You play this at your cubicle, loud, and it's the opposite of workplace violence.
Lately, I'm seeing more and more "reign in" on Slashdot and I've got to say, I'm disappointed.
War in La Jolla, eighth year, thirteenth entry
Eternal life. You think of eternal life as something of a pie in the sky legend, a joke, maybe, something to laugh at. Nobody has eternal life. The book of Psalms lists you at seventy or eighty years. Noah's covenent limited man to one hundred and twenty years. Earlier lifespans are recorded in the bible near a thousand, and ancient Egyptian tombs claim tens of thousands of years. Is that a descending curve? Is there a mathematical trend to that? Perhaps that bears some looking into, but maybe for other people. It does not now nor has ever really mattered to you. You want to grow up, make money, maybe get in the club, be somebody, do something, then get old, retire, and, what? Well, who cares what? That's like the possible mathematical trend in the recorded lifespans; that's for somebody else to figure out. Heaven, hell, who cares? That is all the things that matter only after death.
Gunshots. When you first learned of a gun, as a child, oh my, that was something big and powerful. You could shoot somebody, and that would be the end of them. Bang, boom, done. But then, as a child, you learned something new in the next week or two after learning of the gun. You could shoot somebody, and they wouldn't die. You could shoot them in the hand, or the arm, or even in special places in the gut, and they wouldn't die. They would bleed, they would hurt, but not die. So, now you know, if you wish to shoot somebody and make the end of them, you must hit a "vital" organ, you must make a "mortal" wound. Otherwise they don't quite die. Perhaps they are maimed, maybe they need an amputation, but they don't die unless you hit one of those magic sweet spots.
Then the maiming, and the amputation. What portion of your voice would you lose? Oh, sure, that's for somebody else to figure out. You don't really care. It is eternal life, maybe, maybe not, but not really important to growing up and making money and getting to do things. For a moment, though, because this is _my_ presentation and _my_ journal, what portion of your voice do you lose with that amputation? Divide the entirety of your voice up, your arm makes this portion of the sound, your other arm makes that portion of the sound, these toes for these pitches, those toes for those tones, your heard, your ears, your shoulder... YOUR NUTS. What portion of your voice would you lose if somebody shot you with a gun, and you didn't die, they didn't hit one of the vital mortal things, but you did require a maiming amputation. What portion of your voice would go with that? What portion of your voice, suppose, goes with YOUR NUTS?
While nobody's voice ever drops, while the entire world is made of nothing but faggitts, I suppose you will never know or care. Like eternal life.
Eternal life is somewhat of a joke. Your voice is related to various amputate-able portions of your body. You are actually top of the food chain. Top of the food chain meat is special, because it doesn't quit moving and making noise until you beat it to death bit by bit and piece by piece. The bugs and dogs down in hell have a very carefully planned process to ensure that nothing of that moving and noise is wasted. Eternal life, itself, is easy. IF YOU MAKE IT. If you actually make the three thousand miles, if you actually make the seven years, if you actually make your voice drop and get into the real frontal lobes, if you actually become the top of the food chain meat which you are supposed to be, then making another day and another day and another day is really easy. Eternal life is nothing. You are actually _SO_ top of the food chain that you are really hard to kill, like a gunshot that never hits the vital organ or the mortal wound. You would need to apply yourself to dying, you would need to box yourself down and train yourself into completely disasterous situations over and over and over again to actually make it to dying. You are actually really really really hard to kill. The phairies and dogs down in hell have that box system set up for you, and you have that box system set up for yourself up on the surface. You are really hard to kill, you would need to spend thousands and thousands of years training and ramming yourself into completely stupid scenarios to get that job done. Then the mathematical trend cutting down the number of years it takes to get the job done enough to turn the remainder over to the phairies and the dogs down in hell.
Do not be surprised by hell. The same people responsible for the coverup of your voice, and the coverup for "where do babies come from?", are the same people responsible for the coverup for hell.
War in La Jolla, eighth year, twelfth(a) entry
It would just never occur to you...
You would just never expect...
You had just never even seen anything like that before...
Waco, TX. The local sherriff had just never heard anything like that before. Some lady showing up out of the blue, like Texas Chainsaw Massacre, telling horrifying tales of eating green eggs for money distribution and holding breakfast devouring contests with eggo and dogs in the back room. So they show up at the door to the little apartment and to ask, umm, maybe you could tell us a little more about the teachings here in your church, just help us figure out how maybe we could help you with the rest of the town, and HOLY SH*T the whole place goes up like 4th of July.
You spend twelve years finding better graphics for Pac-Man, from Atari through the arcades up to all the different Mario Nintendos and into the 2k millenium with carts and 3-D sonic racing, trying to impress somebody for a first kiss with your high score. It would just nevet occur to you that they do their kids up with their dogs near right away and they're all chipped and wired. Would just never occur to you.
You would just never expect that the chipped and wired crew is lining up with children, waiting around the corner to brutally rectally rape the young child and then bring the screaming toddler or pre-ado to face-off with the homeless man at just the right moments, at just the exact right time, at some meaningful and purposeful window frame of events. Because they thought you liked it. You would just never expect that sort of directed hate and spite weapon, would just never occur to you.
Obviously, if I ever mentioned to the police that, on all four occasions that I have ever seen a particular woman, the three year old blond boy with her looks as if he's been recently broomsticked, and on the three previous occasions you heard the little boy screaming in the women's toilet for minutes beforehand. Obviously, if I ever mentioned to the police that I was concerned for abuse, I would be then be considered a risk and threat to the people around me and I would need to be evaluated by the doctors.
On the previous meeting with the police, the first words from ofc. Reinhold upon exiting his vehicle and approaching me,"There is no conspiracy of people waiting with dogs to make you mad". Just like my pretend street friends going into immediate flaming mode over the $10 sack of herbage they owe me, not even thinking to talk of the weather or the current state of sidewalk and traffic. So, what you're telling me is that there is a conspiracy of people waiting around the corner to make me mad? Then, later, during the handcuffed interview, ofc. Reinhold asks of me,"Do you know what a cabal is?" I immediately and completely spaced the question and returned nothing but a stupid blank look, so ofc. Reinhold glossed the question and continued on as if he hadn't asked. He's willing to testify in court that I admitted to sleeping on the walkway...
I'm willing to testify in court that the little blond boy will likely never speak any real language, having been abused so often for this vendetta that he sounds like Superman's Non.
ofc. Reinhold also, during the in-cruiser assessment and interview, offered to joke,"Your race, you're black, aren't you?" There is no cabal, and to say anything of conspiracy requires psychological evaluation.
In jail, along with mapfortu's recent discussion of characteristic traits of jail time, was also amusing to me that the soap never really turned hot. I could whip the soap for an hour, two three times daily, allow it to dry open air (to take on oxygen and bleach the surface), and whip it again in the morning, and the soap never really turned hot. Sure, I am whipping this with a spoon in a milk carton without any rocks for the press: I know what hot soap is. Whatever the scale is, full percentage or tenth or even hundredth percentage point, whatever the scale is the atmosphere is totally low oxygen. Settle quickly with your opponent on your way to court, take the plea bargain, you'll suffocate if you wish to feel you have grounds to argue with the attorney about your race.
Continuing entertainment when the cow-stick (caustic, mummy baby in the bread box, the cash cow delivery to hell and back again) began pulling the wax from the inside of the milk carton. I have had waxy soap before (led me to contemplate the joke down to hell, we've tried pressing them to bricks, tried rolling them to dogs, tried taking them apart and putting them back together in every which way, Melchizedek is going to sew you into horses and poke you into soap! that's Elmer on the glue bottle, but nowadays they so fat and blubbery that they don't even make good wax, greasy dirty wax, and then not even wax at all, but maybe fatty oil if you wick the bottle, and then the fatty oil is so greasy that it's midnight black to the ceiling... these people so far gone, and all the progressions of the levels to the bottom where they pit now, the same three thousand miles and seven bible years away as any other. I have had waxy soap before, it may not lather as much, but it continues to be hot. The soap I poked in jail never managed to achieve any semblance of hot.
War in La Jolla, eighth year, twelfth entry
I yet do not really have much time to spend on the accounts, and the wikispaces material cannot be modified without moving it to an entirely new provider. Oh to have a real interface, like ssh and local shells.
Samson's riddle, nerve agent and seahorses, a result of ploughing with the heifers. Do not in particular blame the models, they are doing you a favor, at least half your own fault for never dropping your voice, just the way things must be. If anything, you could argue with them about the sheer amount of nerve agent which they are slinging around like beer batter; but that's how far down the world has sunk. There was, at one time, a particular numerical individual method to the madness for each and every single point, but that was so long ago, and now is mostly a flat-out mudslinging contest for fun and games, and it all works out the same in the end by the time the numbers are counted up and resolved down in hell anyway.
From the readings earlier this week to today's gospel, in particular. If you have the light of the world, if you have actually made it, then how great will the light be; you never really stop improving until you grow your wings back and suck your butt to the dome to feel the sun again. If you do not have the light, then how great will the darkness be, like, in particular, exactly how many micro-injuries, in particular, exactly how far out of joint for each member of the spine, in particular, exactly how many points of nerve agent and seahorses have you accumulated? There was, at one time, an exact numerical count and an exact reason and purpose for each and every single one, but now the whole operates as a blender and the map for the passover lamb is really the only near logarithmic chart to the mountain of numbers running today. Naboth and his vineyard, that's similar to Naaman from Syria, the last of the maharajas at the time when the Hebrew doctors were beginning to perfect the uses of nerve agent by adding to his cobra bite. Naboth's vineyard is the well of nerve agent just up from Aladdin's lamp on the thumb. Ahaz's castle, on the other hand, is a descendant of Jacob's well, the woman at the well, greater than our father Jacob, who gave us this well?, what's wrong with your hand? So Jezebel takes care of the issue one way or another and the money counted up by the specific exact placement and conviction for each and every point of nerve agent on the shoulder by the wrist becomes part of the kingdom managed by Israel. "Oh, Maharaja, you look so sad and tired, let me check your pulse and temperature, and Jezebel over there will start working on your elbow... now how in the world did the cobra bite you so far up your arm? You'll never make it..."
The bigs oppressed the small, the gumbies coming in from the fields from the real women, and then the bigs became so good at oppressing the small that they set up a production line to generate new smalls, all with delicately designed injuries and ladders keeping them as smalls, and then all the bigs got knocked out and went to hell from their own idiocies, den-up and lair-n-get-us or get drunk chasing chickens knocked out by a tree picked up by the phairie or, later, this isn't the stupidest thing you'll ever do in your life it's a great way to make money! Now the world is full of nothing but the model town smalls, and in the model town, they've all been models to begin with anyway.
War in La Jolla, eighth year, eleventh entry
The pretend street friends have become extraordinarily easy to identify and work over. In normal life there are many interests and hobbies, paths of conversation and paths of "did that one get ya?" innuendos over the course of daily chatter. Once the idolatries have been stripped away then the remaining important items of conversation are sugar and herbage, mainly. Fifo2ed includes a discussion about "air moved in prayer" and the legitimacy of other topics of conversation. The pretend street friends have left to them only the hooks of sugar and herbage, and my diet is mainly my own and carefully protected. A long-running play on herbage has been to gain my association as a possible convenience store (supplier of herbage), then wait for a pre-pay, and then balk, for weeks on end. The most reliable method for me to glean the excuses out of the entire town is to pre-pay a $10 bag of herb. Has nearly never failed. They pre-spend the $10 and, as usual, I wait for weeks to see so much as a flake while the convenience store individual continues to make up whatever irrational excuses. No big deal to me. Perfect opportunity to exercise my preferences.
For example, when dealing with my convenience store, I do not prefer to announce to the entire world in large conversations that I am buying a $10 sack of herbage. I am not hiding my affinity for marijuana, but it is not a flaming component of my topical personality. I walk into convenience store, I buy a pack of cigarettes, a bottle of soda, and a $10 sack of herb. I do not stand and go flaming conversationalist about my bottle of Mt. Dew. I do not turn into hours long flaming conversationalist about my pack of cigarettes. Why would I go flaming conversation about my $10 sack of herbage? I don't. They do. Every time. It's pathetic. In the past I have attempted to assist them, by beginning with the usual topics of converatiion, weather, lunch, how's things?, etc., with all of the appropriate opportunity for the convenience store clerk to indicate whether supply is up or down, in or out, open or closed.
The pretend friends, however, make enormous grandeuristic displays about such minor technicalities as the size of the stock on the shelf, or the delivery schedule of the truck at the back door. I am the _CUSTOMER_. I do not give a sh_t about the delivery schedule of the truck at the back door. No customer ever does. Sure, maybe if the clerk and I spend time over weeks talking about weather and how's things? then perhaps some day it may be a passing news item that the delivery schedule of the truck at the back door is on or off. The pretend street friends, however, having only herbage remaining to them as their hook, have absolutely no concept of normal conversation. They have always been dead zeroed in on using every $5, $10, or even pinch of herb as a hook and line to try and create the kill scene. They have been, to each individual one, completely incapable of maintaining any pretends of normal personality or interests aside from flogging me over bud every time they see me.
Stupid. Just stupid.
Be sure to check mapfortu's journal here on Slashdot for running current updates to the material. Similar to commercial slots to present the episode of books.
War in La Jolla, eighth year, tenth entry
The MRI cannon is reading the words to some, the keyboard sniffer is relaying the words to others. The constant framing and mapping complex inside the sphinx. Box dropping on every event. Give another BEEP. BEEP could be anything as described in the Jericho and System sections of BSM. The games section of FIfo2ed was created to move away from the daily grind of the mob and describe their operation on the society in general.
When I give to you all the plague, when the tower of babel is finished, when we move from the ninth to the tenth Egyptian plague, the gemstones and pearls will likely not be anywhere near the top of my list of items to recover. I began the mine cart service only incidentally.
In the audio world there are the front mains, then surround and THX. In the neuro world there are the frontal lobes, then there is all of this world. The world did not begin as a farm for the bugs and dogs in hell. The world began as a terrarium with vegetative life, meat life, griffons, and bugs. The meat life developed an inferiority complex someplace. The world went to hell in a handbasket several times over, flipped upside down on its hands, tore of its own wings, resolved itself as drunks, and then began hacking and stripping on all of the trees. Then the world went to the dogs, then the dogs got kicked outside, then the dogs got convicted to the fortresses of the bugs. Then things got ugly and the motor-powered chainsaw came to be. Then the trees got blamed for the dogs, the bugs got boarded up down in the sub-basement, then the last of the real ladies ran out. The monkey chain gangs pressing paper taught you not to throw things out with the bathwater a long time ago, and now those are all the new sons of heaven you have; notice you do not make daughters of heaven in a similar fashion until after the drunks have taught to you all of the idiot games to be played around the firepit; good things the monkeys taught you how to wrap things up and heat them up a long time ago, now those are all the new ones you have left, and the older ones boil like an egg if you try to fix them that way. The pharaohs and neurosurgeons working on sequential neurorevolvers already know this, games to be played after missing, skipping, and dropping over completely rival anything the drunks have done in the juice pits next to the fire, and all of the sewing games, training games, make him walk and talk while knocked out games, those are all old tricks by the time, which time?, the time when the ladies ran out and the bathwater new ones are the only new ones you have. The end of Ninevah on the top-side of the trees, because now it's the motor-powered chainsaw and blaming the trees for the long lost dogs, all the bugs boarded up in hell, and the world moves only according to the money earned from the bugs in the basement using the bread box delivery system, like a push-button washer-dryer with Cinder-El-la's carriage inside. Mummy baby gets to go to hell, if he's a good prophet he'll tell you about it, if not he'll go with the rest of you. Motor-powered chainsaw cuts the trees down to the sand in less than a heartbeat, the book of Genesis ends as an attempt to end the madness and send everybody to hell once and for all. Gad wakes up a few thousand later. The Reader's Guide to the Sphinx.
By the time the motor-powered chainsaw cuts through the trees there already exist seven layers of human algae salad in denial, the entirety of the population is already walking paper routes between boxes, doing it the wrong way, making up excuses, going to hell. Particularly distasteful but very true Hollywood analogy: the end of the movie "Texas Chainsaw Massacre", where the possible escaping prophet is squeezing out nerve agent and seahorses, wounds in all the key locations, half-crazy from the idiot mobs (as Abram and Mel looked out from Sodom and Gomorrah with the Lord, nothing but Amorites and Perrizites covered the plain... ahem. ahem, ahem), and the mad massacre-er with the chainsaw continues to play on the background, unstoppable, incurable.
Consider the technological progression of paper, soap, thread, baklava, sewing combinations with human and sub-human body parts, mummified babies, cover-ups, scripts, scams, schemes, shell games, lies, all of that's so completely explored and exhausted and beaten to death by then, and that's before the trees hit the sand. Consider the movie Mary Poppins. Look, stupid, there is a remote control stage bird in that movie. That one is not a computer animation on the film. That is a real living moving remote control bird right there in that movie Mary Poppins. That was then. This is now. That bird right there would be enough excuse for anybody in the world from more than twenty feet and you know very well that it is a remote control bird right there in that movie. THEY HAVE ALL OF THE REMOTE CONTROL BIRDS, STUPID. Real life feathers are more like griffons. Your spouse is your interface to the remainder of the universe, not always entirely useful, but takes care of even those smallest of tasks that you just cannot perform. That is your spouse. Trees espouse birds with feathers. Real bird brains lay eggs. Real bird brains. When the tree espouses well enough then you have a self-packaging bird man, more than a simple layer of eggs. Then the bird-men get bored, stupid, lazy, and it all goes to hell from there. A long long long long long long time ago.
War in La Jolla, eighth year, ninth entry
Subsequent events provide a fine opportunity for analysis of the level of complexity of the sphinx as it maps the predestination through life to hell. In the past I have discussed the arrangement of the Eiffel Tower of scripts. An eiffel tower is one law of moses, 144,000k people in all, wandering between six hundred some boxes either waiting for the master's voice to drop or shipping all of the witches to hell; a pyramid is a community of witches known to born, live, perform function, wither, get knocked out and shipped to hell reliably on time every time. An eiffel tower is 600 or so movie scripts arranged such that all members of all scripts time share and walk between them so as not to become too bored too long or stop drinking long enough to figure anything out and know too much; nobody knows anything, everybody goes to hell. Your local rainbowtard is your closest liaison to the last known person to be ever close to knowing anything way back in Sodom or Gomorrah. If they knew anything their job was terminated and the next person in that career path was delicately groomed to not know anything next time. Rainbowtards hate life in this fashion: they are locked in a lifetime of accidentally giving the best possible advice to their best possible friend or the nicest person they ever just met and within a few days or weeks that person ends up with a piano on their head. Life sucks like that. They are the closest last known person to ever have not known anything about it, don't ask, don't bother, please, it's not worth the time to explain that it happens to them all the time and you would never believe it anyway. 600 scripts of two or three hundred people each, 1200 to fifteen hundred core people, managing thirty or forty jobbies that _really_ don't know anything at all. Expand to make the whole set a full law of moses, one hundred and forty four thousand people, and that's the core runaround jericho mob circling any given major metro center in the united states. San Diego for example. Chutes and ladders up the I-5 and down the Torrey Pines then into the metro beast all day long, then back up the I-5, stop have lunch around Del Mar or UTC, take the scenic drive down the 52, kill homeless people and random targets (like me, for example) on the filter path down to Old Town, pick up the standard daily assignment in the usual daily practice of monitoring the usual areas and people, two shifts a day, wake up and do it tomorrow when the alarm goes off on the secret wire in the back of the head. Everybody goes to hell.
As the sphinx goes, there are key elements set up by the four real jokes, the babylonian kings which choreographed the whole thing and set the kernel to continue to rearrange and enforce nobody knows anything. I noted recently the core group of characters which was present in my visits to San Diego central jail. Most people end up getting "killed" long before they make it to the core center of the kernel of scripts and come anywhere close to knowing anything of what's really going on. When the gypsy could read the tarot cards the game was an interpretation of ali baba and the forty thieves to you, which card are you, which cards are around you, which way are the cards moving. Are you Christian? Are you Jewish? Which of Jacob's twelve sons are running you down, which cards are they? The tarot cards don't work anymore because they were based on the older system which began with musical chairs, a lingual and vocal system, and Sodom and Gomorrah now feature chlorine pools in the high school and earlier years, everybody's nose is all rearranged and messed up, the tarot cards don't work so well. Nowadays, if you want good steady work, you go cut hair, trimming sensations in the parlor is your way to read the cards.
In the yacht culture, in the boating industry, there will be an urban legend, like a story told around friends that you only hear if you go golfing at that club with that group of guys all the time, if you are in their lifestyle. The guys that gather at the last hole after everything is all done. In the yacht culture there's the poor fella with the nice yacht, but the tassles (if you are in the real yacht club and not just a buy-in timeshare member for the up to ten million option when qualified) are checkerboard. He bought both pairs from somebody else, they were special ordered from somewhere, they were going to look really great, reasonable price, not a scam or a steal. He was installing them, installed the first two checkerboard just to have a view from both sides and both ends, enjoying the work. Was on schedule to install the second pair, some morning went out for groceries, or to breakfast, or normal whatever he does early in the morning, on the way home the exhaust system on his car just blew up, fell apart, sounded like a fleet of lawnmowers from a block off. Somebody in the nice quiet neighborhood called and, s he was pulling into his driveway, the police arrived to ask about the noisy vehicle, maybe cite it for being out of emissions. In the process they busted into the garage, broke the locks on the bookcase, tossed one of the broken locks in between the shed and the garage. Took everything of value out of the garage. Opened the shed, took everything of value out of the shed. Opened the house, gutted the house, took all the jewerly, left only wallpaper, a pencil box, and the kitchen utensils. Opened the car, broke the handles, slashed the roof liner and cut the upholstery. Stole the car keys and busted the trunk open. Final explanation; somewhere somehow someway the FBI had a bad tip about cocaine somewhere. Sorry 'bout that. Some component of the script will also involve a translucent bag with blinkenlights.
That and the similarities which I recently noted in my particular walkthrough of the organ grinder in the kernel core of the scripts. When I am checked into the medical ward component route of the scripts then my medical ward always features the same cast of characters; notably both Max and Liam from music production Prodigy are always there.
The fellow that had delivered to me some very good leftover pizza from Sammy's Woodfried in the translucent bag somewhat struck me as the sort of fella that would be out cruising a yacht. He probably had no idea, likely on his way to sail that day, stopped off in La Jolla, had lunch, noticed the homeless guy and decided to leave the leftovers with the hungry.
So if you are, or if you know the fellow, in the yacht club with said checkerboard yacht, then know that the whole event was a complete setup and is the standard format for the sack in the sphinx day of atonement script system. That exact particular event scene and sack, with those particular characters and elements (including the characters and elements noted in recent days), are the key characters and elements in the ali baba and the forty thieves system, the key characters and elements in the "how to get jesus killed in less than four years and forty scenes", or the Forrest Gump movie of "here are four years and forty scenes of the different ways we use to get him killed", including the overall blanket of "nobody knows anything". Those are the key elements and characters which are closest to "nobody knows anything" and unraveling and piecing together the key details to somebody knows something. Those key elements and characters are changed around and replaced, and that exact same script of key elements and characters is used in near worldwide "why did that have to happen to me?"
Here's how we get to the yacht club from yesterday. I was finishing all of the new repairs on my raft, alladdin's magic carpet, the comforter with all four frontiers bolted into it, t-shirts opened up and sewn to the stuffing inside the comforter. Having your work cut out for you; is going to take at least thirteen or fourteen lines to open the comforter up, tack in the t-shirt, and close it back down just to make it usable tonight. A full day's work. Four frontiers make a raft, Alladdin's magic carpet, the physical therapy needed by the maharaja on his pilgrimage after the cobra bit him too many times and his hand is beginning to swell (and, more modernly, takes a bunch of nerve agent from his pure cyanide princess to make that happen because they gon't get five or six thousand years playing around with the cobra anymore). By the time he fits all four frontiers in and makes it back he will have been through the other end of his pilgrimage, met and sat and drank with the prophet over in the hebrew lands, and then he will eventually, like me, find himself with some quieter time after the midst of parties celebrating his return (or, in my case, the next round of forty thieves kicking off the seven year sphinx cycle). He will begin attaching the extra tassles to his magic carpet as he tidies up this and that and the other around the house. I found myself recently re-roofing the cathedral bag, re-roofing the house, fixing the weathervanes and handles on the house, rebuilt the starter (again, this is not just somebody else's 409, this the the true Leu413), and had myself attached two of the four tassles to the magic carpet raft, checkerboard, just to have a look at the work from both sides and both ends. I had the matching pair of triple-tassles at the bottom of one of my paper carryall bags and, in the grudge tossing of my belongings, not only the bag of high end decorative materials was tossed but, matching the story of "remove anything of value", the matching pair of triple tassles for the "yacht", the boat, the raft, the magic carpet, were taken.
Like the fella from the yacht club, do you have one of those book catalog order books? Maybe I can find a new matching pair for this custom set of tassles. In the raid on the yacht club fellow, the raiding authorities, for "whatever reason" busted and threw away his matching pair of tassles for his yacht, nearly the same day he was planning to install them, if his exhaust hadn't blown and whoever it was that called in the condo units down the block hadn't called.
My tassles were picked up with a bunch of other high quality materials which were left from swatch and sample books around the area when a bunch of classy little upholtery and small furniture stores blew through and went away two summers ago. A bunch of the larger single tassles I had stuffed in the tin with the soap bottle. You may steal my soap but my soap would knock your ass out if you used it.
In the tossing of my house appears that the angel pin on the mailbox is able to stop police marauders gone mad. If the police are ever in line to toss your house, or if you are the fellow at the yacht club, quick stuff whatever is valuable into the mailbox. When police marauders go bonkers appears that the USPS holds up a hand to say "not in this box"; I yet have all the high quality swatch material which was locked up in the basement (behind my angel pin on my mailbox).
Adding about half hour after completing the entry...
The elite yacht club member should really like this. When he returns from his foray in jail ("oops, sorry 'bout that, wrong fella, wrong tip, don't mind if you talk to your insurance company, eh?"), he begins putting himself back together and, like today, somebody sneaks through his yard and vandalizes one of the tassles (standard antenna assembly type installations) that he did have mounted.
I walked down the alley and noticed that, when I had "parked" my vehicle outside by the bicycle racks and made my entry, somebody walked by and tore off one of the tassles from the triple tassle I had sewn to the corn. Complete coward faggitts.
Good match with the yacht club sequence. For me, is my daily life for eight years. EVERY time I leave my bags is the standard location (by the bicycle racks, not out front where the police always promise to cite me for "encroachment"), every time I leave my vehicle in a standard area and not risk being run down for loitering or encroachment or lodging, somebody flies by and vandalizes my vehicle. 90% of the vandalism damage to my belongings are this yearly sacking from the police; either to the med unit, the doctor eval, or the high power unit.
Probably so the doctors can get their chest x-ray and let the eunuchs know how to keep working on you.
HA HA HA!
You are the same 3000 miles and seven years away from the upstage as I was...
War in La Jolla, eighth year, eigth(c) entry
The account of recent events also provides a brilliant display of the scripting system and the seven year program in the sphinx. The recent incident is a 100% parallel to my arrest in 2008. Behind Jonathan's, underneath the "NO LOITERING" sign on the stairs, eating lunch. The officer had arrived to talk with Dave English sitting in the corner and then, at the moment I finished my lunch, he drove past and proceeded to arrest me for loitering. That particular ticket never stuck anything anywhere, but the characters in the cells (the fellow with the shark tattoos, andretti, joseph lacrosse, curtis lowe or old james brown with white hair, the big tall guy with the small madonna tatted on his back, the blond dufus guy always waiting out in the day room after meals in the final hours of the final day going out, always was in the shower and missed the call to get back to cells, the remote control seagull (in 2008 I had figured it was a bird outside) arriving to scratch at the window and play with a metal tin can on the roof outside the small translucent window every damn day during day lock down (high control cells, three beds in a bunk, locked doors, I like it better that way or even in medical lock doors... I say prayer). Many of the other characters. The Living Dead series episode. The Bayou Hunters episodes. The Law and Order about the transgender boy girl and the dad showing up in the street with his sack cut open. Big Bob. Pepper. The guy with the Ozomatl shirt on the way out. The guy in the cell just before release window bending down like he's taking it. Andretti. The mountain man looking dude, which is actually also the guy that picked me up on the pilgrimage on the way to Superior, AZ. Morton Salt from BMI in Aberdeen and on post, he's been at many of the Tuesday night community suppers in La Jolla. I always see him around. The crew of bruthas talkin' it up about the beeyotches on the street in the cell at change-out. Same guys both times. Because this time is the end of the first year of the sphinx sequence according to what the paschal lamb is doing in the world. Eight years ago I was in Embarcadero with the initial forty thieves nutcase tweeker crew to begin with, then up to Old Town for a few weeks, and then up to La Jolla to meet the idiot crew running the streets up here, and then on to the loitering arrest.
Last year was the new forty thieves idiot crowd, Sparky, Spike, Scotty, Tom, McCleash (and he was around in the Gaslamp back in '07 at one of the weekly suppers), and the rest, plus the old ones still here from '07, Minn Mike, Roberto, Sally, and the fat chick with the fighter guys that were a problem in the previous two weeks for me. Then, back in '08, it was just after Christmas, because I had the new translucent bag (Jack's, a local high class restaraunt at the time, went down due to swindling management, usual story, nothing spectacular except the scene and the dining) with a flashing light in it, dropped off of a passing high-speed cyclist. I had that bag, the light, and the new pair of headphones for about a little while, maybe even up to Easter-Pentecost timeage here, and then I got sacked on that lunch break.
Saturday morning I was sacked by a bunch of the faggitts sneaking up behind me to whack off their dog and make it shriek and bark at me. This year I had a new translucent bag, from Sammy's woodfried, and the blinkenlights in it were the birthday decorative napkins which I had been using as wallpaper. The candles on the cakes, the size of the napkins, I had them stacked in the Sammy's bag such that both ends looked like they had lights in them. I even noted the similarity to myself in days recent, the last time I had a high class translucent bag with lights in the ends I got sacked with all my new christmas presents.
That and, in the recent year or so, a fellow arrives on occasion to ask if I need any laundry. Polite fellow, good manners, honest offer. But, with all of the dog attacks recently, and his strange schedule (initially near weekly to gain confidence, now lucky to see him in a month), I wonder if they don't hit their dogs with shock rods while covering the dog's face with a towel heated against my pants or something like that.
You are all going to burn in hell.
In mid '07.... try to remember here, quit job at the end of '06, homeless early through '07 to pilgrimage in
War in La Jolla, eighth year, eighth(b)
And this is the projection... the town continues to hide around the corner, and over the hedge, and behind the window, and continues to peck and peck and peck, and continues to run the beastie pedo showoff (usually with pedo abuse, to use the pedo as an assault weapon making noise), for what?
To steal more? Already took everything of value, left the old bulk warehouse material as a grudge sign.
And what if the police _ARE_ called again? They have been nothing but argument and excuses the whole way, for all eight years, through these eighteen months of dog assault and beastiality pedo showoff, daily, nightly, full blast, 20000 cue cards daily, 20000 telephone calls daily.
And what's the point? You gonna steal the rest and toss me in jail again?
FUCKING FAGGITS. When I get that tenth plague you WILL KNOW BECAUSE YOU WILL BE ON YOUR WAY TO HELL!
One way or another, faggitts... I am going to smile to watch you pay. You are going anyway.
War in La Jolla, eighth year, eighth(a) entry
To be more specific...
It is not so much what was taken, but what was left. Obviously a grudge job. The town showed eight years of all the big money, eighteen months of rampant dogsex pedophilia displays, six months of near nightly dog assaults, two weeks of paid roughs and fighters...
To separate the homeless man from his bags that they may root through them. What is left? The pencil box, the bag of kitchen utensils, _all_ of the old fabric, and the decorative paper napkins used as wallpaper decorations for layered paper carryall bags. That is what is left.
Left the wallpaper, but took the glue. Couldn't even leave the soap dish and container used to poke soap, but did leave a couple (not all) of old Dr. Bronner's soap wrappers (I had kept all of them which I had purchased). Left the one spool of old thread and the container of clippings (to be used as a tassle, supposed to include the gemstones in it... a la Joe Pesci in some gangsta movie with his wife, Casino, maybe), but no needles. Left the stack of coffee heat shields used a protector for the sewing line scissors (as opposed to large fabric scissors), with the fingernail file in it (the matching fingernail file was in the leather M. Julian coat), but not the sewing line scissors. Specifically took all of the sewing materials, except for the last button (ripped off of the prayer book compartment of the backpack), but left the spool of forty year old thread (out of the box, thread itself, well, we have 500 ton spools laying around in old Egyptian tombs, there's no telling how old any given spool in the market is).
Obviously a grudge job. Not some random recycler going down the alley to take whatever was laying out. Obviously a grudge job.
And you just go ahead and look at history. Just try to put that stuff back together and give it back to me in two days on my (certificate) birthday (the rooster tail embedded to the taint on my navel reads closer to eight thousand years). I will happily stick my heel so far up your ass... it makes me laugh waiting for it.
In jail, was able to see this movie, or series "the Living Dead". Zombies rushing on some people trying to make a prison compound their home in a world of zombies.
You know what that is? Those are the first groups sent up by the original Gad after he woke up and put himself back together. That's what the surface had come to after the true monastic sorts finished the pyramid projects and the even bigger idiots had moved downstairs further with the phairies. Gad had to clean all of that up. But they never dropped their voice either, so they had to use guns and bludgeons and stuff.
See, when I put a spike through your brain, it will be labelled "Tenth Egyptian Plague". I am currently working on the ninth, listening to all of your excuses for your capped brains and voices.
Starship Troopers is the recollection of signing the phairies into the apartment dwelling indian reservation known as hell... you keep up their drink supply.
War in La Jolla, eighth year, eighth entry
After nearly eighteen months of daily and nightly dog attacks, the police arrive and gutted me.
My new M. Julian coat. Gone. All of the diamonds and gemstones in it. Gone. The nation's largest private collection of gemstones, stolen. The jewels of La Jolla won't be anything in your family, won't be anything your spouse bought for you. The jewels of La Jolla, CA, will be the collection you burgled from the homeless man when you had the San Diego police gut him.
Weeks and weeks of fighters and drunks attacking me, and the police did nothing. Months of nightly dog assaults, and the police did nothing. But when the police arrive on your telephone calls, they gut my house bag. Everything of value. Gone. My sewing kits, gone. My soap tin, gone. My utility bag, with the single final remaining remnant of my life before homeless (a Lucky Strike Zippo lighter), gone. My Alephel stick, gone (the police said they would leave it with my belongings, they didn't tell me they were going to gut my belongings). The new parka coat that I had been given, gone. Everything and anything of value. Gone. All of my decorative sewing tassles which I had been keeping for future work. Gone. My sewing needle (a warhammer, a pincushion with all of the sewing needles arranged in it), gone. I can't even repair my belongings if I wanted to because all of my materials, gone.
When the police pull you over and search your car, they break the door handles, slash the upholstery, and cut out the liner from the roof, eh? They tore open the backpack on my backpack (the backpack is the sleeping bag, now sewn up and looks like a golf bag, with the comforter blanket on top, and a hand sewn little backpack made especially for the prayer book and the alephel stick), tore and ripped open the waterproofing liner that I had sewn into it (a heavy duty plastic shopping gift bag from one or the other local shops), and ripped all the buttons off of the book compartment. I can't even repair it. I have no thread or needles!
My new M. Julian coat. With all of the gemstones in it. 100-plus of the prettiest shekels and talents anybody has ever picked up (even the gospels' tempter sported only a small handful of stones to turn into bread), quite possibly the nation's largest private collection of gemstones, gone. Burgled because dog attack after dog attack after dog attack brought the police to gut the homeless man.
And then... and then... and THEN...
To get out of jail without waiting three or more weeks for a trial required me to accept one year summary probation, waiving right to presence at PC977 (public crossing 977, the intersection of torrey pines and girard). I cannot have presence, at all, within sight of 7600 Girard for one year. Those were the terms. The town attacks me with animals day and night, and when the police arrive, they gut me.
On the mapfortu.wikidot.com material...
From the book of Judges, Samson's riddle to the Philistines.
What is sweeter than honey? What is stronger than a lion?
What is sweeter than honey? Nerve agent (tastes better than nutrasweet)
What is stronger than a lion? Seahorses. Boils. Boiled down old eunuchs.
Samson started to drop his voice, but Delilah arrived and began pointing him up with "kryptonite", "samsonite", nerve agent and seahorses. If you had not ploughed with my heifer. EUNUCHS.
Jonah never made it. The Lord relented. Supposedly Jehu managed to achieve the tenth egyptian plague and dropped his voice enough to knock out one temple of the dog faggitt idiots... then he rode off into the sunset never to be seen again. Old legend.
My voice is dropping, I am squeezing out the nerve agent and peeling off the seahorses. When I achieve the level necessary for the tenth plague I will ship you all to hell.
I need a new system on which to run asterisk, bonus points if I don't have to configure it from scratch. I'd like to spend less than $200 (ideally I'd pick up something used if necessary for $100) but I have storage devices available, whether CF, SD, USB, or what have you. It can have wireless, but it doesn't have to because I have a routerboard for that. I have found my pogoplugs to be unreliable at best.
War in La Jolla, eighth year, seventh entry
Police harassment. In the past eight years I have had nearly one thousand, nearly one thousand, about one hundred times every year, I have had nearly one thousand face-to-face "What's your name?" encounters with the local SDPD. Five bookings, three infraction tickets. One thousand face to face contacts. Is that enough for harassment yet? Have they figured out that some b*tch with a remote control bird keeps calling them every time I take care of my own business at night? Why should I need a face-off with the PD for taking care of my own business?
Saturday night. Sometimes, late Saturday night or early Sunday morning, I arrive at the church early, take a small nap in the parking lot (in my "car"), and wake up for morning mass on Sunday. There's a local security guard (CSC security) that drives through the church parking lot to tell me to go. This happened several months ago and, when I asked at our office on Monday, was told that we do not employ any security guard for any parking lot patrol at night. Okay. Settles that. Saturday night I have the idea to park in the lot and wait for Sunday mass. CSC security arrives and calls the police. The police arrive and tell me that I must leave. They don't know me? One thousand contacts over these years and I need to leave while rogue vigilante on-the-job off-his-route security guard assaults me for an hour with his vehicle?
Security guard routine Saturday night wasn't enough. For years and years and years, one thousand face-to-face contacts, the police always arrive for homeless man screaming and yelling (another day, another dollar, making people scream and holler... that's a mantra for the faggitt mob). Sunday morning, after rogue security guard and police hassle me all night, I am somewhat talking to myself as I pick up books around church before mass. So one of our own ushers, a fella watching the faggitt mob hassle all over me every week at mass, calls the police for homeless guy talking in church and the police arrive to tell me to leave for at least the day. Escort me off.
I wasn't arrested or ticketed, and apparently that made somebody upset, because across the street, just as I exit the church, some Mexican looking fella in a four-door sedan punches out a car window in front of the 24 hour fitness and then takes off. Conveniently, during the moments of the car window punching, the faggitt mob had one of the cars in the vicinity going off all alarms with horns and lights, so nobody really paid attention to the car window breaking. The hispanic male in the four-door yells "fuck you!" to me as I cross the street and he drives off.
WTF? Why was he even hailing me at all? OH WAIT! I recognize the faggitt!
Ten days or so ago, at two in the morning, I had an encounter with that faggitt. Not the first time. He likes to wait at 2 AM around the midtown La Jolla Hotel (Herschel and Silverado) if I am about late at night, and then he likes to hassle me. Ten days ago I had a 2 AM meeting with officer "Heroin Elvis" (looks like he's pale to break out in a sweat at any moment), and officer "T2" (looks like the molten metal guy) at 2 AM because idiot in four-door sedan was waiting for me around the block while the rest of the faggitt mob hassled me to him charging his car at me. He drove off that night with the same "fuck you!" because he couldn't get me to yelling back at him, and his phone call to officer Heroin Elvis and officer T2 was only that I was singing or chanting loudly or something.
Jeff Stewart, of old "Encore" (women's consignment resale store, nice clothing) fame--his mother's store, used to tell me about the faggitt security guard that patrols the alley where four-door sedan faggitt likes to wait for me. "Yeah, I know that security guard. I can sleep anywhere I want."
For years that security guard has made a practice of spying me at night.
And the remote control birds.
And the remote control rats.
And all of the spycams and spy microphones everywhere.
Fuck this world of dog sh*t eating fags, pedo raping whores (natural seclection for millionaires--raping the kids with the dogs to find the secret marmadukes in the fifis), and spy faggitt sluts.
Fearful of being caught by the FBI on the internet, the pedo raping animal shit eating faggitts bring their political flagpole mob to the homeless.
Could the FBI please stop whacking off to internet chat room porn and notice the pedo raping animal fags mobbing this town daily?