War in La Jolla, seventh year, one hundred and twenty-third entry
The truth about the millionaire mob, such as in midtown La Jolla, is that they are upset to be running on a homeless man, a stand-in-mummy (SIM) or in this case the real passover lamb, or any other jobbie that wanders into their area. What they usually do is send the jobbies off to work, secure the neighborhood, and drop a few little children off with fries and a drink and wait for the show to start. Takes many eggs to make an omelet, and millionaires think fairly large of themselves. That is the sound of eight thousand years' worth of half-mangled children wailing from hell; they are not dead yet.
In 53214 I have noted the babylonian furnace area around 84th and National. That is the main intersection to correspond with Torrey Pines and Girard, but the real eggo-run furnaces are not so visible. As here in 92037, the babylonian furnace is set such that nobody sees anything unless the millionaires make the call. In 53214, you need only look down the block from the passover lamb's childhood home at 1202 S. 88, and somewhere down around 937 S. 88 is a little footpath. Two blocks to the west of that, similarly around 1000 on 90th or 91st, is a paved footpath. Up the street (south) from the 88th footpath is a house, around 1121 or so, that is known as "boot's house". Here in 92037 there, similarly, is a small dog which strikingly resembles "boots" which lives just a block or so to the north. Many aspects of the architecture are rotated around and interchanged to allow for local areas and necessary populations. A good example of local area adjustments is, again, available here in 92037, The chicken witch pole viewing area features the Ham, Isaac, and gospel trees in much the same form as depicted in the holy scripture. The front porch of Von's, where the picnic tables are, features three trees in a similar viewing pattern, but the branches are interchanged and moved around. The same rotation and interchange may be seen when comparing the holy scripture tree trio with, for example, the oriental tree trio found in an artwork book a week or so back in the journal entries. The trees in front of Von's reflect the changes at play in the local area, for anybody that may know how to read the patterns.
In the 53214 area there are likely to be found other elements of the chicken witch pole babylonian furnace architectural area. For example, from the dirt path, the passover lamb's childhood home stands at about the spot as the local Roman Catholic church here in 92037. Across the street and up the block.
In the realm of cutting down a person's brain there are several new developments. The excuse channel plus pump word mechanism continues to work well and prove itself. In the early ages, after learning to "talk", the first excuse many children learn is "what?" You say something, you ask them a question, and they give you blank "what?" And that's great, to go along with r-side profiling and dental adjustments, because there is a particular tonality to their "ah" in "what?". As the days and weeks go by, as they read from books and letters, the mortician aspect of the show analyzes to find other words in which they have the same "ah" as "what?" Then go to work on watching for those words, steerng them into those words, and cutting them off... telling them to "say this" or "don't use such a high voice" or ridicule them for whining. That will assist them to deliberately shut down their primary excuse channel, narrow it, use it less frequently, allow the boogers to build up and nudge their brain to find new excuse channels. Hit the children with the same old questions and see what they cough up in place of "what?" Go to work on that. Lather, rinse, repeat. The sound of young children, especially girls (remote control from the kingdom below), going over hopscotch rhymes often has that drastic nasty off-tonality sound to it, especially in groups. That's a common excuse channel for millionaires: "dog means it". You know, like dead chicken glove glory doing the dirty freaknasty because the older kids and mommy and daddy said so. Millionaires actually hate to listen to hopscotch rhymes and children's games because it reminds them of excuse channels long ago blocked off and boogered up.
In the "what?" excuse channel plus hate pump mechanism. The book of Leviticus is the "throw the book at them". The book of leviticus is the most carefully refined set of sounds known to accumulate siphons in the tongue, cut off the sounds, you don't make those anymore. If you sit refining, like pressing paper leaf to the roof of the mouth, you may find that wall. All of the snap-crackle-pop will be up to the front, at the one-fifth to the tip (more or less). That's pharaoh's spitting cobra, quitting the mosque, turning around to show the priests that he _IS_ working on it, and the priests shaking their head sadly at the special effect saying,"Your voice still isn't dropping, you need to use more than the top tip of your tongue to do that."
When you are ready to accept how sick and dying you are, and we've been shipping people to the same hell since long before the kingdom of heaven stood as the accounting proxy and new baby department, then I am able to teach to you how to stay out of hell. Am I superman? Do I have three genetic codes in the sinsus? No. I did this one booger and one long-lost ages-old cousin at a time. You need to stay out of hell.
Hell. Check in for phonies; wake up, debt counseling time, but now it's $100M daily and welcome to hell. Jobbies, tell us your troubles, how much would have been enough just to level some of that out, that's your first day, welcome to hell, after that all you do is clean the cells. The people makin' the big money up on stage, the people cleanin' the cells.
Losing your eyes. Stop crying. How can you do that? Every last bug and phairie and dog down here is practically starving for fresh water (water, water, everywhere, but, like a torso closet, nothing but greasy grime to drink), and you still well up at the eyes. You don't even need those anymore.
Bang your head. You hate hell, you can't take it, you can barely see like a wraith. Try banging the head against the wall. This is before year 100. After that just about everybody in hell is cocked one way or another.
Losing your frontal lobes. Stop whining about hungry. Didn't we already go over this? Here, you've never used these, they'll taste like vacuum cleaner bags, but you've been carrying them uselessly for so long. Must be food for you.
The great grand glorious excavation of your ass; when you decide to accept the monetary offer, beginning around year 4k. Gerbils, gang teams of gerbils (not polymorph carnival gerbils, little faggitts just like you), wearing hard-hats just for effect when the paschal lamb tells you about it. Working 24/7, night and day, laying in groundwork and foundation, timbers and support beams and girders, plumbing, lights... straight up flat out prospectin' on your ass, openin' you up and installing mirrors around every bend. Hell works like the upstairs carnival. We beat you up, we give you a devastating event (like, eat this crow, stupid), and then we ask you if you're ready (just like the millionaires workin' on their kids). Maybe not today, maybe not next week, but the bugs are already sipping off the inside of your dome, and you don't really think about much anymore anyway, so maybe it's okay to let them rack you up, take care of the breathing, take care of the feeding, take care of the feeling and the picking, and just let them go ahead with the excavation. Long, slow, painful, but at least they maintain the temperature for you and you won't need to qualify for the $100M to afford the thin blue blanket tonight, as you have for so many thousands of years.
After the excavation you will be bored (and hurt) enough to begin counting by twelves. Year 5k to 6k. At that time the jobbies are so broken down and peeling away and falling apart that we take even the smallest brooms and mops away (mostly because they cannot hold them any longer). "If you ever could have made it maybe you would have worked yourself to turning over and walking on your feet again, and then you could have used your grease mop to clean the floor, but you didn't, and you're in HELL, now you get down on your knees and use your tongue." That is when the jobbies turn mean and nasty on you, all racked up.
The gulag in the kingdom of heaven is the video game arcade pilotting the secret aviator machines. References included in the Reader's Guide. The aviators are not always very happy with their jobs, and there's little hope of reward in the stewing pot of souls. No, mostly those working in the video game gulag are the worst of the worst of the small time day timer tourist millionaires. Spiteful, vengeful, given to petty games and cheap exploits. The entire career path for them is similar to crack'em up derby bumper cars; while their game works mostly in gumby points and vacation credits, it is part of their game to take down the other's blast shield (make you go f* your dog, often transferrable to the nearest available spousal blast shield unit).
The most reliable time that you have to catch "him", the real "him", the "him" that has been reduced to psychological inch-tallness, locked in the crystal ball, behind the looking glass, with constant dose of heroin and toaster blender sippin' on beer, with the remote control magnetic field fuzz goin' on in the brain all the time. The most reliable time you have to catch him is just before you wake up, in the middle of the night, maybe during a shift change, then the aviator lets the remote control off for a while, watches, waits, and the inch-tall comes out to marvel over you, wish he could tell you that this isn't the way that it is, how could they make you understand which way it is all going, but then you begin to wake up, and the aviator takes over again. Back to remote control. Imagine being locked in that psychological cage while one of the ones that wasn't popped'n'dropped for special duty does whatever it feels like with the remote control. Man's inhumanity to man racks up every time you think you're getting yours. If you were to shove your primer up your nose and find your frontal lobes, let the mulch moter grab hold and pull you in, turn you inside out and leave you flat on the ground waiting to pump yourself up again (depending upon how many gcc -funroll-loops gorbie.dolls you have stacked up, it may take a while to so much as think about the left from the right), then she would have mid-level tits because that's kinda part of the path of the Lord: you will never really do enough situps and crunches to fix that. Keep working on it until you pop your wings back out, figure out one way or another how to use your brain as an oil pan and not an air filter, and suction your butthole to the dome of the sky.
One of the components of prophecy, along with the rooster tail, the comets, solomon's temple and the lunch plate hand, the words of meaning with proof and boogers every few syllables (Ezra's readings)... one of the components of prophecy is that, until I really clear out the frontal lobes, then is not really me talking or elucidating. Is my clearing frontal lobes reflecting on all of the excuses you give under the brain canopy, all the excuses trained in the predestined sound ranges, all of the cards already set up to end in hell. Laryngitis, a terrible disease, could take hundreds or even thousands of years to reach completion and bring you to hell. Alcoholism, in the talmud, for example, takes a long time for you to walk around with that alcohol blown parachute in your ass, but you may still walk around for hundreds of years that way. Not under the law of Moses and sodom/gomorrah since, we pile it all on, make you do it for the money one way or another, gimp you with the alcohol and the turnip cart, the kickboards and the key circuit (make whatever excuse you like for the turnip cart, you get to be the one riding along to your big escape, take this key). Laryngitis, all of the possible routes to lose your voice, has been mapped out, tracked down, refactored, rebuilt, mapped out, refolded, refactored... and now we have all the boxes set up. We know which boxes you will live in, which boxes you will work in, how your voice will lose, what that will make you ineligible for, what you will yet be eligible for after that, what sorts of friends you will need, which friends won't work with your particular losses, we know where you will need to drive, what insurance availabilities will be required to keep you placated (and occupied). We have it all mapped out. 70 or 80 years, then down to hell with the rest.
One of the components of prophecy is that, while I continue to clear out these frontal areas, I don't really say anything new. Is only me reflecting on all of the excuses that you give to me. Maybe, maybe, when I pop those wings and suction to the dome, maybe then I will be able to go through and freely rearrange a few things and make up a few stories. But, while I continue to improve at this rate from this far down (like the rest of you... I thank the Lord I began seven years ago and am now this far ahead of you *pfft*), I am nearly incapable of telling it to you in this voice unless it is the honest to the sky reflected truth from whatever you put into it.
Millionaire towns and districts have quotas for new millionaires. Like a big worldwide corporate structure. There's also a ratio to how large the omelets may be, and I get the idea that 92037 is somewhat lucky in being able to impersonate the prophets while serving up the eggo and beastie feast on the side at ridiculously low cost, passing the buck on to the middle man or little guy somewhere. Maybe has something to do with the scheduled appearance of the paschal lamb and the rewards they bet on. Like any good political party, they ate all the eggo ahead of time and bet on the ticket sales to cover the cost. The dog track in Del Mar was built, coincidentally, about the time that the dog wash eggo race track was needed for the big nobody knows anything homeless show here in 92037. The Del Mar race track represents the amount of runaround and coverup they need to keep the same kind of facade that they had right here at this little walkway in the middle of midtown La Jolla. In areas with dog wash eggo race tracks, entire midtown sized portions of corners of residential districts, a "town local" is an individual or rapunzel (with a store front, door front, or business front, or other secured position) with a guaranteed place in line for any of the little children dropped off with fries and milkshake for the show. Would you like your eggo bothered, agitated, or scared fucking shitless when they knock on your door looking for escape... and you have the dog waiting in the back room?