I enjoyed the heck out of this site long ago. I'm sad that it has come to this.
I enjoyed the heck out of this site long ago. I'm sad that it has come to this.
I dreamed I bought a REALLY big computer monitor, but I didn't notice the brand until I opened the box and saw "Arrivals" printed on the bezel.
Today is Monday the third day of November in 2014 A.D.
The weekend celebration of All Saints' Day brought along a tune, Ye Holy Angels Bright. In this tune there is spoken of "those who toil below". In prayers from past weeks, there was spoken of "tongues... under the earth". In the scripture there are not found references to eyes of animals, or eyes of beasts. The holy scripture is a compendium, a large tapestry, of real concepts. If an item or concept is real then it will have a reference in scripture, albeit the entirety of scripture necessary to provide this reference compendium is an enormous tapestry. The tapestry has stories and modes but, as all tapestries do, has particularities and important nuances which are often in no way related to the surrounding imagery in the tapestry. What is this "under the earth" and "those who toil below"? Why would such vocabulary be used in the scripture? Saturday, Week III, Office of the Readings, includes references to those who sailed the seas, and then those individuals reeling like drunken men, the Lord placating their cries. What are these concepts in the tapestry?
Is necessary to understand the progression of history to properly align sailors on the sea with row-bots, and the biomedical anatomy of the row-bot as a model line much older than the Model-T, and therefore much more advanced. These concepts and more explained in the Reader's Guide to the Sphinx and the predecessor work Template Timeline. My personal favorite writing achievement was the production of Fifo2ed. I had planned to rewrite TT as another F2 achievement but produced the Reader's Guide instead.
Today is Wednesday the twenty-ninth day of October in 2014 A.D.
I have written of the Liturgy of the Hours, the practice of Christian Prayer, in the wikispaces material. http://mapfortu.wikispaces.com/loth
The artwork in the book is in keeping with the history of the world. The page across from the "common of the dedication of a church" (around 1370 or so) depicts the Virgin Mary in the middle of the page, with a background of various color wash areas, a large megacomplex looking church in her bosom, and a population of black humanoid figures leaving the megacomplex. The grey area at the top of the picture is the trees to the dome, press paper, twist thread, make blankets, poke soap, learn how to use spindle sticks for thread, create linen fire. In the process learn all of the possibilities for throwing the baby out with the bathwater and mummifying him with the paper roll in the kiln, because, at that time, there were real women making real gumbies. Further experimentation determines peak ages for surviving mummification and levels of historical injury resulting in failed resurrections--the passover lamb is the oldest possible human in current society, with the current baby set, that could survive a mummification; past that age the modern baby has too many boogers. In the original times, small gumbies run off and, when large enough, come in from the field--the prophets. The top border is grey because the trees are gone, and so are the real women, and the real men, all gone, grey. The next dark red area depicts the time when the men were running out and the medium red area tells when no men were rolling inside out to make women any longer--that slice of the moon, when the women begin looking at each other wondering "who let one go?" because nobody is making any new gumbies anymore, either. Good thing the prophets come in from the field and then it's a game to collect children. The humans weren't exactly playing proper with their "children", and the steam pressed new ones were treated even worse. Below the slice of the moon the real women are running out, too and, by the portion of the picture below the slice, all new men are steam-pressed new ones, no more are coming in from the field, and none of the men are flipping inside out to make new women, so all the new "girls" are steam-pressed new eunuchs.
The history of this progression then allows for the construction of the megacomplex, the perfection of the performance of the function of the boxes (to assist with "lair-n-get-us" and the blowgun). The trees were packed to the dome, humans cleared a space, began building towers, towers filled the trees on the earth, then take the towers apart as the trees get cut lower and lower and lower, eventually hit the surface, mine the place out, convict all real dogs to the kingdoms of the phaeries (inside the depths), board the phaeries up in hell, mezzanine on top of plumbing drains to keep the dogs and bugs in the basement.
The humanoid figures are black because they are all steam-pressed new ones, no real ones any more.
I'm going to say that no, finance-driven capitalism like we see in the US and UK cannot exist is inherently anti-democratic. Industrial driven capitalism has a better chance.
Today is Sunday the fifth day of October in 2014 A.D.
Have a quick rehearsal of evolution.
As protozoa evolve into bacteria, and the amoeba does its exercises, and perhaps fungi and early photosynthetic plants, but all in the water. They meet dry land and adapt. Amoeba move, plants do not. Consider from the axes of symmetry available to the perception of an organism at the single cell or rudimentary multicell level. Those organisms don't even really think in terms of XYZ coordinate systems, more they adapt according to reactions occuring at the cell surface and the competing progressions of biochemical pathways. Plants have a problem. They do not move. Life, outside of the primordial type floating around in the water, develops espousal. Trees espouse birds. Where exactly do the birds come from, like griffons? Well, that's not really to say because it's so long ago and so far away. Trees espouse birds, like griffons. Birds have bird brains and lay eggs. They do not kernel up within themselves like a tree does with the fruit of its branch. Your spouse does what you cannot; the griffons are basically useless except that they move, which the trees do not. Big chickens. When the trees espouse a bird good enough to self-kernel, with a brain advanced enough to self-kernel, then you have a bird man, with wings off his butt and flying with his head close to the ground and feet forward. If the bird man exercises on it enough then maybe he unkernels, and then you have a bird woman. She puts out gumbies, less than half the size of a finger, baby got lost in the bathwater, the braille system on keyboards is training to not miss this particular bundle arrangement again while pressing the leaves and old paper in the bathwater.
In this world...
This world is a terrarium. Large enough that it makes little difference while on the sandy surface. Refer to my books.
The terrarium began packed to the dome with phaeries, bugs, big chickens, and a few bird men. Bird men grew in population, began regimenting the land, became stupid. Began drinking in the grape juice pits (grapes practically ferment themselves) and practicing various tricks of magic and escapism branding and killing each other in known good ways around the firepit and then make grand reappearances when they healed. Bird men building boxes and advancing technology learned the deliberate methods for wrapping the baby up in the bathwater, and that interfaced with the idiots killing each other around the firepits. Stupid as the whole situation was, they did not immediately die out. There were many long spans of time before the bird men were stupid enough to each other as a whole society that they all fell past the point where they would no longer recover from their tricks and jokes and games and injuries, at that point the ones with experience in mummification began determining exactly at what point the brain could no longer be mummified and the whole resurrected. In the course of all that time there had been many studies into the exact workings of the brain and the exact placement of boogers and other blocking materials and agents. Seahorses were also common by that time. The humans had indeed practiced with boiling each other and many of each other down, cutting them up, sewing them together, figuring out what works and what doesn't.
And, back then, they knew what real dogs were, they knew what polymorph sewing combinations were popular and worked and what the resulting lifespans and characterisms of such beasts were.
That was all long before they even had the chainsaw and could keep up with the vegetation to cut it down to the sandy surface.
The final result is: terrarium, hell down below, heaven and the steam press for new babies on top of that, the carnival on the terraces on top to age the meat and ship it to hell in a contractual sort of agreement.
Today is Friday the third day of October in 2014 A.D.
Some fella gave to me two bills, folded up, the night the attack boys were hauled off, with the words,"I want you to go to St. Vincent's." Usually I would take the cash and, if he ever appeared again, tell him politely to mind his own business or (and if necessary) keep his cash. This fellow I know I would see again, within polite social circumstances, so I had decided that the money, turns out to be a pair of twenties, was well enough to cover a PR trip to St. Vincent de Paul. Rode the bus, packed, to Old Town, walked past the college to the Gaslamp, then out to 32nd to sleep. Morning trolley to fifth, go have Starbucks at the plaza, take the refill by foot through the Gaslamp for a morning tour to St. Vincent's. Was able to say hello to everybody around the lot, say hello to the folks up the block, and then to the visitor's center.
Exactly what is it that you do here? If I were to view your facility as a business unit, exactly what is the final product and output here? The joke is that they indirectly fill caskets and somewhat receive donations related to names disappearing from other lists. A four square system: the individual checks into St. Vincent's, eventually the quit appearing in the other three squares, on the other side, when a name quits filling any of its squares, then there's a payout for the name disappearing. Funds circle their way back around to the investment facility staffing a particular square. My written work describes 12th and Imperial as the "babylonian furnace", hyperaccelerated. There's a special subfacility for visitors which are predisposed to certain of the conditions needed to fill their room assignment in the house at gerar process running beneath the babylonian furnace.
Well, anyway, there weren't many answers nor were there counsellors available to discuss options and planning, so she remarked,"That's the first time I'd ever heard that one" with a very polite and friendly smile and was able to find a brochure detailing the medical benefits available with the St. Vincent de Paul program.
Walk to the stop north of Santa Fa depot, trolley to Old Town. I intended to use Pacific Coast but found my way via Sea World. The Sea World route is nicer, I had not remembered quite how to achieve it but stumbled on it by accident and did not argue. Enjoyed lunch in PB on Garnet. One plate for spnach and rich and one plate for ice cream and cake.
I hear that the two fellows, out on bail I presume, have been cruising the alleys in their white truck asking for me at nights. Two other local homeless people, here for as long as I have been and longer, were cited in the past two nights (unclear which one) for illegal lodging. Leading to the incident they were disturbed by the two white males in the white truck asking for me in the early hours of the morning, leading to the encounter with the police.
Good for me I have been gone for two nights. When am I supposed to fix my hat?
Today is Wednesday the first day of October in 2014 A.D.
"You gotta stop talkin' sh*t to ma' boi"
"to" is in "directed at", or "to" as in "also"
Exactly what part of what I say is "talkin sh*t". From the legal aspect, with definitions. In the context of modern language and communication, "talkin sh*t" is often related to a disparity between speech and practice. The exact disparity and exact size of disparity, the variation in the disparity over time, and the stresses and releases available to the disparity, are related to what sounds are completely "natural", ie. the sounds made when the eunuch pokes or prods you in a particular muscle at a particular point when you are performing a particular task, or the sound you make when the priests are jumping on your stomach and drilling you in the belly button, there are other sounds in worse regions of abuse, but few and often inconsequential, assigned to musings and fleeting thoughts in the languages.
So exactly what part of what I say, or write, is talkin' shi*t? Everybody after Adam is talking shit, they know they need to go for a longer walk. Everybody after Cain's lineage knows they need to go for a longer walk. Everybody after Seth's lineage knows they need to not beg at the temple steps (get taken inside and eunuch'd) or suck the temple's tit (run a tax shelter like St. Paul) when he gets back; it he stays back for long enough maybe they'll gather and kick his butt to a summer vacation like I just had. Everybody after Noah knows they should forgive and quit trying to get more. Everybody after Melchizedek knows they should at least try to make it past the door. It's no secret who is actually talking shit. Like listening for the faggitts on the streets. You know what they sound like, listen carefully and you may be able to find and even identify them.
I was thinking about refactoring the material on the wiki as an list of "Collections"...
Collections of injuries leading to a passover.
Collections of injuries leading to loss of voice.
Collections of boogers leading to loss of consciousness (neural revolvers)
Collections of people pressing paper to a firepit.
Collections of people gathering leaves to make a stongehenge circle; the common meeting ground, the paper shack, the sorting and rerouting, the roundhouse.
Collections of stonehenge circles to make a community.
Collections of easter island looking people walking around on stonehenge routes in small similar communities, like Ninevah.
Collections of people around the firepit to add the fireplace, the over, the kiln, the overhead structure, walls, maybe door (Arpachshad), maybe even attic, windmill outside, maybe a water wheel, threshing floor and grindstone (Melchizedek). Now Ninevah may have boxes.
Make it to the blowgun. Collections of what? The neural revolver helps the blowgun, and the blowgun helps the neural revolver, but somewhere in there some very intelligent choirmasters got the humans together and figured out how to precisely knock out notes while yelling at each other, and how to make a windpipe capable of the same effect, then how to set them up, how to make it work better or best in various boxes, while they are saying things like "Today this scroll has been fulfilled in your he-ARRRRR'ing" or other susceptible phrases.
Collections. I'll probably never have time to work on it.
Today is Tuesday the thirtieth day of September in 2014 A.D.
They beat me up enough last night to make me lose some voice as if I had been yelling. I'll take a week clearing that out. Fella returned with his friend. Adolf Frenchie and Super-happy Grinnie (with diamond stud earring). Kicked me awake at 3 AM and then beat me out in animal style, kicking and punching. I walked to make my report and, upon returning through the area for sleep, they arrived in a white SUV. Exiting the SUV with a beast they began taunting,"You like the pit bull? You like the pit bull?" It wasn't like they were going to attack me with it. No, he was taunting as he led the beast toward me. Because they f* their beasts for their money. A good portion of this is the eighth year of the sphinx. They're mad that I won't get a job or f* the dog. Many of them, growing up, were assaulted and beaten and raped by their parents until they would give and go f* the dog.
Managed to duck around enough corners to escape them and the beast, I heard them call "get the SUV" one to the other as I took off. Then I made as much noise as possible, ringing doorbell and rapping on window, to get one call to the police (hopefully), and I ran to the pay phone to make another 911 call. Hopefully to bring as many squads from as many directions as possible to catch them before they left the scene. The police did indeed arrive, did indeed drive around the corner in time (I kept going off near like a teapot in my head,"could you please just drive around the corner and apprehend their vehicle before they leave") but outwardly kept my patience and allowed the officers to handle the situation, I hardly said a word. The officers did meet the two, did tow their vehicle, did take them to jail. Is only a misdemeanor ticket, though, so they likely post bail in the morning and then that's that for people like them. If they don't bother to show up to court the green eggs and ham lawyer for their particular collective group will.
The wiki website has a good breakdown for the various levels of financial control and the associated ages at which they were brought into the dark side of life. That material is in Template Timeline. Plenty of associated material and references are in the Reader's Guide and here in the journal history.
Perhaps we could say I was beaten two nights in a row. The first night I ate the green eggs and the second night they ate the ham when their attack boys were taken away by the police. I could even pay them as the subcontractor for the ham; that's a common transaction in their culture.
They like to run their secret parade in attack mode on me. One of the officers commented in last night's incident,"They don't seem to beat up the other homeless people. You're the only one that gets it." Later, in a discussion about the number of incidents upon which I had been blindly beaten in the middle of the night, he said,"But it wasn't the same person that beat you up the last time." That's why it is called a hate group. Different people from different walks of life are able to give that excuse,"it wasn't the same person that beat you" while "they don't seem to bother any of the other homeless people." All the other homeless people are chipped and wired paid and financed, on assignment in the green eggs and ham and worse animal prostitution ship, largely. They like to run their secret parade in attack mode, but they don't like to hear about it, even if I am talking at a barely audible whisper. Social isolation, such as homelessness such as I have documented, with a daily life of prayer and two walking pilgrimages, results the individual talks largely to themselves. In my discussions of hell I have noted that, until they beat you to silly putty at the bottom by mining you inside out for the hundred milliliter daily soaking and sponging to produce lipid bilayer for the bugs, until the entire process beats you to silly putty, then you will not stop moving or making noise. That is top of the food chain meat. We have eunuchs, we have torsos, we have roosters, we have three hands on roosters, in the kingdom of heaven they put together the big asmodeus clusterscrew by turning the paschal lamb into shiva plus as many other hands as they have these days. It's an atrocious world. Terrible.
The police counseled, the ticket was only a misdemeanor, the fellows would likely post bail at the earliest possible A.M. Their explanation to the police was that I had "assaulted them first", I suppose that means that they report that I initiated the event. Without impact I implored the officer,"Notice that, over all of these years, near everybody that beats me in the middle of the night claims that same excuse."
And where else to go? Morro Bay police likely had a call that all of the goodies out walking their dogs were zeroing in on something. Atascadero saw fewer goodies with dogs, but the police noticed the homeless people waiting at the area dinner for the new guy. Lompoc police put on a half-block show to encourage me to keep moving as quickly as possible, that they had received warnings that the goodies were on the chase on something. Rinaldi, the police were in the parade line. Orcutt! DEPUTY! The deputy told me to keep moving that day because his office had received indications that the goodies were talking about doing something terrible to that new homeless guy that does nothing but pray with _that book_ all day long.
So where else to go? Everywhere I go the goodies are always hot on the chase with their dogs, except the places where whispers of "there are too many people working" means that there are too many jobbies to start running the dogs and kids in bikinis everywhere over the homeless man all night long. Near every town I came to saw signs in the block or two away of the usual clouds of possible fight scenes beginning to form. I never stayed anywhere very long on this summer's vacation walk (earlier journal entries, maybe five or ten back, maybe more by now).
They're all chipped and wired. They're all the goodies, with animals with dogs, dead eye reanimated carnival sewing monstrosities. That's their way, that's how they do, that's what they do, that's the way it is.
Today is Friday the twenty-ninth day of September in 2014 A.D.
I know what this is all about. They are all chipped and wired, and they are unhappy because, since returning from the summer vacation walk, I have been muttering all day long "they ate, they ee-tered it, that ate-er-ated it, they ate it" and "you ate? you ate it! you ate it... oh no! you're going to hell" and other segments from earlier journal entries. This happened back at the beginning of the http://daypage.wikispaces.com/ material when I first postulated that they were all chipped and wired on remote control, and began talking to the "secret microphone" by telling them to go f* their dog; as I had recently deduced that they did indeed spork their hoagie for their money, do the freaknastery with the dagnabbery for the blingdiddery, and then they all get chipped and wired. This "game" is all they have.
So when enough of them begin pouting about what you're saying, whether or not you're yelling it or muttering it, then they get to hire somebody to come and beat you up. Because that is how they do their children. I have earlier written about the scene with Method Man, good upstanding fella, standing off in a corner with a shovel. He managed to smack the first one in the rush, and they probably ended up looking like me, but he was inside, and the rush with the doctors and the dental prosthetic to teach him how to make his million dollars. Good Meth, standing at the ready in the corner with a shovel, his brain unraveling the reality in front of him,"You're all faggitts! You're all faggitts! *step step whack*" and then the rush.
While I was on summer vacation enough new ones rotated around the general shuffle that they have been unhappy about me taunting them on their own secret microphone system, following quite well with the incident following my initial exploration into the possibility that they were indeed all chipped and wired and on a system which they did not administer.
According to the way the sphinx works, and the way the languages are constructed, and the way real nature works, I'm helping you to hell anyway. You're performance of the situation, the six hours you spent practicing with a dummy in advance to ensure that you could *set set set snap* *set set set pop* The fellow didn't really dance around much, he had spent time practicing for the entire situation. I thought, early on,"should I raise my hands to block", but decided that may only encourage him to become excited. C'mon, s*itbag, do what you're gonna do, take your shots, get the hell oughtta here. Cameras everywhere, drone spy seagulls probably have the whole thing with audio.
Today is Friday the twenty-ninth day of September in 2014 A.D.
Pharauh had friends. They were neuroseurgeons. They loved to take him apart and put him back together and take him apart again, and they became very good in the taking apart and the putting back together. They were very interested in the brain, both for revolver and flipping purposes. They learned exactly which channel, which crevice, which pocket was related to which sound. The established which crevice and pocket was tied to which muscle, and which exact range of motion. In the days of the original humans there were variations in the matching. In the early steam pressed humans there were variations in the matching. The line of steam pressed new humans achieved a level of scientific perfection to ensure that, within quality limits, the exact crevasse, trench, channel, and pocket of the brain would be matched to an acceptable range of sound and muscular motion. They also discovered that the brain, if plugged down to the brain stem, produced a yet very functional human. The standardization of the steam press line allowed them to develop very predictable methods for plugging very particular sections of the brain through injury, and economized the process to establish full ventilatory blockage between the stem and the lobes, using the channels, pockets, crevasses, and trenches. Pharaoh's friends, the doctors, established very predictable methods of making pharoah do this, or do that, or perform tasks which were designed to facilitate disuse of ranges of motion which could be predictably plugged up with other methods. Physical injuries settle in the muscles and the brain becomes lax about them and, if he doesn't stretch those out or sing through those notes, there is a higher chance that he will not recover those areas. Larger injuries work even better. Have him stay on the couch all day long, sit exactly like this, ride along on wheels, maybe use turnip carts to gimp the ankles and knees. Pharaoh's friends became very good at this. They choreographed years and decades long sequences to assist with position just the exact injury or the correct sounds to culminate with regions which had been softened up along the way.
Now, pharaoh's doctors have it all set up for you.
There is a real neurological and physiological reason why you cannot walk with your heels above the ground. That is a memory space in your brain stem which is blocked off from you. The result is: faggitt. Another one in the line of steam press ones in the world full of them going to hell.
There is a real neuro and physio reason why your voice hasn't dropped. There is a real neuro and physio reason why you cannot move your tongue inside the back of your nose. Those regions for those muscular positions are boogered up and blocked off. The result is: faggitt.
And they tore your wings off your butt the moment they steam pressed you. That wasn't quite enough to completely knock the lobes off the stem and kick Adam out of the garden, but close.
Other reliable methods are having sex with an eunuch. That will creep your brain out and lock you down to the stem the first, if not the second, time. Eating green eggs and ham, similarly. Eating the green eggs is bad enough, but why the ham? They're going to hell anyway, the ham ensures they'll make it the first, if not definitely by the second, offense.
On the green eggs and ham, nowadays they're all dead reanimated parts anyway. What is this "under the earth"? The bible is a catalogue of everything real, maybe the words are out of sequence on occasion, or maybe the scene needs to be analyzed with the surrounding tapestry on occasion, but it's all real. There are never "eyes of a beast" in the bible, nor are there "eyes of an animal", because those are not real concepts. Either the eyes were alive or they weren't. But, recently, there is this "under the earth". What is this "under the earth"? They speak of it highly, as if there are many tongues there to proclaim that Jesus is Lord, as if it could be a consideration that some of the tongues may not proclaim, so they need to write it down.
What is this "under the earth" of which they speak? It's real, it's in the bible.
Heaven, and hell under that.
Today is Monday the twenty-ninth day of September in 2014 A.D.
Woke up at 3 AM with some fag punching me in the face. I now look like I finished a title bout with Tyson, literally. I have the customary twelve-round gash at the corner of the eye and the classic twelve-round gash on the top of the cheekbone, in addition to the shiner on the inside of the eye--not the entire eye, just the inside is blackened. Classic. That's because my face is so hard. Has nothing to do with how the fag hit me; has to do with where the bones are, like stretching a balloon over a carved bust and watching it tear on the edges. My fingertips aren't bruised, my fingernails aren't broken, my knockles aren't scraped, my clothes aren't torn: I had no part of the fight. As usual, as I have written about in the past, when the faggitt couldn't get into a full contact full grappling fight (I wasn't going to abandon my belongings so I just stood there while he punched at me) then, obviously, he started reaching for and tearing at my belongings--picking up this bag and that bag and whatever he could get his hands on and throwing it around the area. Nothing but faggitts.
Hit me again. Did it make your voice drop? No. Your voice didn't drop. You aren't any bigger man, you are still the faggitt.
Hit me again, faggitt. C'mon, get mad about it. Did I say something to make you mad? Do you feel angry and bad about f*cking animals and eating excremental feces for your money? Get mad about it, hit me again. There, are you able to keep your heels up when you walk? No? See, you're still the faggitt.
C'mon faggitt. Hit me again. Are you going to go f*ck another beast for your money? See. You're still the faggitt.
I wake up in a sense of "What the hell?" Oh, I know... I get it. I know what this is about. This is about you people f*cking your animals for your money, isn't it? Well, hit me again. See. You're still the faggitt.
Oh, I know. This is about your "right" to follow people around, to profile them, to stalk them, to wait in timed gangs around all the corners to come marching out on somebody. Two by two, one by one, three by three, to take your shots, shout at their head, step in their way, cut them off. This is your "game", isn't it? This is the way you make people "mad", the way you get them to yell and holler, so that you can call the police and say you don't know anything? This is your "right", your "way", isn't it? Well, hit me again faggitt. Get mad about it. See, you're the one getting mad, you're still the faggitt.
I've been telling the police for years that the problem is the faggitts and their animals. What happened at the beginning of the summer? The police took *me* to jail, booking me for "illegal lodging" and then settling me for "disturbing the peace". What happened last night? I got jumped in my sleep and beat up by one of the faggitts again. No credible threat to make it a stalking? Well, hit me again faggitt.
Too bad. Too many of the police, especially here in California, are themselves members of the doggie-f*cking faggitt club.
This is your way, huh? This is the way you beat your kids up and make them go "do it"? When you beat one of your little kids up like this then they give in and go f*ck the dog like you do for your money? You must feel really big beating up little kids less than half your height and making them have sex with animals and eat dogsh*t like you do for your money. Well, hit me again faggitt. See, you're still the faggitt. I guess your "way" doesn't work on a full-sized adult. Which you're not, because you're the faggitt.
Did your voice drop? It doesn't work like that. You don't make your voice drop by punching me. Punch me in the face all you like, faggitt, you're still going to hell. You are still the faggitt.
Chase me around the town. Follow me all night long. Sing your opposition to my dick. Pound your fist and insist that everybody "get nothing!!!" until they "go do it!". Get you and all your people together. Hide in the condos, hide in your cars, hide in the parking lots and around all the corners. Flood the area and case me around the block. Make people mad, get people upset, point the finger and blame at me.
See this blood on my face? This is your game. You're still the faggitt. Hit me again, faggitt. Get some more of your health club boys to stake me out all night long and come up and start punching me at 3 AM. You're still the faggitts. You're all big and bad f*cking animals and beating your children into it, but you can't even walk a few miles to save your own ass from getting pounded out by a reanimated set of cast-off sewing parts.
_YOU_ are still the faggitt.
Today is Thursday the twenty-fifth day of September in 2014 A.D.
Thinking about a movie, or a video game. BRICKS. The sphinx walks up and down the great wall of China and reads whatever is written there. For every brick in the sphinx, up to and including the actual fellow physically placing the brick in coordinate position, all of the laundry, all of the grocery, all of the after work hours entertainment, all of the plumbing, all of the lights, all of the adminstration, the executives, the managerial, the paperwork and offices and contractors, up to and including the single fellow placing the brick in physical coordinate position, for every brick in the sphinx, as the sphinx walks up and down the great wall of China and reads what is written there. All of the finances for each brick, and each community over time associated with each individual brick, how the money is portioned out, how it is divided and distributed, how it is all counted and numbered ahead of time, to facilitate the operation of the community, as it functions associated with the individual fellow placing the brick in physical position, over time as the sphinx walks up and down the great wall of China and reads what is written there. How the lives of all of those people interoperate, how they share road space, how they share lunch room space, how they share restaurant space after hours, how their lives change over time, the stages they go through. How the finances are all counted ahead of time and kept track of in bread boxes along the way. A movie, or a video game. BRICKS. As the sphinx walks up and down the great wall of China and reads what is written there, for each brick in the sphinx, up to and including the single individual fellow placing the physical brick in coordinate position, all of the lives and times and situations and operations associated with all of the people in the resulting community, for each brick in the sphinx. How quickly does the sphinx read? How quickly does it walk? What is the lifespan of the people in the brick system? What do they do for their money? What are their injuries, their faults, their failings? How do they break down? How do they notice? What excuses do they make? For each brick in the sphinx.
The movie included several fortune cookies, points where the entire audience was roaring in laughter. For each brick in the sphinx there are many people. Sometimes there are tricks between the bricks, little known nuances which cause comedy and entertainment for everybody involved. If it is known that there are present people associated with the sphinx brick system, and that is many people, then there are ways to make them go googly, or make them choose poorly, or inspire them to aspire to greatness but, like the seed thrown on rocky ground, they have no root and they go back to EATING IT. And those eating it manage various sized teams or corporations or even nations of people that don't eat it but are hopelessly locked into little money games.
The video game could allow the player to enter the role of any of the people in any of the systems in any of the bricks, up to and including the priests and doctors working on the mummified baby in the middle of the financial accounting system. Or the player could play an outside eunuch, as in the temple eunuchs of old, and put the game into frame by frame and make games out of profiling workers, all in line performing a similar and like task, by poking them in various particular muscles with various points and pressures, and taking note of which sounds they make, if they notice at all, if they go completely bonkers. The possibilities for testing and manipulating teams of workers in known brick operational teams, as in working on the sphinx or the pyramids or the great wall itself or any of the major projects, are beyond endless. The ancient temple eunuchs did a remarkable job of profiling the available testing space and the results are recorded in an archive known as "the law". The law is, in modern days, broken down into religions and nationalities in a compressive manner because the entirety of the law is far too large to record or carry out in singular or linear format.
To do nothing is to be nothing.