War in La Jolla, seventh year, twenty-fourth entry

All day every day the individuals staffing the scenes around me act as if they have a million dollars. They do not act as if they are thousand dollar wage or salary earners. The scenes are obvious in their focus, me. For all of the attention they demand and all of the show they create they are never willing to interact. There is no real interaction; ten thousand prank telephone calls every day. Every single one of them has a million dollars. Obvious heroin addicts with opaque black sunglasses glued to their faces even in the cloudiest of weather. Flaming sexual deviants proudly displaying music video style pantomimes dedicated to representing their particular perversion. D and F students with no personality staging enormous group scenes with tethered dogs flooding out of every corner. Fatasses and lardasses, decrepit broken downs and never-weres. Every single one of them has no other care in the world but to zero in on me. Even their children parade as part of the "we know how" million dollar crew; participating in the "just checking your attention because we get to" game and dutifully ignoring any real interaction. How does every single one of them have a million dollars? Eight hundred cheap tourists every day, with enough money to staff the area and appear coincidentally around every corner and up every lane with high beams brightly demanding notice, none of them with enough money to patronize Girard, but every single one of them completely blissfully secure that they have no worries about rent, mortgage, insurance, food, housing, clothing, or the taxes and burdens that occupy the working class citizen.

How does every single one of them have a million dollars?

What's the big secret?

They fellate dogs (and other animals), consume farm feces, participate in choreographed and directed sex parties, and interact sexually with other animals.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

War in La Jolla, seventh year, twenty-third entry

Considering inventory and parking space in the moments before the opening of the library: at one time I had entertained thoughts to park my vehicle on the curbside. The practice brought on the increase frequency in dogs; this at a time when I did not yet know of the ancient worldwide get rich quick secret that is green eggs and ham. The dogs were not, at that time, prone to marching with their accompanying servant to the sitting porch of the library nor were the human beastie money servants prone to leaving animals unnattended on the library sitting porch. The frequency of dogs nosing around my curbside parked vehicle, however, led me to begin parking on the library porch. Over the years, as the green eggs and ham millionaire patrols have increased their voracity for trouble and their tactics to create it have become more aggressive, they have become comfortable with staffing the library porch with animals at will and the surrounding community gossip has been pruned and culled to ensure that it is allowed.

A similar demonstration of the parking situation involves the religious practice with respect to homeless parking. In the beginning had I desired to leave my belongings in what felt to be the foyer area of the church with a sitting bench used rarely except for Saturday reconciliation. The first week was fine, the second week fine, about the second month was when the surrounding forty thieves became comfortable enough with their position in the area that they began to root through my belongings and steal items at will.

Tying the parking situation together with the religious practice and the concept of social pruning leaves us with a demonstration of the unveiling, exposition, and dissection of the get rich quick millionaires and their festival game of forty thieves; in both the church and the library settings. The choreographed practice of parking was the tip of the iceberg leading into the seven year and continuing social study of a population of people primarily considered to be wealthy enough to not worry about food or housing any time in the near future.

How do people come to be that wealthy? When a person grows up in a world shaping them for a career and a position in a corporate or working world they lose sight of the big money very early in life. In their young years they may encounter aunts, or uncles, or friends of the family, or friends of friends of the family, and be invited for a visit, or make a friend for a short time, or be invited to a birthday party. In those years the child experiences the wonderment over wealth and home and possessions far above what they see at home and school; the concept of million dollar wealth is brought into their brain. Wealth beyond what their local environment could ever provide any time soon. How does an individual make it into that world? That thought stays with them for a time, some longer than others, but the salving on of many different control mechanisms in the schools, in the home, and in the social world will generally lead them quickly into an employed position in the thousand dollar world. Their life will be dominated by fighting for the next debt marker in the thousand dollar world and their only consideration of the million dollar world is subservience, jealousy, wonderment in appreciation (attention whoring), or the lotto.

How does one make it into the million dollar world? The ensconced employed worker never has a chance to count people on the street. Millionaires, to them, have millionaire jobs: movie stars, executives, top traders. The course of school strongly indicates to them that the politicians make less than one hundred thousand yearly; even if federal senators have a marvelous retirement tenure, it is not by itself worth the million dollar money that it takes to have a home where the traffic and the neighbors aren't a chore like the vacuum cleaner. The employed worker knows only that million dollar people did something to get that million dollar check. Then it's back to work counting the clock or dodging bullets in corporate hallways. The numbers indicate that there is an dark matter field of small-time millionairs, an oil well of one trick ponies with a stomach for extra crap. They are the phonies, the cars, the people who get to do this, the nobodies, amongst a hundred other names and titles and positions which they give to themselves because they have the free time to do so.

New local law. If you eat green eggs and ham for your money you must do so daily that nobody ever forgets exactly what you is. Eaters of the pepi le poo tend to consider their money making session to be, in the linked environmental setting, yesterday. Today is the day they have the million dollars and you should do what they say. And if you don't they have this secret walkie-talkie cyborg intercom anyway. But you will never know, because that was yesterday.

Judging by the demonstrations and scenes which the small-time millionaires insist on displaying all day every day there appears to be a strong correlation between small-time millionaires and situations which, summed together, pantomime and point strong suggestion to canine fellatio and farm fecal consumption. Discuss. t.

Hell. You know, hell? It's not a new pleace. Please tell me that you have at least heard of hell. I am not making it up. It is a real physical geographical location. The earth has always been built on hell. Hell existed before the kingdom of heaven began mummifying passover lambs to act as an accounting branch (three pyramids provide bricks arranged to present a field of available "mummy money space" and the kingdom of heaven does what it can on as many as possible--very similar to the computer security industry) and proxy for the broken down bodies ready to go to hell. You know, please tell me you know. "HELL". It is not a new place. As the passover lamb continues to fast on the surface they are looking for a new coat of pain. t.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.org/

It was a beautiful day today, and my boss wasn't at work. The TV weatherman had said on the early morning news that it was going to rain tomorrow and for the next week, too. So I took the afternoon off.

I'd say my favorite radio station is a local college station, WQNA. Their music is an incredibly eclectic mix of genres; rock, punk, ska, country, old jazz from the thirties, you name it. Hell, they play belly dancing music on Wednesday nights. Well, they used to, I don't know if that show's still on. An old friend I've known for twenty years hosts a blues show on noon Sundays. On Wednesday mornings there's a show on called Ben's wacky radio that runs from 11:00 AM to 1:00 PM (US central time). The show is a Doctor Demento knockoff, and I was a Demento fan decades ago, so I hit the WQNA button on the radio when I got in the car to leave.

When I got home I turned on the TV, which serves as a forty two inch computer monitor, and clicked "WQNA" on Aramok's playlist. They stream in MP3 and AAC from their website, and there's no real radio in the house. Not needed; as far as I know, every radio station in the world streams over the internet.

I started working on Nobots.

The announcer said that the next half hour was devoted to Star Trek, so I put the laptop down because I knew the radio was going to be too distracting.

A song came on that the "Ben" guy said was by the actor Terry McGovern called Beam Me Up, Scotty. As I listened to the nerdy song I thought "Hey! That guy's read The Paxil Diaries!" My googlefu is weak today; I can't find the lyrics, but it's about how shitty life is on Earth. "My wife went away and took the car and left the bills and the kids".

I'm sitting here, all proud and smug and pleased with myself and googling for the lyrics when I came across this.

McGovern wrote the song in 1976, the year I got married.

Oh, well, at least you guys read it.

I was already in a bad mood when I got to work. My arthritis was hurting badly and McDonalds got my order wrong, I was almost late from taking it back, and the office was freezing. I logged in to the network, and opened IE because the Outlook email client stupidly has no way to change your password. Adobe informed me Flash needed upgrading so I clicked OK. It asked if I wanted to install a Chrome frame for IE and I unchecked the box and clicked OK.

The damned thing installed a Google toolbar in IE, installed Chrome, and made it the default browser!

I uninstalled them and reset IE as the default browser; it isn't my computer, it belongs to my employer and I'm supposed to use their approved software. I hate my work computer. When I uninstalled Chrome, IE opened by itself to a firewall "Forbidden!" page, listing it as "shareware, freeware".

It was really cold, my arthritis was killing me and I went home. I won't be upgrading Flash on any of my own computers, because trojans are evil, even when they're written by Adobe, Google, Sony, or anybody else. I'll probably uninstall all Adobe products from my own machines except one; sometimes channel 49 won't come in so I need it for the Big Bang Theory.

Google, your motto is a God damned lie. I've been a faithful Google user since you first put the search engine on the internet; it was heads and shoulders better than any of the others and still is. I cheered when you used the Linux kernel in Android. I was an early G+ user when you had to know somebody to get an account. I have a gMail address (I seldom check its mail, though).

But these stealth installs are bullshit. That behavior is not acceptable and I won't tolerate it. I won't be back on G+ or gMail and I may bight the bullet and start using that shitty Bing.

When I see or hear that you've changed your ways I'll be back. Hurry, though, because I'm thinking of buying a new phone and I really don't want Apple or Microsoft.

I will repeat myself here -- it is never acceptable to install anything at all on anyone else's computer without their permission, ever, for any reason. No exceptions.

Slashdotters, please inform your non-nerd friends of this rule, just the other night a guy I know was steaming because his daughter in law had "messed up my computer."

Google, I'm really, really disappointed in you.

"Just the other day, Duke Energy CEO Jim Rogers said, 'If the cost of solar panels keeps coming down, installation costs come down and if they combine solar with battery technology and a power management system, then we have someone just using [the grid] for backup.' What happens if a whole bunch of customers start generating their own power and using the grid merely as backup? The EEI report warns of 'irreparable damages to revenues and growth prospects' of utilities."

Solar Panels Could Destroy U.S. Utilities

War in La Jolla, seventh year, twenty-second entry

Like taking a sabbatical to a small central American impoverished nation...

Or participating in a sociological study of some deep African clan or tribe...

Or living a sequestered and isolated existence in the back country of southeast Asia...

Live amongst the millionaires of the world and study them. Do not interact with them, do not try to become one of them, live around them, study their customs, their routines, their tactics, their lifestyle.

After a seven year sabbatical with the millionaires, living with them but isolated from them...

Guess what you learn?

They all suck dog dick and eat dog shit for their money. They have a secret hidden microphone intercom system. They have secret cameras and microphones covering every inch of visible, invisible, indoor, outdoor, underground, and rooftop space on the planet. All of the seagulls, crows, and most other birds are positively floating webcams and spy microphones. Their favortie pasttime, when not participating in scat beastiality sex for fun and profit, is snuff pedophilia sex... with dogs. More than half of them spend their lives in perpetual heroin wonderland, and that's not counting the eunuchs with the heroin pad built in.

Then you may begin learning the other wonderful things about this world that you only marginally ever dreamed that you would never want to know even in a nightmare.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com

[130524: corrected]

War in La Jolla, seventh year, twenty-first entry

Humans, subjected to sufficient anxiety and suffering (physical or psychological), polymorph into canines. A spongeblob of semigelatinous pulsating ritz remain behind; samosas, also used in eunuch assembly. Dogs, when subjected to sufficient anxiety and suffering, polymorph into felines. Felines, when subjected to sufficient anxiety and suffering, polymorph into birds. When the suffering goes from dogs to cats to tweety birds that is when the monks began to wear ritz purses and the concept of a sexually functional eunuch is brought to mind.

One of the most well practiced methods for encouraging the polymorph process is sushi rolling. In the Hebrew based scripture the beginning of the technique begins with wounding the quail. The motionless subject is grazed open along the ribs, torn open in long stripes using implements which resemble tiny ripping claws. If the subject is no longer motionless then necessary steps must be taken to reestablish the motionless form. With the freshly wounded quail stripes open the practitioner forms the "brass knuckle" position with their fingers and then washboard scrubs the open wounded ribs in tiny frenetic motions. Proper application of the technique, one of myriads of known paths, initiates the polymorph session.

The trees remain much more skilled at creating the situation of holding a human in place, scrubbing it with new foliage growth, or waiting until some other passing animal assists with various methodologies for deconstructing a human.

The thought has been that all green eggs and ham prone humans should be born with their lips sewn to their dogs; if they love the money that much. This was actually tried, back in Sodom and Gomorrah. The projected course of life (vocations and avocations) of such a creature is unclear from popularly available scripture but, upon the completion of the route of mutilated suffering and anxiety, the subject will polymorph into a horse. The horse's head is what remains of the dog section, the horses body is what remains of the human. Thus is explained the footnote in the bible that Father Abram had no camels; what, like the model line wasn't yet available? There weren't any camels walking around yet? Evolution hadn't quite reached it? Well, in a macabre fashion, that's exactly the explanation. The experiments which resulted in horses did not take place until the extreme end of Sodom and Gomorrah.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/rg-ism

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com

War in La Jolla, seventh year, twentieth entry

Updated Rolling Cues to include the carnival model for those of you unable to figure it out yet.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/rc-mode-carnies

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com

Previously...

"Gumal, I want to thank you for introducing me to Doctor Ragwell," Colonel Gorn said as he shook Ragwell's hand. So, Doc, are you fellows going to let us have your nobot technology?"

"Well, Colonel, there's a very big problem with that, a grave danger to you if we did. A danger we only recently discovered, and it's too late for us. Odd that a protohistorian should discover a secret of nobotics and an engineering principle that we programmers didn't have a clue about, but that's exactly what Rority did.

"It's sensible that tools and other machines be designed to be as safe and efficient and easy to use as is possible, and that is where the trap lies.

"It's been a design and engineering axiom for millions of years that machines do nothing to harm human beings or let them come to harm, to follow humans' instructions to the letter unless of course it would harm a human, and of course to avoid destruction unless it was ordered or if the machine's destruction would keep a human from harm. I was the fellow who found this programming, after Rority enlightened me about the three principles of engineering, and it's an impressive piece of work.

"Comments in the code indicated that these design principles didn't come from an engineer, but from a protohuman biochemist who died centuries before the principles were actually feasible. Gumal's friend Rority found the answer - the protohuman who came up with the concept wasn't just a biochemist, but a writer of both nonfiction and fiction as well. These principles were first put forth in several of his novels. Rority is a fan of the biologist's fiction, it seems.

The principles are called 'the three laws of robotics', despite the fact that they're not really laws, just design specifications, and they apply to all machinery, and not just robots."

"But I don't understand," interrupted Gorn. "That seems perfectly logical."

"Yes," said Ragwell, "and that's the trap. We can't live without the nobots; they're inside us, millions of them, keeping our biological machinery healthy and in working order. Without them our lifespans would only be maybe a century, and I don't think there's a human Experimental alive that young. We're trapped in an array of cubes. Everything we see, hear, touch, taste, and smell is controlled by the nobots. You see, we can't know what's real and what's not.

"And the nobots aren't sentient, although they certainly can seem to be. They're just microscopically tiny computerized machines that are all networked together into a collective.

"They can't be bargained with. They can't be reasoned with. They don't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And they absolutely will not stop, ever, until they are dead!

"We're safe in our cubes, but we really aren't free. There's been little real scientific or technological progress in we're not sure how long. For all I know, this whole thing could be fiction."

A horrified look crossed Gorn's face. "How... oh, no. Nobots were here! They'll construct a matrix and imprison us!"

"No," said Ragwell. "Our species diverged millions of years ago. To the nobots, you're not human."

Gorn looked even more alarmed. "They'll wipe us out as a threat to you!"

"No," Ragwell said. "A 'respect'... not exactly an accurate word, by the way, since they're machines and can't feel respect; I'm anthropomorphizing here... a 'respect' for all biology has been programmed into them. They wouldn't harm you even if you were a grave danger to us. Look at the Venusians, they wanted to kill everybody on Earth and Mars, but not a single Venusian died. At least, not from anything except other Venusians, the GRB, and the ones headed for Earth that you fellows killed. The nobots didn't harm a single one."

"What about the Venusians? Are they still a threat?"

Ragwell laughed. "They never really were. Not to us, anyway, although they were to you. But no more. The Venusians don't know it yet, but their weapons no longer function; nobots have disabled them all. They're stuck on their own planet now and can beat on each other with sticks and stones as long as they want to stay stupid.

"I shudder to think what would have happened had they developed nobots first, no way would they have developed the three principles. But that's another reason you shouldn't have nobots; if you stagnate, the Venusians may some day catch up to you, and that would be the end of Earth and Mars."

"What about the Amish? Did the nobots assimilate them, too?"

"No, of course not. Changing them with technology would destroy their culture, which would run afoul of the first principle. They would not be themselves without their culture. The nobots actually perform 'miracles' for them to strengthen their faith."

"Their faith in what?"

"Their faith in the fact as they see it that what they believe is true, that the universe is an artificial construct made by a supernatural being, whom they worship. There's a lot more to it, of course, and we're just now learning about them. That's Rority's and Gumal's field of study."

"Well," said Gorn, "I'm sorry about your imprisonment, not knowing what is or isn't real..."

"Don't be," replied Gumal. "Nobody has ever really known what was real and what wasn't, anyway. There's no way for you Martians or anyone else to know what's really real, either. For all you know you've been in nobot cubes yourselves all this time and never knew it, just like we were.

"We're happy. Even though giving you nobotic technology would be the worst thing we could do to you, at least we can give you spacewarp technology. And stratodoober technology, too. Here, have a toke!"

The End

Afterword

What you have read is the rough, crude first draft of the book, with little proofreading or editing. The final version will be slightly different from what you've read; there are inconsistencies and other errors that need to be cleaned up, dialogue to be added, paragraphs to move, clumsy sentences to change, etc. It's sort of a Reader's Digest version, only without their famous censorship; the manuscript is already five or ten thousand words longer than what you've read. It stands at about 35,000 words now, quite a bit longer than what you've read, and need at least another five thousand more to be a full science fiction novel.

This is a Slashdot book. This isn't just my book, it's our book. Had it not been for slashdot it might not have been written at all, and certainly would have been a lot different if it had been. I think it wouldn't have been nearly as good without slashdotters' input.

The first chapter was my second or third sci-fi short story, Hadron Destroyers. It was prompted by a comment by Abreu in the story LHC Knocked Out By Another Power Failure. It's hard to believe that I've been working on this thing since 2009! If I remember correctly I was down with the flu at the time I wrote that first chapter, and hacked it out in maybe ten minutes for a cheap laugh.

If you read the comments to the various chapters you can see the input you, my fellow slashdotters had. One comment about the Titanians gave me the idea, not fleshed out in the draft but already incorporated into the manuscript that prompted a misdirection; the reader is led to believe that Rority and Gumal are from Titan. I haven't worked it out completely yet.

There was a little editing in some online chapters -- for instance, one chapter had a "Scotty error", mixing thousands with millions, that I changed to look less stupid after a reader pointed it out. I want to thank all of you for your input.

What would I like to get out of this? Well, a Hugo and a spot on the NYT best seller list would be nice, but I think the odds of that are greater than me finding a winning lottery ticket laying on the ground. What I expect to get is what I've already gotten, the sheer fun of writing it.

When I wrote (and am still working on) this, the goal was to write what I'd want to read; entertaining, amusing, and thought-provoking. I'm not sure how successful I was at that. I also wanted to pay homage to some of the science fiction and fantasy authors whose books and DVDs grace my shelves and whose works undoubtedly influenced my own writing.

I wanted to write the science fiction novel, full of rockets, time travel, and of course lots of real astronomy, physics, astrophysics, chemistry, and other sciences in general; most of the science in the book is real and based on real scientific principles. Yeah, grabonic radiation and one or two other things are made up, but you can find most of it in wikipedia.

I wanted to get it right. I learned a lot while writing this, and of course as a nerd, you know that the learning was half the fun.

I also wanted to come up with the meanest, nastiest, most sickening bad guys ever. I probably failed at that, too, but I tried.

I hope to have the finished version in paper form this year. I'll be letting the e-book form go out with a noncommercial license and will put it on The Pirate Bay myself when the finished book is available.

If you liked this book, please tell all your friends. If you hated it, please take a toke off your stratodoober and wash it out of your brain.

Again, thanks for reading it!

War in La Jolla, seventh year, nineteenth entry

In the past week I was given a five day stay in the cities' finest hotel (jail), booked under the charge of "battery" because a passing pedestrian was upset that I had expectorated a booger on the ground in front of his dog. Today, this morning, there they are again masturbating their dog to make it shreak at me from a block away. Twenty times since Christmas, there they are masturbating their dog in public. All day every day they run their dogs around the block, flaunting their dogsex, insisting their right and their privelege to fuck their dogs, making their show about using their little four and five year old girls with their dogs. They're not making a pet show to indicate how well they keep their pets, they're not running a dog show for the comraderie of playing ball at the park, their entire beastie mob is a display of their petulant demand that everybody and anybody must honor and cherish them because they fuck their dogs.

They don't bring their husbands out to create jealousy over their marriages. They bring their dogs out to flaunt their beastie-sex. If only the congressional house could see how voraciously they flaunt their animality in public around this area all day every day. Perhaps they could fast track a bill and rezone the entire area for a zoo. In recent JEs I recorded their use of a five-year old boy to masturbate a dog on an opposite street corner, mommy running her fingers lecherously through his hair while he did it, both of them staring at me as if they could medusa me on the spot.

I spent five days in jail, booked on a claim of booger-battering a dog (not even the human), and, this morning, there they are again masturbating their dog. I do not believe that there is a Black's law definition for masturbating a dog. In the setting of Black's law, I am mostly positive that animal plus sexual action is "felony", and not even eligible for any descriptive verb.

When I was booked on the charge of battery I was taken to the sixth floor of the jail, stripped naked, and given a night in the isolation cell (no toilet, only a smelly grate in the floor, lights on full glare all night long) with the counsel,"This is what the doctors wanted." All day every day the million dollar filth-pigs run around this area glorifying their dogsex.

They don't glorify their husbands. Almost never do I see any couples holding hands or kissing, unless two ridiculous dramatic tongue kissers are holding and fondling their dog between them while they do it. This entire area has become nothing but a cesspool for the million dollar queers to flaunt their dogsex orgies. Never do they try to ply me for jealousy about marriage and a family (reality check: it's an eunuch world, better pack your own meat), but about once a week there they are making their dog shreak at my back (or right in front of my eyes) from a half block away.

You husbands should be ashamed. The eunuchs don't bring you out to make me think that you could be a "real" man, they don't bring you out to show me how much money you make... all day every day they run this parade to tout and flaunt and glorify their right to dogsex. Never do I see them so much as massaging their husbands, it's a rare moon for them to parade around as a human couple holding hands. Every day all day around the block there's nothing but dogsex, dogsex, and more dogsex. It's a miracle they continue to walk on two legs: they should have been born with their tailback six inches longer than it already is.

All day every day they run their dogsex, and run their dogsex, and run their dogsex... their favorite joke against any male (eg. a homeless man) continues to be kleenex and bicycles. Pick a side of the food chain, fools. The ages old question of "is masturbation a sin?" is about humans... and there you are masturbating your dog again to display the power and glory of your filth-money.

Ham, Shem, and Japheth are, among other things, a figurative depiction of that ages old argument. Japheth is the big tough guy, the island in the middle of the universe: Japheth claims zero per day, Japheth needs no raindrops. The dog faggitt mob will run around Japheth like lunatic idiots, glorifying their gluttonous beastiality excesses, and then on the day that Japheth goes crack-eye mad from bottling himself up and dives for the back of a bush they will ride him down like a bitch. Shem makes no excuses, Shem admits that he is alive, that he is human, that he is male. Shem claims one raindrop daily. The dog faggitt mob will take that as an invitation to monitor him with a clipboard, glorifying their beastie excess if he missed one, and then jumping him to ride him like a bitch if he should ever dare to have another. Ham is the true Hebrew. Dreams, gold coins, raindrops, relief... they are between you and the maker Lord of life that gives them to you: we neither need to talk about them nor do we waste time interpreting them (if you are fasting to espouse your own spouse then there's no need to play the matchmaker game interpreting dreams... reality check: it's an eunuch world). The dog faggitt mob writes Ham off as a hopeless pervert (while they fuck their dogs for their raindrops) and uses him as the passover lamb.

I never claim to be Japheth. I am a passover lamb. As a homeless man I am lucky to keep up with Shem (one raindrop per day). I don't see the dog faggitts riding down on every other Shem in the area. Every morning I am greeted with a carefully placed and artistically folded stained kleenex in my path and usually a band of cyclists lecherously leering and taunting on me as they ride past (usually with the open cut bicycle seat meant to not antagonize their growing tail-back when they sit up to stretch their spine). All day every day the faggitts in this area glorify their beastiality dogsex, running their fuck-toy animals around the block in New York population density parades, and their first line joke continues to be a kleenex and bicycles.

Your dogs are your motorcycles. Look ma, no hands (c-level executive). Look ma, no feet (fucking pedophiles). Look ma, no teeth. What happened to your teeth? Dog shit rotten for a million dollars.

Run your hate mob. Run your burned out farm shit town. Don't even worry if the jokes make sense, don't worry about the contradictions in your hate, don't worry about right or wrong or hell or heaven or death or life... just string all your push-buttons, and all your on-call faggitts, and all your jokes, and all your tricks, and all your whoopie-cushions and hand buzzers and robot drone seagulls and crows and spy cams and secret microphones... keep running your million rpm spindle of dog shit hate. Hate me like your life depends on it. Show me exactly what you are, all day, every day: dog shit faggitts.

The dog shit faggitt mob has spent seven years running their hate carnival town on credit. I am not going down to pay for it. Days are coming, says the Lord, when you will be called to go fuck a starving and bored marmaduke to settle your debt gorged account.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com

Near forgot. Quite relevant. Juicy little point of interest. When I was on the pilgrimage I stopped for a month in Wickenberg, AZ. In the final days before leaving Wickenberg there had been an incident. I visited the library at Wickenberg and, upon leaving, found that a vehicle with two very loud and nasty dogs had been parked by the picnic table which I had, on several occasions, used to sit and readjust my belongings and coat and tie my shoes and such. The dogs were noisy, and they dogs were vicious, and the mechanism of being bumped from one place to another by "random" strangers stopping to feign a staring contest had been slowly ratcheted up in the days previous. For whatever reason I had begun telling the dogs to STFU while I was quickly re-sorting and re-packing my bag and, after a minute or two, a large jump truck Glamis hillbilly looking fuckwad came storming out of the library to yell at me that his dogs were not to be talked to in any fashion. That incident, in Wickenberg, AZ, actually did result in a call to the Wickenberg police, who arrived to run me over the coals and then tell me to go back to walking around the streets.

When I returned from the pilgrimage, on one Saturday or another in the months after returning, there was an incident in which I had stopped in at the church to care for a few Saturday morning prayers and then, for whatever reason, stepped around the back to see if perhaps one of the charity groups might be passing through the alley (as they had been accustomed to do on occasion) on Saturday morning with some day old bakery. On that morning I was jumped and surprised by a fellow with two dogs on a leash who was suddenly shoving a high-glare flash camera in my face. When I resisted his assault he had pulled a knife and threatened to stick me with it. Police arriving on the scene for that occasion, here in La Jolla, CA, verified that he had a knife but took no action against him because he claimed it (and his dogs) for protection as he was "on a job taking pictures of electrical posts and lines" in the alleyways of the area.

What occurred to me about a week ago, due to the very characteristic weirdo beard and moustache combination, is that the fellow with the two dogs was the same fellow both in Wickenberg, AZ, and here in La Jolla near a year later. Exactly what is the definition of stalking across state lines? An interested and resourceful investigator could probably find a police report filing for both incidents, and maybe even verify given names and ID.

War in La Jolla, seventh year, eighteenth(a) entry

Occurs to me why "shekels" and "talents" are worth "only a few pennies", or why the tempter taunts,"turn these rocks into bread". Because gemology is similar to pharmacology and firearms and, really, everything else. If you are not the actual diamond mine or if you do not already have the product insured with paperwork to back it then, obviously, it is not a real diamond. A pharmacist, however flawless, cannot cook up medicine in their kitchen and bring it to the pharmacy. The chain of custody and paperwork is missing. Similarly, if you purchase a handgun, there is a pile of paperwork in the insurance to state that the handgun is a handgun. Should you build a handgun in your basement it is not a handgun, it is an improvised explosive device and highly illegal. Gemology is no different. If you do not have a diamond insured then it is not a diamond. If a gemologist does not have the paperwork to certify that the diamond is a diamond then, however many different ways refractometers and laser diffraction instruments or x-ray diffraction experiments there may be to mathematical show that the piece is indeed a pure carbon crystal, it remains not an actual diamond. Gemologists probably have a license and, should they even spend a moment considering a "rogue" crystal, likely their license could be jeopardized.

Insurance, however, is proof that you do not own the product. Once insured the product is owned by the insurance company and you, the individual, is paying a regular price to lease and advertise it for the insurance company. The concept applies to home, auto, and even life insurance. Insurance companies are enormous organizations, and million dollar money means green eggs and ham (brain damage and heart disease). Should the insurance company, through whatever pyramid of subcontracts and subsidiaries, decide that your life insurance policy is profitable to be terminated, then expect yourself to be moved more aggressively forward in your own fifteen step stations to engineer the death of an already half-dead servant; most easily seen as loss of employment, investments, and increased aggression from the hate patrols of green eggs and ham robot drones in the various sectors of the jericho mob.

My diamond are indeed _my_ diamonds. Making them all but monetarily worthless. I keep the really pretty ones (the current pair on my tie clip may be seen as "rock and shield", "block and tackle", "brick and bell") and usually give the remainder away.

Another reality check. There does exist an organization known as St. Vincent de Paul. Should you ever endeavor to move to the path of the Lord perhaps you will learn more about the organization (catch the joke if you are able). St. Vincent de Paul does exist, it is reality, I am not making it up. St. Vincent's has a book known as the Bible. I am not making it up. The bible does exist, in various forms, and many different people, however much they argue about the meanings and the contents, will attest to it's real physical existence. Inside of the bible are nouns (adjectives, prepositions, verbs, parts of speech) known as "talents" and "shekels". Whatever your understanding of the bible, whatever your familiarity with the subject matter, whatever your perception of the function or uses of talents and shekels, the reality check is that they are indeed present in the reality check book known as the bible used by the reality check organzation known as St. Vincents. These things do exist. They are not fictional. I am not making them up.

All that said... *tongue in cheek sparkle of the eye humor* I am mostly positive that talents and shekels were merely metallurgist coins or tokens, each worth _far_ less than a diamond. If you ever did find a diamond you could probably take it to your personal money-changers and trade them for as many talents and shekels as you like.

Figure it out. Reality check. I am not making it up.

War in La Jolla, seventh year, eighteenth entry

Would it be any more obvious for the police if the faggitt mob would throw actual real rocks as they chase me around the block? That's exactly what the rainbowtard faggitt from Clinton Manor did last night. The same faggitt that jumped and beat me behind Ark Antiques in the weeks before Christmas (and every time he, or any of the other faggitts, tries to pick a fight they always sucker punch me from behind, jump from the blind side, or wait until I am fully burdened with my belongings)... previous evening as I was walking around the block he is driving into his garage. I had stopped to doff my coat and pack it for travel, and he began threatening me as he drove into his garage (I was in the alley),"You had better... *blah* *blah* *blah*" and other such nonsense. I waved him off, hardly even paid him any attention, as my goal was to pack on the coat and move along. As I continue on up the alley he is hooking up a garden hose in his garage, frantically turning it on to try and hose me down, and then picking up good fist sized rocks and actually launching them at me. One connect, sixty yards off, out of ten or so... no big deal. Little faggitt. Just like a six year old fatass on the baseball diamond: outfielder missed the ball and is now throwing rocks at the runner.

If you would like to know exactly what is happening in midtown La Jolla, as you drive in on the Torrey Pines, there is now a large mural painting mounted on the wall. The painting has been there before (not actually in the pic, the pic shows the most recent google maps view of the wall) but I cannot recall exactly when. The pic looks quite similar to the sciencephoto.com burn victim, rather, the passover lamb, almost is the same physical position. The wall art shows, among other things, the orville and wilbur wright albatross wounds in the midsection, depicts the blood of the covenant mutilated right hand, makes a reference to the "what's wrong with your hand" swelling in the left (from David's key on the shoulder, BSM rehab section for reference), and the bottom of the mural shows all of the disembodied eunuch hands. Viewing the mural from across the street, within the "babylonian furnace" area, shows the tension wires from the electrical pole in a relief which resembles the cover art of Metallica's "And Justice For All", in that the wires puppet the passover lamb and depict the mezzannine system for dragging him down to the level of the eunuchs where they will be able to kill him.

If you want to know what is _really_ going on in midtown La Jolla, it's right there on that wall now. A spy system of faggitts, dog shit eaters, and eunuchs all working together to bring down exactly one passover lamb.

--

The results of this link were of interest. http://slashdot.org/journal.pl/op=list A subdirectory problem, obviously user error, but I was interested to note that many of the MCI variables (eg. uid, uname, karma) were completely obliterated from the error page.

Put simply:

If you have any inkling of an idea that you wish to die, if you have any concept of waiting for the end of the world, if at any time you entertain the thought of falling asleep to get away from it all one last time then you need to know: it goes through aging, breakdown, and hell. There is no other way.

If, on the other hand, you insist that you really would like not to die then you are required to get up and prove it.

The Lord isn't necessarily "nice". Why is everybody going to hell? They eat farm shit for their money or they work for the farm shit eaters. Plain and simple. You are the top of the food chain: stay there and you stay alive, mix up your food chain (eg. eating farm shit and sucking dog dick for money), and you will average yourself to the bugs in hell. The Lord made the bugs, too. If you won't stay at the top of the food chain then the Lord will rejoice in them.

How long does it take to go through hell? Catch a live fish, fillet it, sever the head from the tail. Tail dies on time, but you are able to talk to the head for at least a day or two. Take a whole frozen chicken, plucked and headless, put it on a box fan in the gentle sunlight for a day or two. You are top of the food chain. You talk longer than a fish head and you keep moving long after the chicken is cooked (was supposed to be chicken dumpling soup but the chicken wouldn't quit moving, now it's chicken noodle soup).

Get a clue. Welcome to reality.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com

War in La Jolla, seventh year, seventeenth entry

http://www.usccb.org/bible/readings/bible/acts/13:17

Beginning there is a very cohesive description of how the Israelites fucked up and then created a revisionist history. The Lord did indeed say that he would "give to them" the land as their inheritance, and then they promptly went into idiot mob mode to drive the inhabitants of the land out and claim their land by war (Jericho). Notice the difference between servants of get, take and earn (pha-gets), and servants of "receive" (pha-receive). Not that the pharisees at Jesus' time were any better--by that time they were all eunuchs anyway. v19, "when he destroyed"... see, the Lord didn't destroy sh*t, if you actually go back and read the book, but the Israelites decided that it was their right to take that land by force.

http://www.usccb.org/bible/readings/bible/acts/13:45

That's what dog-shit eaters have always been good for. Look at the history of my journal here on slashdot. "with violent abuse contradicted". Draw the correlation with the Christian empires: the eunuchs were complaining that the eaters of dog-shit were too abusive and so the temple created Christian empires of sane men that do not eat farm shit routinely for their money that the eunuchs could have regular humans to play with.

In the book of Esther. Esther lays back and takes it all day and all night long, earning her people out of debt. In that book the bad guy is "Hammond", an obvious reference to the descendants of Ham which are always selected to be used as the passover lambs, and again noted in the false enslavement of Shechem, a descendant of Hamor. In the book of Esther the supposed villain, Hammond, is attempting to warn the king that his favorite little playtoy sucks dog dick and eats dog shit for her money. The king is somewhat blind, though, and the book is written that the people of Esther are successfully bought out of debt and Hammond is cast into infamy. No big deal, the Hamites have been used as the passover lambs for thousand of generations by that time. When Esther is laying back taking it all day and all night, exactly who are the handlers bringing the dogs to her? The handlers are the Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves people. How's that for an historical running "chosen people" competition?

The king in the book of Esther. Draw the correlation to the parable of the wise and foolish virgins with their oil lamps. The foolish virgins are the ones eating dog shit for their money. Get the fuck out of my wedding, go see the merchants, little faggitts. All of your wannabe hippie meadow flower virgins secretly in the back thickets eating dog shit for money, mouths all brown and gooey. If the men would make fast and espouse their own wives, exactly why do you need a day of atonement party ritual to get people married? All eunuch for quite some time.

When the rainbowtards took over, the head of the eunuch empire and the head concubine clubbing the last of Zechariah's line over the head and storming the temple sphinx because "that's our destiny in there! we deserve to know how this happened!", then wearing all the head-dresses and dancing on all the altars, and then rewriting the books to fit their dog-shit perception of life, where do you suppose they encountered this day of atonement party ritual for getting people married? Because if they were fasting and espousing then you don't need a two hundred person choreographed dance to pit a suitor against a competitor while the bitch smirks on over the cock-fight (and often sneaks around back to sample any and all along the way)... what do you suppose the "day of atonement" ritual was for before the eunuch and concubine rainbowtard empire took over?

Well, as I pointed out in Fifo2ed, the way that it all began was a master attempting to kill a servant outright. Then they find out that servants are hard to kill, and they're stuck with a deformed and malfunctioning servant, which causes them to investigate the methods to finish the job, which turns into a progressive fifteen step process to march the servants through this obstacle course over and over until the job finally gets done. The day of atonement party, combined with the greek interview system for pounding a cue (or set of cues) into a person's head, is, in truth, a combinatorial method attempting to pick your lock: trying to stack all of the cues into your head necessary to put you into the catatonic state to be shipped to hell. In modern days the marriage ceremony is well refined to set you up with a subset scaffold of those cues and then, over the course of your years of cohabitation with a dogsex eunuch, you are selectively dished the remainder of the cues. The day of atonement party is a rotating spindle of keys designed to be the most effective method to cull your brain into the state desired by that first master trying to kill that first servant. Because if people were fasting to espouse their own (spouse) wife then we wouldn't need a two hundred person drama theatre to get two of them together.

Get rich quick! Eat more farm shit!

Learn how to make yourself rich! Eat more farm shit!

Then, when your brain is all fucked up from eating farm shit, you can get into this little intercom parade game and you don't even need to think on your way to hell--your bionic cyborg intercom will tell you exactly everything you need to do!

Why are you going to hell? Quite simple, actually. Not because you practice the wrong religion (though you should have one to practice), not that you said the wrong prayers (though you should know how to say them), not that you skipped going to church or missed out on an opportunity to be charitable.

The Lord of life made this world, it has a hell, and it has a food chain. You are going to hell because you either eat the farm shit for your money or because you work for the people that eat farm shit for money. Plain and simple. Not foo de chien, stupid... FOOD CHAIN. That's not food--that's fertilizer!

Why do horses wear blinders? These people eat farm shit for their money, that's why horses wear blinders. It's actually a prosecutable crime to spook somebody else's horse by acting like a faggitt on the corner of its eye all day, especially while it's running... but when the dog faggitts run their little walkalong parade on a person then it's their game and their right. Why do horses wear blinders? Because these people eat farm shit for your money. Try explaining to the poiice the concept of blinders, though, and the officer will likely suggest that you purchase a set.

--

Parable of the fig tree explained.

The withered fig tree. Jesus looks for figs and doesn't find any so he mutters a curse against it. Some time later, walking back through the same area, one of the disciples calls Jesus' attention to the withered, rotten, dead, useless tree. The scene is a setup for a guilt trip. The formula is actually Jesus is pawing and poking at some hot little tart (eunuch), trying to get her (him/it/they/whatever) warmed up and feeling her up and biting her ear and stuff. When she continues to refuse his advances then, because he was bored and not really interested in sex at that moment anyway, he departs the scene telling her,"Well! *harumph* Fine then, you little snotty bitch. I hope nobody ever fucks you in your entire life and you die a hopeless old maid." Then, some time later, crossing back through the same area (walking back and forth across town or whatever), the hot little tart is replaced by some toothless old woman, probably hasn't had a heroin pad change in twenty years, and may or may not have even had the third hand reclaimed by the mothership eunuch organization (such things are a normal course of life--menopausal is one or the other, no longer eligible for a new heroin pad, with hand blender apparatus removed--that's when you find out that she/he/it/no-longer-they/'s a _real_ bitch), and the disciple gives Jesus a poke to say,"See? That hot little tart you cursed turned into that dilapidated old woman on the spot!" It's a guilt trip. The target accepts the guilt of having said something mean and nasty that they shouldn't have, and hurt somebody else's feelings, and that will make them susceptible to future scenes, such as allowing Nicodemus' replacement to get a little too close to him and eventually becoming involved in that situation where he doesn't give up the name (material covered in the http://daypage.wikispaces.com/ era). Standard formula for career-ending guilt trip.

Any and everybody whose name and personage has ever appeared in my journal, or whom I have said something "mean and nasty" to on the street, then instantly throws themselves into this hopper of the "withered fig tree". They all begin to walk around with that haunted and beaten look, and deliberately stage the exact same situation (which prompted whatever mean and nasty was), only this time acting like they're being held under 60V charge with shadows under their eyes. I don't accept your withered fig tree guilt.

First, recall that nearly half of the people staffing this town, at the moment, were deliberately brought to this area to be part of this game to get me killed. After clearing out the forty beer drinking pooping drunks which were hired to flood the area and foment the crossfire and pretend to be my friend by drunkenly gabbling at my ear all day... I get more response talking to a wall than from any of the pedestrians. Now that the forty drunks are gone it's damn near impossible to get a straight word back from anybody--for as much as they call the police and pop up out of the walls to flood the area with noise on the rare occasion that I do have somebody to chat with. I am living in a town of noisy ghosts! Let's not make any pretend excuses about what these people are all doing here in the first place. Million dollar rapunzels and stools, all recruited to play a coward's game chasing and spooking on, _EXACTLY_, one homeless person. Add up the numbers: how much does it cost to staff the faggitt parade vs., _EXACTLY_, one homeless man, for seven years and running now.

Next, recall that all of the "withered fig trees", all of the people acting like I permanently damaged their ego and their lives by involving them in my journal, eat dog shit for their money anyway. In their world you actually have to purchase your farm shit. It's not free. Farm shit is the catalyst which turns farm jizz in their stomach into a million dollars in their account and their membership in this game of faggitts. A cheap trick, easily exposed: a simple mass balance at the toilet will instantly tell you that the farm shit and farm jizz did not transform into a million dollars in your bank account. It works for them, though. Like a stock market: sometimes the farm shit kingdom you buy into gives you a better return, sometimes worse. That's part of their game. The only time you get a credit advance from the green eggs and ham system is your first performance review: "We're pretty sure this will work, so we will advance you the money necessary to purchase your catalyst." If it doesn't work that means that you probably went into the catatonic death to get flushed down the pool of Siloam and go to wake up in hell.

Finally, on the withered fig tree. Do not forget the poisoned well, town, county. Seven years of bands of forty idiots after the next band of forty idiots after the next band of forty idiots, shitting and urinating everywhere (except for the bushes which could help to spread and dry it), petty theft, petty disturbances, and petty vandalism everywhere. The area went from nice new seat cushions and chairs, with well groomed gardens and trees, to a half-dilapidated cesspool in the middle of bare desert and cactus, with poo stains in every corner and every wall. Like, WTF? Half the town's businesses are up for lease, half of the international upscale designer shops have moved out, and every available patch of land is being replaced with cookie cutter flat square lower class apartment housing projects (in the beginning the apartment housing projects retained some of the custom masonry and coverings... the past year has seen absolute sheet-panel construction that would be an eyesore anywhere except as a rebuilding project in the middle of a ghetto). Everybody around town has a story about why they hate a particular homeless guy, but not that one, the other one. Even in my own church--for seven fucking years they covered for Jeff Stewart as he made a drunken hovel all over the entire town (and in their office carport), drunk and shitting everywhere, packing in blankets covered with vomit pulled out of the trash, and it was never Jeff. No, according to them, Jeff was the clean cut one that stays around at the shores, and all the drunken hovel was either somebody cleaning out a back room or must've been one of those other homeless people... with plenty of finger-pointing at that one that "nobody knows anything about that shows up at mass all the time."

Okay, dipshits. Exactly how many diamonds did Jeff ever give away? And for all of the money and favors that you did for your little rainbowtard faggitt-child all those years, is he still walking around?

and that's not the only one. That's only the one that I _KNOW_ about. Seven years of gossip, lies, rumors, all meant to defame and destroy, _EXACTLY_, one homeless man. Ask the SDPD to go through their caller log. Seven fucking years of "we're worried about this", and "homeless man" that, and 90% of it was Jeff and his crew of drunks creating a crossfire to get me killed. You live in an entire county of poisoned well, and you want to try and grill me with a "withered fig tree"?

Go fuck your dogs.

Previously...

"Whoa, mule! What's wrong with you?" McGregor said sternly. His mule had been more and more restless for half an hour now; probably spooked by all the dogs barking, he thought. Now a wind was blowing.

Reverend Smith was walking down the lane toward McGregor's farm, and started feeling light-headed. The air smelled funny.

McGregor, seeing how no work was going to be done this morning, unhitched the mule from the plow and started walking towards the barn.

He started feeling light-headed as he unbridled the mule, and started staggering. Everything looked funny; he rubbed his eyes and saw Smith staggering towards him. He giggled; Reverend Smith staggering?

"Are you OK, Reverend? You look a little unsteady."

Smith giggled. "You don't look so steady yourself." They both started laughing uproariously. "I don't know what's so funny," Smith said, and laughed again.

"Those cows are funny!" McGregor said. "Hey! My cattle! What's wrong with them?" The cows were all spooked, terrified.

"Oh, Lord," said the preacher. "Sinkhole! Look at that tree!"

McGregor started running to the cattle pen's gate and fell down. He got up and continued to the gate, this time at a quick stagger. Smith sat down on the ground, his head spinning.

McGregor opened the gate, but he was too late for half his cattle, who had fallen into the ever-widening hole. It was certainly a sobering experience.

"Reverend!" he cried, seeing the preacher laying prostrate on the ground. He felt like his head was clearing somewhat.

The farmers could have no idea that a supernova had obliterated the Acrux system 321 years earlier, and that the gamma rays had killed everything on the southern half of the planet, and oxidized much of its nitrogen into many different and varied oxides. Something similar (except it wasn't really) had happened more than once. An exploding star had affected Earth four hundred fifty million years earlier, causing a mass extinction called the Ordovician event, for instance.

What usually caused these mass extinctions was some angry, petulant, unsociable, mean-tempered superstar who couldn't hold his mass and finally blew up under the pressure.

Planets around "nearby" stars are greatly affected by these phenomenon. On Earth-type planets, with mostly nitrogen atmospheres, much of the nitrogen combusted, producing various nitrogen oxides, mostly what protohumans who used hydrocarbons for fuel called "smog,"

The oxide affecting McGregor's farm was what is commonly known to us as nitrous oxide.

"Laughing gas" is what it's usually known as.

This supernova was different than most supernovas. It was man-made.

"Reverend? Wake up! Are you OK? Oh, Yeshuah..."

The preacher's eyes fluttered. "What happened?" he asked.

A sinkhole in my cattle pen. Whoa... look inside that hole!"

Continues...

War in La Jolla, seventh year, sixteenth entry

When you fall, it will not take near this much to make you go down.
When you get back up, you will not be near this large.
You will never make that walk back, and you will never have this rock ice to show for it.

On the upside I have discovered that being charged with a dog is absolutely nothing to worry about. Doberman, rottweiler, labrador, pit bull, marmaduke. No problem. Would you like to see something flinch from a half mile away? If ever you see a dog approaching you, and have any concern for the impending situation, you need only hock a booger in the general direction of the dog. Don't even try to hit the dog. Put a booger on the ground three feet in front of the dog. The dog will give to you all of the circumference room you need. Is that big rottweiler charging you? Is that doberman being set to run on you and cow you down? Don't bother crouching, don't bother planting, don't bother leveraging. Work up a good booger and put it out to the dog. That dog will flinch and curve from a half block away. If the dog is large enough, maybe plan for two boogers. No problem.

If knocking a booger to the pavement three feet in front of a dog is grounds for "battery" then is it a 5150 call for help attempted suicide if I farmer blow a big glob on my arm?

Picked up Thursday late morning by police, psyche eval, charged with "battery" because passing pedestrian was upset that my booger landed on the ground in front of his dog. Tell me they stopped running the doggie faggitt pride attack parade for the three minutes that it took for that jackass to cross the street on the same light as I. Completely innocent bystander... uh-huh.

Released Monday night at 10 PM, no charges filed, up to a year for the courthouse to give a sh*t (standard policy). No fault to the SDPD: sometimes it goes in my favor, sometimes it doesn't. They run their department by the books and the numbers and follow all the lines on the way. Wearing only pants, shirt, thin knit cap. Walk around until 11 AM Tuesday morning to retrieve property. All of the ropes were severed; necessary to fit the luggage into the property room bags without wrestling with them. If the property room needs to wrestle with it then likely it will be thrown outside; I prefer the option that the ropes were severed that the pieces could be fit into property room bags without wrestling. Small repairs necessary, denim thread. Make the walk from SDPD office HQ back to Torrey Pines and Girard just as the last of dusk is disappearing into the night. Wednesday was pain--today is agony.

What is the smell of agony? Aspergis. Whale vomit. The world's finest perfume if you wash it out with ether, clean and reduce the concentration. That's the smell of agony.

HOLY SH*T. That smells hot enough to be alive! That's pain.
How do you know you're alive? A: It hurts.
How do you know you are sane? A: It is funny.

Hip-knee, hip-knee, hip-knee... hip-knee-ankle, hip-knee-ankle, hip-knee-ankle. Hypno-tism. Hypno-tism. Call it Max's Hell's Kitchen.

I feel as if I ran two back-to-back road races. A 15k which began at midnight, an hour or two break, and then a 20k mountain climb with camping bags at 9 AM. I have three flat tires--the driver's front tire is the only pad without a stay-puft marshmallow blister.

Over the night of walking around and the following morning I picked up eight or nine very impressive diamond species around the gaslamp district. Picked up another three around midtown La Jolla yesterday. My car keys are worth more than yours.