140612. Material updates.
Foo Moe' D
The Reader's Guide to the Sphinx (http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/) is fairly complete in its presentation. Many people may not have sufficiently digested the material to be familiar with the carnival timeline. You are not real men, those are not real women, those sure as hell are not real dogs, this is a farm, everything with wings is below us.
The prince of lies. Five points. Sodom and Gomorrah meets Little Red Riding Hood. Sodom, not quite buttsex, more like vorpal broomsticks and mayonnaise jars. Elijah to Elisha transgendering plus the accounting method left over from the worldwide monastery which built the pyramid projects. The talking eunuch in the mummies' tomb, turned inside out to make the wicked wax museum, now sporting a carnival top with a triple layer riding carousel and all available Hollywood stage tricks including weather. Gomorrah. Go for more ah, you weren't born, you were hatched, steam-pressed, wings yanked off, tongue yanked down, and got the crap kicked out of you in meticulously neurologically sensitive ways to pack your brain, plus pre-packed known revolver sequences from thousands of years of experimentation. Brain took too much perversion, scuttled the ship, locked you out of the frontal lobes (Adam's sin, you need to go for that walk, we could try hanging you on the tree to dry you out and then offer to you the Hezekiah decision when you cry out and choose the Elijah path because you know we're not good enough to roll you into a dog even if you were dry enough to make the polymorph), twenty thousand boogers down by the time you see daylight after getting fat and cramped to hide the beating. Little Red Riding Hood. Grandma, grandma, what great big ears, wires everywhere, took a while to cut down the trees after the motor powered chainsaw, no way you kept up pressing leaves before the motor powered chainsaw, wires everywhere. Grandma, grandma, what great big dark eyes, mummies' tomb flipped up to wicked wax museum. Humans are so stupid, after convicting all the dogs to the phairies and boarding the phairies up underneath plumbing drain roller coaster rides, now they demand half-heights and furry replacements. Not ra-dar, spy-dar, don't wanna be a spy, spy gotta suck a dog's dick, but nowadays all the dogs are reanimated remote control, so they are the spies and you are less than that. Grandma, grandma, what great big teeth. That's the phairies and other crustacean type insects waiting for you with the real dogs with real live eyes down in hell, but they don't bite, they sip, 100 mL in (pick a layer), 100 mL out everyday, shake and stir the green eggs and ham way to make money to pay rent. Davey Jones lock-up, the hollow deck, the great grand glorious excavation of your ass down in hell. Gang teams of gerbils, the phairies minimummypress project, with hard-hats for no other reason than for me to tell you about it, working 24/7, day and night, in and out, laying in groundwork and foundation, girders and timbers, plumbing and lights, straight up prospectin', mirrors around every bend, straight out exploitin', bettin' on every drop. That's after the abortion, usually around year 4k to 5k. Not much left to eat outside of the shake and stir routine (the people makin' the big money up on stage, and the jobbies cleanin' the cells), but you keep whinin' for something to eat. Here, you never moved any air through these, they must be lunchbox for you. Vacuum cleaner bags would have tasted better, and now you're all hollow-headed, so maybe it's time to let them take control of the temperature and the feeding and everything else and consent to the hollow deck.
David, the sixth point, adds all the lines of excuses for "what happened to wings?" Anything with wings is now below us, we're so technologically advanced, and the eunuch accounting system (a Wizard of Oz machine, a kicksey-winsey) says they gotta yank the wings off the new ones anyway. Been a while since Adam walked off his debt of sin, you know. He's still hangin' on the tree and beggin' for the Elijah vorpal hot seat. Nowadays, to fill the carnival, we press-em and pop-em right alongside the swingin' pairs destined for the upstairs and the meat farm back downstairs.
That brings on nerve agent. Your brother pressed into service is not very happy, even if they are mostly remote control from the kingdom of heaven nowadays. Your real brother is on heroin, doused in beer, stuffed in the crystal ball behind the looking glass and tossed in the back closet. Mostly you have a seance proxy to the gulag video game farm in the kingdom of heaven. That's their path through life as they all got locked downstairs in the high-tech side managing the low-tech carnival top.
Your brother, once upstairs, likes to point you up with nerve agent and seahorses. Refer to the polymorph section of my material. What is sweeter than honey? Nerve agent, castor bean mash refried for months and then sifted over and washed out.. Nowadays purified lab grade VX. Only little points at a time, that's the upstairs side of the video game gulag passing the time on their way to the sub-basement. Primary positions for the nerve agent are Jacob's well, the top of the forearm below the elbow, a second well, in a similar position where the thumb joins the wrist, and the swelling underneath the hand by packing the inside of the shoulder where the thumb meets the first finger. Likely key ligament positions. The "tough points", which you qualify for by arguing vehemently without resorting to swinging or intimidation, are maxed at 160 on the outside of the wrist, across the hand from the thumb. There is and additional well of 30 "extra tough" points available on the top of the inside of that shoulder junction on the outside of the wrist. Even if you have qualified for any of those, you are not mean enough to break them down and squeeze them out.
Your aches and pains, your stiff joints and muscles, the corners that hurt when you reach or play, those aren't all entirely your fault. That reflects all of the nerve agent they point you up with.
And seahorses. What is stronger than a lion? Samson's riddle. If you hadn't been ploughing with the heifers (eunuchs) then you wouldn't have gotten your muscles all tacked up with long-lost boiled down old cousins sewn together with real dogs in the long lost past before the trees hit the sand.
What's wrong with your hand? What causes that swelling in your hand. Make all the dick jokes you like, we all know the rich kids, the trust fund babies, the friend you have that always has the money that you don't, the coworker that isn't worried about rent, the people that afford and buy things you just could never hit the wage or salary level to have except as a present from that old friend (usually the secret richie kid that then stabs you in the back in the next year or two, leaving you with memories on that one high-dollar car or furniture item that you have, probably your marriage bed), we all know they are the beastie pedos worldwide chipped and wired. What really causes the swelling in the hand is kryptonite, samsonite, combination nerve agent and seahorses, the tack-ticks of the eunuchs, the eunuch's tacks. Make all of the crazy excuses in the brain you like, jump to all of the strange conclusions you desire, you're taking on way to many boogers in the brain and the nerve agent they're loading on you is giving you a Richard Nixon "I am not a crook" complex. The body is a matched set of rigging and, as they point up your shoulders, your brain reflects that in Hosea complex "trees do bend, though straight and tall..." blah blah blah.
You probably don't even know why it does that, do you HONEY?
HA HA HA!
Continuing somewhat humorously on Homeless' recent entry discussing Hollywood movies as components to the worldwide puzzle of scripture, once the techno-carnival is recognized related to the height of the trees before motor-powered chainsaws, Forrest Gump was recently showing in San Diego Central county lockup. His spine is as crooked as a politician. Forrest Gump is a somewhat humorous presentation of the life of Ham/Isaac/Jesus paschal lamb, and all the situations where Ham/Isaac/Jesus usually get killed before they go for a real pilgrimage (Jesus is hornswaggled by the promise to become a prophet on Monday after the bread check, the check?, the innkeeper wants to know who is paying the check from Friday night, twelve guys eating and drinking all night long, Judas has the money? No, he left the money with Peter? Peter? Who's Peter? Don't even know the guy, you thief! defrauding an innkeeper! we could crucify you, or maybe just send you to the eunuch, or maybe we just take your hand, or maybe it's a kinder gentler world now and we just take your finger, two were bound for Emmaus, A-Mess, Mesopotamia, this finger looks frightened, this finger looks lost, all their hopes for the future had been lopped off and lost... stupid thief)
His spine is as crooked as a politician. Three thousand miles and seven good years later, however, with plenty of raised heels, maybe you, too, could begin working on all of the miniature points by which your spine has been beaten out of position then allowed to degrade over time. Chest x-rays, for example, in county lockup are used for horse racing, as the same competing teams of "criminals" are rounded up and brought in and examined to determine if their spine is moving, point by point, segment by segment, and how much. People getting worse get worked on more, nobody ever gets better unless you go for the three thousand mile walk and work yourself up to it.
My recent chest X-ray in lockup probably told the eunuchs a whole lot about which way this is going.