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Comments

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Mathematical Proof That the Cosmos Could Have Formed Spontaneously From Nothing

HomelessInLaJolla Mm (612 comments)

Classic slashdot type story. These were the golden years...

about 5 months ago
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Leonard Nimoy: Smoking Is Illogical

HomelessInLaJolla bullroar (401 comments)

Maybe you just don't know how to breathe. Smoking is the primary method for continuing to dry out and tighten up from the inside.

Frontal lobes. The needs of the voting outweigh the needs of the runtling. Catch the plague if you don't know how to breathe.

That thing that spock is changing, that's the same as teh shower water font in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest". That's the law of Tor and the brain canopy that you will never remove.

about 7 months ago
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Most run piece of code. Ever

HomelessInLaJolla Spiders (9 comments)

Web crawling spiders. Point them to mapfortu.wikidot.com, include slashdot and wikispaces, and let it ride. Set the depth to whatever you want. The links are spaced just well enough for the spider to iterate itself to death. If you #include a BASIC interpreter in your spider (for whatever reason you may wish to do such a thing), when the spider hits this program, go ahead and unremark 127998. It doesn't do much on its own unless you give it some pools to work on and caches to dump to (DATA and PRINT), but it will keep the spider internals busy.

about 8 months ago
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What Makes a Genius?

HomelessInLaJolla Re:Who are the real producers? (190 comments)

Take a human brain. Clog it up with boogers. See how the neural impulses get blocked, like in vivo bio-resistors? Notice how you kick out boogers, and sometimes they're dark little strands, and you think "the worms ate into his brain"? But you make the excuse: you smoked too much last night, you had that cigar, you spent the day working in the garden or hauling dirt and using the leaf blower, and the dust collected there, and that's what makes it dark. Maybe you see the little strings in it, but you press it on the kleenex and it smears, so obviously it wasn't ever any cohesive structure.

Nawww, that's a sea-p-honie (seahorse). The neural impulses help it electrify and loosen up.

More info on seaponies and other such neural retardations:

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

What makes a genius? Clear the boogers out. Until you drop your voice you do nothing but make up crazy excuses.

about 8 months ago
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131015 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.077)

HomelessInLaJolla Re:amusing (3 comments)

why don't you go off and

In related news. You suck dog dick and eat farm shit for money. Your sex is all f*cked up.

beat off furiously

What, exactly, is "normal use" for a male? "Religious" is "daily". Are you recommending that you tie your ass together and sh*t once monthly, too? How about breathing? You breathe once a week? Talking? You vomit sh*t out of your mouth only when absolutely necessary, like Japheth? Leave it to the eunuch to blanket everything with "furiously". Stupid f*ckin' faggitts callin' the police every time the sun rises.

about 10 months ago
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GNU Make 4.0 Released

HomelessInLaJolla Re:Me gusta! (179 comments)

GNU make is great!

War in La Jolla, seventh year, seventy-third entry (http://slashdot.org/journal.pl?op=display&uid=1026842)

The new national standard stupidity test. How many new random tourist single day stay dogs, daily, would "they" need to bring to you for you to figure out what their power trip is and what they do for their money? Ten dogs, daily? Background noise. Twenty dogs daily? There's an excuse here, for the money, that more people with dogs are moving in. New dogs, single day stay? Don't pay much attention. Good excuse (laugh at this and then walk down that ramp). Thirty dogs? More people moving in. New dogs? Don't care. For weeks now? Too busy. Forty dogs? Would you be able to figure it out at forty new dogs daily? Don't pay much attention. Move the dogs that they surprise you at significant frames in time; at cash register transactions, when you cross through a doorway, in particular when you leave the lavatory or just as you begin eating. Would that help you pay more attention? How stupid are you? Fifty dogs, up to months? Would you be able to figure out what they do for their money, what their power trip is, that their game is to play the passive aggressive pranks on unsuspecting workers (and each other)? Sixty dogs? What's your IQ?

If they were all wearing K-mart t-shirts, would you be able to figure it out? What if they all wore arm bands? Do you need a new witness for every dog or do you need seven different signatures in red ink for every dog every day? When are you required by law to be smarter than the telephone? When are you required by law to be more intelligent than the fork you dropped while eating? When are you absolutely required by law to be more intelligent than the video game controller? When, watching football, are you required by law to be smarter than the remote control? When do you figure out what their power trip is and what they do for their money?

Once you figure out what they do for their money, what are they doing with all those children? Those are all the super hammer chldren, the disposable heroes. They eat the ham that the contracted "they" are not required. Travel agencies worldwide are offering vacation pacakages including a complimentary one-to-three day stay in La Jolla, if you qualify with dog and super hammer child. Then they bring the hammer children, with dog, to see the homeless man.

Jesus. You're supposed to go for a long walk. Moses and Elijah told you so. It's a food chain. The difference between wood alcohol and grain alcohol. Farm sh*t reduces to methanol. They know exactly how super that super hammer child must be to go blind. Jesus, when you go for your forty day walk, they ramp the kid up to be a superstar futures investor, and then you walk back into town and the Sadduccees claim some space-time continuum thing makes you responsible for the blindness. Not just one. They probably have a few dozen super farm sh*t eating disposable heroes lined up for somebody like Jesus. There are entire scary movie subdivisions completely stocked, like SimCity, to hide rings of super hammer children. Then, when appropriate, the hammer children are brought into contact with an eligible target. When the super hammer child goes blind then all hell breaks loose on the target's life and the background gossip is that they deserve it. They control the horizontal and the vertical, they control all contact you have and everything you see and what else goes on around you all day long, but when that super hammer farm sh*t eating proxy child ("WE LET YOU WATCH AND NOW YOU MUST EAT IT! IT'S YOUR PART! WE LET YOU WATCH!" barking of machine gun fire, does nothing to me now) goes blind, then YOU'RE TO BLAME, YOU'RE AT FAULT, IT WAS YOU, YOU DESERVE WHATEVER WOE YOU'RE GETTING, WE HOPE IT HAPPENS TO YOU, WAAH WAAH WAAH.

Sure. Show me another farm shit eating pedophilia doll with a dog. We're up to a hundred daily, for ten months and running. Would you be able to figure out that they f*ck dogs for their money and make the child eat the sh*t to cover for them? Their idea of a normal family appears to be man, woman, dog, and child to eat the sh*t for them.

Seven years in this area and all I am able to say about these people, over the course of time appearing to be "the millionaires", is that they get to fiddle their dogs and faddle their children about a hundred times every day. I really don't know anything else about them.

Some space-time continuum thing. Like the excuse for the animals all having big black dark receded eyes. Like little boys bedwetting after visits to grandma's house.

Had Jesus gone for a longer walk then, when the super hammer child went blind, he'd be not-so-happily stumbling his way to Cairo and, by the time he got back, the disposable hero would have recovered, gone to the drowning pool, or been checked into a storied career in the pornography industry. I have always posited that porn people were all dead; three or four months away from dead when they began shooting porn for money. Of course. That's a handout for all the super hammer children that have gone blind; until they meet the drowning pool or some other convenient route to hell.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

about a year ago
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Comcast May Put Wi-Fi Transceivers On Cars, Buses, Humans

HomelessInLaJolla Re:Expanded coverage (85 comments)

In related news, what is really happening is that Comcast may sublicense already existing wifi transceivers on cars, buses, and humans.

about a year ago
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130410 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.014)

HomelessInLaJolla Re:lolz (3 comments)

I want you to DIE you fucking bastard cunt. You shit-faggitts have been stalking me on the network and in real life. DIE YOU FUCKING CUNT. Go the fuck away and DIE. I will kill you myself. Come here you little coward sh_t-faggitt. *grabs AC by the neck and beats the fucking tar out of him* This is a death threat. This is a one hundred percent complete death threat. If you ever have the fucking balls to stop playing your secret spy game, hiding behind the corners, and playing you fucking game on the 'net. I will fucking KILL YOU. This is a 100% death threat. Call your fucking attorney. Call the FBI. Tell everybody you know. Tell me where you live faggitt and I will show up to kill you!

NOW FUCKING DIE.

about a year and a half ago
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130409 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.013a)

HomelessInLaJolla Re:when are you supposed to do this (5 comments)

Hey stupid. You're not supposed to be pushing grudges in public. Party rules for you millionaire shit-fag animal pedo faggitts. You show up being stupid and acting like nobody knows, you get called, you go fuck your dog and eat dog shit.

Stop being stupid, faggitt. Go fuck your dog, go eat more animal shit, and, when you lose your little grudge fight, you will do it again.

about a year and a half ago
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130409 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v7.013a)

HomelessInLaJolla Re:when are you supposed to do this (5 comments)

Go fuck your dog and eat more animal shit. You don't have enough money to win the fight you're trying to pick. You're going to hell anyway. Are you wasting time playing with the money, your dog, and your little girl? We both know you're one of the zoo-fucker rainbowtards, as is half this entire area by now.

Are you done crying to the police yet? They know that, when it comes to pedodogsex, you're the shitbags.

about a year and a half ago
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Is $100 Million Per Year Too Little For The Brain Map Initiative?

HomelessInLaJolla a joke? (190 comments)

The world is a four hundred year carnival; the wheel of technology. 1820-1900, the dark ages and water plumbing, people kill each other for a can of beans and blanket in deserted urban slums or remote urban wildernesses while the supermanagers use them for ridiculous animalsex entertainment rituals. 1900-2020, wars and politics and the development of digital technology. 2020-2120, internet exploration into the neural synapses of sex, wearing them all out. 2120-2180, the unveiling and revelation of all of the needle and thread surgical technology of the sphinx, eunuchs, abominations, seven layers of human algae salad in denial (from the Nile), culminating in the final revelation that green eggs and ham has been a million dollars since the beginning, dog fellatio and ingestion of dog feces. 2180-2220, "WAH WAH WAH! I had to do it and now I want to see somebody else do it!", push-button performance review popularity contest, chicken glove carrot on a stick, everybody wears a backpack and signs into various kingdoms of push-button tallying and scheduled updates, medical dental prosthetic (an offer you can't refuse, conscientious objectors) is part of the package. Butcher chop finale pushes the remainder onto space ship furnaces (fired up to hell) trying to escape or through screening lines for limited space in hidden cellars. Two generations in the cellars and the lemmings are stupid as dirt and the carnval reopens with a subsegment of the population, using their secret wire communications technologies, as the supermanagers.

The global neural net has been in place in the sphinx since long before that stupid lawn troll was put out in front of the pyramid.

More information @ http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

about a year and a half ago
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130221 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v6.129)

HomelessInLaJolla Re:Wow. (3 comments)

Look, I told you before, I'll tell you again. I WANT YOU TO DIE. DIE NOW. You have been trolling my journal with your idiocy and your faggot mob, on the internet and on the streets, for seven fucking years. DIE. GO TO HELL. You and all of your friends, all of you green eggs and ham faggits. I want you dead. I want you in hell. I want you to stop stalking me on the internet and on the streets. DIE YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT.

Either that or, as you've made a seven year game out of spying on me on the streets, step up you pussy face piece of shit. I will chicken kick your jaw to the next gender you stupid fucking beastie queer. You wouldn't be here trolling my journal unless you eat the green eggs and ham.

about a year and a half ago
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Millionaire Plans Mission To Mars In 2018

HomelessInLaJolla Millionaire to Mars (97 comments)

Reality calling the world:

Millionaire: green eggs and ham.
Mars: the sky has a dome.

Result? You are all going to hell.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

about a year and a half ago
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Dutch DigiNotar Servers Were Fully Hacked

HomelessInLaJolla Re:Nothing to see here... (83 comments)

Well, of course not, because with all eight of any servers at the level of certificate authority were hacked then you may as well consider everything else in the world to be fully hacked, too. Really, that's not an exaggeration. All eight? Do you know what an 8250 drive is? It's a security testing device. It has a stack of steel plates around the power supply to suppress any potential flux in the magnetic field which could be used to overload the r/w heads. They deliberately match each drive against each other with race competitions of algorithms on the disks just to try to get one to burn. Now, take that kind of matched security testing premise and apply it to an octogon of hacked certificate authorities.

You're fucked. And you likely suck dog dick for money.

about 2 years ago
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What number taken to the root of itself yields the highest value?

HomelessInLaJolla Interesting... (3 comments)

Similar numerical contraptions:

1/9, .11111, 2/9, .222222, 3/9, .333333, etc. 9/9, .999999?

Has anyone proven that, for a given number, only the integers up to the square root of the number are required to be checked for factoring? Great simplification, logical hypothesis, has it ever been proven by the formal proof method we learn in geometry?

about 2 years ago
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Increasing Wireless Network Speed By 1000% By Replacing Packets With Algebra

HomelessInLaJolla Re:Congratulations, Baldrick (357 comments)

Right? I saw "replace packets with algebra" and I thought of the rotating spindle of the kernel, or even the rotating spindle of the core processor. Why do processors not single step very well in modern day? The packets have been replaced with algebra. The rotating spindles assist to feed the proper segments to the proper areas, actually querying for the result of any particular exact memory location is an ever-changing game of "guess what number I'm thinking of, lower, higher" which often changes while guessing a number.

about 2 years ago
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Advice Wanted: Celebrity Stepping on the Little Guy

HomelessInLaJolla Tough (6 comments)

Not much to do about it. They exist in a system of sucking dog cock for a million a pop and you exist in a system of slaving to make rent and pay taxes with a take-home around $2k monthly. If you fight they'll just go suck another dog dick and pay the people to f*ck your life up.

More information...

I am homeless. I live in an area populated by such dog dick slaves. This is basically how it runs.

about a year ago
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What Should Start-Ups Do With the Brilliant Jerk?

HomelessInLaJolla Well, DUH! (480 comments)

The "brilliant jerk", if he or she exists in your workplace, is the stand-in-mummy elected for that area.

You don't know stand in mummy?

The great sphinx and the great wall of china both architecturally model a set of cues known collectively as "the facts". You were born in them, you are raised and taught and trained in them, and you will probably die in them. "The facts" describe a system of rituals which serve as complete anchors for every second of every day of the lives of the people in them. "The facts" include, as an operational subsystem, a financial system of accounting and tracking which is matched and calibrated against other methods of numerical accounting. One of the numerical accounting systems is a mummified baby, known in bible scripture as Ham Isaac Jesus Christ. The precursor to the mummified baby was Cain, a branding system. The numerical accounting is matched by cutting down and regimenting all food and fruit bearing life on the planet.

The mummy baby, eventually allowed to crack the case of cinderella's carriage, provides a human walkaround pivot point to schedule and coordinate all of the other sets of "facts" which will describe the ritual performance of the lives of the other humans around them. If your area does not actually have a mummified individual then one of you will be picked to be "it" and the system of the "facts", all of the mosque temple synagogue church rituals and then all of the people working for jobs, will be wrapped around the "stand in mummy".

The brilliant jerk at work is the assigned stand in mummy.

about 2 years ago

Submissions

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WWW Cathedral and File Bazaar

HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  more than 2 years ago

HomelessInLaJolla writes "Online shell hosting has become plagued with focus on irc bots. Online content management is focused on automated layout and design. Online file sharing is plagued with script kiddies and warez. Online file storage and embedded sharing often includes conversion to pdf or surrounding junk reminiscent of geocities. How may I find the equivalent of telehack (a shell within a web browser) with a directory accessible by http from public hosts? Translated,"Cloud hosting at the shell level accessible from a web browser behind swiss cheesed firewall and permissions?""
Link to Original Source
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HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  more than 7 years ago

HomelessInLaJolla writes "
Create debt. Maintain debt. Keep people in debt. Work them until they die of debt.

Courtesy of the "This day in history" service part of the NYTimes daily e-mail delivery.

In 1941, President Roosevelt chose to saddle the American population with an increased debt that, as a nation, they had not truly acquiesced to. The 14th Amendment (specifically section 4), conveniently for those brokering power and money to the rest of us, stops citizens, or even states, from contesting the validity of that debt.

Some politicians (in particular, then Senator Wheeler of Montana) attempted to point out the ulterior motivation behind the Lend-Lease bill:

"The American taxpayer must make up his mind now that we have given the President power to carry on undeclared wars all over the world. He is probably going to have his taxes doubled and the national debt will be $100,000,000,000 instead of $65,000,000,000 if the war lasts for any length of time.

"This is what the Morgans and the other international bankers asked for and I hope they like it.

"As far as I am concerned I will make no effort to tie the hands of the President regarding the appropriations. It is up to the conservative majority in the Senate to the money. They supported the bill."
And it continues today. Inescapable debt is slavery.
"
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HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  more than 7 years ago

HomelessInLaJolla writes "From the this-is-how-we-do-it department:

"An antiterrorist database used by the Defense Department in an effort to prevent attacks against military installations included intelligence tips about antiwar planning meetings held at churches, libraries, college campuses and other locations, newly disclosed documents show."

Reading the article further finds that many of the antiwar planning meetings are common church services, church sponsored discussion meetings, or student organized events on college campuses to distribute educational literature promoting peace and well-rounded understanding of the situations and circumstances surrounding modern day conflicts. There's no mention in the article if any of the meetings were disrupted due to action taken by local authorities prompted by contact from the defense department or from the defense department directly as a result of the entries inclusion in the military database named Talon.

When questioned about the entries, Daniel J. Baur, the acting director of the counterintelligence field activity unit responded,"I don't want it, we shouldn't have had it, not interested in it...I don't want to deal with it." That summarizes the common response all of government presents when faced with a situation in which it is responsible for a grave error or a gross overextension of its proper authority."

Journals

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140914 (heat)

HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  2 days ago

Today is Sunday the fourteenth day of September in 2014.

The upside and the downside. The good side and the bad side. The upsidedown-insideoutside.

The up side. You are top of the food chain. Top, up. You were created as a divine being, eternal life. The up side.
The down side. You are on the down side. A little more down every year. Hell is that way. Call it aging or make up whatever crazy excuse you like: you are taking on way too many boogers in the brain and around the body to match. The down side.
The good side. We can fix that. We are human, we have a healing, a recuperative, a regenerative mode. It does not matter how much damage you have sustained, what your ailments and hurts and injuries have been. Humans are top of the food chain, they are created as divine beings, and they have a regenerative mode. That's the good side. We can fix that.
There is a bad side. There is a 2500 straight mile requirement to amp up the human metabolism and make it to the recuperative, regenerative, healing mode. Adam was kicked out of the garden, Adam became involved in too many damaging ventures in the interest of profit, want, gain, money. Adam no longer makes it to the healing mode, the regenerative mode, the recuperative mode. Adam, kicking your butt out of the garden, you need to go for a walk, about 2500 straight miles, and amp yourself back up to get over all of those ills and evils. 2500 straight miles, that's the bad side.

We call it the "path of the Lord", and that brings us to the insideout upsidedown side. What is "the path of the Lord"? (wrong scene, movie Braveheart, where Stephen the Irishman jumps into a trench with William and his friend and counsels, pph.,"God has me covered, but you're f#$%k'd!") "HAHA! You'll never make it!" That's the upsidedown insideoutside.

The up side. Humans are divine beings, top of the food chain.
The down side. You are on the down side. Too much perversion, brain scuttled the ship, locked you up in the stem, no more frontal lobes for you.
The good side. We can fix that.
The bad side. Takes 2500 miles to kickstart into gear--keep on going. I am working over 4000.
The insideout upsidedown side. The path of the Lord. Sh'yeah-HA! You'll never make it!

As Peter counsels in the Acts,"Save yourself from this corrupt generation."

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

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140911 (thursday)

HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  5 days ago

Today is Thursday, the eleventh day of September in... you know the rest?

coffee in La Jolla. $2.45. What else were you doing with the change, anyway? Waking up for coffee and donut at Von's Hollywood was nice, but it was $2.45. Bay-bee! You cannot live in La Jolla unless you are dedicated to losing money in as many different ways as possible. If you obsess over the small change, this town will relieve you of the burden.

C'ho M'Ama's cartridge and ink repair. Gotch'yo mama's butt in a mayonnaise jar. C'ho M'ama's cartridge and ink repair. 617 H-Cheung street, Beijing. 617 Hi-Cheung street, Tokyo. 617 Hi-Cheung street, Singapore. Then walking from Cal Poly Pomona west into LA, there around St. Thomas Aquinas. Other locations of interest. San Luis Obispo clearly has the same babylonian furnace and three large Eucalyptus trees bonsia'd to look exactly as the Ham, Isaac, and Jesus Christ trees here in 92037 in back of Everett-Stunz. As described in the site materials (http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/). The Ham, Isaac, and Jesus Christ trees, at whatever level of volume or amplification (obvious, size of trees, number of other key architectural elements in the surrounding area), were present in plenty of places along the summer vacation. St. Patrick's, in Arroyo Grande, stand to the left of the morning mass chapel (where the properly trained travelling pilgrim may stand for book prayer when they arrive), and there, in front of you, are the Ham, Isaac, and Jesus Christ trees. The place where the properly trained travelling pilgrim may stand for prayer after mass at Our Lady of Sorrows, downtown Santa Baraba, includes a beautiful view of the chicken witch pole against the great wall of Jonathan's. At the downtown Santa Barbara location the chicken witch pole itself is not near as grandiose as the 92037 design, but the next pole along the line, the Lt. Dan pole (when the remote control green eggs and ham crowd jericho parade turns up the storm and drives the target into a raging madman) has some particular attention shone on it by the surrounding elements. The viewing location also contains a strong relief for the rainbowtard business tree in the mid background, not so much of the grim reaper tree.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

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140909 (walking2)

HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  about a week ago

My summer vacation (cont.)

"It is a _town_, it is called Riverside. It is a place, it is called the RIVERSIDE TRANSIT CENTER. It is a transit center, busses go there, that is why it is a transit center. Where is the bus to go there?!!!!"

Yes, there in San Bernardino, there is a way to board the 215. Then there's the twenty-two to Elsinore. Exit to the AM/PM. I had a drink card from AM/PM with all necessary stamps and had been saving it since Carpenteria. In Carpenteria I had a few dollars and I knew that coffee or drink at will, given an appropriate AM/PM, would be useful later when there were no available dollars. That and a late morning prayer concluded a number of hours on the bus. Walk through Elsinore, walk through the downtown, say a few more prayers. On to the Wal-Mart center... and they have a Von's, too! I was thinking about staying the night but the seven arrived twice in a row and I decided not to miss it. Closer to the inland center I was out of bus money and the night was growing late, the light was running out. I passed the evening walking from one side of the freeway, by the McDonald's, to the other side with the filling station and taco drive-thru. Great time, nice people, by the morning I had a few dollars for the bus and the walk along the 23 route to find the next available Starbucks, about two or three miles. And a Ralph's with fabulous snicker's torte. Wonderful morning to arrive at Promenade. My bus book said there was no weekend service on the 202, and I didn't look very close by the time I walked around to find the parking structure transit center. I could have read the posted schedule to see three or four departures on Sunday but I had mostly planned to stand around Promenade for the day, anyway. Mojo supreme potatoes from Shakey's for dinner and the 76 station had fountain Dw and the peanuts. Wake up and on the 202, on the 101, no the 30, and back for morning mass. Reading the schedules in Oceanside I had not planned to return until closer to 7:30, and was only seven. Not much sleep but a great day.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

--

This is my description of my summer vacation. Two weeks in Encinitas to eat plenty of cheeseburgers and tighten up the threads on the vehicle. Then walk for Temecula. Temecula up and down and around through Murrieta and to Elsinore. Bus to Riverside. Leave Riverside for a long walk of mixed uban fare, mostly peanuts and mixed bags of doritos. Walk through Beverly Hills, UCLA, Hollywood. Breakfast at Von's Hollywood. Hollywood to Milton, prayer at St. Sebastian's. Sepulveda to RInaldi, Rinaldi to Hampstead and Devonshire. Santa Susanna pass to Simi Valley. Nice place. Through Simi Valley to sleep next to a Cosmetology schoolon the way outside. Nice area, Simi Valley. Only one dog yammering all night long. Somewhere along the outside of Moorpark, never really saw that town. Long walk through plantation fields to an area of Oxnard where the 1 begins. That promptly diverges or ends and I walked near exactly the same route I drove when I remember having that problem eight years ago in a vehicle, attempting to find and follow the 1. Oxnard to a place on Victoria where there was a large open warehouse commercial space empty for lease. Spent a day or two sewing there, hoping to find a new pair of shoes. My shoes were wearing to the socks, at the top of the feet. If I could deteriorate to walking like a clodhopper (that's, umm, all of you) then the shoes have a good three or four weeks walking remaining at the ankle.

Oxnard up to Ventura, missed the exit to the bicycle path by about 100 yards, turned around to try and walk some way through Ventura, ended up in Ojai. New hat!

North of Ventura is a nice place known as Capenteria. The police advised me to keep walking for Santa Barbara. The police in Santa Barbara quickly informed me that they didn't like homeless people. Keep walking. Goleta, pick up a bell ornament for the hat. Goleta to Orcutt, that's good exercise. Orcutt for a few days, nice church, St. Louis de Montefort. The deputy himself arrived to counsel me that he didn't like me sitting around sewing ("Am I doing anything wrong yet?" after watching the cruisers circling for a morning "No, you're not doing anything wrong yet."). No sense arguing with the fellow that has handcuffs. Difficult to leave that situation. On to Santa Maria. I could stay here or keep walking. I'm more accustomed to leaving tonight rather than sticking around for morning. On from there, across a few fields, next to big power lines to sleep, then coffee in Nipomo. Never managed to find the church in Nipomo, wasn;t looking real hard. Stopped for a few hours to sew a repair or two then on to Arroyo Grande via Pomorroy. That was a fun walk. Arroyo Grande, Pismo Beach, pick up the peacock feather for the hat in Shell Beach. Shell Beach trolley driiver arrives at the moment morning prayer ended to ask if I would like a ride. I didn't see much of PIsmo Beach when I walked through, my kind of area, bowling alley, billiards and pool, and plenty of local and tourist name coffee houses for the tourists, good luck finding Starbucks. Shell Beach trolley driver takes me to Pismo Premium. Oh, now, here's an area. Shell Beach trolley driver hints that the bus north goes all the way to San Luis Obispo, and there's a mission there. A day thinking about it and then up to San Luis Obispo. The bishop is having lunch next week Sunday. Nice area, stay and sew for a week, have lunch with the bishop on Sunday, and then back to St. Patrick's and St. Paul's for a week. Everything in the Arroyo Grande area is another 2 miles just to pick up and walk somewhere else. Very different from 92037 around-the-block routine. Added another hundred miles waking up in the morning, walking to mass, and then to a grocery store area. Walk north through San Luis Obispo. Another nice walk. Walk north to, what, Morro Bay? I wasn't there for ten minutes to fix a few sticks on my hat while talking to a fella showing me where this and that (grocery, laundry, post office, library, the Arroyo Rock), then the whole place turned into a festival of dead reanimated carnival beasts (that's no dog, it's four fishing poles and a couch cushin, the skull is some old dog from the bottom of hell, it's dead, jim, but how do we know it? how do we know it? he's dead jim. The eyes are dead, those are not living eyes. He's dead jim. We know it's the truth but how do we know it?). I decided to walk for the 101. The map and the guide and the fella next to me confirmed that the next three anything through there weren't much larger than the filling station. Long walk up the 41 to Atascadero. Stay for two days and become inspired by a ten dollar bill and catch the bus returning to Santa Maria through San Luis Obispo. Santa Maria to Lompoco, another dead reanimated carnival beast festival as I passed through the town. Leave Lompoc on the 1, fun walk, but the walk up to Atascadero really wore me out. Why am I still walking 12-15-20 miles between towns and never seeing more than a day or two of rest?

If you leave everything behind you may walk further and longer, but it is only worth freezing to death once over. I did that one thousands of miles ago. When carrying everything, maybe a person may go three months, but there's a point where there's just no more point in wandering between towns like this.

The 1 back to Goleta is a nice walk, and I was helped by a fella, Mark. Arrive in Goleta on Friday night with a $15 card for Little Caesar's and extra dollars for coffee at McDonald's. Saturday morning prayer with St. Rafael (see the statue out front? he has wings... why yo' ass hurt so much, from having the wings tore off out of the steam press, that's why yo' ass so fat) and then on the bus to Santa Barbara. Spend Saturday vigil and Sunday with Fr. Raf at Our Lady of Sorrows and then on the bus on Monday, oh, shoot, Labor Day, well, back to morning mass and then catch the bus to Oxnard on Tuesday. Oxnard, walk around through Huanome to Camarillo.

A day in Camarillo, a small position in a jazz cafe washing dishes for two hours, twenty-five bucks, and bus money south to Simi Valley, then the Metrolink train to downtown LA Union. "Hello, I am going to Elsinore via Riverside. How do I go there?" "Red Line, 12:40 pm" "Is this MetroLink ticket good for transfer?" "No" (transfer passes usually lose a grade level at transfer points, no more riding the premium rails, trolley and bus only) "How many dollars to Riverside?" "$13" I don't have, $13. "How do I take the bus to Riverside" "You can't", then the equivalent of the THANK YOU and the window closing. I walk to the other customer service, ask same questions. "What you need to do is call this number."

I know there's a bus to Riverside, I've seen the book, I should have saved that bus book, the bus goes there, I know it does. I need the 68, 70, or 76 out of this place. Then I began remembering the walk around the days of Von's Hollywood, and it seemed if I could just make it back there (HAHAHA!) then I could remember the road back (that much longer). The police arrive to interrogate me. "I need to go to Riverside" I squeak, they begin giving the hard muscle stares, so I begin spouting bus numbers "10, 18, 30". The police are now upset. "There is no 10 or 30 from here!" he barks, and he's right. "What you need to do is go downstairs and get on the red line trolley to north Hollywood, that's where you want to go right?" I just want the officer to quit barking at me, and I had just been thinking that if I could just make it back to Von's Hollywood (HAHAHAHAHA!) then I could remember the road back.

So I arrive in north Hollywood and promptly decide that I should not have taken this line this direction. But there had been so much trouble at LA Union, the guards had to escort me through the pass checker point, because my ticket wasn't good as that transfer, or something, I don't know. I was perfectly blind after the encounter with the police, hardly knew which direction to go to ask for directions. So I walked back to downtown by following the signs (didn't intend to make it right back downtown at that exact point again, I was following the signs and reading directions on the way). Was advised by a passerby "Your pass is fine, good for all of today, just get on the gold rail going east"

Now if only I knew what bus to find after that. It wasn't until another night, after I spent the final remaining dollars on Starbucks and cookies (SUGAR, need SUGAR to keep knockin' down these miles), that, hey! look, right there in front of you, all the time. The 68. Walk through the Korean and Vietnamese districts watching the 68 go past me every twenty minutes or so, wishing I had bus fare. I yet didn't know how the 68 would make it to Riverside, only that such a feat was possible, and I had no excuse to ask the bus driver if I didn't yet have any fare in my pocket, so I kept walking on by general direction. Turns out that neat any of the transit centers from Fontana on will have some service-or-other to Riverside. Would have been nice to know that some select stations will see a bus from places, like, oh, PROMENADE in Temecula. At Baldwin Park I take the rail again (10:57, leaving, the hell with it, money or not I am on this rail). Then I knew, somehow or other, maybe I talked with somebody, but I knew the 215 goes to Riverside.

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140908 (walking)

HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  about a week ago

This is my description of my summer vacation. Two weeks in Encinitas to eat plenty of cheeseburgers and tighten up the threads on the vehicle. Then walk for Temecula. Temecula up and down and around through Murrieta and to Elsinore. Bus to Riverside. Leave Riverside for a long walk of mixed uban fare, mostly peanuts and mixed bags of doritos. Walk through Beverly Hills, UCLA, Hollywood. Breakfast at Von's Hollywood. Hollywood to Milton, prayer at St. Sebastian's. Sepulveda to RInaldi, Rinaldi to Hampstead and Devonshire. Santa Susanna pass to Simi Valley. Nice place. Through Simi Valley to sleep next to a Cosmetology schoolon the way outside. Nice area, Simi Valley. Only one dog yammering all night long. Somewhere along the outside of Moorpark, never really saw that town. Long walk through plantation fields to an area of Oxnard where the 1 begins. That promptly diverges or ends and I walked near exactly the same route I drove when I remember having that problem eight years ago in a vehicle, attempting to find and follow the 1. Oxnard to a place on Victoria where there was a large open warehouse commercial space empty for lease. Spent a day or two sewing there, hoping to find a new pair of shoes. My shoes were wearing to the socks, at the top of the feet. If I could deteriorate to walking like a clodhopper (that's, umm, all of you) then the shoes have a good three or four weeks walking remaining at the ankle.

Oxnard up to Ventura, missed the exit to the bicycle path by about 100 yards, turned around to try and walk some way through Ventura, ended up in Ojai. New hat!

North of Ventura is a nice place known as Capenteria. The police advised me to keep walking for Santa Barbara. The police in Santa Barbara quickly informed me that they didn't like homeless people. Keep walking. Goleta, pick up a bell ornament for the hat. Goleta to Orcutt, that's good exercise. Orcutt for a few days, nice church, St. Louis de Montefort. The deputy himself arrived to counsel me that he didn't like me sitting around sewing ("Am I doing anything wrong yet?" after watching the cruisers circling for a morning "No, you're not doing anything wrong yet."). No sense arguing with the fellow that has handcuffs. Difficult to leave that situation. On to Santa Maria. I could stay here or keep walking. I'm more accustomed to leaving tonight rather than sticking around for morning. On from there, across a few fields, next to big power lines to sleep, then coffee in Nipomo. Never managed to find the church in Nipomo, wasn;t looking real hard. Stopped for a few hours to sew a repair or two then on to Arroyo Grande via Pomorroy. That was a fun walk. Arroyo Grande, Pismo Beach, pick up the peacock feather for the hat in Shell Beach. Shell Beach trolley driiver arrives at the moment morning prayer ended to ask if I would like a ride. I didn't see much of PIsmo Beach when I walked through, my kind of area, bowling alley, billiards and pool, and plenty of local and tourist name coffee houses for the tourists, good luck finding Starbucks. Shell Beach trolley driver takes me to Pismo Premium. Oh, now, here's an area. Shell Beach trolley driver hints that the bus north goes all the way to San Luis Obispo, and there's a mission there. A day thinking about it and then up to San Luis Obispo. The bishop is having lunch next week Sunday. Nice area, stay and sew for a week, have lunch with the bishop on Sunday, and then back to St. Patrick's and St. Paul's for a week. Everything in the Arroyo Grande area is another 2 miles just to pick up and walk somewhere else. Very different from 92037 around-the-block routine. Added another hundred miles waking up in the morning, walking to mass, and then to a grocery store area. Walk north through San Luis Obispo. Another nice walk. Walk north to, what, Morro Bay? I wasn't there for ten minutes to fix a few sticks on my hat while talking to a fella showing me where this and that (grocery, laundry, post office, library, the Arroyo Rock), then the whole place turned into a festival of dead reanimated carnival beasts (that's no dog, it's four fishing poles and a couch cushin, the skull is some old dog from the bottom of hell, it's dead, jim, but how do we know it? how do we know it? he's dead jim. The eyes are dead, those are not living eyes. He's dead jim. We know it's the truth but how do we know it?). I decided to walk for the 101. The map and the guide and the fella next to me confirmed that the next three anything through there weren't much larger than the filling station. Long walk up the 41 to Atascadero. Stay for two days and become inspired by a ten dollar bill and catch the bus returning to Santa Maria through San Luis Obispo. Santa Maria to Lompoco, another dead reanimated carnival beast festival as I passed through the town. Leave Lompoc on the 1, fun walk, but the walk up to Atascadero really wore me out. Why am I still walking 12-15-20 miles between towns and never seeing more than a day or two of rest?

If you leave everything behind you may walk further and longer, but it is only worth freezing to death once over. I did that one thousands of miles ago. When carrying everything, maybe a person may go three months, but there's a point where there's just no more point in wandering between towns like this.

The 1 back to Goleta is a nice walk, and I was helped by a fella, Mark. Arrive in Goleta on Friday night with a $15 card for Little Caesar's and extra dollars for coffee at McDonald's. Saturday morning prayer with St. Rafael (see the statue out front? he has wings... why yo' ass hurt so much, from having the wings tore off out of the steam press, that's why yo' ass so fat) and then on the bus to Santa Barbara. Spend Saturday vigil and Sunday with Fr. Raf at Our Lady of Sorrows and then on the bus on Monday, oh, shoot, Labor Day, well, back to morning mass and then catch the bus to Oxnard on Tuesday. Oxnard, walk around through Huanome to Camarillo.

A day in Camarillo, a small position in a jazz cafe washing dishes for two hours, twenty-five bucks, and bus money south to Simi Valley, then the Metrolink train to downtown LA Union. "Hello, I am going to Elsinore via Riverside. How do I go there?" "Red Line, 12:40 pm" "Is this MetroLink ticket good for transfer?" "No" (transfer passes usually lose a grade level at transfer points, no more riding the premium rails, trolley and bus only) "How many dollars to Riverside?" "$13" I don't have, $13. "How do I take the bus to Riverside" "You can't", then the equivalent of the THANK YOU and the window closing. I walk to the other customer service, ask same questions. "What you need to do is call this number."

I know there's a bus to Riverside, I've seen the book, I should have saved that bus book, the bus goes there, I know it does. I need the 68, 70, or 76 out of this place. Then I began remembering the walk around the days of Von's Hollywood, and it seemed if I could just make it back there (HAHAHA!) then I could remember the road back (that much longer). The police arrive to interrogate me. "I need to go to Riverside" I squeak, they begin giving the hard muscle stares, so I begin spouting bus numbers "10, 18, 30". The police are now upset. "There is no 10 or 30 from here!" he barks, and he's right. "What you need to do is go downstairs and get on the red line trolley to north Hollywood, that's where you want to go right?" I just want the officer to quit barking at me, and I had just been thinking that if I could just make it back to Von's Hollywood (HAHAHAHAHA!) then I could remember the road back.

So I arrive in north Hollywood and promptly decide that I should not have taken this line this direction. But there had been so much trouble at LA Union, the guards had to escort me through the pass checker point, because my ticket wasn't good as that transfer, or something, I don't know. I was perfectly blind after the encounter with the police, hardly knew which direction to go to ask for directions. So I walked back to downtown by following the signs (didn't intend to make it right back downtown at that exact point again, I was following the signs and reading directions on the way). Was advised by a passerby "Your pass is fine, good for all of today, just get on the gold rail going east"

Now if only I knew what bus to find after that. It wasn't until another night, after I spent the final remaining dollars on Starbucks and cookies (SUGAR, need SUGAR to keep knockin' down these miles), that, hey! look, right there in front of you, all the time. The 68. Walk through the Korean and Vietnamese districts watching the 68 go past me every twenty minutes or so, wishing I had bus fare. I yet didn't know how the 68 would make it to Riverside, only that such a feat was possible, and I had no excuse to ask the bus driver if I didn't yet have any fare in my pocket, so I kept walking on by general direction. Turns out that neat any of the transit centers from Fontana on will have some service-or-other to Riverside. Would have been nice to know that some select stations will see a bus from places, like, oh, PROMENADE in Temecula. At Baldwin Park I take the rail again (10:57, leaving, the hell with it, money or not I am on this rail). Then I knew, somehow or other, maybe I talked with somebody, but I knew the 215 goes to Riverside.

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140623 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v8.013)

HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  about 3 months ago

War in La Jolla, eighth year, thirteenth entry

Eternal life. You think of eternal life as something of a pie in the sky legend, a joke, maybe, something to laugh at. Nobody has eternal life. The book of Psalms lists you at seventy or eighty years. Noah's covenent limited man to one hundred and twenty years. Earlier lifespans are recorded in the bible near a thousand, and ancient Egyptian tombs claim tens of thousands of years. Is that a descending curve? Is there a mathematical trend to that? Perhaps that bears some looking into, but maybe for other people. It does not now nor has ever really mattered to you. You want to grow up, make money, maybe get in the club, be somebody, do something, then get old, retire, and, what? Well, who cares what? That's like the possible mathematical trend in the recorded lifespans; that's for somebody else to figure out. Heaven, hell, who cares? That is all the things that matter only after death.

Gunshots. When you first learned of a gun, as a child, oh my, that was something big and powerful. You could shoot somebody, and that would be the end of them. Bang, boom, done. But then, as a child, you learned something new in the next week or two after learning of the gun. You could shoot somebody, and they wouldn't die. You could shoot them in the hand, or the arm, or even in special places in the gut, and they wouldn't die. They would bleed, they would hurt, but not die. So, now you know, if you wish to shoot somebody and make the end of them, you must hit a "vital" organ, you must make a "mortal" wound. Otherwise they don't quite die. Perhaps they are maimed, maybe they need an amputation, but they don't die unless you hit one of those magic sweet spots.

Then the maiming, and the amputation. What portion of your voice would you lose? Oh, sure, that's for somebody else to figure out. You don't really care. It is eternal life, maybe, maybe not, but not really important to growing up and making money and getting to do things. For a moment, though, because this is _my_ presentation and _my_ journal, what portion of your voice do you lose with that amputation? Divide the entirety of your voice up, your arm makes this portion of the sound, your other arm makes that portion of the sound, these toes for these pitches, those toes for those tones, your heard, your ears, your shoulder... YOUR NUTS. What portion of your voice would you lose if somebody shot you with a gun, and you didn't die, they didn't hit one of the vital mortal things, but you did require a maiming amputation. What portion of your voice would go with that? What portion of your voice, suppose, goes with YOUR NUTS?

While nobody's voice ever drops, while the entire world is made of nothing but faggitts, I suppose you will never know or care. Like eternal life.

Eternal life is somewhat of a joke. Your voice is related to various amputate-able portions of your body. You are actually top of the food chain. Top of the food chain meat is special, because it doesn't quit moving and making noise until you beat it to death bit by bit and piece by piece. The bugs and dogs down in hell have a very carefully planned process to ensure that nothing of that moving and noise is wasted. Eternal life, itself, is easy. IF YOU MAKE IT. If you actually make the three thousand miles, if you actually make the seven years, if you actually make your voice drop and get into the real frontal lobes, if you actually become the top of the food chain meat which you are supposed to be, then making another day and another day and another day is really easy. Eternal life is nothing. You are actually _SO_ top of the food chain that you are really hard to kill, like a gunshot that never hits the vital organ or the mortal wound. You would need to apply yourself to dying, you would need to box yourself down and train yourself into completely disasterous situations over and over and over again to actually make it to dying. You are actually really really really hard to kill. The phairies and dogs down in hell have that box system set up for you, and you have that box system set up for yourself up on the surface. You are really hard to kill, you would need to spend thousands and thousands of years training and ramming yourself into completely stupid scenarios to get that job done. Then the mathematical trend cutting down the number of years it takes to get the job done enough to turn the remainder over to the phairies and the dogs down in hell.

Do not be surprised by hell. The same people responsible for the coverup of your voice, and the coverup for "where do babies come from?", are the same people responsible for the coverup for hell.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

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140620 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v8.012a)

HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  about 3 months ago

War in La Jolla, eighth year, twelfth(a) entry

It would just never occur to you...

You would just never expect...

You had just never even seen anything like that before...

Waco, TX. The local sherriff had just never heard anything like that before. Some lady showing up out of the blue, like Texas Chainsaw Massacre, telling horrifying tales of eating green eggs for money distribution and holding breakfast devouring contests with eggo and dogs in the back room. So they show up at the door to the little apartment and to ask, umm, maybe you could tell us a little more about the teachings here in your church, just help us figure out how maybe we could help you with the rest of the town, and HOLY SH*T the whole place goes up like 4th of July.

You spend twelve years finding better graphics for Pac-Man, from Atari through the arcades up to all the different Mario Nintendos and into the 2k millenium with carts and 3-D sonic racing, trying to impress somebody for a first kiss with your high score. It would just nevet occur to you that they do their kids up with their dogs near right away and they're all chipped and wired. Would just never occur to you.

And, lately...

You would just never expect that the chipped and wired crew is lining up with children, waiting around the corner to brutally rectally rape the young child and then bring the screaming toddler or pre-ado to face-off with the homeless man at just the right moments, at just the exact right time, at some meaningful and purposeful window frame of events. Because they thought you liked it. You would just never expect that sort of directed hate and spite weapon, would just never occur to you.

Obviously, if I ever mentioned to the police that, on all four occasions that I have ever seen a particular woman, the three year old blond boy with her looks as if he's been recently broomsticked, and on the three previous occasions you heard the little boy screaming in the women's toilet for minutes beforehand. Obviously, if I ever mentioned to the police that I was concerned for abuse, I would be then be considered a risk and threat to the people around me and I would need to be evaluated by the doctors.

On the previous meeting with the police, the first words from ofc. Reinhold upon exiting his vehicle and approaching me,"There is no conspiracy of people waiting with dogs to make you mad". Just like my pretend street friends going into immediate flaming mode over the $10 sack of herbage they owe me, not even thinking to talk of the weather or the current state of sidewalk and traffic. So, what you're telling me is that there is a conspiracy of people waiting around the corner to make me mad? Then, later, during the handcuffed interview, ofc. Reinhold asks of me,"Do you know what a cabal is?" I immediately and completely spaced the question and returned nothing but a stupid blank look, so ofc. Reinhold glossed the question and continued on as if he hadn't asked. He's willing to testify in court that I admitted to sleeping on the walkway...

I'm willing to testify in court that the little blond boy will likely never speak any real language, having been abused so often for this vendetta that he sounds like Superman's Non.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

ofc. Reinhold also, during the in-cruiser assessment and interview, offered to joke,"Your race, you're black, aren't you?" There is no cabal, and to say anything of conspiracy requires psychological evaluation.

In jail, along with mapfortu's recent discussion of characteristic traits of jail time, was also amusing to me that the soap never really turned hot. I could whip the soap for an hour, two three times daily, allow it to dry open air (to take on oxygen and bleach the surface), and whip it again in the morning, and the soap never really turned hot. Sure, I am whipping this with a spoon in a milk carton without any rocks for the press: I know what hot soap is. Whatever the scale is, full percentage or tenth or even hundredth percentage point, whatever the scale is the atmosphere is totally low oxygen. Settle quickly with your opponent on your way to court, take the plea bargain, you'll suffocate if you wish to feel you have grounds to argue with the attorney about your race.

Continuing entertainment when the cow-stick (caustic, mummy baby in the bread box, the cash cow delivery to hell and back again) began pulling the wax from the inside of the milk carton. I have had waxy soap before (led me to contemplate the joke down to hell, we've tried pressing them to bricks, tried rolling them to dogs, tried taking them apart and putting them back together in every which way, Melchizedek is going to sew you into horses and poke you into soap! that's Elmer on the glue bottle, but nowadays they so fat and blubbery that they don't even make good wax, greasy dirty wax, and then not even wax at all, but maybe fatty oil if you wick the bottle, and then the fatty oil is so greasy that it's midnight black to the ceiling... these people so far gone, and all the progressions of the levels to the bottom where they pit now, the same three thousand miles and seven bible years away as any other. I have had waxy soap before, it may not lather as much, but it continues to be hot. The soap I poked in jail never managed to achieve any semblance of hot.

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140620 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v8.012)

HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  about 3 months ago

War in La Jolla, eighth year, twelfth entry

I yet do not really have much time to spend on the accounts, and the wikispaces material cannot be modified without moving it to an entirely new provider. Oh to have a real interface, like ssh and local shells.

Samson's riddle, nerve agent and seahorses, a result of ploughing with the heifers. Do not in particular blame the models, they are doing you a favor, at least half your own fault for never dropping your voice, just the way things must be. If anything, you could argue with them about the sheer amount of nerve agent which they are slinging around like beer batter; but that's how far down the world has sunk. There was, at one time, a particular numerical individual method to the madness for each and every single point, but that was so long ago, and now is mostly a flat-out mudslinging contest for fun and games, and it all works out the same in the end by the time the numbers are counted up and resolved down in hell anyway.

From the readings earlier this week to today's gospel, in particular. If you have the light of the world, if you have actually made it, then how great will the light be; you never really stop improving until you grow your wings back and suck your butt to the dome to feel the sun again. If you do not have the light, then how great will the darkness be, like, in particular, exactly how many micro-injuries, in particular, exactly how far out of joint for each member of the spine, in particular, exactly how many points of nerve agent and seahorses have you accumulated? There was, at one time, an exact numerical count and an exact reason and purpose for each and every single one, but now the whole operates as a blender and the map for the passover lamb is really the only near logarithmic chart to the mountain of numbers running today. Naboth and his vineyard, that's similar to Naaman from Syria, the last of the maharajas at the time when the Hebrew doctors were beginning to perfect the uses of nerve agent by adding to his cobra bite. Naboth's vineyard is the well of nerve agent just up from Aladdin's lamp on the thumb. Ahaz's castle, on the other hand, is a descendant of Jacob's well, the woman at the well, greater than our father Jacob, who gave us this well?, what's wrong with your hand? So Jezebel takes care of the issue one way or another and the money counted up by the specific exact placement and conviction for each and every point of nerve agent on the shoulder by the wrist becomes part of the kingdom managed by Israel. "Oh, Maharaja, you look so sad and tired, let me check your pulse and temperature, and Jezebel over there will start working on your elbow... now how in the world did the cobra bite you so far up your arm? You'll never make it..."

The bigs oppressed the small, the gumbies coming in from the fields from the real women, and then the bigs became so good at oppressing the small that they set up a production line to generate new smalls, all with delicately designed injuries and ladders keeping them as smalls, and then all the bigs got knocked out and went to hell from their own idiocies, den-up and lair-n-get-us or get drunk chasing chickens knocked out by a tree picked up by the phairie or, later, this isn't the stupidest thing you'll ever do in your life it's a great way to make money! Now the world is full of nothing but the model town smalls, and in the model town, they've all been models to begin with anyway.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

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140618 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v8.011)

HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  about 3 months ago

War in La Jolla, eighth year, eleventh entry

The pretend street friends have become extraordinarily easy to identify and work over. In normal life there are many interests and hobbies, paths of conversation and paths of "did that one get ya?" innuendos over the course of daily chatter. Once the idolatries have been stripped away then the remaining important items of conversation are sugar and herbage, mainly. Fifo2ed includes a discussion about "air moved in prayer" and the legitimacy of other topics of conversation. The pretend street friends have left to them only the hooks of sugar and herbage, and my diet is mainly my own and carefully protected. A long-running play on herbage has been to gain my association as a possible convenience store (supplier of herbage), then wait for a pre-pay, and then balk, for weeks on end. The most reliable method for me to glean the excuses out of the entire town is to pre-pay a $10 bag of herb. Has nearly never failed. They pre-spend the $10 and, as usual, I wait for weeks to see so much as a flake while the convenience store individual continues to make up whatever irrational excuses. No big deal to me. Perfect opportunity to exercise my preferences.

For example, when dealing with my convenience store, I do not prefer to announce to the entire world in large conversations that I am buying a $10 sack of herbage. I am not hiding my affinity for marijuana, but it is not a flaming component of my topical personality. I walk into convenience store, I buy a pack of cigarettes, a bottle of soda, and a $10 sack of herb. I do not stand and go flaming conversationalist about my bottle of Mt. Dew. I do not turn into hours long flaming conversationalist about my pack of cigarettes. Why would I go flaming conversation about my $10 sack of herbage? I don't. They do. Every time. It's pathetic. In the past I have attempted to assist them, by beginning with the usual topics of converatiion, weather, lunch, how's things?, etc., with all of the appropriate opportunity for the convenience store clerk to indicate whether supply is up or down, in or out, open or closed.

The pretend friends, however, make enormous grandeuristic displays about such minor technicalities as the size of the stock on the shelf, or the delivery schedule of the truck at the back door. I am the _CUSTOMER_. I do not give a sh_t about the delivery schedule of the truck at the back door. No customer ever does. Sure, maybe if the clerk and I spend time over weeks talking about weather and how's things? then perhaps some day it may be a passing news item that the delivery schedule of the truck at the back door is on or off. The pretend street friends, however, having only herbage remaining to them as their hook, have absolutely no concept of normal conversation. They have always been dead zeroed in on using every $5, $10, or even pinch of herb as a hook and line to try and create the kill scene. They have been, to each individual one, completely incapable of maintaining any pretends of normal personality or interests aside from flogging me over bud every time they see me.

Stupid. Just stupid.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Be sure to check mapfortu's journal here on Slashdot for running current updates to the material. Similar to commercial slots to present the episode of books.

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140617 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v8.010)

HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  about 2 months ago

War in La Jolla, eighth year, tenth entry

The MRI cannon is reading the words to some, the keyboard sniffer is relaying the words to others. The constant framing and mapping complex inside the sphinx. Box dropping on every event. Give another BEEP. BEEP could be anything as described in the Jericho and System sections of BSM. The games section of FIfo2ed was created to move away from the daily grind of the mob and describe their operation on the society in general.

When I give to you all the plague, when the tower of babel is finished, when we move from the ninth to the tenth Egyptian plague, the gemstones and pearls will likely not be anywhere near the top of my list of items to recover. I began the mine cart service only incidentally.

In the audio world there are the front mains, then surround and THX. In the neuro world there are the frontal lobes, then there is all of this world. The world did not begin as a farm for the bugs and dogs in hell. The world began as a terrarium with vegetative life, meat life, griffons, and bugs. The meat life developed an inferiority complex someplace. The world went to hell in a handbasket several times over, flipped upside down on its hands, tore of its own wings, resolved itself as drunks, and then began hacking and stripping on all of the trees. Then the world went to the dogs, then the dogs got kicked outside, then the dogs got convicted to the fortresses of the bugs. Then things got ugly and the motor-powered chainsaw came to be. Then the trees got blamed for the dogs, the bugs got boarded up down in the sub-basement, then the last of the real ladies ran out. The monkey chain gangs pressing paper taught you not to throw things out with the bathwater a long time ago, and now those are all the new sons of heaven you have; notice you do not make daughters of heaven in a similar fashion until after the drunks have taught to you all of the idiot games to be played around the firepit; good things the monkeys taught you how to wrap things up and heat them up a long time ago, now those are all the new ones you have left, and the older ones boil like an egg if you try to fix them that way. The pharaohs and neurosurgeons working on sequential neurorevolvers already know this, games to be played after missing, skipping, and dropping over completely rival anything the drunks have done in the juice pits next to the fire, and all of the sewing games, training games, make him walk and talk while knocked out games, those are all old tricks by the time, which time?, the time when the ladies ran out and the bathwater new ones are the only new ones you have. The end of Ninevah on the top-side of the trees, because now it's the motor-powered chainsaw and blaming the trees for the long lost dogs, all the bugs boarded up in hell, and the world moves only according to the money earned from the bugs in the basement using the bread box delivery system, like a push-button washer-dryer with Cinder-El-la's carriage inside. Mummy baby gets to go to hell, if he's a good prophet he'll tell you about it, if not he'll go with the rest of you. Motor-powered chainsaw cuts the trees down to the sand in less than a heartbeat, the book of Genesis ends as an attempt to end the madness and send everybody to hell once and for all. Gad wakes up a few thousand later. The Reader's Guide to the Sphinx.

By the time the motor-powered chainsaw cuts through the trees there already exist seven layers of human algae salad in denial, the entirety of the population is already walking paper routes between boxes, doing it the wrong way, making up excuses, going to hell. Particularly distasteful but very true Hollywood analogy: the end of the movie "Texas Chainsaw Massacre", where the possible escaping prophet is squeezing out nerve agent and seahorses, wounds in all the key locations, half-crazy from the idiot mobs (as Abram and Mel looked out from Sodom and Gomorrah with the Lord, nothing but Amorites and Perrizites covered the plain... ahem. ahem, ahem), and the mad massacre-er with the chainsaw continues to play on the background, unstoppable, incurable.

Consider the technological progression of paper, soap, thread, baklava, sewing combinations with human and sub-human body parts, mummified babies, cover-ups, scripts, scams, schemes, shell games, lies, all of that's so completely explored and exhausted and beaten to death by then, and that's before the trees hit the sand. Consider the movie Mary Poppins. Look, stupid, there is a remote control stage bird in that movie. That one is not a computer animation on the film. That is a real living moving remote control bird right there in that movie Mary Poppins. That was then. This is now. That bird right there would be enough excuse for anybody in the world from more than twenty feet and you know very well that it is a remote control bird right there in that movie. THEY HAVE ALL OF THE REMOTE CONTROL BIRDS, STUPID. Real life feathers are more like griffons. Your spouse is your interface to the remainder of the universe, not always entirely useful, but takes care of even those smallest of tasks that you just cannot perform. That is your spouse. Trees espouse birds with feathers. Real bird brains lay eggs. Real bird brains. When the tree espouses well enough then you have a self-packaging bird man, more than a simple layer of eggs. Then the bird-men get bored, stupid, lazy, and it all goes to hell from there. A long long long long long long time ago.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

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140613 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v8.009)

HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  about 3 months ago

War in La Jolla, eighth year, ninth entry

Subsequent events provide a fine opportunity for analysis of the level of complexity of the sphinx as it maps the predestination through life to hell. In the past I have discussed the arrangement of the Eiffel Tower of scripts. An eiffel tower is one law of moses, 144,000k people in all, wandering between six hundred some boxes either waiting for the master's voice to drop or shipping all of the witches to hell; a pyramid is a community of witches known to born, live, perform function, wither, get knocked out and shipped to hell reliably on time every time. An eiffel tower is 600 or so movie scripts arranged such that all members of all scripts time share and walk between them so as not to become too bored too long or stop drinking long enough to figure anything out and know too much; nobody knows anything, everybody goes to hell. Your local rainbowtard is your closest liaison to the last known person to be ever close to knowing anything way back in Sodom or Gomorrah. If they knew anything their job was terminated and the next person in that career path was delicately groomed to not know anything next time. Rainbowtards hate life in this fashion: they are locked in a lifetime of accidentally giving the best possible advice to their best possible friend or the nicest person they ever just met and within a few days or weeks that person ends up with a piano on their head. Life sucks like that. They are the closest last known person to ever have not known anything about it, don't ask, don't bother, please, it's not worth the time to explain that it happens to them all the time and you would never believe it anyway. 600 scripts of two or three hundred people each, 1200 to fifteen hundred core people, managing thirty or forty jobbies that _really_ don't know anything at all. Expand to make the whole set a full law of moses, one hundred and forty four thousand people, and that's the core runaround jericho mob circling any given major metro center in the united states. San Diego for example. Chutes and ladders up the I-5 and down the Torrey Pines then into the metro beast all day long, then back up the I-5, stop have lunch around Del Mar or UTC, take the scenic drive down the 52, kill homeless people and random targets (like me, for example) on the filter path down to Old Town, pick up the standard daily assignment in the usual daily practice of monitoring the usual areas and people, two shifts a day, wake up and do it tomorrow when the alarm goes off on the secret wire in the back of the head. Everybody goes to hell.

Anyway...

As the sphinx goes, there are key elements set up by the four real jokes, the babylonian kings which choreographed the whole thing and set the kernel to continue to rearrange and enforce nobody knows anything. I noted recently the core group of characters which was present in my visits to San Diego central jail. Most people end up getting "killed" long before they make it to the core center of the kernel of scripts and come anywhere close to knowing anything of what's really going on. When the gypsy could read the tarot cards the game was an interpretation of ali baba and the forty thieves to you, which card are you, which cards are around you, which way are the cards moving. Are you Christian? Are you Jewish? Which of Jacob's twelve sons are running you down, which cards are they? The tarot cards don't work anymore because they were based on the older system which began with musical chairs, a lingual and vocal system, and Sodom and Gomorrah now feature chlorine pools in the high school and earlier years, everybody's nose is all rearranged and messed up, the tarot cards don't work so well. Nowadays, if you want good steady work, you go cut hair, trimming sensations in the parlor is your way to read the cards.

In the yacht culture, in the boating industry, there will be an urban legend, like a story told around friends that you only hear if you go golfing at that club with that group of guys all the time, if you are in their lifestyle. The guys that gather at the last hole after everything is all done. In the yacht culture there's the poor fella with the nice yacht, but the tassles (if you are in the real yacht club and not just a buy-in timeshare member for the up to ten million option when qualified) are checkerboard. He bought both pairs from somebody else, they were special ordered from somewhere, they were going to look really great, reasonable price, not a scam or a steal. He was installing them, installed the first two checkerboard just to have a view from both sides and both ends, enjoying the work. Was on schedule to install the second pair, some morning went out for groceries, or to breakfast, or normal whatever he does early in the morning, on the way home the exhaust system on his car just blew up, fell apart, sounded like a fleet of lawnmowers from a block off. Somebody in the nice quiet neighborhood called and, s he was pulling into his driveway, the police arrived to ask about the noisy vehicle, maybe cite it for being out of emissions. In the process they busted into the garage, broke the locks on the bookcase, tossed one of the broken locks in between the shed and the garage. Took everything of value out of the garage. Opened the shed, took everything of value out of the shed. Opened the house, gutted the house, took all the jewerly, left only wallpaper, a pencil box, and the kitchen utensils. Opened the car, broke the handles, slashed the roof liner and cut the upholstery. Stole the car keys and busted the trunk open. Final explanation; somewhere somehow someway the FBI had a bad tip about cocaine somewhere. Sorry 'bout that. Some component of the script will also involve a translucent bag with blinkenlights.

That and the similarities which I recently noted in my particular walkthrough of the organ grinder in the kernel core of the scripts. When I am checked into the medical ward component route of the scripts then my medical ward always features the same cast of characters; notably both Max and Liam from music production Prodigy are always there.

The fellow that had delivered to me some very good leftover pizza from Sammy's Woodfried in the translucent bag somewhat struck me as the sort of fella that would be out cruising a yacht. He probably had no idea, likely on his way to sail that day, stopped off in La Jolla, had lunch, noticed the homeless guy and decided to leave the leftovers with the hungry.

So if you are, or if you know the fellow, in the yacht club with said checkerboard yacht, then know that the whole event was a complete setup and is the standard format for the sack in the sphinx day of atonement script system. That exact particular event scene and sack, with those particular characters and elements (including the characters and elements noted in recent days), are the key characters and elements in the ali baba and the forty thieves system, the key characters and elements in the "how to get jesus killed in less than four years and forty scenes", or the Forrest Gump movie of "here are four years and forty scenes of the different ways we use to get him killed", including the overall blanket of "nobody knows anything". Those are the key elements and characters which are closest to "nobody knows anything" and unraveling and piecing together the key details to somebody knows something. Those key elements and characters are changed around and replaced, and that exact same script of key elements and characters is used in near worldwide "why did that have to happen to me?"

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Here's how we get to the yacht club from yesterday. I was finishing all of the new repairs on my raft, alladdin's magic carpet, the comforter with all four frontiers bolted into it, t-shirts opened up and sewn to the stuffing inside the comforter. Having your work cut out for you; is going to take at least thirteen or fourteen lines to open the comforter up, tack in the t-shirt, and close it back down just to make it usable tonight. A full day's work. Four frontiers make a raft, Alladdin's magic carpet, the physical therapy needed by the maharaja on his pilgrimage after the cobra bit him too many times and his hand is beginning to swell (and, more modernly, takes a bunch of nerve agent from his pure cyanide princess to make that happen because they gon't get five or six thousand years playing around with the cobra anymore). By the time he fits all four frontiers in and makes it back he will have been through the other end of his pilgrimage, met and sat and drank with the prophet over in the hebrew lands, and then he will eventually, like me, find himself with some quieter time after the midst of parties celebrating his return (or, in my case, the next round of forty thieves kicking off the seven year sphinx cycle). He will begin attaching the extra tassles to his magic carpet as he tidies up this and that and the other around the house. I found myself recently re-roofing the cathedral bag, re-roofing the house, fixing the weathervanes and handles on the house, rebuilt the starter (again, this is not just somebody else's 409, this the the true Leu413), and had myself attached two of the four tassles to the magic carpet raft, checkerboard, just to have a look at the work from both sides and both ends. I had the matching pair of triple-tassles at the bottom of one of my paper carryall bags and, in the grudge tossing of my belongings, not only the bag of high end decorative materials was tossed but, matching the story of "remove anything of value", the matching pair of triple tassles for the "yacht", the boat, the raft, the magic carpet, were taken.

Like the fella from the yacht club, do you have one of those book catalog order books? Maybe I can find a new matching pair for this custom set of tassles. In the raid on the yacht club fellow, the raiding authorities, for "whatever reason" busted and threw away his matching pair of tassles for his yacht, nearly the same day he was planning to install them, if his exhaust hadn't blown and whoever it was that called in the condo units down the block hadn't called.

My tassles were picked up with a bunch of other high quality materials which were left from swatch and sample books around the area when a bunch of classy little upholtery and small furniture stores blew through and went away two summers ago. A bunch of the larger single tassles I had stuffed in the tin with the soap bottle. You may steal my soap but my soap would knock your ass out if you used it.

In the tossing of my house appears that the angel pin on the mailbox is able to stop police marauders gone mad. If the police are ever in line to toss your house, or if you are the fellow at the yacht club, quick stuff whatever is valuable into the mailbox. When police marauders go bonkers appears that the USPS holds up a hand to say "not in this box"; I yet have all the high quality swatch material which was locked up in the basement (behind my angel pin on my mailbox).

Adding about half hour after completing the entry...

The elite yacht club member should really like this. When he returns from his foray in jail ("oops, sorry 'bout that, wrong fella, wrong tip, don't mind if you talk to your insurance company, eh?"), he begins putting himself back together and, like today, somebody sneaks through his yard and vandalizes one of the tassles (standard antenna assembly type installations) that he did have mounted.

I walked down the alley and noticed that, when I had "parked" my vehicle outside by the bicycle racks and made my entry, somebody walked by and tore off one of the tassles from the triple tassle I had sewn to the corn. Complete coward faggitts.

Good match with the yacht club sequence. For me, is my daily life for eight years. EVERY time I leave my bags is the standard location (by the bicycle racks, not out front where the police always promise to cite me for "encroachment"), every time I leave my vehicle in a standard area and not risk being run down for loitering or encroachment or lodging, somebody flies by and vandalizes my vehicle. 90% of the vandalism damage to my belongings are this yearly sacking from the police; either to the med unit, the doctor eval, or the high power unit.

Probably so the doctors can get their chest x-ray and let the eunuchs know how to keep working on you.

HA HA HA!

You are the same 3000 miles and seven years away from the upstage as I was...

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140612 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v8.008c)

HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  about 3 months ago

War in La Jolla, eighth year, eigth(c) entry

Recent articles concerning latest events in the previous five days, after nearly a month away from the entries altogether. 1 2 3.

The account of recent events also provides a brilliant display of the scripting system and the seven year program in the sphinx. The recent incident is a 100% parallel to my arrest in 2008. Behind Jonathan's, underneath the "NO LOITERING" sign on the stairs, eating lunch. The officer had arrived to talk with Dave English sitting in the corner and then, at the moment I finished my lunch, he drove past and proceeded to arrest me for loitering. That particular ticket never stuck anything anywhere, but the characters in the cells (the fellow with the shark tattoos, andretti, joseph lacrosse, curtis lowe or old james brown with white hair, the big tall guy with the small madonna tatted on his back, the blond dufus guy always waiting out in the day room after meals in the final hours of the final day going out, always was in the shower and missed the call to get back to cells, the remote control seagull (in 2008 I had figured it was a bird outside) arriving to scratch at the window and play with a metal tin can on the roof outside the small translucent window every damn day during day lock down (high control cells, three beds in a bunk, locked doors, I like it better that way or even in medical lock doors... I say prayer). Many of the other characters. The Living Dead series episode. The Bayou Hunters episodes. The Law and Order about the transgender boy girl and the dad showing up in the street with his sack cut open. Big Bob. Pepper. The guy with the Ozomatl shirt on the way out. The guy in the cell just before release window bending down like he's taking it. Andretti. The mountain man looking dude, which is actually also the guy that picked me up on the pilgrimage on the way to Superior, AZ. Morton Salt from BMI in Aberdeen and on post, he's been at many of the Tuesday night community suppers in La Jolla. I always see him around. The crew of bruthas talkin' it up about the beeyotches on the street in the cell at change-out. Same guys both times. Because this time is the end of the first year of the sphinx sequence according to what the paschal lamb is doing in the world. Eight years ago I was in Embarcadero with the initial forty thieves nutcase tweeker crew to begin with, then up to Old Town for a few weeks, and then up to La Jolla to meet the idiot crew running the streets up here, and then on to the loitering arrest.

Last year was the new forty thieves idiot crowd, Sparky, Spike, Scotty, Tom, McCleash (and he was around in the Gaslamp back in '07 at one of the weekly suppers), and the rest, plus the old ones still here from '07, Minn Mike, Roberto, Sally, and the fat chick with the fighter guys that were a problem in the previous two weeks for me. Then, back in '08, it was just after Christmas, because I had the new translucent bag (Jack's, a local high class restaraunt at the time, went down due to swindling management, usual story, nothing spectacular except the scene and the dining) with a flashing light in it, dropped off of a passing high-speed cyclist. I had that bag, the light, and the new pair of headphones for about a little while, maybe even up to Easter-Pentecost timeage here, and then I got sacked on that lunch break.

Saturday morning I was sacked by a bunch of the faggitts sneaking up behind me to whack off their dog and make it shriek and bark at me. This year I had a new translucent bag, from Sammy's woodfried, and the blinkenlights in it were the birthday decorative napkins which I had been using as wallpaper. The candles on the cakes, the size of the napkins, I had them stacked in the Sammy's bag such that both ends looked like they had lights in them. I even noted the similarity to myself in days recent, the last time I had a high class translucent bag with lights in the ends I got sacked with all my new christmas presents.

That and, in the recent year or so, a fellow arrives on occasion to ask if I need any laundry. Polite fellow, good manners, honest offer. But, with all of the dog attacks recently, and his strange schedule (initially near weekly to gain confidence, now lucky to see him in a month), I wonder if they don't hit their dogs with shock rods while covering the dog's face with a towel heated against my pants or something like that.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

You are all going to burn in hell.

In mid '07.... try to remember here, quit job at the end of '06, homeless early through '07 to pilgrimage in ... if only _I_ had the full journal history available to me. Maybe I quit job at end of '05. There was the arrest for the ticket in Embarcadero, I was in the park after dark watching KCs bag and some of the stuff from the other idiot crew, but they had lots of herbage. I had attended the court date and the registrar confirmed that there was no call and no record for me. The police double checked the excuse a few times and then took me in. That time I made it all the way to the video court lineup where Forrest Gump was playing, I saw the same lady attorney, and the same male attorney stepped from behind her back to impress me from over her shoulder when I was at a key point of decision. The gospel upon returning from that trip to Central was the same as today's gospel, about settling with your opponent quickly. At that time I did not yet know about ba-ra-ca-ca fools, but the concept of tethered obligation was already known to me even before the idiot crowd began running their dogs at me day and night.

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140612 (murder3)

HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  about 3 months ago

War in La Jolla, eighth year, eighth(b)

And this is the projection... the town continues to hide around the corner, and over the hedge, and behind the window, and continues to peck and peck and peck, and continues to run the beastie pedo showoff (usually with pedo abuse, to use the pedo as an assault weapon making noise), for what?

To steal more? Already took everything of value, left the old bulk warehouse material as a grudge sign.

And what if the police _ARE_ called again? They have been nothing but argument and excuses the whole way, for all eight years, through these eighteen months of dog assault and beastiality pedo showoff, daily, nightly, full blast, 20000 cue cards daily, 20000 telephone calls daily.

And what's the point? You gonna steal the rest and toss me in jail again?

FUCKING FAGGITS. When I get that tenth plague you WILL KNOW BECAUSE YOU WILL BE ON YOUR WAY TO HELL!

One way or another, faggitts... I am going to smile to watch you pay. You are going anyway.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

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140612 (murder2)

HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  about 3 months ago

War in La Jolla, eighth year, eighth(a) entry

To be more specific...

It is not so much what was taken, but what was left. Obviously a grudge job. The town showed eight years of all the big money, eighteen months of rampant dogsex pedophilia displays, six months of near nightly dog assaults, two weeks of paid roughs and fighters...

To separate the homeless man from his bags that they may root through them. What is left? The pencil box, the bag of kitchen utensils, _all_ of the old fabric, and the decorative paper napkins used as wallpaper decorations for layered paper carryall bags. That is what is left.

Left the wallpaper, but took the glue. Couldn't even leave the soap dish and container used to poke soap, but did leave a couple (not all) of old Dr. Bronner's soap wrappers (I had kept all of them which I had purchased). Left the one spool of old thread and the container of clippings (to be used as a tassle, supposed to include the gemstones in it... a la Joe Pesci in some gangsta movie with his wife, Casino, maybe), but no needles. Left the stack of coffee heat shields used a protector for the sewing line scissors (as opposed to large fabric scissors), with the fingernail file in it (the matching fingernail file was in the leather M. Julian coat), but not the sewing line scissors. Specifically took all of the sewing materials, except for the last button (ripped off of the prayer book compartment of the backpack), but left the spool of forty year old thread (out of the box, thread itself, well, we have 500 ton spools laying around in old Egyptian tombs, there's no telling how old any given spool in the market is).

Obviously a grudge job. Not some random recycler going down the alley to take whatever was laying out. Obviously a grudge job.

And you just go ahead and look at history. Just try to put that stuff back together and give it back to me in two days on my (certificate) birthday (the rooster tail embedded to the taint on my navel reads closer to eight thousand years). I will happily stick my heel so far up your ass... it makes me laugh waiting for it.

In jail, was able to see this movie, or series "the Living Dead". Zombies rushing on some people trying to make a prison compound their home in a world of zombies.

You know what that is? Those are the first groups sent up by the original Gad after he woke up and put himself back together. That's what the surface had come to after the true monastic sorts finished the pyramid projects and the even bigger idiots had moved downstairs further with the phairies. Gad had to clean all of that up. But they never dropped their voice either, so they had to use guns and bludgeons and stuff.

See, when I put a spike through your brain, it will be labelled "Tenth Egyptian Plague". I am currently working on the ninth, listening to all of your excuses for your capped brains and voices.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Starship Troopers is the recollection of signing the phairies into the apartment dwelling indian reservation known as hell... you keep up their drink supply.

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140612 (murder)

HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  about 3 months ago

War in La Jolla, eighth year, eighth entry

After nearly eighteen months of daily and nightly dog attacks, the police arrive and gutted me.

My new M. Julian coat. Gone. All of the diamonds and gemstones in it. Gone. The nation's largest private collection of gemstones, stolen. The jewels of La Jolla won't be anything in your family, won't be anything your spouse bought for you. The jewels of La Jolla, CA, will be the collection you burgled from the homeless man when you had the San Diego police gut him.

Weeks and weeks of fighters and drunks attacking me, and the police did nothing. Months of nightly dog assaults, and the police did nothing. But when the police arrive on your telephone calls, they gut my house bag. Everything of value. Gone. My sewing kits, gone. My soap tin, gone. My utility bag, with the single final remaining remnant of my life before homeless (a Lucky Strike Zippo lighter), gone. My Alephel stick, gone (the police said they would leave it with my belongings, they didn't tell me they were going to gut my belongings). The new parka coat that I had been given, gone. Everything and anything of value. Gone. All of my decorative sewing tassles which I had been keeping for future work. Gone. My sewing needle (a warhammer, a pincushion with all of the sewing needles arranged in it), gone. I can't even repair my belongings if I wanted to because all of my materials, gone.

When the police pull you over and search your car, they break the door handles, slash the upholstery, and cut out the liner from the roof, eh? They tore open the backpack on my backpack (the backpack is the sleeping bag, now sewn up and looks like a golf bag, with the comforter blanket on top, and a hand sewn little backpack made especially for the prayer book and the alephel stick), tore and ripped open the waterproofing liner that I had sewn into it (a heavy duty plastic shopping gift bag from one or the other local shops), and ripped all the buttons off of the book compartment. I can't even repair it. I have no thread or needles!

My new M. Julian coat. With all of the gemstones in it. 100-plus of the prettiest shekels and talents anybody has ever picked up (even the gospels' tempter sported only a small handful of stones to turn into bread), quite possibly the nation's largest private collection of gemstones, gone. Burgled because dog attack after dog attack after dog attack brought the police to gut the homeless man.

And then... and then... and THEN...

To get out of jail without waiting three or more weeks for a trial required me to accept one year summary probation, waiving right to presence at PC977 (public crossing 977, the intersection of torrey pines and girard). I cannot have presence, at all, within sight of 7600 Girard for one year. Those were the terms. The town attacks me with animals day and night, and when the police arrive, they gut me.

On the mapfortu.wikidot.com material...

From the book of Judges, Samson's riddle to the Philistines.

What is sweeter than honey? What is stronger than a lion?

What is sweeter than honey? Nerve agent (tastes better than nutrasweet)
What is stronger than a lion? Seahorses. Boils. Boiled down old eunuchs.

Samson started to drop his voice, but Delilah arrived and began pointing him up with "kryptonite", "samsonite", nerve agent and seahorses. If you had not ploughed with my heifer. EUNUCHS.

Jonah never made it. The Lord relented. Supposedly Jehu managed to achieve the tenth egyptian plague and dropped his voice enough to knock out one temple of the dog faggitt idiots... then he rode off into the sunset never to be seen again. Old legend.

My voice is dropping, I am squeezing out the nerve agent and peeling off the seahorses. When I achieve the level necessary for the tenth plague I will ship you all to hell.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

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140429 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v8.007)

HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  about 5 months ago

War in La Jolla, eighth year, seventh entry

Police harassment. In the past eight years I have had nearly one thousand, nearly one thousand, about one hundred times every year, I have had nearly one thousand face-to-face "What's your name?" encounters with the local SDPD. Five bookings, three infraction tickets. One thousand face to face contacts. Is that enough for harassment yet? Have they figured out that some b*tch with a remote control bird keeps calling them every time I take care of my own business at night? Why should I need a face-off with the PD for taking care of my own business?

Saturday night. Sometimes, late Saturday night or early Sunday morning, I arrive at the church early, take a small nap in the parking lot (in my "car"), and wake up for morning mass on Sunday. There's a local security guard (CSC security) that drives through the church parking lot to tell me to go. This happened several months ago and, when I asked at our office on Monday, was told that we do not employ any security guard for any parking lot patrol at night. Okay. Settles that. Saturday night I have the idea to park in the lot and wait for Sunday mass. CSC security arrives and calls the police. The police arrive and tell me that I must leave. They don't know me? One thousand contacts over these years and I need to leave while rogue vigilante on-the-job off-his-route security guard assaults me for an hour with his vehicle?

Security guard routine Saturday night wasn't enough. For years and years and years, one thousand face-to-face contacts, the police always arrive for homeless man screaming and yelling (another day, another dollar, making people scream and holler... that's a mantra for the faggitt mob). Sunday morning, after rogue security guard and police hassle me all night, I am somewhat talking to myself as I pick up books around church before mass. So one of our own ushers, a fella watching the faggitt mob hassle all over me every week at mass, calls the police for homeless guy talking in church and the police arrive to tell me to leave for at least the day. Escort me off.

I wasn't arrested or ticketed, and apparently that made somebody upset, because across the street, just as I exit the church, some Mexican looking fella in a four-door sedan punches out a car window in front of the 24 hour fitness and then takes off. Conveniently, during the moments of the car window punching, the faggitt mob had one of the cars in the vicinity going off all alarms with horns and lights, so nobody really paid attention to the car window breaking. The hispanic male in the four-door yells "fuck you!" to me as I cross the street and he drives off.

WTF? Why was he even hailing me at all? OH WAIT! I recognize the faggitt!

Ten days or so ago, at two in the morning, I had an encounter with that faggitt. Not the first time. He likes to wait at 2 AM around the midtown La Jolla Hotel (Herschel and Silverado) if I am about late at night, and then he likes to hassle me. Ten days ago I had a 2 AM meeting with officer "Heroin Elvis" (looks like he's pale to break out in a sweat at any moment), and officer "T2" (looks like the molten metal guy) at 2 AM because idiot in four-door sedan was waiting for me around the block while the rest of the faggitt mob hassled me to him charging his car at me. He drove off that night with the same "fuck you!" because he couldn't get me to yelling back at him, and his phone call to officer Heroin Elvis and officer T2 was only that I was singing or chanting loudly or something.

Jeff Stewart, of old "Encore" (women's consignment resale store, nice clothing) fame--his mother's store, used to tell me about the faggitt security guard that patrols the alley where four-door sedan faggitt likes to wait for me. "Yeah, I know that security guard. I can sleep anywhere I want."

For years that security guard has made a practice of spying me at night.

And the remote control birds.

And the remote control rats.

And all of the spycams and spy microphones everywhere.

Fuck this world of dog sh*t eating fags, pedo raping whores (natural seclection for millionaires--raping the kids with the dogs to find the secret marmadukes in the fifis), and spy faggitt sluts.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Fearful of being caught by the FBI on the internet, the pedo raping animal shit eating faggitts bring their political flagpole mob to the homeless.

Could the FBI please stop whacking off to internet chat room porn and notice the pedo raping animal fags mobbing this town daily?

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140314 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v8.006)

HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  about 5 months ago

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.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

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).

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140311 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v8.005)

HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  about 5 months ago

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.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

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!

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140310 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v8.004)

HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  about 5 months ago

War in La Jolla, eighth year, fourth entry

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

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. :-)

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140509 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v8.003)

HomelessInLaJolla HomelessInLaJolla writes  |  about 5 months ago

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.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

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.

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