Today is Wednesday the first day of October in 2014 A.D.

"You gotta stop talkin' sh*t to ma' boi"

"to" is in "directed at", or "to" as in "also"

Exactly what part of what I say is "talkin sh*t". From the legal aspect, with definitions. In the context of modern language and communication, "talkin sh*t" is often related to a disparity between speech and practice. The exact disparity and exact size of disparity, the variation in the disparity over time, and the stresses and releases available to the disparity, are related to what sounds are completely "natural", ie. the sounds made when the eunuch pokes or prods you in a particular muscle at a particular point when you are performing a particular task, or the sound you make when the priests are jumping on your stomach and drilling you in the belly button, there are other sounds in worse regions of abuse, but few and often inconsequential, assigned to musings and fleeting thoughts in the languages.

So exactly what part of what I say, or write, is talkin' shi*t? Everybody after Adam is talking shit, they know they need to go for a longer walk. Everybody after Cain's lineage knows they need to go for a longer walk. Everybody after Seth's lineage knows they need to not beg at the temple steps (get taken inside and eunuch'd) or suck the temple's tit (run a tax shelter like St. Paul) when he gets back; it he stays back for long enough maybe they'll gather and kick his butt to a summer vacation like I just had. Everybody after Noah knows they should forgive and quit trying to get more. Everybody after Melchizedek knows they should at least try to make it past the door. It's no secret who is actually talking shit. Like listening for the faggitts on the streets. You know what they sound like, listen carefully and you may be able to find and even identify them.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

I was thinking about refactoring the material on the wiki as an list of "Collections"...

Collections of injuries leading to a passover.
Collections of injuries leading to loss of voice.
Collections of boogers leading to loss of consciousness (neural revolvers)
Collections of people pressing paper to a firepit.
Collections of people gathering leaves to make a stongehenge circle; the common meeting ground, the paper shack, the sorting and rerouting, the roundhouse.
Collections of stonehenge circles to make a community.
Collections of easter island looking people walking around on stonehenge routes in small similar communities, like Ninevah.
Collections of people around the firepit to add the fireplace, the over, the kiln, the overhead structure, walls, maybe door (Arpachshad), maybe even attic, windmill outside, maybe a water wheel, threshing floor and grindstone (Melchizedek). Now Ninevah may have boxes.

Make it to the blowgun. Collections of what? The neural revolver helps the blowgun, and the blowgun helps the neural revolver, but somewhere in there some very intelligent choirmasters got the humans together and figured out how to precisely knock out notes while yelling at each other, and how to make a windpipe capable of the same effect, then how to set them up, how to make it work better or best in various boxes, while they are saying things like "Today this scroll has been fulfilled in your he-ARRRRR'ing" or other susceptible phrases.

Collections. I'll probably never have time to work on it.

John's first patron of the day was waiting at the door when he approached.
        "Roger!" he said as he unlocked the door. "I haven't seen you in years! Want a beer? My stuff is pretty damned good if I do say so myself, and it's a lot cheaper than the imported stuff."
        "Sure," he said. John poured a beer and handed it to him. He took a sip. "Not bad, John. So you're tending bar now? I heard the shipping company fired you for that thing on Vesta. They said you killed a couple of guys."
        John laughed. "Tending bar? It's my bar! Fired me? The president and the CEO both tried to talk me out of retiring, but my wife's building a telescope here. Time for me to settle down, I'm tired of pirates and all that other bullshit."
        "Yeah, I heard you married a scientist."
        "So what have you been up to, Rog?"
        Roger laughed. "Well, I've been waiting for you to open for an hour most lately, it's been almost a year since I had a beer. I've had a bunch of Saturn runs and a Vesta assignment the last couple of years and haven't been to Mars in a long time, but when I got back from Vesta they sent me here with a load of barley and hops and stuff like that. Did you buy all of that?"
        "Yeah, that's my shipment. I told you I'm making beer, didn't you see the sign? I have a microbrewery here, that's all beer ingredients. So how do you like it?"
        "It's good beer, you're pretty good at it. So they begged you not to retire? When I was on Vesta unloading some food supplies they told me that you got fired for killing two passengers. Did that happen?"
        John laughed. "No, not only did they not fire me, I got a raise. And yeah, two stupid rich tourists died but it was their own stupidity, arrogance, and sense of entitlement that killed them, not me."
        "So what happened?"
        "Well, I was taking scientific equipment to Vesta and a couple of the other asteroid stations in the belt, and I had two first class passengers. A couple of assholes from Austin who were born rich and got richer speculating on the stock market. Idiots who couldn't learn because they thought they knew everything."
        "Yeah," Roger said, "Texas is damned weird, I lived in Houston for a while when I was a kid. Everybody wore those stupid looking hats and acted like they were all ranchers or something. History class was filled with Sam Houston, the Alamo, and the Jet Propulsion Laboratory. It's been a museum for a couple hundred years now."
        "Yeah, that's those two morons to a tee. Drug store cowboys, all hat and no cattle. Probably couldn't tell a cow from a horse and thought milk came from factories.
        "All they did was bitch and complain and break rules. They hated the coffee I made for them, and my coffee's pretty good, lots better than robots did then. I'm glad they upgraded those robots, I always made coffee for passengers because the robot coffee was barely drinkable.
        "They complained about the pork, what would I know about pork? Hell, I wasn't rich, I was just a boat captain. I only ate pork a couple of times in my life before I met Destiny. There wasn't anything I could have done about the pork but they bitched about it every damned day even though the cookbots did damned good on everything else but barbecue. Oh, they complained their asses off about the barbecue, too."
        "They're crazy about barbecue in Texas," Roger said. "Some folks there eat it every day. I've seen them barbecue eggs! They're always bragging about how big everything is in Texas, too."
        "Yeah, they bitched about how âdinkyâ(TM) their cabin was. Hell, my whole damned houseboat would probably have fit in their living room and it's a big houseboat. Crappy trip, the only good thing was they were paying for full gravity so it didn't take very long to get there.
        "Anyway, these guys liked reading old science fiction, really ancient stuff. They'd run across a short story called Marooned Off Vesta, and when Vesta ordered supplies from one of their companies they decided to buy tickets and ride along.
        "These dumbasses wanted to recreate the damned story!"
        "What was the story about?"
        "Well, it starts with..." Another patron entered. "Gus Harrison! How about that!" John said.
        Roger grinned. "What are you doing in a bar this time of morning, old man? I haven't seen you in years, either."
        Gus laughed. "You're the one with a beer in front of you. I just got back from Europa and haven't had a beer in months. What do you have, John?"
        "Pretty much everything, but my best seller is my own stuff."
        "John makes some damned good beer," Roger said. "I like it better than imported. Give me another one, John."
        "Yeah, I'll try one," said Gus. "So what have you guys been doing?"
        "John's been telling space stories. He was telling me about some morons off Vesta."
        "Yeah, like I was telling Roger, two annoying rich tourists wanted to recreate an ancient story some Russian guy wrote a few hundred years ago. It starts with three guys who have just survived a collision with an asteroid that destroyed most of the ship and killed everyone else."
        "I think I read that," Gus said. "Marooned Off Vesta?"
        "Yeah, that's the one."
        "He wasn't Russian, he was American, Isaac Asimov. He emigrated to the United States with his parents from Russia when he was three. Rog, in the book one of the three guys puts on a space suit, crawls around the outside of the ship and blasts the ship's water tank with a laser or something and the water shoots out and puts them on Vesta where they're rescued by its science station. So what happened on your trip, John?"
        "Well, these morons thought the guys in the story could have just jumped from orbit and landed on Vesta and decided to prove it."
        "What?" Gus and Roger exclaimed in unison.
        "That's just stupid," Gus added.
        "No shit," John replied. Well, they found out the hard way."
        "How did they get outside the boat?" Roger asked. "We keep everything like storage locked away from passengers."
        "They hacked the lock with some kind of gizmo they bought on the black market. It was really damned sophisticated, it kept the alarm quiet and the warning light dark."
        "Son of a bitch," Gus said, "The stupid bastards dealt with pirates? They're lucky they lived long enough to buy the tickets. So they suffocated out there after they ran out of air?"
        "No, worse. It was bad. I discovered it half an hour after they were floating outside and the meteor alarm went off. Lucky they wasn't able to unhook that alarm, or it really would have been like that story, only we'd all have died. There wasn't time to rescue the morons so I got the hell out of the way of the rocks. When the storm passed I went back into orbit and retrieved what little of them that was left, and delivered the cargo and the dead morons to the landing boat from the station."
        "Almost wrecked your ship, did they?" Roger said.
        "Yeah. I was moroned off Vesta."

I was thinking about shopping his out to various science fiction magazines, then remembered all the ones I bought when I was young. I realized that there was no way any story with John and his friends and their "colorful language" was going to published in a "family magazine" so I decided to go ahead and post it here. I hacked most of it out this morning.

Marooned Off Vesta was Isaac Asimov's first published story, appearing in the pulp fiction magazine Amazing Stories in 1939.

The magazine stopped publication in 2005. It was reborn as a free web magazine at the above link in 2012. It's where I found the link to the Asimov story.

Today is Tuesday the thirtieth day of September in 2014 A.D.

They beat me up enough last night to make me lose some voice as if I had been yelling. I'll take a week clearing that out. Fella returned with his friend. Adolf Frenchie and Super-happy Grinnie (with diamond stud earring). Kicked me awake at 3 AM and then beat me out in animal style, kicking and punching. I walked to make my report and, upon returning through the area for sleep, they arrived in a white SUV. Exiting the SUV with a beast they began taunting,"You like the pit bull? You like the pit bull?" It wasn't like they were going to attack me with it. No, he was taunting as he led the beast toward me. Because they f* their beasts for their money. A good portion of this is the eighth year of the sphinx. They're mad that I won't get a job or f* the dog. Many of them, growing up, were assaulted and beaten and raped by their parents until they would give and go f* the dog.

Managed to duck around enough corners to escape them and the beast, I heard them call "get the SUV" one to the other as I took off. Then I made as much noise as possible, ringing doorbell and rapping on window, to get one call to the police (hopefully), and I ran to the pay phone to make another 911 call. Hopefully to bring as many squads from as many directions as possible to catch them before they left the scene. The police did indeed arrive, did indeed drive around the corner in time (I kept going off near like a teapot in my head,"could you please just drive around the corner and apprehend their vehicle before they leave") but outwardly kept my patience and allowed the officers to handle the situation, I hardly said a word. The officers did meet the two, did tow their vehicle, did take them to jail. Is only a misdemeanor ticket, though, so they likely post bail in the morning and then that's that for people like them. If they don't bother to show up to court the green eggs and ham lawyer for their particular collective group will.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

The wiki website has a good breakdown for the various levels of financial control and the associated ages at which they were brought into the dark side of life. That material is in Template Timeline. Plenty of associated material and references are in the Reader's Guide and here in the journal history.

Perhaps we could say I was beaten two nights in a row. The first night I ate the green eggs and the second night they ate the ham when their attack boys were taken away by the police. I could even pay them as the subcontractor for the ham; that's a common transaction in their culture.

They like to run their secret parade in attack mode on me. One of the officers commented in last night's incident,"They don't seem to beat up the other homeless people. You're the only one that gets it." Later, in a discussion about the number of incidents upon which I had been blindly beaten in the middle of the night, he said,"But it wasn't the same person that beat you up the last time." That's why it is called a hate group. Different people from different walks of life are able to give that excuse,"it wasn't the same person that beat you" while "they don't seem to bother any of the other homeless people." All the other homeless people are chipped and wired paid and financed, on assignment in the green eggs and ham and worse animal prostitution ship, largely. They like to run their secret parade in attack mode, but they don't like to hear about it, even if I am talking at a barely audible whisper. Social isolation, such as homelessness such as I have documented, with a daily life of prayer and two walking pilgrimages, results the individual talks largely to themselves. In my discussions of hell I have noted that, until they beat you to silly putty at the bottom by mining you inside out for the hundred milliliter daily soaking and sponging to produce lipid bilayer for the bugs, until the entire process beats you to silly putty, then you will not stop moving or making noise. That is top of the food chain meat. We have eunuchs, we have torsos, we have roosters, we have three hands on roosters, in the kingdom of heaven they put together the big asmodeus clusterscrew by turning the paschal lamb into shiva plus as many other hands as they have these days. It's an atrocious world. Terrible.

The police counseled, the ticket was only a misdemeanor, the fellows would likely post bail at the earliest possible A.M. Their explanation to the police was that I had "assaulted them first", I suppose that means that they report that I initiated the event. Without impact I implored the officer,"Notice that, over all of these years, near everybody that beats me in the middle of the night claims that same excuse."

And where else to go? Morro Bay police likely had a call that all of the goodies out walking their dogs were zeroing in on something. Atascadero saw fewer goodies with dogs, but the police noticed the homeless people waiting at the area dinner for the new guy. Lompoc police put on a half-block show to encourage me to keep moving as quickly as possible, that they had received warnings that the goodies were on the chase on something. Rinaldi, the police were in the parade line. Orcutt! DEPUTY! The deputy told me to keep moving that day because his office had received indications that the goodies were talking about doing something terrible to that new homeless guy that does nothing but pray with _that book_ all day long.

So where else to go? Everywhere I go the goodies are always hot on the chase with their dogs, except the places where whispers of "there are too many people working" means that there are too many jobbies to start running the dogs and kids in bikinis everywhere over the homeless man all night long. Near every town I came to saw signs in the block or two away of the usual clouds of possible fight scenes beginning to form. I never stayed anywhere very long on this summer's vacation walk (earlier journal entries, maybe five or ten back, maybe more by now).

They're all chipped and wired. They're all the goodies, with animals with dogs, dead eye reanimated carnival sewing monstrosities. That's their way, that's how they do, that's what they do, that's the way it is.

As Yuval Harari points out, "What is so special about us that allows for such cooperation? Unflatteringly, it is our talent for deluding ourselves. If you examine any large-scale human cooperation (or co-option), you will always find some imaginary story at its base. As long as many people believe in the same stories about gods, nations, money or human rights (memes and antitropes) - they follow the same laws and rules (of conduct)."

https://www.coursera.org/course/humankind

Today is Friday the twenty-ninth day of September in 2014 A.D.

I know what this is all about. They are all chipped and wired, and they are unhappy because, since returning from the summer vacation walk, I have been muttering all day long "they ate, they ee-tered it, that ate-er-ated it, they ate it" and "you ate? you ate it! you ate it... oh no! you're going to hell" and other segments from earlier journal entries. This happened back at the beginning of the http://daypage.wikispaces.com/ material when I first postulated that they were all chipped and wired on remote control, and began talking to the "secret microphone" by telling them to go f* their dog; as I had recently deduced that they did indeed spork their hoagie for their money, do the freaknastery with the dagnabbery for the blingdiddery, and then they all get chipped and wired. This "game" is all they have.

So when enough of them begin pouting about what you're saying, whether or not you're yelling it or muttering it, then they get to hire somebody to come and beat you up. Because that is how they do their children. I have earlier written about the scene with Method Man, good upstanding fella, standing off in a corner with a shovel. He managed to smack the first one in the rush, and they probably ended up looking like me, but he was inside, and the rush with the doctors and the dental prosthetic to teach him how to make his million dollars. Good Meth, standing at the ready in the corner with a shovel, his brain unraveling the reality in front of him,"You're all faggitts! You're all faggitts! *step step whack*" and then the rush.

While I was on summer vacation enough new ones rotated around the general shuffle that they have been unhappy about me taunting them on their own secret microphone system, following quite well with the incident following my initial exploration into the possibility that they were indeed all chipped and wired and on a system which they did not administer.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

http://daypage.wikispaces.com/

According to the way the sphinx works, and the way the languages are constructed, and the way real nature works, I'm helping you to hell anyway. You're performance of the situation, the six hours you spent practicing with a dummy in advance to ensure that you could *set set set snap* *set set set pop* The fellow didn't really dance around much, he had spent time practicing for the entire situation. I thought, early on,"should I raise my hands to block", but decided that may only encourage him to become excited. C'mon, s*itbag, do what you're gonna do, take your shots, get the hell oughtta here. Cameras everywhere, drone spy seagulls probably have the whole thing with audio.

Today is Friday the twenty-ninth day of September in 2014 A.D.

Pharauh had friends. They were neuroseurgeons. They loved to take him apart and put him back together and take him apart again, and they became very good in the taking apart and the putting back together. They were very interested in the brain, both for revolver and flipping purposes. They learned exactly which channel, which crevice, which pocket was related to which sound. The established which crevice and pocket was tied to which muscle, and which exact range of motion. In the days of the original humans there were variations in the matching. In the early steam pressed humans there were variations in the matching. The line of steam pressed new humans achieved a level of scientific perfection to ensure that, within quality limits, the exact crevasse, trench, channel, and pocket of the brain would be matched to an acceptable range of sound and muscular motion. They also discovered that the brain, if plugged down to the brain stem, produced a yet very functional human. The standardization of the steam press line allowed them to develop very predictable methods for plugging very particular sections of the brain through injury, and economized the process to establish full ventilatory blockage between the stem and the lobes, using the channels, pockets, crevasses, and trenches. Pharaoh's friends, the doctors, established very predictable methods of making pharoah do this, or do that, or perform tasks which were designed to facilitate disuse of ranges of motion which could be predictably plugged up with other methods. Physical injuries settle in the muscles and the brain becomes lax about them and, if he doesn't stretch those out or sing through those notes, there is a higher chance that he will not recover those areas. Larger injuries work even better. Have him stay on the couch all day long, sit exactly like this, ride along on wheels, maybe use turnip carts to gimp the ankles and knees. Pharaoh's friends became very good at this. They choreographed years and decades long sequences to assist with position just the exact injury or the correct sounds to culminate with regions which had been softened up along the way.

Now, pharaoh's doctors have it all set up for you.

There is a real neurological and physiological reason why you cannot walk with your heels above the ground. That is a memory space in your brain stem which is blocked off from you. The result is: faggitt. Another one in the line of steam press ones in the world full of them going to hell.

There is a real neuro and physio reason why your voice hasn't dropped. There is a real neuro and physio reason why you cannot move your tongue inside the back of your nose. Those regions for those muscular positions are boogered up and blocked off. The result is: faggitt.

And they tore your wings off your butt the moment they steam pressed you. That wasn't quite enough to completely knock the lobes off the stem and kick Adam out of the garden, but close.

Other reliable methods are having sex with an eunuch. That will creep your brain out and lock you down to the stem the first, if not the second, time. Eating green eggs and ham, similarly. Eating the green eggs is bad enough, but why the ham? They're going to hell anyway, the ham ensures they'll make it the first, if not definitely by the second, offense.

On the green eggs and ham, nowadays they're all dead reanimated parts anyway. What is this "under the earth"? The bible is a catalogue of everything real, maybe the words are out of sequence on occasion, or maybe the scene needs to be analyzed with the surrounding tapestry on occasion, but it's all real. There are never "eyes of a beast" in the bible, nor are there "eyes of an animal", because those are not real concepts. Either the eyes were alive or they weren't. But, recently, there is this "under the earth". What is this "under the earth"? They speak of it highly, as if there are many tongues there to proclaim that Jesus is Lord, as if it could be a consideration that some of the tongues may not proclaim, so they need to write it down.

What is this "under the earth" of which they speak? It's real, it's in the bible.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Heaven, and hell under that.

Today is Monday the twenty-ninth day of September in 2014 A.D.

Woke up at 3 AM with some fag punching me in the face. I now look like I finished a title bout with Tyson, literally. I have the customary twelve-round gash at the corner of the eye and the classic twelve-round gash on the top of the cheekbone, in addition to the shiner on the inside of the eye--not the entire eye, just the inside is blackened. Classic. That's because my face is so hard. Has nothing to do with how the fag hit me; has to do with where the bones are, like stretching a balloon over a carved bust and watching it tear on the edges. My fingertips aren't bruised, my fingernails aren't broken, my knockles aren't scraped, my clothes aren't torn: I had no part of the fight. As usual, as I have written about in the past, when the faggitt couldn't get into a full contact full grappling fight (I wasn't going to abandon my belongings so I just stood there while he punched at me) then, obviously, he started reaching for and tearing at my belongings--picking up this bag and that bag and whatever he could get his hands on and throwing it around the area. Nothing but faggitts.

Hit me again. Did it make your voice drop? No. Your voice didn't drop. You aren't any bigger man, you are still the faggitt.

Hit me again, faggitt. C'mon, get mad about it. Did I say something to make you mad? Do you feel angry and bad about f*cking animals and eating excremental feces for your money? Get mad about it, hit me again. There, are you able to keep your heels up when you walk? No? See, you're still the faggitt.

C'mon faggitt. Hit me again. Are you going to go f*ck another beast for your money? See. You're still the faggitt.

I wake up in a sense of "What the hell?" Oh, I know... I get it. I know what this is about. This is about you people f*cking your animals for your money, isn't it? Well, hit me again. See. You're still the faggitt.

Oh, I know. This is about your "right" to follow people around, to profile them, to stalk them, to wait in timed gangs around all the corners to come marching out on somebody. Two by two, one by one, three by three, to take your shots, shout at their head, step in their way, cut them off. This is your "game", isn't it? This is the way you make people "mad", the way you get them to yell and holler, so that you can call the police and say you don't know anything? This is your "right", your "way", isn't it? Well, hit me again faggitt. Get mad about it. See, you're the one getting mad, you're still the faggitt.

I've been telling the police for years that the problem is the faggitts and their animals. What happened at the beginning of the summer? The police took *me* to jail, booking me for "illegal lodging" and then settling me for "disturbing the peace". What happened last night? I got jumped in my sleep and beat up by one of the faggitts again. No credible threat to make it a stalking? Well, hit me again faggitt.

Too bad. Too many of the police, especially here in California, are themselves members of the doggie-f*cking faggitt club.

This is your way, huh? This is the way you beat your kids up and make them go "do it"? When you beat one of your little kids up like this then they give in and go f*ck the dog like you do for your money? You must feel really big beating up little kids less than half your height and making them have sex with animals and eat dogsh*t like you do for your money. Well, hit me again faggitt. See, you're still the faggitt. I guess your "way" doesn't work on a full-sized adult. Which you're not, because you're the faggitt.

Did your voice drop? It doesn't work like that. You don't make your voice drop by punching me. Punch me in the face all you like, faggitt, you're still going to hell. You are still the faggitt.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Chase me around the town. Follow me all night long. Sing your opposition to my dick. Pound your fist and insist that everybody "get nothing!!!" until they "go do it!". Get you and all your people together. Hide in the condos, hide in your cars, hide in the parking lots and around all the corners. Flood the area and case me around the block. Make people mad, get people upset, point the finger and blame at me.

See this blood on my face? This is your game. You're still the faggitt. Hit me again, faggitt. Get some more of your health club boys to stake me out all night long and come up and start punching me at 3 AM. You're still the faggitts. You're all big and bad f*cking animals and beating your children into it, but you can't even walk a few miles to save your own ass from getting pounded out by a reanimated set of cast-off sewing parts.

_YOU_ are still the faggitt.

Bored, since I can't do anything to the book but wait for the USPS, I decided to log into my web host's site and check out statistics for my site. Most of them were completely unexpected.

I expected most visitors to be running Windows, but very surprised at how many Linux users came. 71.4% were running Windows, not surprising, but the 12.5% running Linux was completely surprising, considering that everything I read says only something like 1% run that OS. Many of the 14% "unknown" are likely to be Linux as well.

Linux kicks Apple's ass on my site! Only 1.4% are logging on with a Mac; they're dead last.

Browsers surprised me, too. The 52.3% that Firefox has wasn't surprising, but the fact that IE was dead last among desktop browsers (well, except Safari) but what surprised me even more is that people are still using Netscape and Mozilla. And I thought I was bad about not upgrading! 7.8% were on Android's browser.

Also surprising was the number of folks from non-English speaking countries, some of which outnumbers visitors from New Zealand (not many Kiwis visiting at all).

What really surprised me was that there were zero with scripting disabled. Not that it matters; I don't use any (except a little CSS) but I did use a little javascript back in the day when I was running my old Quake site. If I did use it, disabled scripting wouldn't hurt anything, my code always failed gracefully when it failed.

I still can't believe all the tools I have at my disposal, although I doubt I'll use more than one or two; I manage files with FileZilla and rarely log on to my host's site.

I've been busy editing. I sent off for a printed copy this morning, so you'll probably see more of me the next couple of weeks, as will the folks at the bar. I'll probably be bored, since I've been working obsessively on that book since March.

I updated my web site slightly this morning, adding a "coming soon" heads up about the book. I'm hoping to publish in a month. There will be one lucky fellow who will get a free hardcover copy, and hardcover copies will be "invitation only" but all you'll have to do is email a request and I'll return the mail with a URL where you can get it. I may do the same with the paperback.

My apologies, but the eBook version will be priced at two dollars more than my first books, which were free. It will be a two dollar Amazon download. If your reader doesn't do Amazon, forward your Amazon receipt to me with your reader type and preferred file type and I'll send it back by email.

If you're afraid I'm just trying to collect email addresses to spam, I'm not. I don't give or sell my address book to anyone. Moreover, my site collects absolutely no information about visitors whatever, and doesn't use cookies or any kind of scripting whatever.

PDF and HTML files will continue to be free, as well as the eBooks of the two previous books. The prices on the printed books will only change if the printer changes his prices.

Most likely I'll work on that new short story, Moroned Off Vesta about the incident Captain Knolls mentions several times in the book. It will have him in his Martian bar telling a friend who captains the company ships about what happened.

The title is a nod to Isaac Asimov's first published story, Marooned Off Vesta. I may try to shop it to a few science fiction magazines before I post it.

I mentioned my web site earlier, the domain registration needed to be renewed and I needed more space; their "free" hosting (it comes with registration) only gives you five megabytes. I had to delete the Bible to make room for The Paxil Diaries and wouldn't have had room for Mars, Ho! It's costing me $35 a year for ten times the space. "Free" is fifteen bucks.

Yes, they're cheap and they're good. I had to use their tech support to get FileZilla to see the files for FTP; the process had completely changed. Unlike some help desks I've dealt with in the past, they were excellent.

The changes to FTP include a lot. I can have subdomains, many subusers with their own separate users, all sorts of goodies now. Forums, discussion boards, comments, SQL, PHP, Java, Ruby, the whole kit and kaboodle.

And I won't be using any of it.

I've registered all my past domains with them, starting in 2000, and never once had a problem with them. They're a Canadian company, register4less. If you have a small site and need less than 5 megs and no frills it's only fifteen bucks.

Oh, and buy a book, I have new false teeth to pay for.

MSS Code Factory is a model-to-code development tool that provides Java 7 using JDBC and stored procedures for DB/2 LUW, Microsoft SQL Server, MySQL, Oracle, PostgreSQL, and Sybase ASE.

Service Pack 1 corrects defects in the manufactured database schema installation scripts, the core Java ORM objects, the stored procedures, and the JDBC layer. It also adds in the production of an XML messaging based communications framework for doing client-server or web development (you have to code the transport layer, but the message parsers and processing are provided.)

Service Pack 1 also provides a prototype Swing GUI that can be used as-is for performing demos and walkthroughs of a business application model for users, rather than counting on users to understand ERD or UML diagrams. The prototype is entirely factory and interface based, so it can form the basis of a custom user interface by either subclassing the manufactured GUI components produced, or by replacing them wholesale with JInternalFrame and JPanel instances as appropriate (the only requirement is that they implement the interfaces specified by the manufactured objects.)

The source code for the project is hosted at github, but the main project is on SourceForge at http://msscodefactory.sourceforge.net.

The project has been under research and development since Java 1.1 was released in 1997, with the past two years focusing on the 1.11 release.

Today is Thursday the twenty-fifth day of September in 2014 A.D.

Thinking about a movie, or a video game. BRICKS. The sphinx walks up and down the great wall of China and reads whatever is written there. For every brick in the sphinx, up to and including the actual fellow physically placing the brick in coordinate position, all of the laundry, all of the grocery, all of the after work hours entertainment, all of the plumbing, all of the lights, all of the adminstration, the executives, the managerial, the paperwork and offices and contractors, up to and including the single fellow placing the brick in physical coordinate position, for every brick in the sphinx, as the sphinx walks up and down the great wall of China and reads what is written there. All of the finances for each brick, and each community over time associated with each individual brick, how the money is portioned out, how it is divided and distributed, how it is all counted and numbered ahead of time, to facilitate the operation of the community, as it functions associated with the individual fellow placing the brick in physical position, over time as the sphinx walks up and down the great wall of China and reads what is written there. How the lives of all of those people interoperate, how they share road space, how they share lunch room space, how they share restaurant space after hours, how their lives change over time, the stages they go through. How the finances are all counted ahead of time and kept track of in bread boxes along the way. A movie, or a video game. BRICKS. As the sphinx walks up and down the great wall of China and reads what is written there, for each brick in the sphinx, up to and including the single individual fellow placing the physical brick in coordinate position, all of the lives and times and situations and operations associated with all of the people in the resulting community, for each brick in the sphinx. How quickly does the sphinx read? How quickly does it walk? What is the lifespan of the people in the brick system? What do they do for their money? What are their injuries, their faults, their failings? How do they break down? How do they notice? What excuses do they make? For each brick in the sphinx.

The movie included several fortune cookies, points where the entire audience was roaring in laughter. For each brick in the sphinx there are many people. Sometimes there are tricks between the bricks, little known nuances which cause comedy and entertainment for everybody involved. If it is known that there are present people associated with the sphinx brick system, and that is many people, then there are ways to make them go googly, or make them choose poorly, or inspire them to aspire to greatness but, like the seed thrown on rocky ground, they have no root and they go back to EATING IT. And those eating it manage various sized teams or corporations or even nations of people that don't eat it but are hopelessly locked into little money games.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

The video game could allow the player to enter the role of any of the people in any of the systems in any of the bricks, up to and including the priests and doctors working on the mummified baby in the middle of the financial accounting system. Or the player could play an outside eunuch, as in the temple eunuchs of old, and put the game into frame by frame and make games out of profiling workers, all in line performing a similar and like task, by poking them in various particular muscles with various points and pressures, and taking note of which sounds they make, if they notice at all, if they go completely bonkers. The possibilities for testing and manipulating teams of workers in known brick operational teams, as in working on the sphinx or the pyramids or the great wall itself or any of the major projects, are beyond endless. The ancient temple eunuchs did a remarkable job of profiling the available testing space and the results are recorded in an archive known as "the law". The law is, in modern days, broken down into religions and nationalities in a compressive manner because the entirety of the law is far too large to record or carry out in singular or linear format.

'The Cause Of Empire Leads To The Graveyard'

"This is a vision of the world in which might makes right - a world in which one nation's borders can be redrawn by another, and civilized people are not allowed to recover the remains of their loved ones because of the truth that might be revealed. America stands for something different. We believe that right makes might - that bigger nations should not be able to bully smaller ones; that people should be able to choose their own future...

America is and will continue to be a Pacific power, promoting peace, stability, and the free flow of commerce among nations. But we will insist that all nations abide by the rules of the road, and resolve their territorial disputes peacefully, consistent with international law. That's how the Asia-Pacific has grown. And that's the only way to protect this progress going forward."

A black man is gunned down by police for handling a toy gun in a Walmart. A gun that Walmart was selling.

http://www.vox.com/2014/9/24/6839953/video-john-crawford-walmart-police-beavercreek-ohio-toy-gun

But this white guy can carry a real, loaded rifle (and body armor) in front of a school, refuses to show ID to police and nothing happens.

http://politix.topix.com/story/14304-was-this-man-wrong-to-demonstrate-open-carry-in-front-of-a-high-school

Open Carry laws are clearly meant just for white people. Laws that only apply to one race are the definition of racist.

Today is Wednesday the twenty-fourth day of September in 2014 A.D.

Here's one for the recipe book.

White-Brain Human

Save the poo from several different humans for a few days. Mix it in a large bowl. Allow to dry. Continue to mix and dry but retain consistency. Do not overdry.

Obtain a skin sack from somewhere. Epidermis. Enough for a sack. Like a haggis.

Obtain tissue samples from major organs. Maybe Fisher or Aldrich will sell to you a few cell lines and a dish could be cultured for each. Cardiac, spleen, liver, brain, a section of tripe, name a few more.

Surgical gauze. Lots of it. A turkey pan. Two or three gallons of water.

Pump the skin sack full of the conglomerate poo. Insert the organ bits in the approximate locations. Use bone fragments of significant length at the arms, legs, spin, skull, ribs, and hips. Seal the skin sack. Wrap the skin sack to about three-quarters inch thick surgical gauze. Place the wrapped skin sack in the turkey pan and fill with water to half the level of the wrapped sack.

Pre-heat your oven to 500 degrees. If you have a ceramic kiln, so much the better.

Toss the turkey pan into the oven and replenish the water as necessary. Conventional oven may take a few hours, ceramic kiln could be done is as little as ten minutes, depending upon kiln power and proper poo to organ tissue ratios.

When you hear a sound from the oven, you have your very own nephilim. The sons of heaven, the baby with the bathwater, wrapped up in the pressed paper, because the old bathwater is used to soak the leaves..

The white-brained human will have wings. If you are following the kingdom of heaven script then you will promptly tear those off. The white-brained human will also take some time before it actually does anything. The newly steam-pressed brain will be somewhat confused and it may spend several months or even years sitting on your couch assimilating information and figuring out what the #$%& is going on. If you are following the kingdom of heaven script then you will promptly beat the ever loving #$% beejeezus out of the newly pressed white-brain in carefully choreographed training sequences to give it some experience and guidance in the architecture of the running society.

The resulting human will be male. There is no possible way to press a new female. The brain inside the new male is capable of unraveling, unfolding, unrolling, turning inside out to pop up to a female. The quest to coax the brain to unroll before the male is a capable and mature partner has been going on for hundreds of thousands of years, if not longer, on this planet alone. It cannot be done. The newly pressed human could, conceivably, unroll within a few years. If significant damage is done to the new human, as in the kingdom of heaven script, there is a point known as "being kicked out of the garden", past which the resulting human will be required to endeavor at least 2500 miles of hard walking to enter recovery mode. Further abuse following the kicked out of the garden threshold is irrelevant to the hard walking distance from the recovery mode.

One advantage of your home-cooked nephilim is that it will not have the rumplestilskin and, when it does figure out what is going on, its brain will not be all distorted, contorted, clogged, and scuttled down to the brain stem (kicked out of the garden). Perhaps you could teach it to sing.

Is possible to use poo from only one human. The resulting nephilim will act like a real human baby and will be intent on improving you (a la the path of the Lord). You will probably think the "baby" is destroying your life and you will have it killed. It is possible to press a new human without bone fragments but the product will require extra-sensitive care in the first six months else it will be extremely distorted, miserable and unhappy; a wading pool is ideal.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

http://www.theregister.co.uk/2014/09/19/fbi_overseas_hacking_powers/
A change to Rule 41 of the Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure may allow for deeper searches into foreign countries that hide people wanting to protect their anonymity on the internet. Interesting times for darknet, Tor users, proxies or VPN users.