War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and twenty-ninth(a) entry

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Following up on the dome treatment, and along the lines of the development of the revolver...

Shro is hot suctioning your butt to the dome. Pick up a few leaves and press some. Humans, then, began to deserve the steam cleaning, the newer and younger ones wanted the same priveleges as the older ones. Begin at a time when falling asleep meant falling more or less into your bower in front of you, then progress to a time when you're lucky you have wings. Along that timeline the trees become upset and twist some into dogs, some begin the modelling project, and some begin finding juice pits. Juice pits become appealing to humans. The older, more experienced, humans have routes watching trees, knowing when their trees are going to leaf, and planning ahead for steam baths. Younger impetuous humans, or less experienced, or simply more of the idiot type, begin stripping trees and, in their steam bath, develop chlorophyll sickness. Experienced herbage growers know of chlorophyll sickness and proper curing techniques. Experienced humans watching trees expecting to leaf would have proper curing techniques for the leaves and, if they suction to the dome hard enough, maybe a small inoculation of methanol, wood alcohol from the leaf fiber, to assist in the chlorophyll sickness. The more impetuous humans, wishing to attain more or less the same effect, develop a friendship with the Lillith type humans hanging out in the juice pits all the time. The humans in the modelling project begin developing their own forms of "lair-n-get-us" as their dens and towers and labyrinths come in contact with things down below. Humans hanging off of the dome also begin playing massive synchronized swimming games, especially once the trees are low enough that falling asleep tests your frame of mind with the wings, and playing games whipping up whirlwinds under the dome. Please don't stir up the insects. Whoops, too late, in combination with the massive modelling project leading to "lair-n-get-us". Bugs come up from below on both sides of the wall and, although lower on food chain IQ, have far larger numbers and orders as high as phairies are quite capable at counting to IQ pushing forty or fifty, and that's quite useful to a population with those sorts of numbers. The Lillith type humans in the juice pits also develop the habit of chasing the real wildlife (has feathers, fur is for polymorphs, modern birds are all remote control and the other side of the result of fishing pole polymorphs). The true wild humans, the "prophets" (before mummy baby type prophet fully inside the model), are stuck with dwindling numbers and choosing friends. No leaves really left to press, all the workers have the routes covered, hacking their way down and stripping the trees, making excuses for the dogs running rampant everywhere. The ones inside the model are hardly much more help, but at least you get to sing with them. The prophets are so well trained that, inside the model, they often fall for the joke of "laugh at this and then walk down that ramp", facing the model's stand-in for them, chuckling a bit, and then walking through the door where the dumbwaiter phairie is waiting with an overlord dog. Later, as the evil of the world racks up, the prophets become --funroll-loops choirs of angels, stacking up underneath (we're not coming out until something is done about this idiocy in the world). They have the same problem as the prophets before them, who to spend time iwth, drunk animal idiots or lair-n-get-us stiffs. The choirs of angels like to sing and, by that time, the technology in the model world for the revolver is point and shoot. No need to walk the angels down the ramps, we'll ship 'em in boxes after we line 'em up in the loft and knock 'em down with the pellet gun.

The world goes to hell.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

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

I recall, some over seven years ago, I was in the library here in 92037 planning my next report of peanut butter and jelly lunches. One of the library staff approached and asked of my name, if I was, and noticed that my older brother was on the telephone wishing to speak with me. I gave to her the most horrified possible look in the world and flattened myself to the ground, prostrate supplicant, unworthy of anything near to be personally addressed as any more than another dustball collecting in a crack in the basement of the library. I have no idea what course of action was taken with the telephone call after she affirmed with a microsecond smile that it would be improper for me to receive a personal telephone call, even from my older brother, at a random unscheduled point in time in the library.

Henry Wilshire won the fishing contest at the lodge again this year. Another trophy of dried out kelp for him, and that will mean that he will have a big voice in choosing the location of the Christmas party, again. Some things never change. As he tells the story he will likely attribute the win to his fish finder. I have a fish finder, I consider it to be decoration, because I have doubts that it actually works for anything and have been unable to prove it one way or another. His BBQ celebration for the tourny win always includes live speeches to laud and advertise his brand new fish finder (near every year). He is always kind enough to drop by some point before or after and secretly drop two very nice cutlets of fish for me. One of these years I will remember to save them and wait for some bread. Usually I toss them in with a bag of hot chips. Henry Wilshire, seabass extraordinaire. He really knows how to cook fish.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

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

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

1.

It shro is hot stickin' yo ass to the dome. Pick up some leaves and press a few. Don't take any off the trees. Why not? You could get a steam bath. The trees will grab you and twist you into a dog, see how you like being laid bare in front of your fellows. Trees don't fly.

It sho' is cold sittin' on the wall. The wall in the babylonian furnace, from personal experience. Use a cloth pad. What's on the other side of that wall? If you are upstairs in a millionaire district then it is a dog wash drag race with eggo race track, and on the other side of that wall are little children with living eyes and reanimated sewn together carnival props with dead ones. If you are downstairs, on the other side of that wall, then the children have no eyes and the dogs have living ones. Hey Noah, look up. Hey Noah, look down. Hey Noah, keep looking left and right while they talk you through the excuses to go to hell.

I choose to remain up here and go for the dome, maybe poke some soap on the way and get a really good steam cleaning when I make it there. Smoking, right next to whistling, is better than speech for prayer. Maybe it will take eight thousand years either way, but I am not going to hell.

2.

Waking up in hell. Listen to "Hell Awaits". That is your new overlord (wolfman jack with living eyes) and your new doctor (a phairie) waking you up in hell. The dog will be under your shoulder and the phairie will be tickling your navel. The whispering in the tune is your regaining consciousness, slowly coming back to life, the dog running his fur over your quail (ribs) and the phairie digging in your belly button. Your tongue will be shoved up your nose, but you won't quite know it yet, because that is how we ship you between areas in power saving mode. When you open your eyes you will have a reaction similar to "WHAT THE FUCK?!". If you would like to practice, go ahead and stick your tongue to the roof of your mouth and act like you are waking up looking at a (real) dog and a phairie digging in your navel, and draw back (like Neo being bugged) screaming "WHAT THE FUCK?" Notice how that sounds very similar to the tune. Then the overlord and the doctor will begin explaining to you things about hell, mostly in eggo, without five second pauses between syllables. I have come up with some entertaining lines to fit the lyrical pattern in the tune, ending with phrases like,"You have never even met a real dog before me" "And now it's one hundred million dollars a day" "Jesus said your soul cannot even be saved", among others. The remote control chicken (spongeblob ritz, a fishing pole is a power-arm sewn together with the hamster wheel, fish are the result of polymorph after not quite drowning) witch (half-dead already, going to hell) division, underneath the paschal lamb kingdom of heaven accounting branch, for the great grand glorious corporation known as hell. What happened to all of the other divisions? Sam-I-Am received an enormous tax break for chicken glove techniques and bought everything else out, subcontracted, poorly imitated, all for show.

3.

Doing it the right way. In what scene. In what scene is Jesus arguably: having sex, making a million dollars, masturbating with or without friends present. We teach little children (not millionaire born to be farm shit eating faggitt ones) about "doing it the right way", and their perception of the arguably, in various interpretations, begins close to 0-0-0. Over life they learn jokes, and various words in various settings cause them to think of various things or remember their own experiences. My perception of arguably, in various interpretations, according to my written work, is about 3-5-9. Millionaires, down to their smallest ones, quickly ramp up to ALL-ALL-ALL. Try counting by twelves and squeezing the farm sh*t out of your brain if you wish to reclaim your right to do it the right way.

4.

Your brother on the field of battle. Your enemy is an evil muthafucka. He does not want to simply shoot you and body bag you. Worse than that, life is more resilient than you think, and you don't just die that easily. You break down like amoeba and keep moving and making noise on the way. Your enemy does not want to kill you. Your enemy wants to ship you to hell, reliably, with as little fight as possible. You ate with your brother, you drank with your brother, you partied with your brother and laughed and cried with him. You went to boot camp with your brother, trained with him, went out to bars with him. When it came to the field of battle, though, your brother ended up with three hands, poo for brains, ozzy filter, a set of treacherous zippos, spongeblob ritz, multiple personality disorder, mood swings every five seconds, placated with a heroin pad, sipping on bioreactor beer from the surgery, and on remote control. Now just what can you do for your brother?

5.

Did you even listen to it with DNR? The attorney wants to know. You have the tape. It's not class A chain of custody evidence material, just cheap tape from a class B electronic device, but maybe it could be useful to build an argument or shed some light. The attorney wants to know. Did you even listen to it with DNR? No reason, really. Just a little question and comment verse response pattern that is common to the legal industry. When he goes out golfing next week he'll make it to hole six or seven, and that will be the time when all the other verse response comments and jokes and greetings have rolled around, and somebody will prompt him "what about that case you have with the people that think they have a tape". Then, as he tees, he will answer either,"*bah* They didn't even bother to listen to it with Dolby Noise Reduction." or "I finally found one that listened to it with DNR". All involved will chuckle and laugh and move on down the fairway. Later on, at the left handed tee, your attorney will have forgotten his wallet. The DNR joke saves his ass when one of his golfing buddies assures him that the tab is paid, no need to go running out to the car. That saves your attorney enormous amounts of grief over the next four or five months in the office and around the golf course. DNR, useful for finding open spaces where "audio bonkers" used to be. DNR, a method to ensure that none of your class B electronic media is capable to record the background audio bonkers in the remote control carnival. Did you even listen to it with DNR? Whether you are the person with the tape, the attorney, the guys on the golf course, the people in the office, or any of the supporting staff anywhere in the middle of that situation, whether or not you eat the million dollar malt-o-meal, somewhere in that loop will be involved all three levels of nation:corporation:tax shelter in the three stage structure of financial modelling necessary to continue shipping everybody reliably to hell.

6.

How do you cross Margaret Thatcher in and around Winston Churchill? Smokin' thwippin' cigarettes (hand-rolled, rough tobacco) and being surrounded by dog faggitt heroin whore church bells. Church bells. They're all remote control heroin whore church bells. The entire town. Every mass. They ring like church bells. Three different car horns in five different directions talk back and forth in a firestorm of environmental noise. They "ring", they do their "thing". Today's weather forecast: intermittant doggie faggitt hailing and scatterbrained doggie faggitt flurries. Yell at the ear, make a noise, use the cell phone, make the child scream, run for your backpack, accost or assault, beg or query... each one rings, one by one. If today is their first day working on you then maybe they need to figure out what's important to you to ring on. They begin with toilets, wash basins, drinking fountains, and "portals" (doors, passageways, narrowed sidewalk areas from trees or parked cars), and move from there. In the practice of staffing the entire f*cking church with nothing but remote control heroin whore ringing bells, I have happily outlined the entire cue by cue observance of the mass. Around town is so obvious when the bird (fifty yards that way) backs up the car horn (three blocks that way) backing up the cell phone call (from down the sidewalk the other way) following the dogsex innuendo scene (across the corner).

7.

So just what is a "dog"? Four fishing poles (not drowned and turned to fish) and an old couch cushion with one of wolfman jack's skulls from the bottom of hell. Phairies have the old bones exchange program for a long time before the formalized kingdom of heaven. Torsos in the closet (honey, call the plumber, is your torso left, right, center, or full justified?) continue making noise, even when stuffed with junk (they'll cough it out). So maybe we try couch cushions, sit on you, keep you compressed. Still doesn't work, need whoopie cushions as excuses (are you those people that still have the old fashioned couch cushions? *gasp of shock and awe* OH! NO NO NO! It's just this whoopie cushion, hahahahah!) The whoopie cushion is a developed excuse, old couch cushions crumple down like boiling seahorses, and original whoopie cushions had a slightly different acrylate content in the poly balloon. Modern homes do not have torso closets or couch cushions, or even whoopie cushions. Modern homes have water meters to count the multiplier on the level of sin debt already leveraged on that structure. Just how old are these jokes?

From the dome to the floor. Shro is hot stickin' yo' ass to the dome, sho' is cold stickin' yo' butt to the wall. Just how old are these jokes?

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/

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.

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?

No thanks. And since when did the journal lose its classic /. layout?

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?

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

The Mi-Ami sound machine and the super bowl. The miami sound machine is the method by which the rainbowtards cruise around from veal box to veal box to execute their special seven hit combo on the lamb inside and get their special sound. With the construction of the brain canopy and the law of Tor is much easier to see how this works. The brain canopy keeps your frontal lobes in check, and the digital music sounds newer and truer every year. The seven hit combo move is the method to maneuver the lamb into one of the corners and assist them in finding the special little portal to receive a microsound with a little bit of frontal lobe in it. Each and every individual has a few portals available, and in the most stressful times of your life maybe you will be able to plead your case with a little ring of truth. The ring of truth from the Mi-Ami sound machine is then useful to heat up an advertising blurb or a scene in a production because it has that extra ring of truth.

Hate words and excuse channels, the key to the super bowl.

People hate things. Things they hate have a ring of truth but, under the canopy, they are trained to move air around the things they hate in forms of excuses. Hate words,"vanilla milkshake" (for millionaires, that has been mapped to make them think, under the canopy, whether they say it or not, to "green eggs and ham"), "homeless", "raised heels", "drop voice", "grow up", "soccer" (europeans hate "nfl" because that's all messed up, should be "alephen"), "christmas", "birthday", "beer" (you love "whiskey", so the ladies may make you drink, but you will always hate "beer").

Excuse channels for millionaires. "get new", "have more", "fun", "oh okay" (a combination of "get new" and "have more"), "get to do", "dog means it", "hate will stop when you go do it" (rather complicated excuse channel)

The game is to light them up with pressure from a hate word and then precede them with the excuse channels they need to make. Maybe you can make them scream and holler releasing the pressure. WIth your girlfriend eunuchs they play this game. Talk talk talk until you say something they can "hate", "honey I hate that". So you, wanting to make them happy, parrot back all of the things she loves to steer her away from the thing she hates. Those are the excuse channels. She may then go through the roof, get you into an argument following all of the excuses, and qualify you for some tough points.

Take your stressed out friend, drinking alcohol preferably, you know they would rather be someplace else doing something else. Talk about "soccer" until they hate that. Then begin to reminisce about all of the old glory super bowls past. Talk about the hats, the clothes, the punch bowl, the popcorn, the bbq and the hot dogs... and see if you can make them light up their excuses from the thing they hate. As the Hebrew topspin to local dialect for interpretation, the ladies like to manage you with six hit combos.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Previously I had found the treasure in the field (Melchizedek's heart) and the pearl of great price. Today I found another pearl of great price, even larger I believe (have not directly compared them), and today's pearl was smiley cut like a golf ball. So I thought to peel the onion chip off to prove that it was a mere crushed bauble. The onion skin chip peeled off, quite beautiful little lens, and the remainder is still a pearl of great price.

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

New front page material, should assist with the clutter, may go through the present page later.

The world's first patent dispute. Everything leading to it is boondoggle in the setup, everything after it is boondoggle in the filibuster. Patent for "gun which started fire". One side claims to have the "gun which started fire" and the kiln to prove it. The neurodoctors counting pharaoh to death. The other side of the same monastery (boondoggle) has "gun which started fire" on the linen as the bicycle setup for the spindle sticks to keep the thread moving through the linen.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

From trees packed to the dome, trees espouse birds, birds develop as humans (take whatever amount of time to do that), humans begin to become semi-sentient and practice modelling the world around them, picking up leaves and pressing them. In the rehab routine, don't forget to roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth and press that--at the tip of the tongue there's a trick to squeeze your salivaries, that's a paper presser trick to clear the siphonies from the numb spots in your tongue. Humans, without fire, except for perhaps a lightning strike (and humans were marvelous at allowing theirs to go out) or the oracle with the eternal methane glow to them, had already walked back and forth and surfaced what they thought was the planet. They were eating the best baklava, they could warm and press the dough for the bread without a problem without fire, they had plenty of sugar and honey supply whenever necessary. They didn't have juice pits yet (coincidentally). This is a really good template to cap to Template TImeline's introduction.

The humans became bored. They could walk the routes and pick up the leaves and press the paper, but why? They had plenty. Sit back, relax. Enjoy. Breathe. Say,"Ah." They became bored.

Sit still and we'll try to knock you out. Here, start counting. Just sit still and we'll walk around you do stuff and try to knock you out. Try counting while we do it. Just keep counting. Sit still, keep counting, and we'll try to knock you out. What else are we doing? Just let us try this. We'll wake you right back up (this time, until we all, as a group of idiots, get bored doing that, because we've already done that last time). See, he's starting to skip and miss. Oh, *plonk* there he went. Okay, wake him up (this time).

Eventually, after enough this times, then you can walk through all the things you get to do to wake him up without quite waking him up yet. Sure, you could throw him to the birds and hope they carry him to the phairies, but the birds are good at knowing how to make him wake up or the trees will make him roll into a dog and then he'll never quit going. So you may learn to take him apart, all the ways, and all the things. Now the brain. When he was beginning to skip and stutter, see these boogers here? That's where he was counting. Maybe the boogers are spaced differently than the last one I showed you, but these are the same ones because we knocked him out the same way. You may learn all of the things you may do to help him get knocked out, which ways to wave your hands, how to direct his eyes, and maybe you set up some of those lines ahead of time. Begin with a throne and a canopy top, eh?

So learn where the counting boogers are. Is that speech? Well, because this is a boondoggle from a patent dispute between the neuros and the people in the linen factory, you know that you already roped the monkeys together to help you pat down all the paper. You know how to steamroll a whitebrain human. Give us one of those white-brains, and we'll put a little booger in their to begin with, warm him up, and then you can work on him like this pharaoh we're taking apart right here and you see if he counts the same numbers. Maybe he begins to limp a little on his walk, too. We'll work on trying to get him to kick out that booger, and then we'll work on knocking him down the same way we did this pharaoh we're taking apart right here.

The humans outside the model are breaking each other down and making noise from bad air. The humans managing the model break down playing with their model inside, the whitebrains get setup. The humans outside run out, the humans inside run out, the white brains staff the positions.

The history of neurological revolvers in the world. Packed, counted, numbered, prepacked, prepacked hard coded (siphon), prepacked hard coded regions develop into barns, barns develop into r-sides, r-sides develop into laws, laws are arranged in kingdoms, kingdoms in Tor, Tor into a net, a net pulled back to a canopy, the canopy topped to the stem.

The architectural lines in the model work with the position of the throne and the lanes of the canopy top.

War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and twentieth entry

The R-side and dental whitening

The r-side. How do you staple a booger into a brain? How do you staple boogers into a white brained steam pressed new baby? Take your tongue out of your nose, bite it. Use these teeth, bite this much. The modern edition managing the lineages to the table of the nations do not even need to know exactly why the book for this box says use these teeth to this depth of tongue. That's the way it's done. As a white brained baby you are run through rows of progressive boxes of various architectural lines, left wall, right way, ceiling, floor, biting various teeth and depth of tongue, and *BANG* stapled that one on. As a white brain that will leave enormous impressions on you. Staple enough r-side together maybe you make a barn. Staple enough barns together maybe to make a curtain. Work on perfecting the curtain and moving it to the greatest possible severity level while maintaining a living functional individual able to accept job training. Then, when shipped upstairs, the women are able to observe the settings for your "ARRRR"-side under the curtain. White brain trained babies, before leaving heaven, are checked and calibrated to ensure that, after the r-side has been set, they will indeed adjust their neck and floats (eyes) to accomodate their r-side settings in quality assurance boxes. Shipped upstairs the ladies, with plenty of room of exuse to not know anything, receive the baby with the r-side.

And that's a good excuse. There obviously is no r-side because you are obviously a naturally grown baby.

With the r-side, they find your best box, the box where your eyes and neck and head are most closest to what they consider "normal" or "good start" (and really, you're stuck in the middle of the mummies' tomb, and that should be obvious), and teach you a word. Then they watch your r-side. Your r-side may be full right, it may be full left, it may be some combination of getting the crap stapled into you at scientifically predetermined paths and routes of settings, but your mom is obviously not looking for it because she's just playing with you as a baby, and she loves you, and wouldn't know anything about any r-side setting and this ridiculous thought that it would have enything to do with your floats (eyes), the way you hold your neck and head (when you're happy, when you're sad, when you are under 15 foot ceilings, when you're stuck in a woodshed).

With your r-side, at your delivery (this is chronological), if you're not a rainbowtard, they can watch your r-side settings change when they hit you with the isopropyl, when they hit you with the multi-amine mix, when they hit you with the grammy of silica. All very important pieces of info for the database tracking you, individually, in the matched eye brain smile r-side system.

Your mother may watch your r-side setting with your first best desalizized breakfast, and the smell you make for it.

Then maybe we work on your r-side settings in your home, in your various rooms, in your relatives houses, teaching you these words along the way. Watching for any side excuse to develop. Because you have not only an r-side, but an entire law of Tor of stapled r-side making a net over some potato chip section of your brain (a cap over about the very surface of the brain stem).

Then we take these yearly photographs of you growing up, because your speech is yet quite simple, and we will match your speech with your smile and work on that neural configuration for you in particular on the r-side.

Then your dentist may give to you the dental x-ray carboard inserts. Of course your dentist is not watching to see which side you wince more on, because you don't have an r-side. Then the people you begin to meet at that time in your life are obviously paying no attention to the changes in your voice and excuses you make for the laryngitis and common colds you get, how your smile falls and in what boxes, after you begin to experience visits to the dental assistant. They're working on your teeth, did you know they had so much interest in the r-side of your smile?

Then... after the database for the r-side configuration and usefulness and scenarios (along with your breathing secret password and its changes along the way), then we can take your wisdom teeth out. We can both work on the material determined to that data and glean new extra information from the common cold, laryngitis, and social setting modifications after that.

Plenty of room for excuses and nobody knows at every level, plenty of room to keep passing the torch and building on historical victories.

But that's all ridiculous, and has been for years since the beginning of BSM and before, because there is no r-side law of Tor potato chip slip capping your air off under eight thousand hertz. That's stupid. That loud voice, that guy must have three genomes in the nose or be a freak or something. Nobody has a voice that good. Even rainbowtards accumulate decay to their golden throats. Everybody has an r-side and, if you ever begin to work on it, then $THEY are the people with the D, and the K, and will show you the G, and they get to check as often as they want to see if you're A, okay?

The t-ru-t-he of the matter, the prophetic interpretation of the saying of the word t-ru-t-he, is t-ha-t you are ruining yourself for the money. and you know it. the flavor of truth, the metallic tinge, is on the glass when you acknowledge that,"Yes, maybe I am going to hell." swill.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and nineteenth entry

Hell
- Phairies
- Dogs
- "Did you f* the dog?"
- Stop crying or lose your eyes
- Stop whining about hungry. You have kept these frontal lobes in cold storage all of your life, they must be food for you. You have never moved any air through them, they will taste like vacuum cleaner bags. In the polymorph carnival the crow is all frontal lobe. How much you hate any particular crow is related to how far above your voice and it what direction the crow is. Games may be played profiling you vs. different crows and, though you may have bad days and misbehave--overreact to one or underreact to another, you do mostly follow the crow profiling quite well.

Interpreting most anything is similar to finding driving directions. Begin with an Hebrew topspin in mind (s, t, p, f), have a knowledge of the transformations in numerical counting (garden counting with alephel's wingtips--ancient eunuchs weren't counting by ten or twelve but closer to two thousand three hundred and twenty-four at a time, melchizedek one hundred, sons of israel, apostles) over the ages, remember Latin and the Bible, and then finish up in regional languages and local dialects. Works very well.

Balance your speech. I have written of the stressed ah system, ah stresses to oh, especially if they're riding your shoulders, ah massaged politely turns to ee, but watch out for cramps in the ankle and knee, that's your clue that they're pretending to be nice and clipping you off. That develops to the en el er o u, eventually to a e i o u with syllabylic construction, and on into split languages in the talmud.

Begin with (exhale) "Ahhhh" (inhale) "men"
Then ex "Ham" in "Els"
Stress that more, as time goes on, humans become more stupid, the drunks are whining from the juice pits, ex "Home" in "less"
now, over time, "what's the password" becomes a complicated game, with all sorts of allowances for excuses. The further stressing of the oh and the necessary balancing could enlarge and have large ridges cut into the top, for example,ex "Hear O Israel" in "t-he Lord is God".

You need your Ahs and your Ohs (keep your EEs to yourself, we're Hebrews around here, no need to go interpreting dreams for the drunks and the witches making wild excuses), your Hams and your Els. You want a Ham-El, not a Ham-Er. If you have too much R you will need to get your boos, and ladies have whiskey heels to make you drink. They heal you like the phairies, the only way they know how, they pump you full of it and then go-ssssssss-ip it out. Part of the rehab program is training you to keep your s and your t to yourself.

With the in out nature of the human social development, turns as the complixification of the regulated breathing password system descended through all of the available combination and permutations, with a limit set by how much air the humans were taught to move in the regulated breathing combined with the extent of the brain canopy and its progression, and the rewrite, when God wakes up, after the entire world has been sent to hell and failed, is people claiming kingdoms of "the right way!" on their particular Talmud set of broken down approximations.

Full glyph rehabilitation

Are you finger painting or touching up? Did you do the real work first? Has your voice dropped? Is your voice continuing to drop? Are you continuing to work on it? If I attach a light bulb to a microphone, is the glass half empty or half full? Well, the glass is very dim, but it's your special job to help fill it. HAHAHAHAHA! What would you do if you began walking into the contest dog boxes one day and the very dim glass, explained for thousands of years as your special part in the world to help fill it, is suddenly half full, and you can't move it anymore, because the new standard is a pubescent human? Here, blow into this tube, we're checking to see if you're drunk. HARDER HARDER HARDER HARDER!

After you have gone for the walk, after you keep the goose egg wallet balance and residency time, after you begin working on the left right to approach left from right breathing control, have a notice clearing in your voice, probably made it through the two or three months of daily barns, then perhaps you may begin working on the glyph system to accelerate your participation in the Fifo2ed mantra system for rehabilitation. A glyph is a structural arrangement as a quick reference guide to an enormous amount of material beneath it. After the entire field has been filled then, if a high throughput form is necessary, a glyph may be created to maintain particular focal points and important structural lines. A white brained steam pressed individual is very sensitive to adopting glyph methods for passing social situations through the day--which particular points of the shoulders and elbows are necessary to avoid abusive criticism (animal sex perverts take any criticism they can get, from any end of the food chain, and that's a big fault to the tree of life), what constitutes "hurry up" when walking, what constitutes "try harder" and need to fake it because you can't, what exactly is "mind your own business" when all the adults are constantly looking to you for a response?.... You learn both the right and the wrong as a new white brain and the first four weeks of training have beaten you out of really wanting to work on it that hard.

After you have reached a particular level of expertise with the basics of life, in out, up down, open close, left and right, then develop systems of cycles to remember all of the muscles through common daily tasks, much of the small time general maintenance may be then approximated as working on the lips and face, mostly the sinuso region of the Fifo2ed mantras. Batman is a good glyph to hold the face wide up and the eyebrows up. Superman's diamond is another method to remember the shoulders and the outsides of the eyebrows. The Oriental glyph system is always looking for new faces while the old reliable ones have already been set in stone and cut up into dialects. The USPS eagle on the side of their transport vehicles is a very good glyph to remember to keep the cheekbones up and the eyebrows in a sharp line with a good chin. A detailed diamond is a good for the fine tuning of the sinuses. Families and lineages have their own important lines, regions and cultures have modifications, local areas and individuals make their decisions. Nobody goes through and finishes the whole field, everybody is trapped under a brain canopy, possibly hampered in additional ways.

Even if you have a frontal lobotomy, you maintain yourself on _the_ program to make your voice drop, and a larger number of the boogers filtered from your sinuses and nose will collect like tetris. Your body will give you the right ones (because you will be working on it) or you will play tetris and rearrange them on the way. On the other side, cut the tether (Zechariah's out to get you too, if he's too strong, maybe you could be the one, when he wakes up, and we all know that Mel never made it past the door, so Zech gets comfortable in the cart like everybody else always has), kick out the dog, plant a garden (if you really want to play tetris that quickly and are that absolutely obsessed with it, otherwise you will probably stretch out from the inside especially when you learn the left from right compression breathing, with the gurgling abdominal actuator to give yourself confidence and faith that it is working), and go for that walk!

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Paschal lamb has always had a ring of truth. Even in his darkest hour, paschal lamb has always had a ring of truth. He's been sized with an antenna so many times inside of his run with cinderella's carriage. That has always been his ring of truth, that nobody else in the world would have, because nobody else in the world has been sized with an antenna for $count_rooster_tail years. The really really really pompous asswipes overseeing the idiot process around the paschal lamb have seen that as his greatest benefit and (hopefully, for the evil ones trying to make money) his greatest downfall. "You have that special ring of truth about you. If only you could build on that you would be just fine." If he builds on it like a barn then maybe it will lead to a slip, trip, or fall somewhere. If he could build on it like clearing out the boogers (go for the walk, get a handle on any open space you have available) then maybe he could make it.

The ring of truth is similar to the isaiah spinal adjustments and the paschal lamb's shoulder. Mummification does wonders for resurrection, but persistent repeated injuries, even if repaired, leave small lines and characteristic artefacts.

War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and eighteenth entry

Lift up your heels. Why not? Well, because it's funny. Learn some excuse, learn some set of excuses. That part of your brain is alive, keep learning the excuses. Humans come preinstalled with that particular "barn". Thousands of years, tens of thousands, of research from the earliest doctors on the earliest pharaohs, and all of the later doctors on the steam pressed white brain new ones, have allowed the practitioners to know within lineages where the raised heels are and how to inflict an injury massive enough to target that section of the brain without leaving an enormous swath of dark matter in the years to follow. That point and many others, together, may be known as the law of Tor. Minor injuries to a fully functional human settle to the surface of the frontal lobes. Injuries may be deeper and more massive, leaving various trails and patterns of accompanying dark matter coordinated to the physical location of the injury. Enough injuries piled on all together, while training and leading the human away from necessary self-improvement practices, may form a surface wall to block out entire regions, even to form a physical plane top to bottom and left to right. Study to the nature of the surface of the plane, as with the raised heels, allows practitioners to inflict the point pattern of the plane and allow the remainder of the frontal region to clear and heel, diminishing lung and vocal capacity while retaining higher functionality without terribly cramping down muscles and joints and motions; blocking out only specific corners and angles, gestures and sounds. Humans tend to be a competitive lot, especially when they box themselves in to close quarters, excuses to the way things are done never cease, and over the years the "coming of age" procedure includes a complete application of a law of Tor. The remainder of aging builds on that and the process is excused as progressive bouts of laryngitis and minor aches and pains to accumulate over the years.

What is your excuse? Make any excuse you like for the dead spots and silent regions in your brain. You will. You will learn, in your language and culture and local architecture, all of the necessary excuses to never need to raise your heels. It is always a joke. You will laugh, you will chuckle, you and everybody around you will never even consider it as the excuses are pushed to earlier and earlier game finales in life. The are many such jokes built into your language and into your culture. Tor modeled a set of six hundred of them reliably known to accomplish the goal. White brained humans, initially for experimental model purposes only, were increasingly being used to fill the population both outside the modelling agency and, coincidentally, the earliest replacements inside the modelling agency could be trained to flawlessly complete the task to steam press a new one and complete its necessary training for its role in the running model. The roles in the running model required progressively worse white-brains to model the real ones hanging out in the juice pits, branding scourging and deforming themselves to hell (would you like to get cut up into twelve pieces all at once or would you like the million dollar payment plan for your stay at the house at gerar? would you like to pre-order your last box of eggo, pray you are able to pay for the extras you want, pray you make it that far), and the real ones denning up and rotting to hell with perversions (melchizedek's two week notice breath; you begin to bore me, get the hell out in two weeks or that guy by the fireplace is beginning to look like a sultan, the light is low and the lines in here are odd).

By the time the real ones figure out many different ways to avoid going to hell (qualify to get poked into soap and make wax, qualify to be rolled into dogs, too many dogs, qualify to be sewn into horses, qualify to make camels, qualify for the experimental monster derby dashes, qualify to be pressed into a brick while we try to figure out how to end the madness and ship everything left to hell), the steam pressed new ones are completely brain capped to the stem and with lifespans to match the models being used in the running model (brain capped to the stem, with a line of sh*t to cover it up, and then brain capped on the stem again with the same law of Tor) the entire time. White brain replacements in the world being modelled went through stages of improvements, there were complaints about behavior and complete lack of any sense, but the real ones kept denning up and dying off, so population vote brought white brains to near equal rights with the ancient real ones that couldn't raise their voice above a whisper.

All their lives long they crave and hope and plan on that final box of eggo, it's selection, it's quality, the side dishes... and the gunboats come upstairs loaded to kill mowin' 'em down.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Breathing. In BSM I calculated a breathing cycle "final anaesthesia and prayer" for in out cycles. Based on Roman Catholic Latin chant modes in the Christian Prayer; the chant modes seek to balance the syllables and the tones used for them across swaths of text and scripture. Sudoku, read these syllables and observe the numbers above (or count the numbers, or elevate the tones, if you wish to be working on the ranges of your voice and the pockets in your brain). Recently the demonstration of the rainbowtard access to brain cannon (there is no global brain microphone, there is no suicide by prophet, st. steven, first martyr, suicide by prophet, had all of the finest jokes but they kept sniffing his speech because they were planning to burn those barns anyway--if you resist a barn you add up pressure and accumulate other blockages in other resonance routes leading to and around it, that's called hatin' on somebody) encouraged me to think about the breathing again. What could you say to at least fill the vocal chamber of your brain scan and create some noise for the idiots with access to the brain cannon? IOUDOCLR... "Aaaaaahhhhhh" "meeeeheeehehheehhehehen" "Aaaaaaaaahhhh" "meeeeehheheheheeehehnn". That sort of thing

Then I began thinking about the doctor with the stethoscope. He's not listening to your breathing or heart, so much really, he's listening to your "password". What do you say on the way out (when you're not thinking about it), and what do you say on the way in (when you're not thinking about it). Doctors then would have a generalized method map for how your brain canopy affects your trained in and out syllables. Knowing how that changes, and how it has changed for you since the last time you were listened to, may give them clues about the entire brain system. They may not have the direct map to all of it, been a long time since the pyramids, but like anybody else in life they likely have little tricks and things to watch for. The doctors do have a game on your recovery. "Ha. You only nicked him that little extra bit with that cut, but he's so stupid, I bet he'll never get that back from the pt he gets in that place." Place your bets. The tricks may then be policed and hoarded and kingdomed by tracking your breathing password. Did you fix it on your own? Did somebody else give it to you? Do we know it well enough (probably) that we know exactly who out there could possibly give it to you and help you fix it? Do you look like you're working on a total improvement program to fix it yourself? Place your bets, follow 'em around... while they go to work on the paschal lamb's underarm tendon with a sawzall. "You only nicked him that little extra bit..."

So then with the breathing password and brain canopy I began to think about sizing the antenna. The telescoping coil spring loaded zippos that the gunboat is packing. Sizing the antenna. They're trying to knock you out, by talking to your doctor and listening to your secret password, knowing exactly where that big dumb spot is, knowing exactly how much your "raised heels" barn has built itself up, knowing exactly how tall you are. Then maybe she missed. Then there's cathetar therapy, a little to the left honey, slowly, okay, now move a little harder, uh-huh... you're not helping her so much as she's helping you around the bend and past the voicebox.

Continuing on the wax museum with booby trapped stage models... there are the "pets" again. Did the amoeba EVER think to walk backwards? Mostly positive that, as a baby, even you walked backwards because it felt funny. The eyes are on the sides of the head. Watch your fishtank. See those fish? They don't swivel their neck around. Fish cannot really swim backwards so well (though even fish get bored enough to try it on occasion, and you may watch if you have the fish tank), but you watch them pivot their eyes, because the eyes are on the side of the head, and it doesn't need to swivel the neck. For having the eyes on the sides of the head your dog directs attention like a human... and it never thought to walk backwards? Maybe in play, maybe tug of war, maybe in fright, but it never thought to walk backwards? Cat, maybe twice I've seen a cat slide backwards a step or two... but they don't do it either. Cats have more forward eyes for that swivel neck attention span. You train your dog to play dead, you train your dog to fetch, train your dog to smile and laugh, train your dog to shake hands, train your dog to pop up out of the woodwork and laugh at your joke so as to surprise you, but your dog has never on its own thought to amoeba backwards a step? If it passed "something" on the sidewalk it will swivel its neck like forward facing attention and turn around like a fish?

Look at those eyes, stupid.

One of the finest tricks we taught the white brains was regulated breathing. Play dead. Now stop breathing. You will need air, eventually, but no time soon. Air is like water on talmud. I decide I need water, but it's around the block, so I decide I need to pick up water. So I walk around the block and drink, and am no longer thirsty, but continue to need to pick up water because it's a good idea. I don't do so at the time because I do not want to carry it. Then I later become thirsty and remember that I should have picked up water. Eventually I pick up water, but am never thirsty at the time, and somehow never really become thirsty for another three or four days, when I drink the water to avoid carrying the weight on the arm. The next cycle of the day (night, day, night day) I will become thirsty again and decide that I need to pick up water, get the drink, and continue to need to pick up water, eventually pick up water, carry the water for days because I am no longer thirsty, drink the water to remove the weight on the arm, and promptly become thirsty again. All week all month all year long. That's air, too. You could rot away quite a bit on methane dried soap before you really play dead enough for us to throw you into the box going to hell.

We taught the white brains the regulated breathing that we would know the moment that they broke through the training, and to keep down all the crap noise in the model towns, and later real towns, being increasingly staffed with trained white brains. Humans are like that. To the bottom of hell you will be asking "WHY?", still trying to blow that smoke ring and work on it.

Because you will never open up your brain canopy, overcome that sphinx, you will allow yourself to "go wild" screaming for air on cue long before you ever drop your voice to move any of that air through your frontal lobes.

War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and seventeenth(a) entry

The brain canopy model has been working out very well over the course of the day. The brain canopy model for the brain blockages; hard coding in modern day is using rumplestilskin siphons in the bundle of hay down to the brain stem before the table of the nations. The running joke model for the languages, the languages written as yearly paths through the talmud; every language actually has several thousand jokes available to it, from which a pool of six hundred plus are running your local area, from which a pool of six hundred plus are planned to be built into you to assist knocking you into power save mode. The eiffel tower model of six hundred plus scripts, about 120k phonies and 20:1 jobbies, all actors part-time-sharing a wardrobe in the middle. Each eiffel tower proven ahead of time in aqueduct arrangements, mosaics, groomed trees to flagpoles, and all the money for any size arrangement of eiffel towers cross-checked by three-stage rocket paschal designs of nation:corporation:shelter level allotments, stack eiffel towers side by side as necessary.

Morticians have progressively lost their art over the years. The degradation of the adult mummification process, the need for tear gas and bleach in sodom and gomorrah, the need for the model to have her own prep trailer and modern boys don't know what to do with soap anyway.

The cuing system in the sphinx. Cues that travel between the lifetimes counted on mosaics, grouped in aqueducts, choreographed into eiffel towers, from a larger pool of cues prearranged in houses of servants acting in day of atonement parties, entire day of atonement parties of masters packed together as a brick, entire pyramids of bricks arranged into lawn trolls and great garden walls. Take the model area of mid town La Jolla, the design district of 92037, with the chicken witch pole viewing area against the great wall of Jonathan's. Abe Lincoln and Ronald Reagan were sitting right there on the back steps of Evertt-Stunz, each talking with Elijah and Moses about the walk they needed to go to, and the prophet cannon is lined up right there in the wires crisscrossing the chicken witch pole, if you view it from Melchizedek's chair (adjacent lot) slumped over as if secret asian man just popped you out of your skin and is getting ready to take your carcass on a different route over to the german rebuild factory when they continue on their journey from the orient. JFK rides in the car down Torrey Pines, waves to everybody in the babylonian furnace when they reach Girard, turns up to pearl, and makes a lane change to Bishops. She's not putting his head together, she's sitting on the curb there at Bishops and is looking over her shoulder to receive a bag of groceries; messy delivery and the groceries spilled everywhere, including the jar of aromatic nard. Martin Luther steps off of the soap box behind the BevMo, walks across the stage, exit stage back, down the hall, round the corner to the parking garage and BANG!, right there in the cold corner. Martin Luther is like a reincarnation of Moses; doesn't know what's in the bread box, objects when he finds out, "Martin, as you are leaving due to bread box objections, tell us, how many times did you contribute?" "Uh, rr, NINETY-FIVE THESES!". Martin never gets hot with the bread box, he gets clipped in a cold corner, and afterwards they ship the bread box to his congregation and tell them to make money like they owe for startup fees. Sounds like five-loaves two fish to me. How much do you owe, Nathan? Master, even three hundred days' wages wouldn't be enough to keep even a few of them from calling after nightfall all night long.

Peter, Peter, if all of this is true, what are _WE_ to do?

Save yourselves from this corrupt generation.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

The booger canopy lines up well with the history of the world. The trees begin to the roof and the trees espouse, then the trees espouse better, and soon the trees are putting out birds; your spouse is like the opposite of you, not terribly useful, but they take care of the interface between you and the universe, the things you really cannot do. Soon the humans realize some sort of sentience. They do well for a while pressing paper and collecting all sorts of good things to eat, rolling dough and honey long before they heat things up much; the cover of the Koran is Melchizedek the mad confectioner dripping honey everywhere. Some modernization is required, as Mel is really Arp v2 with all of the structural units in place around the firepit, and you wouldn't dare call a Koran a Mel. Modernization to paschal lambs has the mortician making minced ginger on paschal lambs chest and then going crazy and wild; a compression of cues which have stacked up to his life. More modernization has the adonis arriving for late night consultations with paschal lamb during the passover, the crowd is going wild on the baby, looking for any remaining keys. The mortician, earliest, arrived to take his first at the passover and leave the rest for the dogs. Modernization brings Herod back again and again in the script. Modernization of the script includes the "head mortician of the dogs", the guy brought in to knock the paschal lamb down between the first few segments of the script. The head mortician of the dogs is the second in line (of those bearing palm branches with clothes washed white in revelations) after the baby is reheated, and John Saul Paul "it burns" Atreides, but they are yet the head morticians of the dogs, and even lardass tetrarch Herod is above them.

And all of that is pretty much sealed up and written in stone before the paper pressers put the trees down to 90%, the world is a multi-layered dagoba upon dagoba. By that time, though, everything has already been done, and the drunks are beginning to hang out in the juice pits. Then fire hits, and those oracles (if you know where they are) already have an eternal flame and soap dried over methane vents. You shouldn't become addicted to soap over methane vents, that'll give you a bad booger and that'll grow into a barn if you don't know it and work on it before it gets too big to be too late and then you'll need a pilgrimage to work yourself up again, but DAMN it is _cold_. By that time you have paper folded up approaching twine or thread, too, so maybe you'll find fire from fast thread on spindle sticks and gearing ratios. The scarecrow is the project to sew it all in 2D, have those people fold it up, fill it with seewater, and zap it with lightning. That never worked but the monkeys figured out what we needed and slipped a few into the paper rolls to help us figure the rest out. Along the way mapping all the 2D the neuromorticians figured out where the key boogers are and began screening the population to find out how to assist those in accumulating, like too much methane dried soap for example. We don't even need to make much sound to get this done yet. Humans are scary enough when quiet, when they make noise they're downright freaky. Modern times sees that humans are freaky enough when quiet, their voices are so thin weak muffled and low already that they're downright spooky when they make noise.

Over the course of cutting down the multilevel dagoba arrangement, because the drunks were getting meaner with fire, pushing on zechariah at the door, the morticians were retreating further into the basement and staying there, losing their art-of-training along the way, you found all of the really nasty "soap over methane vents" addictions and booger arrangements. Then you found how you could pound those in ahead of time. Then you perfected how you could those in ahead of time, deeper to the brain stem, thicker, tighter packed. As society turned around it they connected prepacked arrangements with degradations in the people, that late in life injuries could be known to assist a prepacked injury, and the prepacked injury could be increased and adjusted to imitate the entirety of the late in life injury. Aaron's golden calf, progressively to now with remote control jiggly blobs and push-button poop, on one side and taxidermied beat-to-death and reanimated from the other side, meeting to beauty, splendor, and the excuses for the prince of lies in the middle. It cannot possibly be a lie because you cannot prove it.

Are you able to train that guy to walk in his sleep? Sure. I can train him to walk in his sleep. How about talk? I've been training him to talk in his sleep so long, what do you want him to say? Walk and talk, we make the dead do that. Dance, do tricks, chew gum, type with Braille. Make Lazarus rise from the dead. No problem. Modernization sees the loss of the art to walk in the sleep, but we now have wires. Everybody had a neural net when we knocked the head off the sphinx, but then we put the headdress on for triangulated wifi. You don't need the actual metallic neural overlay on your brain anymore. Now we booger up a canopy over your brain stem and call it a day.

There's a table game called Ker-Plunk. About six hundred sticks, prearranged, inside of a social game that stares at you too hard and makes you put that stick back in. How many boogers are in the brain? About three pounds worth, but don't squeeze them out all at once or you may blaspheme, cause an aneurysm, and play ketchup too quickly for your nose to filter it.

Humans slowly degrade, day of atonement parties (designed to help screen out and identify lost boogers) begin to provide nothing but excuses for the missing sounds. Some humans keeping a model of the situation identify the key missing boogers and meticulously characterize their development and ultimate completion. Six hundred plus booger positions are identified as key necessary to knocking a human to power-saving mode, and the day of atonement parties are grouped into languages to assist with their completion. Repeat as necessary in a fifteen step double-blind matched clinical lifetime circus. As the entire six hundred point canopy becomes hard-coded, as the route to completion becomes more well characterized and more quickly established, then the starting position for the entire canopy may be moved further and further back along the frontal lobes, as experimentation provides and as the adjusting society allows. If an adjustment is ever too wild, or blows a hole in the canopy, then the resulting human begins moving way too much air in way too many wrong ways and sounding completely out of whack within the social setting and architectural arrangements around them, all given zoning ordnances and codes applied. Over time the real humans themselves run out, and the entire set is staffed with the trained white-brains, and the trained white-brains do have a kernel layer which is devoted to white-braining new ones and training them to fit the set, including the booger ker-plunk sphinx canopy applied as near to the brain stem as possible, with hard-coding. And not entirely coincidental, too, as the model needs their separate trailer to keep away from the healing itch (and blow their model career), and the life expectancy of the white-brains before they fully accumulate the six hundred point configuration has been dwindling as the day of atonement parties have improved their efficacy.