140314 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v8.006)
War in La Jolla, eighth year, sixth entry
If the trees begin to grow back a little perhaps the theatre of war could move into late stages. The enemy is exhausted to their final tactics; anything and everything in the world must include dog, don't move or they begin the active event monitor (consider filling your operating system with audio events, we all did, around Win98 and equiv Linux side, when the wm became capable and the code filled with hooks to allow for audio event, and suddenly the user realized why you didn't want to have neat little audio events everywhere, when just a few years earlier it was a hobby to manage the small collection of audio events which were delicately selected for each individual application launch), once you quit moving then the event monitor goes into ping mode, rinse, repeat. The police have arrived on several occasions to clear damage, they aren't a repair crew (the US continues to eat losses as a refurbishing subcontractor for little known superwealthy areas to run extravagant dog wash events with eggo, with ridiculous numbers of eggs per omelet), but I have managed not to be killed. I am approaching the G-man from Half-Life. Half-Life itself is a nice approximation of the running ages of the world, across the repeats of the scripts and ages.
Consider. Packed to the dome, humans espouse from trees as top-of-the-food-chain birds, self-packaging in the brain and not reliant on respousal from the trees. Humans gave up their right to be intergalactic warlords (if they could find a way through the dome) for a chance to do this, that, and the other with these and those and them and go to there. Humans begin procreating, women begin letting go of gumbies (modern eunuchs put on a show of being pregnant, mothers that have difficulty letting go), gumbies begin working on larger humans like Uranos and Saturns and Zeus' offspring working on them (and Hera was always so perfectly polite by the etiquette numbers, wasn't she?), and some humans become frustrated, begin accumulating boogers, lose the ability to procreate. Adam (one earliest semblance of), for example, could sit in his tower bower of paper, dying off from methanol poisoning, and resurrecting every few minutes all day long; but he was not booger free enough (in the right places) to qualify for sticking the primer up the nose and unrolling inside-out, and he eventually froze in place like a gargoyle. Is the Leah and Rachel phenomenon; you served me for seven years to make your voice drop, you will serve for at least another seven to do anything silly even close to popping wings back out your butt or walking on your hands or unrolling... keep working on it... maybe it will take twenty-eight years to make it to the point of unrolling. Walk on the hands, or pop the wings back out and then walk on the hands, probably go through stages of making people cough, sneeze, give them a bad cold, knock them out cold, give groups of people the plague. Likely it takes a long time to make it back to where humans were at one time.
So packed to the dome some begin sitting around like Adam (too lazy to go for a walk), or on the walking routes they're doing it for the job and aren't putting their ankles into it properly, dragging their feet, and likely making a run from one juice pit to the next. In the juice pits the experienced drunks wait for them to pass out and then, when they wake up all soused, the drunk points to the tail of a griffon in the trees and, when the sleeper wakens with "*alcohol* ungh... What happened?", the drunk points to the griffons tail and says,"You did it! You managed to unroll! You made it! That's her!"
From the juice pits the wildlife and the trees claim back the spousal lineages which have not maintained their right to be self-packaging.
Humans on walking routes get into stonehenge clubs. Stonehenge clubs become a worldwide way of doing things, in the interest of regimenting the land. Stonehenge clubs differentiate and become covered halls. Covered halls assemble and popularize (some integrate into this little architectural box known as a tabernacle, for storage, because they don't make much money, but if they make money then they could be taken out and repositioned along the architectural lines), and form into Ninevah. This with the trees packed to the dome and humans working primarily on pressing paper and rolling baklava, not even fire and thread and soap yet. Ninevah turns to Sodom and Gomorrah at the top of the trees, worldwide network for regimenting the land for baklava rollers and delivering to drunks in the juice pits. Everybody is already going to hell. Everything is already green eggs and ham and eunuchs, at the top of the trees, with plenty of "real ones" coming from the gumbies out in the field. At some point the covered halls assembled in the cities delve basements, and the phairies and the dogs in the basement levels are able to make game of that, too. The Sodom and Gomorrah on top turns into the towers of Alderon on the way down, grandfather clock hourglass anvils from firepits swinging down through the depths. The wires and aging lineages of pokies bring Tyre and Sidon into the picture on the way down through the trees, the world is mined out, the monkies teach people how to roll their own from scratch, the nets are hung to catch the floodwater, the diamond anvil sacked out of the world cut up, polished diamonds shoved in every possible nook cranny and corner on the way down, the remainder hung as the moon in the sky just before they make it out of reach, and the roll your own technique perfected to from scratch as the last of the gumby prophets from the field quit growing up. Soon after there is no longer a difference between "real ones" and the ones just working in the model town, and everything is all worker class steam pressed ones working in the model town. The mine in the basement grows a mezzanine cover or two on the way down through the trees, the labyrinthian Alderon towers taken apart and reworked into a surface Ninevah with a Great Wall, pyramids, stonehenge, woodhenge, and easter island as roadmap markers of how the poop hit the fan on the way down, and about the last thing to happen before the final monks tried to end the world was to put the lawn troll, the sphinx, out in front of the pyramids. That's Seth: "If you ever make it past this fella *uproarious HAHAHAHAHA!* maybe you have a chance to join us."--the ones living out in the big house behind the lawn troll. The surface Ninevah turned to surface Sodom and Gomorrah and then surface Tyre and Sidon, to give an idea of how many times the stupidity of mankind of rolled over on the way down through the trees to hell. Then they tried to end the world because they were sitting on the sand over a few levels of wizard of oz machine and they knew everybody was going to hell, and then about two thousand years later Gad woke up and, bored enough to know that he wasn't dead, decided to set up the running surface carnival that we know and love today.
That's a good wire-frame model to wrap around the wikidot material. Pretty much covers everything from then to now. Does not really matter who made the terrarium, with hell down below. I have a theory. The si-p-honies, consider the size ratio between you and one of them. Sure, they're an old eunuch sewn together with a real dog and rolled into a seahorse then boiled down with a billion others in the bottom of nuclear reactor pool for a few thousand years, then the oil used to butter up old leather jerkins (vestal garments, to be specific) so they don't stick together all stacked up in the back of the warehouse, but they are as good a starting place as any. The size ratio is about, what, 5k:1? 10k:1? Maybe more. I consider that to maybe be about the size ratio between an individual of "us" and any potential "who could have made the terrarium?" So it doesn't really matter. What matters is... how bad do you want to stay out of hell?
Palm Sunday and today's scripture also quite nice.
The priests' servant with the ear to be cut off, that's the nonexistant maharaja, now that the hebrew doctors add to his cobra mistakes with castor bean mash extract (nerve agent). In the old days, when aladdin goes for his magic journey with his magic carpet looking for his magic lamp and his comeback, he'll walk over and meet jesus. Jesus and the old maharaja will sit around and spend a summer together and then maharaja goes back to finish his four frontier rehabilitation sewing project and make his comeback. Jesus continues on and nearly gets killed. Around the time that Jesus is nearly getting killed the maharaja, having made his comeback and celebrated his party, decides to walk off the party fat and make a circuit thanking people that entertained him in the foreign lands. Maharaja rearrives, according to the Great Wall and the sphinx, about the same day that Jesus is about ready to get clubbed down by the runtlings with torches. Maharaja saves Jesus and Jesus goes on to finish his rehab and drop his voice and be great big prophet. In new ages the maharaja is intercepted on the front end by the castor bean mash doctor (elijah with naaman), never makes the comeback, never comes back around to save Jesus. Jesus, instead of sitting around with maharaja, gets deep-sixed by the Nicodemus drinking crew. The replacement for maharaja in the script is this servant with his ear cut off (have some castor bean mash extract for the shoulder of your thumb, buddy) or this other guy in some other gospel that was siezed but slipped out of his tunic and went away (ie. he's not there anymore). Jesus is obviously convicted according to "Amen, Amen" is not "You will see" and "blah blah blah". They taunt Jesus with a reed ("Where's your stick?"), then take his reed away ("it belongs to the mean bitch in your head, but you will never unroll, so we get to keep it") and wind some thorns ("if you would have a stick then you would be winding the wisps around it, instead we wind this for YOU!"). On the cross they give him a reed with an alcohol sponge ("See? We got you drinking with the nico crew when you should have stuck with the reed!").. .it's a slide reed, not a mascara brush and a crack pipe, and it goes with the smoking stick. Days were when you couldn't even qualify to smoke unless you had your own stick, and if you smoke without a reed you're probably a fiend--you don't have time to walk around and find a suitable reed? Today's reading talks of such a reed. That's Alephel's stick, and Aleph's slide reed. They go together like that.
The palm Sunday also talks of "This one is screaming for Elijah", and then there's all of this destruction and everything els, and then Elisha stands up. Some other ladies are there,"Look! A new one!" There's a nice classical painting of that, a blond with two little girls on either side, and you just know that's the paschal lamb. Then Joseph of Arimathea arrives, that's also "the wood of the holy cross" (ie. Elijah's own wood before Elisha stands up), and then those two other ladies are left there facing the, ahhh, damage... bethlehem.
Peter, James, and John, the three comets (center, left, and right), Orville and Wilbur on the right. Rightful thieves, because they actually asked for a room for a "master" on the way into town, meaning a travelling Levite with the temple paying the tab (and Judas does negotiate the room that the innkeeper never need meet Jesus until he figures out that he's being swindled).
140311 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v8.005)
War in La Jolla, eighth year, fifth entry
The millionaire pretending to be god supernanny complex would be so much more believable if it were not all remote control birds, jungle freak sounds, and suddenly sh*tbags hiding around all of the corners waiting on call. In the early years the spook tactics do add up to a pressure point system for antagonizing and stress-testing targets. In modern practice is nothing but a spy on you freakshow with levels of tactics. Particularly, if an individual should develop a habit for smoking outdoors in the early hours of public street space, they will, if they persist in their habit for a length of time, determine that every corner, every block, every doorway, every alcove, every shoulder of every wall, is constantly under watch and staffed to freak the smoker with "HA!"; another horn, another cell phone, another bird call, another sudden outburst of laughter, another sudden appearance of rollicking party-goers or the lone midnight stranger with or without animal present. The determination will also uncover that every seagull, every crow, every hummingbird, every sparrow, every finch, and every other bird is, at one time or another, on one day or another over the course of the year, available to play the part of mother is mad at you for smoking so this bird is going to shirp at you when you light, sit to watch you smoke, maybe chirp on every puff, and then leave when you're done smoking. At one time or another, every single one.
Everywhere you go, there is some millionaire with a remote control voice in the back of their head, timing and framing you, timing and framing what you do, trying to fit you in a box. The JFK car to the house at gerar, get worn down and rocked in the back of the head. Maybe trying to fit you closer to the JFK car to the house at gerar. Maybe trying to lure you with a Friday night party to the house at gerar. Perhaps trying to bother you with a talking wall and make you keep walking to the JFK car. Maybe a funny joke will get you in the door. Maybe they need to send you to be the guy laying in the ditch between two towns, Job, before they can sign you up to get on the arriving JFK car. Maybe you need some bait, like a pretty quadrapalegic carried on four poles, to meet you at the house at gerar. Maybe they all buy guns and bullets on the way to watch the pay-per-view as their lining you up to be the guy laying in the ditch so that they can pick you up with the JFK car and take you to the house at Gerar to get worn down and rocked in the back of the head.
Any number of possibilities...
If that doesn't work the first time, then maybe a one two three system. Maybe a fourteen step process for lining people up at the house at gerar. Maybe a method of applying the fourteen step process over the course of the year, prepping them to eventually slip all the way to the house at gerar, maybe one two three times over the span of years to properly grind them down to a predictable level.
Does the devil know how much your soul is worth? Of course the devil knows how much your soul is worth. He doesn't check you into hell until he knows that you will be on the hook to pay the whole bill. $100 mil a day hoppy-topper!
140310 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v8.004)
War in La Jolla, eighth year, fourth entry
Stonehenge is a symbolic representation of the day of atonement party, the gathering, the meeting of the coordinators over and above the usual common folk that don't have any other guidance through the year, the head shepherds. At whatever time of history, whatever age of the world, whatever frame of reference under consideration, the day of atonement party has become the running standard for verse response and social interaction between humans. A church, in a deliberately designed architectural setting, is a kind of stonehenge. It is a setting for a gathering with a running standardized script. The church hall is stonehenge. We did not build the church hall for the people--the people would benefit from a little water and cold. We built the church hall to protect the paper. As the day of atonement ritual developed, and eventually spawned minor judging sessions on the sides and in the between times, the paper pressers would bring their bundles of paper with them. Early times saw that the final scoring for the day of atonement party, though it could be manipulated with performances and greetings, really built the most points on the amount of clean dry leaves and paper brought with the individual, demonstrating proficiency and prowess on their routes. All-Leaf Baba makes a yearly routine out of bundling up forty half dead witches at a time and shipping them reliably on their way to paper and thread. Eventually the covered halls became specialized, paper collectors (similar to paper delivery--because the recipients don't do enough of their own work to pick up enough paper to even wipe their own butts, and their shro-ud of tur-in count is horrid low) from the north go hear, south there, the ones that went west and then passed by those lands and picked up such-and-such a token (as is common of those lands) go to those other sets of halls. The stonehenge circle becomes covered halls, covered halls become specialized covered halls. Over time some halls wear out, and those paper routes have become stripped bare, and maybe those halls aren;t used any longer. We don't lose the design of those halls, but maybe we rearrange those halls to fill the need for some weightier halls with too many staffers arriving too often.
The architectural layout of the city of Ninevah is a collection of specialized covered halls. Each covered hall is already designed to be hosting a day of atonement party, like old time circuits now into the running spindle of multi-GHz machines and hard-coded interface layers (like ATA+SCSI with a dongle equals RAID, but with neither the speed and versatillity of real SCSI nor the foundation of ATA), and the only reason that any individual even arrives in any covered hall is because they were scheduled to arrive there, north, south, east, west, all the routes have been condensed and refined and plotted out and charted and coursed. As the labyrinth towers were deconstructed (because the trees were no longer tall enough to support them), people began keeping paper track of the collections of bricks and pathways as they were dismantled--the original earliest compilation of works to eventually become the Talmud. When the labrytinthian towers were all dismantled and down to ground level then the Talmud was standardized to around the now six and a half thousand pages. What happened to all of the other pages to track all of the halls and bricks dismantled? They became the old dead laws--the si-p-honie count in the rumplestilskin. About 30000 or so. Only parts of the course have been removed, the Talmud runs down Ninevah. Talmud compressed to life in the fast lane with the law of Moses, the covered stonehenge halls of Ninevah are rearranged to Sodom and Gomorrah to tighten down all the corners and sharpen up all of the edges, more hidden pushbuttons and unexplicable coincidences.
All going to hell. :-)
140509 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v8.003)
War in La Jolla, eighth year, third entry
The history of the world according to the morticians. They do exist. They have a job. Do you fit on their calendar, their appointment schedule, do you meet the qualifications? They don't really care if you kill somebody, but, please, do arrange an appointment with them ahead of time that the event does not turn into a fiasco with the police, fire department, and, if a shallow grave were involved, maybe the clergy after a few weeks. In the decision between entering you on the morticians' calendar, or me, you are a far more qualified applicant. I yet retain the use of my frontal lobes and improve daily.
In the beginning no morticians were really necessary. Humans began pressing the trees down some, sometimes people were rolled into dogs, sometimes they fell asleep and got sacked by dogs and phairies working together. Noah's ark somewhat describes the progression of chasing all of the true wild animals down (real life have feathers), and the establishment of the polymorph carnival (fur is for polymorphs) afterwards. Drunks chasing animals (or polymorphs) often met tree limbs, especially after the trees were pressed down far enough that the great grand wizard Mel with his air force began stirring up air currents ("trying to force a path out through the floodgates, at least we made some leaves fall", etc.). That's good enough to get sacked to the phairie kingdoms down below, long before the phairie witch kings built castles and such. Humans flip inside out, make ladies, ladies make gumbies (see Biblical Scriptural Macabre), gumbies grow up and, if good enough, flip inside out. Humans press the trees down enough to press enough paper, fold enough paper, twist enough paper, make baskets, press baskets, make sack cloth, fold cloth, twist cloth, make thread, etc.
The bugs in the basement begin putting together the devil with the blue dress on. Humans getting sacked from being drunk and chasing wildlife, or being stupid and getting sacked, or from the humans playing games counting one down to power saving sleep, or the evolving revolver from the sewing machine working on the linen factory line, eventually used to line up and knock down choirs of angels at a time, they go to hell with some fabric on (getting colder with the trees so low and the wind currents so high), and the bugs putting together bait models for the humans send 'em up wearing the blue dresses (tassles on blankets thin enough to see the sky through). The mortician arrives around Seth's time, if he's gonna beg off the carrot stick and get knocked out at the castle gates of the witch king's fortress then go over and pick up the thread off of his body. Give an idea of the amount of work and time involved in going from Noah's ark to carrot stick fortresses.
Soon it becomes known that there's no way to stay out of hell. Especially with the men of Ninevah wearing out and no more inside out thunderclaps happening for so long. Lots of gumbies in the world to grow up along the way, live thousands of years, break down like all the other idiots. Hang out in the juice pits, get drunk, get stuck on the walkaround routes that they don't care about for a plate and some coin, get caught up in the rowing navy (eunuch's away... window dressing... row-bots with three hands now made, not only by the bugs teaching the technology to the modelling crews inside the walls, but by the modelling crews inside the walls, too!), or recruited into a giant "monastery" of monks living a choreographed religious life managing a model. The only new "ones" are now from the model steam press process, and they are a relic of the accounting department inside, and they show up without wings and brains capped down to runtling, designed to be used as throwaway servants and never have a voting voice to challenge the real "ones".
Morticians develop processes. Count you into stasis, old method, requires money, less and less effective as the history goes on, eventually mummy-making is no longer a full in place process but requires separation and individual consideration and treatment (the pirate party). Maybe press them into bricks... they don't run near that fast and dry any more. Maybe poke them into soap, an entire world of wax candle warehouses already. Dogs, horses, cameols, fish (power arm and a hamster wheel), birds (origami)...
All of Noah's ark and reanimated.
Nope, only option left is ship 'em to hell.
140330 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v8.002)
War in La Jolla, eighth year, second entry
Today's scripture. Laetare Sunday. If you practice high religious Latin then "laetare" is usually for Maria.
First reading. Samuel recruits David to sign the phaeries into hell. Laetare Sunday, you sign the phaeries into hell, you keep up their drink supply. Ritz closets were not always for collections; they began for safekeeping. Nowadays remote control hell on wheels. What are we topping these carrots for, anyway (Isaac's time). You will never make fast, we're trying to get enough debt to share one of the temple models. The phaeries didn't like the carrot topping, and that caused the problems. Saul wouldn't sign them into hell, they're flippin' rich, and they'll pay you for that wine flagon. Samuel had the bread box delivery, no need for wine flagons or carrot sticks. All of Jesse's sons may go along with the seven sons around Eleazar's time--switching from the carrot stick to the green eggs (and later, dead reanimated green eggs avec ham). Days are coming when nobody will work; another age of the world, nobody will flip inside out and procreate, eunuch-man will be all you have to play with. Days are comin', says the Lord, when you will look at those mountains and say "Fall on us" because you're mounted way too high on that to be real--top tits are the call sign of the eunuch. Isn't that the one that sat begging? Don't be him, they'll take you inside and eunuch you. What are we topping these carrots for anyway? We're trying to get Seth back (like all working together to afford a massive mission for the good of the world). Trying to get Seth back into what? Abel (after Cain slugs his nose down, Eve runs up, cradles his head, screaming,"Say something my son!" and he opens his eyes with his busted down nose and says,"set-h"). Some, however, say that it only looks like him, and the man himself says,"I am" ) (I HAM). You're not Ham, you're Seth (sat begging at the footsteps of the temple). Well, it only looks like him (next paschal lamb in the history of the scripts).
Jesus sends the fellow through the pool of Siloam, the great grand glorious debt counseling waiting room where doubles are shuffled and identities mixed up. Otherwise the scene is Jesus giving tetris blocks to the eunuch (cut the tether, kick out the dog, plant a garden, go for a walk) or even giving ritz to a dog (imagine a family of dogs confirming that this is indeed their own, and then shrugging and saying "ask him for yourself"--sniff his ass for yourself).
Letter. Deeds done in darkness are a shame to even speak of. Like suckin' the dog and eatin' farm sh*t, and rapin' their kids.
140326 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v8,001)
War in La Jolla, eighth year, first entry
Around this time of year or so should change to eighth year.
Davey Jones' locker. The hollow-deck. Davey Jones himself admitted that he was a rat trash filth pig. After enough years he developed a similarity to god's disease,"I just can't take doing this anymore." Davey Jones had a rack that he used to torture people on. Eventually he insisted to his crew that he, too, be racked up and ground down to nothing. Burning man in the desert; he regretted his decision later but there was nothing left to be done for it but ON WITH THE SHOW. The hollow deck is now the standard practice at the entrance levels of actual Hell. The world went to hell, began bringing the handbasket with (have the mortician begin keeping the thread; the first toaster blenders, devil with a blue dress on, sew tassles on the blankets to remember a time when they were so thin, like baskets), insisted on its right to go, brought the whole place down, signed the dogs into the apartment dwelling, mined the world out and hung the diamond anvil in the sky, roofed itself over, chased the phaeries down with the dogs, caved itself in, built itself a carnival top, and now operates as a meatfest shipping idiots to hell. Around the time of "roofed itself over" one could walk around for thousands of years before making it to Davey Jones' locker. Now the phaeries and dogs have a compressed system in the basement for leading an individual to the point of eating their frontal lobes as crow and accepting the decision for the excavation.
The Talmud, six thousand some pages long, all of the sounds and routes at the times when it could take several thousand years to make it to Davey Jones' locker. Ninevah progresses and the final editions of "the book" become subtitled "better living for humans expecting less than one thousand years". Then the end of Ninevah, Noah and down to less than two hundred years. The establishment of Sodom and Gomorrah, the tightening of the architectural edges, everybody counts by ten, nobody keeps their tongue up their nose; I know about what range your sentence will be in, less than eight thousand, in the basement, i(n)t h(e)urt(z).
Window dressing. How many hands does a robot have? Three. Better leverage while rowing. Drawback is that, after preparation with the hot rock, they lose most of their impulse and will never fight harder than what it takes to stay alive. Window dressing. Vir - go. Life just kinda goes. After you hit it with the hot rock look at it go, more or less just following the line, living half in the dream land. The ritz closet, with father Abram's blind eye and Zechariah's other hand. Nowadays hell on wheels and remote control.
"No Ah"... requires lots of window dressing to make up for it.
From man in regard to his fellow man... I alone demand the accounting.
These ones need to boil their lies.... these need to learn to count by more than ten.
These ones are brain damaged... these ones are cut down to about the same.
These ones are window dressing... these ones do what I tell them.
140313 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.132)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and thirty-second entry
This Lent, learn what soap may do for you and your fast. Lenten trivia for the worldwide paschal season recorded older than Egypt, who exactly was Zechariah? What did he do? When did you personally invent the chainsaw?
Over the years as homeless, this town of rich kids and millionaires began with dinner dresses and darn near tuxedos all day and all evening long. Now the sidewalk parade has degenerated to be staffed with daytime small time midtime idiots, the high class design district looks like north park to gaslamp and college all day long, filling the waitaround oil cannon of idiots seeping and creeping on one homeless fella. The La Jolla plaza has been sold out to refurbishing because nobody was making any money griping about the idiots "just stopping in" as they mill around filling the show running down to and buzzing up on the bottom walkway. The Armani Exchange, usually strategically positioned that such high class trimmed fashion need not deal with riff-raff (the mall cannons pick them off and hustle them on their business and out the door), has decided to pack up shop from midtown and retreat to the mall where they have the protection from morons making up excuses to talk, often loud and idiotic after prepping themselves with super saturday duty to run down and spit stupid at the homeless man. The most stylish heat in this area, without turning to millionaire halloweenism, is the Guess wrapper on one of my totes.
Over the years, this town of rich kids and millionaires had lots of stories, and excuses, and fingers to point, and claims to make, and blame to assign, and maybe not this one but that one, and oh sorry which one was it or the other one, were they really homeless or were they playing a game or pouting a spell, did this happen or that happen, was it here or there, maybe a blue screen and a few extra sound bites from some other time... over the years there have been many stories and lines, many excuses and guesses, heard about one of these or those, worried about this or that. Over the years they've cut down all the trees and put up the floodlights. Not only have they taken away sleeping and sitting spots, but they have worn out their excuses and lies, worn out their stories and blames. Turns out the entire parade, the entire watch, the entire excuses and lies... they're all toilet mobbing faggitts and animal dick whoring freaks. That's what it turns out to be, when the floodlights take away the excuses and the bare walls give up the facade. There's nothing wrong with you, it's all about what's wrong with them.
Did I not tell you man was made from clay? How messed up would you like to get in your monster mash with reanimated sewing parts? Enter the house at gerar, get pounded out, would you like to be cut into twelve pieces all at once or would you like to do this on million dollar deformation plans? Too many amps to the kicker, how's that woofer deformity doin' ya? Get all bent out of shape and call it a job, get all mashed up and call it a lwife.
No sex with eunuchs before marriage. You will never truly know how many bumps from left to right until you have counted them all for hours and hours and hours, which you will do more than even a boy if you've been hit with a hot rock and bothered with a superpackage.
May I introduce you to the ritz closet? The spongeblob alcove? Walk into our church, turn for the ladies chapel. At one time I am telling you it looked like a voodoo shrunken head. Now it really looks like spongeblob ritz, father Abram's blind eye (lots of money in that one, about the level of a... anyway), and Zechariah's other hand (the sewing cross of Christ and the soap pokies along side), in modern times remote control hell on wheels.
No sex with eunuchs before marriage. There is absolutely no way to compress that entire process leading up to Adam, create and perfect the technology, staff the world with Mary models, and hit that dead center. If you still "make it" and flip inside out then she'll be slightly imbalanced just every bit as imbalanced to tell (shriek) you about it. "Look at me! All imbalanced like Zebulun and Napthali! Just couldn't wait, could you?!!! You better run and tighten up your abs for me to get the right combination to fill this!" Then yesterday's book of Jonah. The queen of the south, your real ass is the tip of your tongue, which you would know if you thought about flipping inside out, and similarly your brain, if you are doing it right and working on it, gets around to anchoring itself to the bottom of the other side of the inside out. Then the choirs of angels, --funroll-loops. There's the greek fable of all the guys that hit the ground and could have been a perfect race if they hadn't turned on each other and killed each other in a knock down drag out fight. That's not actually --funroll-loops, that's the prophet walking into Ninevah to sack the town, but they've been going downhill for a few thousand years, so all he's able to do is knock the king out and Jehu the immediately surrounding rooms flat... he doesn't actually kick out the full plague for the whole town, because he himself is too boogered up to make it. The big enormous horde of guys rising up and getting killed in the fight is the surrounding Ninevah town sacking the prophet's newly formed temple, or, in larger scale and older times, the surrounding network of Ninevah towns retaking the prophet's town if he did manage to kick up something so big as the plague. Real humans actually get along quite well together.
This Lent, learn what soap may do for you and your fast, learn what fasting is, learn where your frontal lobes are, learn how long the world has been around since before you were born, learn what happened before then.
Where does glue come from? Okay, now where do those come from (father Abram had no camels)? "I am going to sew you into horses and poke you into soap!" That's Elmer, on the bottle of Elmer's glue, a modern day Melchizedek (Mel usually had the big hat with the side horns and all). He is going to sew you into horses and poke you into soap.
140312 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.131)
War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and thirty-first entry
I suppose, somewhere around this time of year, is time to change to eighth year. Maybe next time. I leave in March, begin in SD in April, I think PM HPB has the date saved somewhere.
Today's scripture provides a scene for the usefulness of the technique demonstrated in Template Timeline. Jonah enters the city preaching doom and gloom, walks straight up to the king sittin' on the crapper and decks him. The Lord repents. Uh, okay, now that we're in the season of Lent (worldwide, in all of the Christian empire observing it, and the concept of the paschal season not being new either), perhaps you could tell to me the meaning of "fast"ing. Are there any milestones in this practice of fasting (yes, some of them quite pretty)? Is there any way to tell if the fasting is being performed correctly (yes, quite clearly)? According to the practice of fasting, what is repentence? Why would the Lord need to repent? Maybe relent... but here we see the difference between the Lord creator of the sun, trees, and food chain and God, the committee formed thousands of years after a lineage of kings to replace Gad that woke up and eventually got sick and tired of the show and walked through the door to hell. Ninevah is not at that time destroyed. We are working with a worldwide history of development of a network of Ninevahs, up to the time when each individual Ninevah was large enough to require three days to walk through. Ninevah itself is the remnants of the monasteries which began the practice of polymorphs and mummifications, remnants of monasteries which would turn dogs away "If you weren't part of the community of witches stripping the trees then you will don your ritz again and twist back up. If you're part of the community of witches stripping the trees then you probably deserved it and you're all going to hell anyway." In the earliest stages of Ninevah the population could be sacked, all of them now being trained steam pressed eunuchs-by-birth. Steam pressed and table trained. Boxes of cereal in the grocery store. The brand of cereal, the amount of sugar you have, how large was your group and how many extra rumplstilskins were available in the bug screening session. The USDA RDA list of vitamins and minerals, your possible training routes for three or four weeks on the table of the nations. Bite your tongue here with these teeth and get ready for the staple gun. Sure, there are a billion possible routes, but in modern day the kingdom of heaven has standardized on more or less basic lines of training to augment the architectural, social, and lingual methods of walking the steam pressed witches through life.
There were the ones inside the model, developing laryngitis (lair-n-get us), being picked up by the phaeries and shipped to hell in the depths of the basements, and the drunks (of Lillith's descent, chasing Adam's leftovers and demanding death on every one because she and her husband are too perptually drunk to remember each other's names, let alone find each other), and the last of the true "prophets" or descendants of the real ones. At a time when Jonah could walk into town preaching doom and gloom his voice was not only supra voce, but he could knock them out like Jehu, tell them all to go to sleep with one big boom, ship them to hell like always, clear the set and stage.
By the time Jonah could no longer do that then the network of Ninevahs was so large, and each Ninevah was so large, that even if someone did pull of a magic miracle and hit the right note for a town, the remainder of the network keeps shipping all to hell.
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.