Just not the true story...
https://venezuelanalysis.com/analysis/10360

This is also how they show you "Syria" and an "Arab Spring".

It was how "Neda" was created... in the "Green Revolution".

The Cops.

Never trust them.

And NEVER call 911.

Online now.

I saw this article about some new robots they're designing, and it looks like they're taking steps to make nobots. These robots are "tiny", 8 x 4.5 inches. They're certainly not nobots yet, not even nano-robots. Not even micro-robots.

The scientists programmed the robots using rules based on the behavior of termite colonies. Acting without human-style intelligence or a central plan, termite swarms comprising millions of insects routinely build mounds up to 42 feet tall. The insects act individually, taking cues from their surroundings and from each other.

In a similar way, the robot swarm can build towers, castles and pyramids out of foam bricks. Acting autonomously, individual robots can even build themselves staircases to reach the higher levels of the structures, adding bricks wherever they are needed, according to the researchers, who also published details of their project in Science.

I saw later that alphadogg submitted it and samzepus accepted it. Excellent submission, IMO.

Meanwhile, I went back fifteen years to play a little Quake with Rority.

Hulka's Search Engine joined the game
        For eight months, Quake players and gamers in general bemoaned the loss of Slipgate Central. Last November Quakeport opened and filled the void. Gestalt said there was something "better than Slipgate" in the works, and Hulka informed me (and I misquoted him) he had "something in the works, too".
        Hulka's search page is now on line, although the Sarge says there are still a few kinks to it yet. Drop by Hulka's Boot Camp and add your gaming page! Quick, before the Planet sits on him. 2/9/1999
        UPDATE: From the Bootcamp page today: "Hulka HQ Opens- [2/10/99] 1:25am Join the Hulka HQ database of cool ass gaming and entertainment sites here! Sure, we're not big yet, but we just opened shop and it's up to you to help build our database of all the cool ass sites you want to share with other members of Hulka's Army, so if you find one, add it NOW!" 2/10/1999

Windows trips on his own grenade
        I've spent the entire day trying to get Windows fixed. The Gameplex problem has been resolved. Sorry for any trouble. 2/12/1999

Fragfest Disconnected
        Oops, it's not resolved. My apologies to all of you.
        Gameplex's net admin informs me he's got a bit of a mess over there; he has my sympathies. Meanwhile, any nooze I find will be at the famvid address for a while. 2/13/1999

Fragfest joins the game
        I'll bet you thought I was going to use that ticket myself! Gameplex has been having some technical problems, so if you don't see an update, go to the old address at http://www2.famvid.com/mcgrew/quake/quake2.htm. Meanwhile, Desiato and Kneel are trying to wrestle the ticket away from me. Desiato is busy (according to his page) getting his ass kicked by his new job. Yello still denies responsibility for Kneel's disappearance, but has kidnaped yet another granny, Desiato's. When questioned, Desiato's bodyguard replied, "Look, mate, I'm responsible for guarding his body and I'm NOT responsible for yours." 2/15/1999

Back in the present...

Damn, but it's been a crappy winter. For everyone, it seems. This is the worst winter I remember seeing in my life. God, but it's been cold. And there has been snow on the ground, lots of it at times, since the beginning of December. Most of North America had a hellish winter.

Meanwhile, in Russia where they need winter for the Olympics, it's been spring all month.

England is drowning in the worst floods since before the US was a country. California is in their worst drought in decades, and surely hope Betteridge was right.

What's it like where it's summer now? I've almost forgotten what summer feels like!

Porn gives young people an unrealistic and unhealthy idea
of how quickly a plumber will come to your house.

Online now.

"So," Rority said, "Want to go play that silly game?"

"Nah," I replied. "I'm burned out on Quake. Lets go somewhen else. Maybe back to when K5 still was a vibrant, living site rather than the zombie on life support it is now."

"OK," he said, "But Saturday we're playing Quake!"

How to get your story posted to kuro5hin
By mcgrew in Meta
Sat Feb 12, 2005 at 09:36:40 AM EST

Some people have whined that it's just too darned hard to get a story posted, particularly to the front page.

Well, your troubles are over. There is no need for "administrative action" to get your story posted. Indeed, K5's present membership base is far more lenient about what they allow to be published than some of the dearly departed K5 losers who have committed suicide.

Here are ten guidelines to getting enough votes to get your story posted to section, if not the front page. Well, at least to get my vote.

Some of these are guidelines, and some are hard and fast rules. With any creative endeavor, rules can be broken. However, before you break any of them, be sure you thoroughly understand the rules and their reason for existence.

1. Have something to say
Face it, we can't all be localroger. Some of us have been cursed with creativity, and the luckier of you can simply sit back and enjoy our madness. If you have nothing to say, then stop right there, unless you are a very, very good writer.

Do you have a hobby? An area of expertise? If you can make your hobby interesting to us, we'll vote it up. If you make it really, really interesting we'll vote it Front Page.

2. Have a three digit IQ
K5's readership has been traditionally more intelligent than most sites on the web, although there are, of course, exceptions. If you are among the lower 50 percentile mark in reasoning ability (i.e., I.Q.<100), then see guideline #3

3. Be funny
If you can make me laugh, you'll get my vote. And lots of other votes, too.

You don't have to be smart to be funny. In fact, considering the limited reasoning abilities of some clowns, intelligence seems to be a hindrance to humor.

Remember, boys, girls, and spambots, the one thing that makes us different than the other pathetic animals on this planet is our sense of humor. Except you spambots, of course.

4. Read something besides the internet and People Magazine.
I believe you'll find that the most published Kurobots are also the ones who have read the most books. Books - you know, those funny looking square things made out of dead trees. These are always edited, usually by editors who actually know the language.

It's hard to get a story posted when you're only semiliterate. The way to becoming more literate is to read more literature. And I'm not talking about crap on the internet, either.

The more you read, the better you'll write. The better you write the more people will vote for your dumb story.

5. Be controversial
Although I personally voted against this story, it is a good example of how to be controversial by being completely "over the top." If you get a lot of discussion while your story is in the edit que, you'll have some folks voting it up just to preserve the comments.

6. Know what you're talking about
Don't write an article about guitars unless you're a luthier or a guitarist. If you're the co-founder of Wikipedia you would be foolish to write a story about your goldfish. Unless, of course, your goldfish is funny or controversial. Or unless you have a story about how to keep your goldfish alive. Or unless you can write like Stephen King.

You're going to get flak from K5ers if you get posted, and most of this flak will be from people who think they understand, but really have no clue.

7. Don't just slop down the first thing that comes to mind
There are two possible bad consequences to sitting down, rattling off some ill-concieved piece of crap and submitting it. The first is that your story will be dumped unceremoniously in about thirty minutes time. Even worse, they might vote your bad story up, and you'll have to live with the damned thing.

You will find that some of K5's better contributors think about a story for weeks or months, then write.

8. Proofread! And never, ever send a story to vote without the edit queue
You will make typos, unless you're incredibly lucky or you're Isaac Asimov reincarnated. After you've written your article, read it! Ask yourself, if someone else had written it, would I enjoy it? If not, then it is certain to be dumped. Figure out what you don't like about your story and change it.

The edit queue is there for a very good reason. People will point out typos, misspellings, factual errors, non-erroneous facts they think are errors, plus of course they will add some trolling, flaming, bashing, and crapflooding. After all, this is K5.

9. Have a thick skin
Because, you know, you're going to get voted down. Because, well, YOU FAIL IT! ...and so do I. We all do. Believe it or not, we all get voted down. Even our peerless leader.

10. Have 80 nullo dup accounts
How do you think rmg gets posted FP?

Poll
Which rule did mcgrew shatter in this story?
o None of them 2%
o #1 1%
o #2 4%
o #3 8%
o #4 2%
o #5 7%
o #6 2%
o #7 1%
o #8 4%
o #9 0%
o #10 7%
o all of them 18%
o screw this, -1, resection to trash can 37%

Votes: 69

It was a really nasty surprise when I opened slashdot and Beta hit me in the face. Apparently from the backlash, I was not alone. Every story was full of little but "fuck beta" comments. I added my own. There were one or two complaining about "anonymous posters" and the "fuck beta" protest, but most of the protesters were logged in.

The biggest mistake Dice made was releasing barely alpha-quality code to the public, as many have pointed out. The second big mistake was slapping us in the face with it. The straw that broke the camel's back for me was the announcement that the Slashdot Classic interface was going to be gone, and we'd be stuck with this butt-ugly unusable interface.

Meanwhile, someone opened a new site for slashdot beta refugees to flee to, "altslashdot.org". It lasted a few hours before getting slashdotted, it was nearly impossible to get in over the weekend. Yesterday that URL gave a 404; they changed the name to "soylent" something or other, I couldn't find the site last night. Probably just as well, over the weekend they seemed to be trying to handle slashdot sized traffic with a 386 and a 33.3 modem. None of the sites I've run have ever had that problem, but I didn't try to host them on a single desktop using DSL as these guys seem to be doing, I got hosts who had the infrastructure to handle a slashdotting. Guys, I'm paying fifteen bucks a year for my book site! Hosting is dirt cheap.

A boycott of slashdot started yesterday. I intended to join at first; when Classic is gone, slashdot is gone. I intended to only check my mesages this week, and post my normal Wednesday Nobots chapter with a subtle hint that web sites die when not properly cared for; Rority takes me back ten years to a then thriving community that is now a ghost town.

In the messages was an offtopic comment from soulskill, in response to an offtopic comment of mine about Beta and Classic. "Classic isn't going away any time soon." It's pretty obvious to me that they not only hear us, they're in panic mode. They realize their blunder. The protest has been effective. There is no longer any need for a boycott, we have been heard, loud and clear.

That was certain this morning when I opened slashdot at work. I was served Classic, without having to add ?&"nobeta=1" and there were no messages in the header about Beta. It's as if Beta was just a bad dream.

There is no need for a boycott, no more need for "fuck beta" posts. If they slide again, we can resume. But soulskill, at least, has given me hope that maybe, just maybe, Dice won't kill my beloved slashdot.

War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and twenty-seventh entry

In my culture, the only reason to mark somebody with top tits is to label (register) them as a animal sex pedophile. That's surgical swelling. The first Adam-line eunuchs (long after white-brain steam-pressed eunuchs, not necessarily intergendered), before they were needed as "window dressing" (row, row, row your 'bot, gently down the stream, once their impulse has been rocked, they're pretty much window dressing), had swelling at tummy level, lopsided. If you ever begin telling your wife that she's looking off she'll absolutely flip out on you, because now she knows that your excuse channels and hate pumps are lined up to be stupid enough to think she's your real wife, and you should notice those sorts of things, and eunuchs have historically been ashamed of that lopsidedness. Similar to "what's wrong with your hand" or "what's wrong with your wings". Later models now have prearranged swelling areas... boys are no different, out of sight, out of mind, you're all sized and cut to fit long before you see yourself--and you'll never even know you've missed the rest.

These are really before and after shots. Elijah to Elisha. That's what we do in the pyramids. Lots of sewing. (asian dialect) What is under great wall? Same thing under pyramids. Kingdom of So-Ing.

How much does life really suck? When people were flying through the trees and walking on their feet (you believe them to be hands), then, at one time, as the humans pressed together and grouped, then humans began doing what they always do. They complain on each other. There wasn't much to complain about at that time. You need somebody to wash your back because your arm-pit is dripping a tailback--I hate it when the roof leaks, makes everything run. So, in addition to that complaint, there's the "who made that smell?" and "who is moving the bad air?" My butt is so tight to hold a leaf upright with the taint. Okay, after a while humans keep complaining on each other, and now _everybody_ must take a piercing. Only a small one. In the taint. There's nothing there. Your butt should be that tight anyway. This way we know who moved the bad air. If you're not part of the club then, even if one of them moved the feather in the cap, then you're probably the one that needs to go when the bad air moves.

Consider the mathematical crystal correlation with this heart shaped rock I have. The pinhole in the top leaves a decrystalline melting diamond around the middle. And the middle diamond even has a channel to look through.

Pharaoh, just sit here and count until we figure out where your feather piercing taint donut reflected in your a donut brain plaque. Oh, starting to skip, oh, there he went, fell over.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Just how good is their life? The highest honor of their race is to be turned into a hazardous materials killing machine three handed remote control robot. Great and small, big and tall, young and old, two and three handed males alike... all going to hell.

Just how suck is their life? The next-to-final joke is how much more it sucks behind that door. There's always another "kicker".

War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and twenty-sixth entry

I fully support prison buses for the entire town of animal sex snuff pedophile rape perverts.

I did not know that the US gov't provides services to animal sex snuff pedophile rape perverts. For years and years and years, the police, "Kante" in particular, keeps telling me over and over "_they_ don't want you here". Right. There's a 24 ft. passover lamb hanging on the city wall. There's a chicken witch pole out back against the great wall. Nobody in the world really becomes homeless _unless_ some idiot-fag millionaire went to go f*ck their dog and leverage the money against the unsuspecting target. They organize themselves in hate squads and attack teams to make sexual assaults showing off their pedophile and dog sex toys. But the US gov't is taking the side of "they" don't want you here? In the early years I would tell the police,"they are following me around the block" and the answer was always "well, who's they?"

So, when you tell me "they don't want you here", are you ready to stand up for a judge and make that statement, "they"? Do you have a referendum vote? How about the "they" that called on any particular occasion. Did "they" leave their name and number? After years and years and years of hit and run "they" tactic, do we have any real legitimate complaint? Since when does the US gov't provide muscle service for anonymous "they" that put on disgusting dogsex pedophile shows hundreds of times daily?

Prison buses. I fully support prison buses for this entire town of dogsex pedophile faggitts. When we finish here, and get the system smoothed over, then we should move next up to Del Mar and do the same.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Must be a new moderation algo...

    30% Insightful
    30% Overrated
    20% Offtopic

Online now.

"So," I asked Rority, "who's going to win the superbowl?"

"Who's gonna what the what?"

"I thought you were an expert on us?"

"Yeah, before the wired centuries. You wired weirdos are weird."

"So, how far are we going?"

"Fifteen years."

"No! Drop me at home!"

"It's out of my way. Here we go..."

Kneel died
        The Katalysmic Media page looks like this today: "WE HAVE GONE.... THIS SITE IS NO MORE.....BUT FEAR NOT.......WE SHALL RETURN SOON AT A NEW ADDRESS"
        I hope he didn't move in with crash! 2/8/1999

Gameplex died
        The Game Complex has been missing since last week. This ransom note was finally posted:

Please stand by as Gameplex undergoes reconstruction.
In the weeks to come, we will be able to offer the
latest from the gaming industry, accompanied by
exclusive previews and reviews.

Internet died
        Gameplex is missing; Neil is mising; conspiracy theorists agree something foul is hatching.
        Further investigation finds, however, they've just gotten lost in the gamespyder. 2/9/1999

Yello frags Neil
        Yello, questioned about the disappearance of Neil Katalysmic, denied responsibility. Actually, it was his granny that did the denying, saying "Tsk tsk, that boy's totally irresponsible."
        And regarding disappearances, Tikki was heard to say "Hey, what's with Gameplex, you heard anything?"
        Harry Houdini was dug up for questioning and later released. Police are now looking for a gentleman named "David Copperfield". It is not known if Mr. Copperfield is a suspect in the disappearances. 2/9/1999

Blue Disconnected
        "It is with sincere regret that I announce that the message boards... are no more... some of the few who were using it were using it as a forum for abuse..."
          And here I've been wasting my time at Planet Crap, with "all the news that's fit to whine, bitch, and complain about." 2/10/1999

Internet Disconnected
        The Game Complex, Kneel, Nacho Extreme, Spew's show 100, and clan sites that registered with gamespyder are all still missing. Yello, in possession of some sort of Timewarp substance, amulet, or device, claims he is not responsible. 2/10/1999

War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and twenty-fifth entry

Scroll widget. The waiting for http:// continues to be in the way of the scroll widget. Tabbed browsing was an argument ended now that we have tabbed browsing. But, the scroll widget. The waiting for http:// continues to be a problem for the scroll widget. Why can they not make the priveleges for the scroll widget above that? Tabbed browsing was an argument ended now that feature fest everybody and everybody else must have tabbed browsing else is deprecated and old and worthless. But, the scroll widget. If you would like to play with the scroll widget timing then notice that, if click and hold the scroll widget while glaring at waiting for http://, the size ratio (and, if the buffer, then perhaps aspect) of the scroll widget may change long before the scroll widget becomes available for real use. That's experience to not be extra upset when the visible page shift goes berzerk and you lose the headline you were reading on slashdot, and extra experience to have an idea of which direction and how far to move the mouse to find it, and experience to know if the page frame shift looks to have been (from the glaring at waiting for http:// combined with other environmental indicators) so stupid as to require pgup or pgdn or end or home or something to fix it.

If you didn't know that the world is a stalking game for millionaires to make new ones, the millionaire way, then you really should begin with the wikispaces material.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

The people in the kingdom of heaven. They are not really any better off. They could be 20 ft. from the surface and never see daylight. They could be 20 ft. from the bottom of the ocean and feel no worry. They grow up in it. There was a screen saver for the Amiga, drew mazes and walked through them, great algorithm. That is how tightly packed the walls are. They have viewing rooms for sunlight. I remember that same cast glow in some giant enormous public indoor swimming pool gymnasiums around Sochi or Rostov or Odessa. Sochi has recently been in the news for Winter Games. Not a bad place.

Plants grow mold and mold rots. Fur rots. Polymorpheries and their taxidermied reanimated parts rot if poorly maintained. Your dogs are not even dogs. They are prettied up stage models.

Some of the kingdom of heaven folks are allowed to keep their wings. That is part of the accounting process built into the algorithm keeping that maze. They, over the course of their lives, suffer from the "what's wrong with your hand" problem. They don't have chicken gloved wings from passover parties (who knows how that sort of thing translated into the table of the nations for the ones that stay downstairs), they don't have nerve agent points applied to deliberate knuckles, joints, and juncture points with tendons and ligaments... they suffer from the staring. The staring contest is much worse in heaven. Worse than packed with more people behind the wall Asian. They also see more clearly how the lines define their speech and reactions, they make that many more excuses, they see more clearly when the people aroune them are deliberately boxing them into their route to the next door, and they make that many more excuses. That is the way it is with them.

The ones with wings, they begin to cower more around the shoulders, hold the wings in, make more excuses for why the feathers have all fallen off (around forty, I would guess). Like the paschal lamb upstairs they grow up surrounded by groups of people devoted to managing them along their way. Entire kingdoms of monetary units are defined using him as a secret game token marker. We don't really advertise the paschal lamb upstairs except in very ancient choreographed forms devoted to hitting only the excuses that everybody makes. Downstairs, with the wings, they are surrounded that more tightly in the boxes, and the people around them are also that much more trained to go along with the verse response excuses defined in the lines, and they see even more clearly how that works downstairs, and they make that many more excuses.

They have the same option. The "big walk". Some of the ones with wings, in old times, if they were really strong, they made "that walk to see the light of day and save their wings", like the upstairs passover lamb "made fast to save his skin". They also, like Seth, like Ham, like Isaac, like all of the prophets, have those little excuses for why the way was blocked, or they didn't quite do it right, or at least they didn't fall for this that or the other as they walk back into their subwoofer den and probably mr. saturday night special devotions. They all have the explanation for this that or the other, but not the "loud voice", nor the other markers. The game on the prophet hasn't even been close for how many thousands of years?

In the kingdom of heaven they know the way to begin the walk to make it upstairs. Full of backsteps and retreats, never know if you're doing it right, probably get half killed a dozen times in the first six months. How much do you love the Lord?

In the kingdom of heaven they walk to the other door. Pick your lie, make your excuse, walk through the door. The old time prophets upstairs were so well trained that they would "laugh at this and walk down that ramp". When the choirs of angels began stacking up (we see how wicked the world has become and we are not going to unroll until something is done about it), then mankind improved the revolver system to point and shoot and lined them all up in the gallery. JFK is the perfection of the revolver lined up with moving target, at the same corner every time. If you look around the 92037 midtown design district for chasing kids down with dogs, you probably find Martin Luther's soap box, too. John Lennon's front door.

"Yes, the planet got destroyed. But for a beautiful moment in time we created value for shareholders."

War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and twenty-fourth entry

Recently picked up another shiny. Similar to this one, with far fewer sides and edges and corners, with the same rainbow colors on the facets. A little beaten up on the r-side (one of the ears of the heart is chipped and clipped, but in such a way that it would seem to have been deliberately fashioned), showing the decrystallinity in the center from shaping the heart and polishing the edges and corners. The size is about this.

Last night some idiot was following me around the block, as usual. I am hardly able to go anywhere, sit anywhere, without knowing that there will be a full twenty minutes of scheduled bullsh*t whenever I arrive to the next sitting area. Every seagull, crow, finch, sparrow, hummingbird, car horn from around the block, car alarm from around the block, and piezoelectric tweeter (fire alarms, air fresheners, other randomly available piezoelectric) appears to know and react flawlessly to perfect plain English theatre drama. Nary a dead dog on remote control, however, gives a sh*t about my voice. The dog will rubberneck on my fingertips and act as you in the theatre drama show, but the dog won't even twitch its ears when I begin to pound, pearl, otherwise exhibit a compression or open up my voice.

In the area of whether or not the dogs and car horns should notice... last night the idiot following me around the block waits a ways off for me to lay out the backpack and take out the coffee and tobacco. Then he comes up behind me, like so many of the dog faggitts have in the past (with their dog), breathing heavily... you know, because they've spent seven years stalking me around this block looking for my dick, and they have all the routines and lines in place because they have been completely unchecked the entire time. I had been telling the police, since the very first telephone call and incident, that the people around me were the problem. Now we really know. So the idiot comes up behind me breathing heavily (often they creep up behind me to have the dog breathe heavily, or bark... but six hundred dead remote control dogs daily during daylight care not a whit about my big voice), and I turn around and breathe heavily back at him, as if to question,"WTF are you doing?" Then he wants to stand and stare, at near ten o'clock at night, and then when I counsel him to keep going because I am not looking to meet any new friends in the dark hours, then he begins to argue. Obviously. The argument turns worse, and then he begins threatening to swing, holding up his hands and fists and advancing. I back away to avoid the compulsion to crush his head, and he does what all the other faggitts all the years have done and begins pawing at my backpack and my bags.

So I really turn on the air contest. Concentrate on the nose, concentrate on the frontal lobes, concentrate on pushing the air from the diaphragm. He continues to argue but, on occasion, he backs off and puts his hands on his knees like he is having trouble keeping up with exertion. I was puzzled. He didn't appear to be exerting himself that much to me. *shrug* But, if he's going to keep standing up off his knees and advancing on me again with his fists, then I am going to keep opening up on his eardrum and letting him have it.

Twenty minutes later he finally left and, eventually, the police arrived to ask about an argument. With no injuries and nobody around (as the faggitts always run off to the southeast quadrant across Torrey Pines and Girard), they left.

If I'm lucky maybe he woke up this morning with a head cold. Maybe he was only putting on the show. I'll keep working on that.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

One of the primary environmental noises which made me think of the heroin wire remote control and the fully dead (not quite dead yet) remote control, in addition to the impeccable timing all day all year and the neverending swarm of day tourists, is the "johnny one-note" trick. For years of kicking about boogers devotedly (about the past three since the pilgrimage walk), improving my voice every day, getting over completely any susceptibility to the blowgun pulsing air cannon--box fan for laryngitis and common cold, increasing my range on the top bottom and filling in the middle, up to the last year filling up my voice, two months ago developing the "supra voce", three or four weeks of supra voce and now into three or four weeks of a daily schedule, a daily ramp ladder, for improving the supra voce and opening up with bigger sound every morning... each and every day... similar to the "not a point of sewing goes unnoticed" (car horns, bird calls, idiots on cell phones for near every point of sewing I have to display, for all the years that has taken)... each and every day there's the "johnny one-note" waiting around the corner. When working on voice there is much time spent on "ah" and pushing the lower range. That leaves entire minutes when the "ah" note doesn't really change until the next booger, set of boogers, or significant tightening in the entire facial structure. Without fail, and with a frequency and accuracy that made me think, the "johnny one-note" arrives from around the corner. The motorcycle, the car muffler, the airplane engine, the hele-chopper, the idiot on cell phone or talking with friend... all day every day the "johnny one-note" just coincidentally happens to match the note I am working on (and, if I am not working on it, then there is no "johnny one-note" trick waiting around the corners to mock my voice like a mimic child). The johnny one-note may not be as full, may not be as round, but will indeed match the particular "note" each and every time--car muffler, car engine, motorcycle exhaust, airplane, hele-chopper, idiot on cell phone or talking with friend. Johnny one-note after JON after JON all day long.

They are green eggs and ham brain damaged and heart diseased. They are not professional vocalists, and neither are all of the mechanical fill in noises. How else could such an enormous johnny one-note system be so well on demand and calibrated unless it were plug and play, like programming robots? That has always made me wonder. Aside from remote control, aside from secret wire audio network, aside from coordinated plays to chase targets and knowing the layout of the architecture ahead of time (and having hundreds of generations of practice chasing little children around the block and raping them with their dogs, cracking eggs to make the perfect millionaire ohm-let)... how else could such a johnny one-note be effected unless a large number of the participants are that completely on remote control?

Just what percentage of the world on sphinx and great wall is already dead (not quite dead yet), do y's'pose?

Online now. I may release the whole book for free at the end of the month.

But that's not what I wanted to talk about. I want to know why Dice wants slashdot dead? That beta clusterfuck HAS to be engineered to drive people away.

So I'm on a friend's PC (Windows 7, IE 7) while he's making a beer run and I decide to visit slashdot. It comes up... that god damned beta. Shit. So I try the "nobeta=1". Doesn't work.

There's nowhere I can log in. So I post a comment AC offtopically bitching about the god damned beta bullshit and its problems, go to another tab, make an on-topic, insightful comment and "you must wait a little while". GOD DAM IT, SLASHDOT!!

So I read a couple more threads, go back to the "you must wait a little while" and try again to submit the comment. "This resource is no longer valid."

Did Dice have another web site that was competing badly with slashdot, so they bought slashdot to kill it? Because I can think of no other explanation for their recent behavior.

Can anybody point me to another site where one can discuss tech and science? Because slashdot is becoming unusable. When classic is gone, so am I.

War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and twenty-third entry

The truth about the millionaire mob, such as in midtown La Jolla, is that they are upset to be running on a homeless man, a stand-in-mummy (SIM) or in this case the real passover lamb, or any other jobbie that wanders into their area. What they usually do is send the jobbies off to work, secure the neighborhood, and drop a few little children off with fries and a drink and wait for the show to start. Takes many eggs to make an omelet, and millionaires think fairly large of themselves. That is the sound of eight thousand years' worth of half-mangled children wailing from hell; they are not dead yet.

In 53214 I have noted the babylonian furnace area around 84th and National. That is the main intersection to correspond with Torrey Pines and Girard, but the real eggo-run furnaces are not so visible. As here in 92037, the babylonian furnace is set such that nobody sees anything unless the millionaires make the call. In 53214, you need only look down the block from the passover lamb's childhood home at 1202 S. 88, and somewhere down around 937 S. 88 is a little footpath. Two blocks to the west of that, similarly around 1000 on 90th or 91st, is a paved footpath. Up the street (south) from the 88th footpath is a house, around 1121 or so, that is known as "boot's house". Here in 92037 there, similarly, is a small dog which strikingly resembles "boots" which lives just a block or so to the north. Many aspects of the architecture are rotated around and interchanged to allow for local areas and necessary populations. A good example of local area adjustments is, again, available here in 92037, The chicken witch pole viewing area features the Ham, Isaac, and gospel trees in much the same form as depicted in the holy scripture. The front porch of Von's, where the picnic tables are, features three trees in a similar viewing pattern, but the branches are interchanged and moved around. The same rotation and interchange may be seen when comparing the holy scripture tree trio with, for example, the oriental tree trio found in an artwork book a week or so back in the journal entries. The trees in front of Von's reflect the changes at play in the local area, for anybody that may know how to read the patterns.

In the 53214 area there are likely to be found other elements of the chicken witch pole babylonian furnace architectural area. For example, from the dirt path, the passover lamb's childhood home stands at about the spot as the local Roman Catholic church here in 92037. Across the street and up the block.

In the realm of cutting down a person's brain there are several new developments. The excuse channel plus pump word mechanism continues to work well and prove itself. In the early ages, after learning to "talk", the first excuse many children learn is "what?" You say something, you ask them a question, and they give you blank "what?" And that's great, to go along with r-side profiling and dental adjustments, because there is a particular tonality to their "ah" in "what?". As the days and weeks go by, as they read from books and letters, the mortician aspect of the show analyzes to find other words in which they have the same "ah" as "what?" Then go to work on watching for those words, steerng them into those words, and cutting them off... telling them to "say this" or "don't use such a high voice" or ridicule them for whining. That will assist them to deliberately shut down their primary excuse channel, narrow it, use it less frequently, allow the boogers to build up and nudge their brain to find new excuse channels. Hit the children with the same old questions and see what they cough up in place of "what?" Go to work on that. Lather, rinse, repeat. The sound of young children, especially girls (remote control from the kingdom below), going over hopscotch rhymes often has that drastic nasty off-tonality sound to it, especially in groups. That's a common excuse channel for millionaires: "dog means it". You know, like dead chicken glove glory doing the dirty freaknasty because the older kids and mommy and daddy said so. Millionaires actually hate to listen to hopscotch rhymes and children's games because it reminds them of excuse channels long ago blocked off and boogered up.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

In the "what?" excuse channel plus hate pump mechanism. The book of Leviticus is the "throw the book at them". The book of leviticus is the most carefully refined set of sounds known to accumulate siphons in the tongue, cut off the sounds, you don't make those anymore. If you sit refining, like pressing paper leaf to the roof of the mouth, you may find that wall. All of the snap-crackle-pop will be up to the front, at the one-fifth to the tip (more or less). That's pharaoh's spitting cobra, quitting the mosque, turning around to show the priests that he _IS_ working on it, and the priests shaking their head sadly at the special effect saying,"Your voice still isn't dropping, you need to use more than the top tip of your tongue to do that."

When you are ready to accept how sick and dying you are, and we've been shipping people to the same hell since long before the kingdom of heaven stood as the accounting proxy and new baby department, then I am able to teach to you how to stay out of hell. Am I superman? Do I have three genetic codes in the sinsus? No. I did this one booger and one long-lost ages-old cousin at a time. You need to stay out of hell.

Hell. Check in for phonies; wake up, debt counseling time, but now it's $100M daily and welcome to hell. Jobbies, tell us your troubles, how much would have been enough just to level some of that out, that's your first day, welcome to hell, after that all you do is clean the cells. The people makin' the big money up on stage, the people cleanin' the cells.

Losing your eyes. Stop crying. How can you do that? Every last bug and phairie and dog down here is practically starving for fresh water (water, water, everywhere, but, like a torso closet, nothing but greasy grime to drink), and you still well up at the eyes. You don't even need those anymore.

Bang your head. You hate hell, you can't take it, you can barely see like a wraith. Try banging the head against the wall. This is before year 100. After that just about everybody in hell is cocked one way or another.

Losing your frontal lobes. Stop whining about hungry. Didn't we already go over this? Here, you've never used these, they'll taste like vacuum cleaner bags, but you've been carrying them uselessly for so long. Must be food for you.

The great grand glorious excavation of your ass; when you decide to accept the monetary offer, beginning around year 4k. Gerbils, gang teams of gerbils (not polymorph carnival gerbils, little faggitts just like you), wearing hard-hats just for effect when the paschal lamb tells you about it. Working 24/7, night and day, laying in groundwork and foundation, timbers and support beams and girders, plumbing, lights... straight up flat out prospectin' on your ass, openin' you up and installing mirrors around every bend. Hell works like the upstairs carnival. We beat you up, we give you a devastating event (like, eat this crow, stupid), and then we ask you if you're ready (just like the millionaires workin' on their kids). Maybe not today, maybe not next week, but the bugs are already sipping off the inside of your dome, and you don't really think about much anymore anyway, so maybe it's okay to let them rack you up, take care of the breathing, take care of the feeding, take care of the feeling and the picking, and just let them go ahead with the excavation. Long, slow, painful, but at least they maintain the temperature for you and you won't need to qualify for the $100M to afford the thin blue blanket tonight, as you have for so many thousands of years.

After the excavation you will be bored (and hurt) enough to begin counting by twelves. Year 5k to 6k. At that time the jobbies are so broken down and peeling away and falling apart that we take even the smallest brooms and mops away (mostly because they cannot hold them any longer). "If you ever could have made it maybe you would have worked yourself to turning over and walking on your feet again, and then you could have used your grease mop to clean the floor, but you didn't, and you're in HELL, now you get down on your knees and use your tongue." That is when the jobbies turn mean and nasty on you, all racked up.

--

The gulag in the kingdom of heaven is the video game arcade pilotting the secret aviator machines. References included in the Reader's Guide. The aviators are not always very happy with their jobs, and there's little hope of reward in the stewing pot of souls. No, mostly those working in the video game gulag are the worst of the worst of the small time day timer tourist millionaires. Spiteful, vengeful, given to petty games and cheap exploits. The entire career path for them is similar to crack'em up derby bumper cars; while their game works mostly in gumby points and vacation credits, it is part of their game to take down the other's blast shield (make you go f* your dog, often transferrable to the nearest available spousal blast shield unit).

The most reliable time that you have to catch "him", the real "him", the "him" that has been reduced to psychological inch-tallness, locked in the crystal ball, behind the looking glass, with constant dose of heroin and toaster blender sippin' on beer, with the remote control magnetic field fuzz goin' on in the brain all the time. The most reliable time you have to catch him is just before you wake up, in the middle of the night, maybe during a shift change, then the aviator lets the remote control off for a while, watches, waits, and the inch-tall comes out to marvel over you, wish he could tell you that this isn't the way that it is, how could they make you understand which way it is all going, but then you begin to wake up, and the aviator takes over again. Back to remote control. Imagine being locked in that psychological cage while one of the ones that wasn't popped'n'dropped for special duty does whatever it feels like with the remote control. Man's inhumanity to man racks up every time you think you're getting yours. If you were to shove your primer up your nose and find your frontal lobes, let the mulch moter grab hold and pull you in, turn you inside out and leave you flat on the ground waiting to pump yourself up again (depending upon how many gcc -funroll-loops gorbie.dolls you have stacked up, it may take a while to so much as think about the left from the right), then she would have mid-level tits because that's kinda part of the path of the Lord: you will never really do enough situps and crunches to fix that. Keep working on it until you pop your wings back out, figure out one way or another how to use your brain as an oil pan and not an air filter, and suction your butthole to the dome of the sky.

One of the components of prophecy, along with the rooster tail, the comets, solomon's temple and the lunch plate hand, the words of meaning with proof and boogers every few syllables (Ezra's readings)... one of the components of prophecy is that, until I really clear out the frontal lobes, then is not really me talking or elucidating. Is my clearing frontal lobes reflecting on all of the excuses you give under the brain canopy, all the excuses trained in the predestined sound ranges, all of the cards already set up to end in hell. Laryngitis, a terrible disease, could take hundreds or even thousands of years to reach completion and bring you to hell. Alcoholism, in the talmud, for example, takes a long time for you to walk around with that alcohol blown parachute in your ass, but you may still walk around for hundreds of years that way. Not under the law of Moses and sodom/gomorrah since, we pile it all on, make you do it for the money one way or another, gimp you with the alcohol and the turnip cart, the kickboards and the key circuit (make whatever excuse you like for the turnip cart, you get to be the one riding along to your big escape, take this key). Laryngitis, all of the possible routes to lose your voice, has been mapped out, tracked down, refactored, rebuilt, mapped out, refolded, refactored... and now we have all the boxes set up. We know which boxes you will live in, which boxes you will work in, how your voice will lose, what that will make you ineligible for, what you will yet be eligible for after that, what sorts of friends you will need, which friends won't work with your particular losses, we know where you will need to drive, what insurance availabilities will be required to keep you placated (and occupied). We have it all mapped out. 70 or 80 years, then down to hell with the rest.

One of the components of prophecy is that, while I continue to clear out these frontal areas, I don't really say anything new. Is only me reflecting on all of the excuses that you give to me. Maybe, maybe, when I pop those wings and suction to the dome, maybe then I will be able to go through and freely rearrange a few things and make up a few stories. But, while I continue to improve at this rate from this far down (like the rest of you... I thank the Lord I began seven years ago and am now this far ahead of you *pfft*), I am nearly incapable of telling it to you in this voice unless it is the honest to the sky reflected truth from whatever you put into it.

Millionaire towns and districts have quotas for new millionaires. Like a big worldwide corporate structure. There's also a ratio to how large the omelets may be, and I get the idea that 92037 is somewhat lucky in being able to impersonate the prophets while serving up the eggo and beastie feast on the side at ridiculously low cost, passing the buck on to the middle man or little guy somewhere. Maybe has something to do with the scheduled appearance of the paschal lamb and the rewards they bet on. Like any good political party, they ate all the eggo ahead of time and bet on the ticket sales to cover the cost. The dog track in Del Mar was built, coincidentally, about the time that the dog wash eggo race track was needed for the big nobody knows anything homeless show here in 92037. The Del Mar race track represents the amount of runaround and coverup they need to keep the same kind of facade that they had right here at this little walkway in the middle of midtown La Jolla. In areas with dog wash eggo race tracks, entire midtown sized portions of corners of residential districts, a "town local" is an individual or rapunzel (with a store front, door front, or business front, or other secured position) with a guaranteed place in line for any of the little children dropped off with fries and milkshake for the show. Would you like your eggo bothered, agitated, or scared fucking shitless when they knock on your door looking for escape... and you have the dog waiting in the back room?