War in La Jolla, seventh year, eighty-ninth(a) entry
The millionaires killed my last session early. I had two minutes. I checked it. Then, in moment by moment fashion, one of their little babies in the little library _coincidentally_ (all day long for seven years) chirped "buh-bye", the "minutes left" program on the taskbar clipped off, and the session booted. Oh, what clever tricks.
I have uncovered the real reason the millionaires insist that I am decreasing their quality of life. I am standing in the way of their eggo parties! Nobody will hear the tree fall when they do it dreadfully wrong. The millionaires have been present for the entire term of the development of technology. They do not spend their day playing video games because the system inherently detects their identity and, in whatever manner of ways, makes it near impossible for them to even pretend not to win. They do not spend their day with media because it reminds them of why bad things really happen to good people. The depth of "mr. personality" and single-digit IQ is far deeper than I had envisioned. This is the daily pasttime of millionaires across the world in all of their small millionaire districts, with eligible 4-H club children (those bruises are not from their spouse, that's from getting their faces stuck watching the children go down in the pool) and eggos. Drop one off with a hamburger and a milkshake and they'll be back in a few minutes. Then the parade begins, as I have documented.
The sphinx truly is rolling over. A good percentage of these daily floods have been holding for the cues of the terminated paschal lamb or been scheduled to fill the area for the eggo parties after the paschal lamb is gone. They have been scheduled to arrive for years, perhaps decades. The increase in traffic has, similarly, been scheduled for years or decades. The dogs are not only to run on me; they are here because they should be holding massive celebration parties. The bikini pedo dog shows are not only to upset a target; those are cameo appearances. The diamond chips that I pick up may be the kingdom of heaven indicating that, while it is a big block and plenty of space, perhaps I am saving them a millstone or two ($500k each) simply by being here. That is what makes these millionaires so upset. This is their joy in life, the only thing left to them because everything else is so rigged so bad. Ship the jobbies off to work, get the proper watch people in place, and we've proven thousands of times that nobody will ever see anything when they do that one terribly horribly wrong. Those 200 dogs daily are not only to bother me; they're trying to pick the area back up to what they would be doing if I weren't here taking up the space and bringing the heat.
(as they tickle their children in the background next to my belongings to pride their rights)
One particular facet of Ham's deterioration and breakdown leading to the full encasement of Isaac's scripts includes a job description or house at gerar event that produces an enormous steam blast to the face on the side opposite the beaten side. The beaten side is not from mummification but a combination of "smack the little guy down" after the bah-ra and then, as the years wear on and ticket sales slump, the inclusion of progressive levels of "only if I get to use this ring". Along with the finalization of the castor bean mash application (ensuring that all newly produced Ham's will live life routes leading to the excuse to make the application, the end of the maharajas) Isaac's life includes a choreographed inclusion in a boiling ethylene glycol blast to the unbeaten side of the face. Should he ever eliminate that injury and wake that back up (eg. after aladdin's lamp) that is called the "razor's edge". The razor's edge also refers to the sliver along the bottom of the unbeaten cheek where the high priest delicated laved a portion of boiling glass to see the look in the paschal lamb's eyes--"holy ef*ing sh*, how deep is this water going to be?"
The exact placement of the particular locations which are shut down (individual muscle cells and tiny regions "knocked out colder than cold" but not dead) is occupied by the typical realm-of-the-dead si-p-honies and those need be cleared out just like any other. The nature of the human body, one of the ways that the sphinx works, is that the body is redundant in several ways and, unless the individual is dedicatedly working on fast and improvement, injuries are redundant. If the injury is sustained in the body proper then the corresponding modifications are made in digestive tract, brain plaque, sinus position, and matching shut-down regions in the cheeks and around the lips. If the injury is sustained in the face itself then, unless the individual frees and heals the region in time, the remainder of the body will seek to acquire the corresponding cramps and crimps--either by physical injury to the corresponding location, the brain accumulating the plaque around the corresponding neurons, the digestion accumulating the corresponding timing problem along it's entire trajectory. If the individual never achieves rehabilitation then, eventually, all of the redundant matching systems will accumulate the proper hindrances and the overall will continue its downward progression. On the healing side of the acceleration curve the range of the voice, the unlocking and stretching of joints, the improvement of overall bricking performance, and the removal of especially itchy boogers often overlaps back and forth with various levels of correspondance. I have no interest in stretching out the residency time to match each event in linear fashion. Do not delay your obligation to the Lord; when the booger calls, KICK IT!
The digestive note brings on a good opportunity to discuss again alcohol. I have mentioned alcohol in the books in reference to Joseph planting just enough sugar in the bottoms of the grain sacks that the carriers would have just enough beer alcohol in their digestion to miss the perfect shroud of turin check with the drill sergeant sometime in the next day or few. Now the world is stocked with alcohol (from the neutralization of the tear gas and bleach torpedo system which was supposed to save both Noah and Zechariah from the eunuch and adonis hordes, Noah found out that the bell rope was broken and Zechariah filed many maintenance complaints over the light switch malfunctioning). Your digestion includes what is called a "parachute". Your parachute is your last resort if the rest of it should, for whatever reason, kick down and give way. You spend most of your childhood ratcheting your parachute if you attended elementary school. A little alcohol here or there and you will continue to hold your parachute together. By the time everybody reaches age fifteen to twenty-five, though, they have had that experience of a summer which allowed them to languish, in whatever form, by the BBQ with the friends all summer long. Parachute gone. Never to be picked back up again. Takes a long walk, and then some, to recover from that alcohol injury. Until then the redundant matching system of the body injuries will always be dropping the parachute, and likely the individual continues to drink the years away and keep the remainder of the redundant systems lagging behind the digestion in the tit-for-tat tracking heirarchies.
So the fella laying in the Etruscan tomb never managed to find alladin's lamp, he'd be the last of the maharajas that went out trying (with or without making a real pilgrimage walk). A good scale for the gospel, as well, because Moses and Elijah tell Jesus that he needs to go for a big walk, but nobody's really been doing that since long before Seth. In his religion you pass a forty-day bread check and, in his station on his career path, they make you the prophet. Well, sorry, not enough people were responding to your dialect in the minor judging meetings, the sadducees say your hand is getting worse, dinah's going blind from eating too much ham, and caesar and pilate are both coming up on holiday expenses for the eggo parties chasing the kiddies around the millionaire district. Then you go and, under Pilate's interrogation, give the wrong response of "I AM" and "blah blah blah blah blah" when it should have been "Amen, Amen" (or "I AM", "I AM", or the same excuse both times). So up the hill with you.
If they would have gone for the walk and done things the right way they would have begun to hit puberty. You didn't hit puberty. They knocked you down with a mild blowgun for a few months running and made you sound more like the other older males. You didn't open up your pipes. You have no idea. It's actually somewhat funny. When do you hit puberty? Somewhere between seven and fourteen years, on the path of the LORD!, depending upon how devotedly you practice. All of these big grown adults and big grown men counseling their children to the green eggs and ham, and none of their voices have even dropped yet. Oh, yeah, real big important adults. Real big men, uh-huh. When is your voice going to drop? Probably long after they check you into hell and excavate your anus to remove the boogers one by one. You're like plants. Kept in small boxes, under bad lights, under too much hydro (debt, water)... you will never hokie-pokie "the right way" on the cribbage board and hit double skunk.
Doing things the right way. "He who blasphemes against the Holy Spirit". The millionaires, running their daily eggo shows, love to confuse this sort of thing with whatever they choose, usually in a sexually humiliating contest against one of their children. If you practice this religion the "right way" then it is impossible to blaspheme against the Holy Spirit. You will find yourself hearing it on the way and you will need to remember to look up and see it. Try using the musical section (not all monks count by twelves).