the cover of the Koran is Melchizedek the mad confectioner dripping honey everywhere. Some modernization is required, as Mel is really Arp v2 with all of the structural units in place around the firepit, and you wouldn't dare call a Koran a Mel. Modernization to paschal lambs has the mortician making minced ginger on paschal lambs chest and then going crazy and wild; a compression of cues which have stacked up to his life. More modernization has the adonis arriving for late night consultations with paschal lamb during the passover, the crowd is going wild on the baby, looking for any remaining keys. The mortician, earliest, arrived to take his first at the passover and leave the rest for the dogs. Modernization brings Herod back again and again in the script. Modernization of the script includes the "head mortician of the dogs", the guy brought in to knock the paschal lamb down between the first few segments of the script. The head mortician of the dogs is the second in line (of those bearing palm branches with clothes washed white in revelations) after the baby is reheated, and John Saul Paul "it burns" Atreides, but they are yet the head morticians of the dogs, and even lardass tetrarch Herod is above them.
And all of that is pretty much sealed up and written in stone before the paper pressers put the trees down to 90%, the world is a multi-layered dagoba upon dagoba. By that time, though, everything has already been done, and the drunks are beginning to hang out in the juice pits. Then fire hits, and those oracles (if you know where they are) already have an eternal flame and soap dried over methane vents. You shouldn't become addicted to soap over methane vents, that'll give you a bad booger and that'll grow into a barn if you don't know it and work on it before it gets too big to be too late and then you'll need a pilgrimage to work yourself up again, but DAMN it is _cold_. By that time you have paper folded up approaching twine or thread, too, so maybe you'll find fire from fast thread on spindle sticks and gearing ratios. The scarecrow is the project to sew it all in 2D, have those people fold it up, fill it with seewater, and zap it with lightning. That never worked but the monkeys figured out what we needed and slipped a few into the paper rolls to help us figure the rest out. Along the way mapping all the 2D the neuromorticians figured out where the key boogers are and began screening the population to find out how to assist those in accumulating, like too much methane dried soap for example. We don't even need to make much sound to get this done yet. Humans are scary enough when quiet, when they make noise they're downright freaky. Modern times sees that humans are freaky enough when quiet, their voices are so thin weak muffled and low already that they're downright spooky when they make noise.
Over the course of cutting down the multilevel dagoba arrangement, because the drunks were getting meaner with fire, pushing on zechariah at the door, the morticians were retreating further into the basement and staying there, losing their art-of-training along the way, you found all of the really nasty "soap over methane vents" addictions and booger arrangements. Then you found how you could pound those in ahead of time. Then you perfected how you could those in ahead of time, deeper to the brain stem, thicker, tighter packed. As society turned around it they connected prepacked arrangements with degradations in the people, that late in life injuries could be known to assist a prepacked injury, and the prepacked injury could be increased and adjusted to imitate the entirety of the late in life injury. Aaron's golden calf, progressively to now with remote control jiggly blobs and push-button poop, on one side and taxidermied beat-to-death and reanimated from the other side, meeting to beauty, splendor, and the excuses for the prince of lies in the middle. It cannot possibly be a lie because you cannot prove it.
Are you able to train that guy to walk in his sleep? Sure. I can train him to walk in his sleep. How about talk? I've been training him to talk in his sleep so long, what do you want him to say? Walk and talk, we make the dead do that. Dance, do tricks, chew gum, type with Braille. Make Lazarus rise from the dead. No problem. Modernization sees the loss of the art to walk in the sleep, but we now have wires. Everybody had a neural net when we knocked the head off the sphinx, but then we put the headdress on for triangulated wifi. You don't need the actual metallic neural overlay on your brain anymore. Now we booger up a canopy over your brain stem and call it a day.
There's a table game called Ker-Plunk. About six hundred sticks, prearranged, inside of a social game that stares at you too hard and makes you put that stick back in. How many boogers are in the brain? About three pounds worth, but don't squeeze them out all at once or you may blaspheme, cause an aneurysm, and play ketchup too quickly for your nose to filter it.
Humans slowly degrade, day of atonement parties (designed to help screen out and identify lost boogers) begin to provide nothing but excuses for the missing sounds. Some humans keeping a model of the situation identify the key missing boogers and meticulously characterize their development and ultimate completion. Six hundred plus booger positions are identified as key necessary to knocking a human to power-saving mode, and the day of atonement parties are grouped into languages to assist with their completion. Repeat as necessary in a fifteen step double-blind matched clinical lifetime circus. As the entire six hundred point canopy becomes hard-coded, as the route to completion becomes more well characterized and more quickly established, then the starting position for the entire canopy may be moved further and further back along the frontal lobes, as experimentation provides and as the adjusting society allows. If an adjustment is ever too wild, or blows a hole in the canopy, then the resulting human begins moving way too much air in way too many wrong ways and sounding completely out of whack within the social setting and architectural arrangements around them, all given zoning ordnances and codes applied. Over time the real humans themselves run out, and the entire set is staffed with the trained white-brains, and the trained white-brains do have a kernel layer which is devoted to white-braining new ones and training them to fit the set, including the booger ker-plunk sphinx canopy applied as near to the brain stem as possible, with hard-coding. And not entirely coincidental, too, as the model needs their separate trailer to keep away from the healing itch (and blow their model career), and the life expectancy of the white-brains before they fully accumulate the six hundred point configuration has been dwindling as the day of atonement parties have improved their efficacy.
140117 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.117)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and seventeenth entry
Your brain has been canopied. Your brain is shaped somewhat like a kidney bean on end. You have a brain stem on that end. Between your brain stem and your frontal lobes is a canopy, a network canopy, a network of canopies like umbrellas stuck from the stem to the top of the canopy, preventing you from achieving your full frontal lobes. You are able to hear in that range, and digital music sounds better every year, but your voice and your air are trapped underneath the canopy and, by some but not all coincidence, in the lower section of your mouth and none of it in the upper chamber and, by some but not all coincidence, none of it resonating the air in your frontal lobes. Doctors (some, most, not all, obvious red herrings for plausible deniability and scenes to support the same) profiling your hearing, obviously, have never quite achieved the data points necessary to determine such a canopy, and digital music sounds better every year. Priests, similarly, knowing about sins and retributions and improper interactions and loud voices in ancient scripture and neurosurgeons taking pharaohs apart for thousands of millenia, never quite envisioned that there was a canopy keeping your voices down. Tor's law was, at one time, a logical puzzle game for the rich kid to figure out as he took over command of his legions and regions of vassals. Long before that, Tor's law was the gospel proof that there associated subroutines in the background would indeed produce, reliably, each and every time, these six hundred (plus some) enormous blocks in the brain to result in this canopy effect.
How to make them perpetually exploitable, yet retain functionality for accounting purposes.
The festival of booths. The beginning of the year kickoff party, contests of wit and witticism, plenty of jokes and skits with espresso and cheesecake, picture Robert Deniro opening the World Series,"How many of these are you able to pick up in one night [over the course of the week of parties] and still make it to the end of the year without declaring bankruptcy!" That's true almost back to the first real ones. Tor's law was the game of day of atonement parties, day of atonement parties being compressions of musical chairs sessions, and every year the humans went through the whole bit trying not to get knocked out and shipped to hell by the end of this year. That game was too severe and wore out as the humans developed and refined and expanded all of the methods of idiocy between those six hundred (plus some) boxes. Now the end of the year bankruptcy isn't being fully shipped to hell, but maybe you offload some of that debt to your vassals, maybe you have your servants pick up some of those barns for you. As a whole the community managed to lengthen the game and make more options and more fun, as they en totale lost their voices, lost track of their voices, and developed and refined the method for applying this real canopy. Enough time passes and the communities' entire voice is wore out and thin, the last of the real ones are dying out (accumulating the last few touching edges to the final few barns and achieving the cold-knocked state) from aging and not from too much cheesecake and bad jokes, and the priests coordinating the model of the losses never make it through the door and they keep playing with their model.
Soon the real ones running inside the community are running out, and the priests trapped inside the door playing with the model of how the community goes to hell are also running out. So the priests beginning staffing the roles with fill. It's a model of how everybody is going to hell, everybody kept going to hell without replacing themselves, so little by little over time they staff with fill. But inside the door the priests are still going to hell, because they never make it past the door, so they begin staffing themselves staffing the model of how everybody goes to hell with fill. Soon the model staff and the model are all fill (after the end of Ninevah), and everybody is going to hell. That was the beginning of Sodom and Gomorrah.
Mortician, midwife, anaesthesiologist. In modern times staffed with replacements and fill. The brain canopy is the sphinx and, like the hamster maze, is really only just barely large and thick enough to ensure that you will not break through it. Your frontal lobes lie just ahead if you could possibly clear out that staged brain canopy. The brain canopy is a self-replenishing system, within the architecture of your cities and the social games of your languages. It takes time to clear each booger, it takes time to clear each umbrella, it takes time to clear each layer and portion of the canopy. If you wait too long to clear the boogers then the sections regenerate; keep riding that turnip cart, keep denning and lairing (lair 'n' get us) in the subwoofer boxes, keep falling for the same old jokes that are trapped up as posts and guides and, whatever you cleared in the steam room, hot shower, or nasal scrape this time will reaccumulate, if not by tomorrow, then definitely by the next time you clear your register.
Your brain stem is your rank on the food chain, your frontal lobes are mostly just for show and glam. But you aren't really born, and you didn't do the work to press the paper, mummify babies, and cut down the trees to set it up. If you could get to know your beginnings then you would have no problem clearing out the brain canopy. Eating your own roots is not getting to know them but, if you like that sort of thing, go ahead and have more on your way to hell.
Removing the brain canopy, rehabilitation. The ninth Egyptian plague, the people couldn't move, and neither do their voices. In your system of breakdown your voices deteriorate slowly, bit by bit, all six hundred plus barns in the brain stem. If you had achieved real puberty then your voice never really quits filling, never quits expanding, continues to improve bit by bit as you heal and improve--whatever you wish to argue your top end to be and, if you could do the work to get back in touch with your intellectual side, you would agree with me. If your voice hasn't changed today, if your voice hasn't improved today, then you didn't make it, and you aren't currently making it, and you likely have no chance of ever making it. If your voice is not changing today _and_ you already have the weak and thin voice of a brain stem then you are also likely not going to make it.
How much money is this voice worth?
All of the Melchizedeks that never made it past the door
All of the Noahs that could not forgive and needed to get more
Everything beneath the boughs of Adam's tree
And all of the carrot sticks at the gates of hell before
Eleazar refused to eat pork
We signed the phairies to the downstairs
and gave the old woman her chore
from Ninevah to Sodom and Gomor-
Rah changed many things
And all of the dead dogs since
That is how much money this voice is worth
140126 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.116)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and sixteenth entry
I gave the "-eer" styled rhyme over to PM Lewis Ha-IR-pinblu. This is the beginning of the "-or" construction, and likely the finished product will end up in mapfortu's section.
How much money is this voice worth?
I know how much money this voice is worth.
All of the Melchizedeks that could not make it past the door
All of the Noahs that could not forgive and needed to get more
Everything underneath Adam's tree
And all of the carrot sticks at the gates of hell before
Eleazar refused to eat pork
and the phairies were signed into the downstairs
And all of the dead dogs since.
_THAT_ is how much money this voice is worth.
Notice that Moses needs to stretch out his hand during the plagues. Samson, also, asks to be placed where he may stretch out his hands (in the babylonian furnace, as it turns out). Delilah is noted as being one of those storehouses of evil, and, Samson, you don't live here if somebody else cuts your hair. When Samson goes Jehu he forgets to step out of the way.
See how this silence, the cracking frog of (real) puberty, gives rise to this plague in a world full of prepubescent sodom and gomorrah servants? They never repent, they never know why, and at the earliest possible opportunity the derision and the scorn and the denial racks up with "what's wrong with your voice?" Well, there's nothing wrong with my voice. This is the cracking frog of puberty, I didn't lose it, I lost track of the sweet spot where it is. I am able to whistle anything up to way past your top sopranos. Speaking the words is going to take some more work on tightening up the lips and cheeks, just like real puberty. What a surprise. Most of your "men" never even experienced the cracking frog, but only heard that maybe once in a while they're voice rasped on the laryngitis. If you can't hear the enormous high end of air that I am moving you must be waiting to get the plague.
I do hope that it is so easy for you. For seven years you have fucked your dogs and your children on the sidewalk in front of me, staffed the entire area with drunks and shitters, waited in your little rapunzel windows at all hours of the day and night. You have watched me kick out every booger one by one, pushing your car horns and beginning the calling and yelling from around the corner to compete for my attention. What is not to believe? I do hope that, now that I have done the seven years of hard work for the Lord, demonstrating how to kick the boogers out and regain your voice, remove the aging, get over your aches and ailments... I do hope that the Lord cures you with a word, that all will be forgiven, that you can be made whole and new simply by the good grace that _ONE_ of us did it...
Are the millionaires trying to make somebody scream and holler, maybe lose their voice? The ninth plague is you coughing up all your excuses about all of the other sounds you never knew anything about. Maybe, if it does work out to that magical one word cure for you, maybe you will ketchup all at once.
Returning to recent days' observation about the nature of fish and fishing poles, power arms with hamster wheels (polymorph samosa) and lots of thread, consider this footnote. Now why the hell would the fish be differentiated to those that did and didn't have souls? Because even samosa contributes to multiple personality disorder, and we know all the different things the lampstand says in the various technological levels of the pirate party. Fish, we sewed them together, they polymorphed, they were ugly, we tossed them in the water, they didn't die.
Your languages. They are composed of many different sounds. Stenography, shorthand, are practices of studying that breakdown. Nobody really knows what exactly those different sounds are. Try your alphabet to begin and then work on diction and enunciation. Built into your languages are jokes, faults that you will fall for. If you hit a joke that you have fallen for repeatedly in the past then you will cough, you will sneeze, you will spit, you will choke, you will laugh, or anything else that means "you can't continue with the sound you have been prompted for." Conversation is a game trying to back each other into walls and make them choke. The barns you build in your brain are your personal choice of jokes that you will fall for, each and every time. You must, to fit in, to get a job, to make friends. Give and take. Tor mapped out his language and determined that it only really takes six hundred jokes to kick somebody's ass to hell. When they qualify for all six hundred (plus a few more as necessary) then they've probably been knocked out and shipped already (it takes fifty of those boxes to move your knocked out ass from the surface to the hell).
If you follow the method properly then, around year five to six, you will hit a multi-month stretch of kicking out those fireballs two or three every morning to day. I made it through about two months of fireballs. One twenty to one fifty or so fireballs out of six hundred, by age thirty, is about right. Look how ugly you hecklers are. Those are jokes. Don't fall for those.
In most coffeehouses and shopping malls we know how to get rid of idiots. Most libraries, too. The places are set up that way. If there are a large number of idiots arriving to make industrial level noise (seriously, jack braking down herschel, jack braking down every alley, jack braking down girard, cement mixers running back and forth between bird rock and the shores all day every day, every single diesel three-quarter acceleration and back off real slow, the screeching seagull has been replaced by the smaller birds and the crows, and as the sidewalk parade dwindles and gets checked the birds fill in... the back parking lot of Von's sounds like a mad aviary all day long, while I am there, the hummingbird that you think is so special stops to claw at my eyes and play the mechanical owl sounds and actions eight or nine times daily)... we usually funnel them out. Malls are great for that. There are posted cannons in malls. If you are a mall regular, and you indicate to the mall personnel (practice makes perfect) that you are there to admire the product, not touch a thing, look good on the way, stay the right amount of time, and come back on a somewhat regular basis, spend a little money each time... then the mall cannons take care of the shitbags for you. I love going to malls, when I don't have the millionaire mad mob devoted to killing on me. I go to malls and watch the shitbags line up around and behind me as I walk around, and then I watch the mall cannons pick the hangers off my ass. That is loads of fun.
So usually that happens... but here, this place... it is so obvious that the whole town is a glorified state fair park staffed with three dog pedos and worse up and down every alley on rotating three week visits.
Fi fie fo fum, I smell the blood of an englishmen.
You westerners. How you lose so much face? Same way you lose so much voice. Eat so much shit.
Semper fi, in my perception, is similar to "there can be only one!"
Seven eight nine ten, which plague is it again? The book of Exodus or Revelation?
Maybe the healing will be a magic cure for you, a one word healing, and you will kick out all of the boogers at once, be well, and ketchup.
In the bible there are often sections such as "and lifting his eyes to heaven" and the prayer which follows is formatted differently. The book of psalms and proverbs are nearly entire in such formatting. Those are DATA segments in a BASIC program. The prophet speaking in next weeks gospel for the presentation has a similar format. Zechariah, too, has a speech in such a form. These are quotes. In the gospel Jesus performs healings, magic lock and key boogers (the nature of the joke game in your languages to establish and build barns in your brain), but the reality is back in Ezra's day... YOU MUST CLEAR ALL OF IT! Between the two they lost track of "when is your voice going to drop". Slowly, surely, as the final men of Ninevah degraded and the newer experiments (later to become cities) were staffed with more and more white-brains, and then clashes over rights and shared lavatories and motel rentals, and they kinda lost track of when you actually make it (Revelations didn't really lose track). But you, the remainder of you, kinda lost track of it. Buried it in those funny religion things that people go to church to sleep through or maybe pick their nose. Could you people please establish a score higher than 4 for the entire mass? If the person next to you is scoring higher than ten the deacon is probably studying them as a potentially intelligent individual and counting their score.
So other notable DATA segments in the scripture, because over the turns of the carnival, in the transitions along the ages of the world, as the money goes from carrot stick to green eggs to green eggs and ham to dead green eggs and ham... often words change to reflect various role reversals. Jonah's Lord relented because he never actually dropped his voice. Sodom and Gomorrah uses tear gas and bleach to clear the stage (on the bell rope light switch mechanism) because they wanted it to look good, but they couldn't drop their voice and give one of the white-brains the plague. David gets taken apart and pirate party chicken gloved into submission because the morticians have progressively lost the art to tell them to just go ahead and sit still for a while.
Do you people even know what an "animal f*cking faggitt" is? Do you? You are not an "animal f*cking heterosexual". Society so apologetic and liberal that they style themselves free spirits and millionaires.
Father, there is no need to forgive them for what they do. They cannot even face themselves in the mirror. ... If you cannot face yourself in the mirror then you are likely not sentient enough to need forgiveness.
When you go to hell, the bugs have a way to help you. All the time you've spent going to camp for weeks as a youngsters to learn to answer "no" to any form of "did you f*ck the dog?" will work against you. At the end of the day the bug headmaster walks in. Asks whatever is todays form for "did you f*ck the dog?" When you say no they leave and do not pay you, no chance even for the blue blanket for you tonight. New job training. Bugs up to phairies cannot breathe left from right. They are straightforward people. Very honest.
The hamster labyrinth is built, scientifically, one step at a time, to be just big enough to keep the hamster. If we put the green eggs oil salt lick in there then the hamster does the same thing you do. The sphinx, similarly, is built, scientifically, one step at a time, to be just big enough to keep something with a bottle in front of them and a frontal lobotomem. It really doesn't take much to walk out. It does, however, take about the full seven years. Your language is a set of jokes, arranged in a game to score points in many columns and keep you away from the ones you need to free the older ones. What color (pick from 25) is David's last box of eggo? That's one of the ways we rope you around and get you to hate each other. What side dishes (arrangements over eight hundred) does David need with his last box of eggo? Again, one of the ways we rope you around and get you to hate each other. As you collect boogers the language game naturally rewards the people around you for not giving to you the sound you need, next to the booger you have, to make it itch and give you a chance to kick it.
The day of atonement parties are compiled editions of minor judging, a compiled edition of musical chairs... so specifically defining the system is a lost effort. Describing its functionality is the only reasonable way to communicate it. The structure of the daily movie set setup for your lives inside of the sphinx near necessarily dictate that it will take the full seven years walking through all the scenes the right way to score the lock and key boogers and clear those, give you the range necessary to clear the area around it, give you the chance to qualify for clearing the next lock and key booger in the next scene. Dealing tricks, playing cards, bidding and winning and taking and losing. Mauering, some scenes allow you to load the boat and sidestep out of the way as it cruises to somebody. Even if you begin working on the method it will yet take near the full seven years, and it will take the walk, because some of the lock and key boogers are locked out there on the road. I have described that effect in the eiffell tower model of the scripts. Key phrases or key sounds from one eiffell tower may be shuffled to adjacent groupings of people, and the scripts inside may still reflect that the sound exists out of play. The language has thousands of jokes built in (every booger out in the range is another available joke, and we took your tongue out of your nose to be able to beat every one of them out of you and know how), we only need six hundred to ship you in particular to hell, and there's a whole lot of people walking around in an eiffell tower of six hundred or six fifty movie scripts. In earlier years (after the pilgrimage) I have previously written (in earlier journals) that the scripting system of the sphinx includes boogers out on the road.
140125 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.115)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and fifteenth entry
Be sure to maintain your voices at the prepubescent level while in Sodom and Gomorrah. In the story of Jonah, he obviously leaves in a huff and finally decides to make a million under the big fat gourd. The men of Easter Island, the final men of Ninevah, Alephel and Alephen taking care of the cut-up; Alephel goes to hell to figure out why everybody is dying off (long after the phairies have been signed away) and Alephen stays behind to take care of Mary. The next holy trinity setup features Gabriel, Michael, and that new guy Raphael that does nothing but read all the time. None of those guys never made fast to drop their voice, either. "The Lord relented". Uh-huh.
Bottle in front of them, then a frontal lobotomem... back of the brain musings, predestined bullsh*t, your sentence will finish up somewhere below eight thousand in the basement. That hurts. How do you know the talking eunuch is smarter than you? You talk with them all your lives and never lift your voice. Hey, Levites, are you still wandering around that tomb with all of those idiots following you? Watch out for those talking walls, there's an eunuch behind them. You'll know by their top tits. Spend more time knowing this from that, bread from wine, check girder, check short girder.
The latest "top spin" in my knowledge of ancient Hebrew. s' me, t' you, p' bug... and the new one... f' prime. Top. Big. pfft. You're a really big bug. With all available uses for inside jokes and humor and such.
Nerve agent. Good for you. Your surgical cut-ups like to mark you if you think you're getting tough. Usually when you begin telling them off for acting like a faggitt, repeatedly, incessantly, knowing full well what they're doing and still pushing for it. Then they begin to bait you for "you think you're tough, huh?", and then, if you think you're tough, they'll begin counting it up. Bait, bait, bait. In medical situations or government situations the male will usually back down, or rack up a little tough and then compromise. If you qualify to "think you're _REALLY_ tough" then they may lock you down on the bed. If you're not tough, but being stupid and crazy, you will probably pull your arm out and really hurt yourself. So, after determining how tough you think you are, then they point you up (let me check your pulse and temperature, hold your hand, stranger takes you by the wrist... any number of ways) with nerve agent on the outside of the wrist. If you are really that tough then you should be mean enough to break it down and squeeze it out. You should notice your voice dropping as you approach the point that you would be able to do that. If they locked you down on the bed it was because you scored to think you were really tough. You have your chance to prove how stupid you are before they point you up and part of the purpose to lock you down like that is twist your shoulder. You are not supposed to notice when the nerve agent goes shooting straight up your arm to your neck (lymphatically).
So, if you "make it", then you will have proof of how tough you have ever thought you were (looking down at my wrist; that is a science fiction ton of nerve agent), and if you are mean enough to break it down and squeeze it out. If they locked you down to hit you with this much you would probably think you had a full stroke.
What are you trying to do with your heckling idiot mob? What is the point of the 24-7 Chinese fire drill, loud noisy parking lot? Are you trying to make somebody mad? Are you trying to make somebody scream and holler? Are you trying to make somebody lose their voice, cause laryngitis, make effect a murder? The plague is waiting for all of you that never knew anything about all those other sounds.
Maybe your parents were defective. Maybe you had family problems. Maybe something in your life was holding you back. I'll be your surrogate and teacher. I will teach you how to make it to puberty. It's not going to happen for you here. You didn't make it. The community just didn't pull together enough for you. Maybe you don't know where you are, or where you're from. Maybe you just don't fit in with the local language. Your real nuts, your frontal lobes, are about 2500 straight miles away, plus lots of hard work after that.
140124 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.114)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and fourteenth entry
Breathing left from right (pair of compressed nitrous fifteens). Improve the Fifo2ed regimen (I, personally, continue to work on mantras similar to the fifo2ed patterns, but improved and updated as I ratchet out all of the injuries and gain more points of perception along each limb, coordinated, in proper time, able to separate from the breathing and the facial routine and change rhythms). You should be able to breathe in and out, compress and decompress each side individually, left from right, double pumper. The phairies cannot do that. Is also the earliest definition of "funny" in the brain. Stupid (idiot, runt, faggitt, etc.) is boogered up enough to miss pubescence (Adam, et al. and all of the religious carrot stick chewers before that, and all of the other basic vices, alcoholism, true perpetual sloth, and others, in the times before it's all lumped together for ya, and you need the money to count it on the way), crazy is wet and blubbering about it.
You're missing out on real pubescence (my custom koss takes twenty minutes to warm up). Adam, toldja, kickin' yo' stupid butt out of the garden (in whatever age and frame of the world at the time, true vices, carrot stickers, city slickers, city slickers that must keep their own dead animals as props... why do they need to crap?), you will not be able to procreate, you may beat up your brother and cut him up in frustration, to keep up your story scripts, would take way too much to go back and change all of your lies, eh? like father like son, and seth will sit at the gates of your temples begging, and they'll take him in and practice all the ways to cut him up, too. Adam promptly leaves the garden and begins steam pressing new ones to spite the lord, never goes for the walk.
Fish. (my morning cerwin-vega) What is a power arm with a hamster wheel and lots of thread? A fishing pole! (my dual voice coil rockford fosgate) Hamster wheel, simply siphon, that simple airplane stick with the ridges cut into it, just get it going the right way. Fish. Take spongeblob ritz and sew him to an arm, any arm, maybe a hand, what do those fins look like? do they look like the polymorph position of your fingers or something? as a glyph, maybe, as a pattern. you should know how to walk the fish, walk the dog, know where you've come from. What are fish? We threw the dog in the water and it wouldn't drown. That's the polymorph eunuch carnival!
Lately, if I ever take a second sitting at the library computers, the symantec smc pops up a box asking about this that or the other. I already know that the ladies around the place listen is as they type. This is a perfect area to demonstrate that the different kingdoms of the stalking mob are separated. As john the baptist is told to watch for the remote control seagulls (and, in modern days, they listen for "the horns", if "the horns" sound as if they are riding on everything you say then they know that you are the one to get), they know that such things mean that other components of the stalking mob are on you, though they may have no individual knowledge of how where or why. Jesus, why do some not marry? And he says for this, that or the other. Jesus, where are the remote control seagulls from? Well, kingdom of heaven, rainbowtards, eunuch management supervision techniques, etc. etc. etc. How about the brain cannon? I don't think the bugs bother with it much. It all worked out in their favor way ahead of that--they have keyboard network access like everybody else. Heaven and the rainbowtards are really the only people to have brain cannons, though the rainbowtards may subcontract and employ as the "people that make dreams happen, baby".
So, to demonstrate. If you wish to find the hecklers, they are always around me. If, however, you wish to find the people that keep popping up the symantec box on me, you should find these people and these people. Good efiin' luck.
Happened upon a book of pottery. Google images is okay for "pottery" plus "yalalteca" or "zapotec". Look for human faces, heads. Notice how many of the faces and heads have a slight sneer on one side of the lips, and a relaxation in the face? That's a combination of cain slugging abel and setting his ose, the hot steam blast to the face, and cyanide. The modern day persian culture has retained a trait of the cyanide. Their particular dialect, their definitive female voices, are the characteristic pull of working on the lips and squeezing out the cyanide. The south american culture, and the table of the nations assigns the traits of "soap" to the mayan looking fellas, features quite a bit of good pottery to show the earliest stages of the combinations of the scripts, the culmination scene as the "Ham" tree in the sphinx viewing area. The steam blast to the face, how often (by the firepit), how bad, how much is he working on it, the cyanide in the food (or anything else known to be that bad, by whatever method), which one, how bad, how much is he working on it, getting slugged in the face and shoulder by his older brother (or, for Ham, dear 'ole drunken dad), how bad, exactly how much is he working on it... etc.
A good demonstration of the EAZ corporation dancin' on the altars and rewritin' the books after killin' off the old soap pokie staffin' the door... along with no mention of "food chain" in any internet scholar pages about the millionaire method... the caption here in the book reads "969. grey pottery head, on a damaged funerary urn, possibly belonging to the category known as the "Goddess with the Regional Coiffure of Yalalteca". Zapotec, Monte Alban, Oaxaca, SOuthern MExico, Classic Period. Ht. 12 4/5 in. (32-5 cm.),
The loss of part of the figure reveals the method of construction with the cylindrical urn behind. British Museum, London."
Every one of them, eh? To fit along with ths ridiculous and obviously crazy interpretation of the planet?
When is your voice going to drop? Predestionation, prepubescence... predestined bullshit, ignorant noise. I know about what range your sentence will be in, eight thousand after they ship you downstairs. Today's world features the kingdom of heaven as a proxy, but the comparative difference between hundred (Lotus 1-2-3 degrades over time, Notes! does nothing but keep checking on you and bringing you down) and eight thousand is silly. The paschal lamb, however, is possible to spend four thousand in the foot pedal box in heaven and then, as a withered husk, be shipped to hell and checked in around year five or six thouand. What's the difference, eh?
Free will is perhaps when you begin to clear out that upper room, get that air chamber back, keep working on it. You do not finish improving until you grow your wings back and stick your ass to the dome and help everything else grow back with it. Little by little. Over the last year, in the months before the supra voce, my voice improves the same way over the course of the day every day. Every morning there daily creep to clear out, and every day the same full round edges come back by nightfall, and every morning the same thin daily creep settled in. Day by day, about the same, but once a month the daily measure kicked "into overdrive", and then again the next month, and then again the next month, that the last month's daily increase may have been close to the first month's voice... and then the supra voce works the same. Same daily level, but about weekly now, the daily level increase on the supra voce about doubles. You never quit improving if you actually make it.
You could backslide...
Millionaires are cuckoo for cocoa puffs! You know what they call "pussy whipped", but is really green eggs stupidity settling in? Well, okay, but think of how stupid that makes you... you want to get back to it, and you'll cut every other decision close to do it.
Millionaires are green eggs oil stupid, and their green eggs oil nipple is the cocoa puffs. Like you going for the miracle whip, the millionaires will tell any little lie to get back to the d* d*.
140122 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.113)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and thirteenth entry
Over all of time, over all of caller log, the incident of "dogs at midnight" is a large data set. If you mad lib the data set "dogs at midnight" in the caller log, you will find a blinding "looking for steven" within a one year range. Notice the center triangle on video games such as strike eagle, the white triangle in the middle of the console for flight sim 2, the aim pointer for leader board, and such pixellation which was stylized by that format is the fastest way to draw triangles. Modern day video cards picked that route to draw planes because it is, indeed, the fastest way to draw planes. The millionaires have never found anything else with their dogs when they are "just out walking their dog" at midnight.
During the day, the millionaires are never doing anything. Across the entire caller log, for the world, really, the millionaires are never doing anything during the day. Over the report you may find that they were out walking their dog, but they were never doing anything. It is only at midnight that the millionaires are "just out walking my dog", and that really presents an elite data set, about n=1, "looking for Steven".
Innocance does not sound like this. Your voice did not drop. You learned to cut and paint your brother for various excuses. You learned to press new ones. You used the new ones for games in every possible way. By the time you actually needed the pressed new one because your own were running out, then the standardized boilerplate method to press a new one includes the first four weeks. Because the cut-up painted brethren were given the kingdom of the pressed new ones to play with and test in every possible way, and that's the way they kept count of everything that it took to cut everything down to this level and set it all up. The first four weeks are more or less the same for everybody. Over life you may "get more" (farmsex), but everybody is 20,000 boogers down by the time they see daylight. We press 'em and pop 'em, press 'em and pop 'em.
The path of the Lord, puberty. You need to go for that walk. The method (man) knows if you cheat.
After the walk, the walk to plane up your metabolism and trim down the edges, there are another four years devotedly "working on it" to kick out the remaining boogers. Your languages are trained to keep you away from that, if you have indeed participated in those sins.
How do you know what nationality king David's final box of eggo was? Well, that's kinda of one of the ways we rope you against each other in the cards. How do you know what particular side dishes David demanded for his final box of eggo? That, again, is one of the ways we divide and conquer. You will hit that last box of eggo. This was set up to ship you to hell when you've had too many.
There are, formerly, many ways to ship you to hell. You need not only become involved in farmsex to make your way to hell. We have alcoholism. We have laziness, elevator and turnip carts. All have their own taxes. If millionaires would devote more time to the stairs they could work out their tailback but, why?, they'll make another million and buy somebody to push the elevator button for them.
Hm. Well, the millionaires are not proving any measure of innocence by arriving for one of their little boys to lap his dog in the computer room. Yes, the first honest word I have heard from the peanut gallery in a thousand years,"It really is kinda tragic." In the honest voice too. Appreciable.
Revelations, a few more to continue from yesterday's collection...
2:17 hidden manna. paschal lamb's elbow. How do you do that? How do you make somebody's elbow pit for their entire life? Leader Board golf tee with every pirate party and other events, packed full of the same sea-p-honie mud that they use for the rumplestilskin.
19:16 the wounded thigh, while we are talking about wars and insurrections and blood and guts and how we go about naming thngs... that's actually on both thighs of the paschal lamb. The right thigh displays the enormous packed scar for the hot rock, the scar tissue "banana" was removed for safekeeping on the left thigh, but the rumplestilskin sea-p-honies have indeed collected in the places where the hands were installed.
On the medical note...
The number of times that I have held a position somewhere in this range "Moses, stretch out your hand" or Jesus, stretching his hand over the water... now just let the hand and arm move around a bit from there like a spaghetti noodle. The number of times I have, in that more-or-less situation and position, looked up and thought,"oh, it looks like you again" and then dropped my head back to the right shoulder thinking,"I'll figure it out eventually..." as I drift back to sleep. You see that big 'ole blob knocking out of the back of my wrist. That's the nerve agent, another one of, in addition to, along with all the others... Aladdin's lamp. The nerve agent mark that's so beautiful because, to this point, it was once and done. These others keep coming back yearly for more treatment.
Since the time I have been telling Adam, and adding up all the time since then, you need to leave (Melchizedek's disease), go for the walk, and get the perversion out of your head. We cannot use you to make horse if they eunuch you.
You know these are your ancient cousins, Adam. "If you ever see one of the boys hit one, remember to pay reverence to the dead."
Old times. Hey, pharaoh, what is that master-servant relationship all about?
Pharaoh, you'd better bring some herb or I will roll you into a dog and ship you to hell.
New times. Hey, pharaoh, what is that master-servant relationship all about? It's about whether or not you have three hands (WAAAH! Eunuch and adonis sack Zechariah at the door, raid the temple of the sphinx, wear all the headdresses, dance on all the altars, rewrite all the books for the rainbowtards; no mention of the food chain in material about beastie perverts, millionaires "just out walking their dogs" at midnight find, exclusively, "Steven").
Pharaoh. [are] You better? [yet] Bring some herb, 'or (heh). (eastern dialect) I roll you into dog and ship you to hell. With three hands I can't even roll you into dog and make a horse. Obvious you dropped out of the mosque. Most I am able to do is make a siphon out of you. I am going to make you quit your job and go push that button.