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...

I've met the lady. She really is all that. Great husband, too.

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.

I forgot it was silly season. Mind you, it is the off-year one, the Winter Olympics to Superbowl Tuesday's buffet of awesomeness, so one really cares, including me.

Still, though, props to Brat for achieving trivia question notoriety. It's almost a shame his votes (should he actually make it to Congress) will be in line with his party waaaaaaaaaaay more often than not.

And congrats to the Democrats as well. Always nice when the other team commits an unforced error.

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/

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.

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/

That much-obituaried Tea Party strikes again. Standing by for fustakrakich to scoff at attempts to oust the incumbent deadwood in 3. . .2. . .

Thinking about jumping ship from my cheap but reliable 3GS into the android pool. I'm assuming it's all about the hardware, right? Apart from the Samsung offerings, which everybody raves about (yet I'm not a huge fan of the form factor), has anyone got any recommendations?