KING NEBNOOSHOO SAFE JOURNAL, CHAPTER 0380

SAFE JOURNAL,CHAPTER 0380

WORLD LABS SBT-DATFIE: 033112.530

TEOHIV/TMCAM/MORPRO

BLOG SUBTITLE NUMBER FOUR:

“CLARENCE HARRISS AND PUBLIC HOUSING”

© 2006-2012 MWM/MWM/MF-2/BOM

VOLUNTARY SWORN TRUTHS

BEGIN BLOG:

Even with the one great hush-hush I've been forced to make a deal about, it leaves me with only perhaps ten billion other things to talk about, some big and some small, but you decide.

I woke up to horrendous loud booming next door music, if you insist on calling it music, it is just loud noise. Even for those who like it, when they listen they hear more than the sound of pounding on a wall. They are hearing music or rap talking of some kind, I may not see the talent to it, but it is recognized art or it would not exist. My point is that when it comes through the wall of a neighbor, it is noise no matter how you want to make the argument go down with me, all I can hear is the horrible sick booming. My neighbors up here on the west side of the 6^th floor, since late last autumn, have become devils and monsters, even giving me nightmares and once, coming at me from a horrible nightmare dreaming interaction, told about around the past Christmas Holiday season. When people just turn on me and decide to make crude obnoxious annoying loud sounds continually out of the blue where nothing that bad existed before and in fact my unit was nice and the conditions were fine until this all began with the holiday shit as well as the bathroom pipe leak shit, and it all sort of just meshed together and ever since, living here went from fairly OK and nice, to really brutally bad and horrendously twisted and demonic.

Still in all, if ever in my life, only one front was horrible, I would begin to think of life as paradise. The past few days, many other things also were going down. I had a lot of noisy vehicles intentionally revving and making as much noise out ion the street as they could get away with legally, I had a lot of low flying spurious enemy aerial persecution, I had peeps annoy me when I went on errands, everyone here in this ghetto called Fort Pierce begs at every store and every corner. You cannot so much as get a bank balance at an ATM machine, they come up to you with their “hay buddy how you doing, and you know right away that they don't give a fucking crap how you are doing and that no body is anyone's buddy, and so forth. Even young girls come up on bicycles and beg, it is totally revolting and disgusting. Get a fucking job, leave the area, the unemployment is about 2 or 3 percent and has been all throughout this recession up around Bismark, North Dakota. If you cannot cope with a situation, don't bother me, go to the state authorities or get out and find an area where you can be taken care of, I have no pity whatsoever on these no go annoying bums, does anybody have an ounce of fucking pity for me my folks? Hay, I am not Jesus Christ, and I surely am in no mood to love the world or to turn any cheeks. If you want something, get out and emmereffing work the hell for it, YO. 99% of the jerk offs who are asking for money and telling you that they need a dinner or a few more dollars to make their rent in full, perhaps really do, but three guesses on whether or not that is where the money that you would be giving them, would really be going freaking towards. It all goes in their stupid drug addict nose or arm, or is swallowed so they can get back up on cloud nine or wherever the hell they think they're going. I never understood this, I never was into this druggie culture, not know, not back in the 60's when it was even more the in-thing to do by a very large counter-culture, and so forth. It makes no sense to try and walk into a fake reality, especially when it is not only temporary, but the need for re-fixes becomes endlessly stronger, and it all leads to eventual suffering, increased crime so that they can afford to steal their pharmaceutical cruising tickets, and so on and so forth.

Not only has the entire world been cold and cruel to me, but they are messing with me. Peeps from up north play games with me, Ann insists I call her when all she wants me to do is call and then she ignores me, so I stop calling her, and then she complains, I cannot win. I will never know if she is just trying to cause me a problem down here by lying to me and telling me that she sent me that shit back around the Christmas Holidays or not. PPPPPPPPPPPPPP says he is my friend or at least I thought this was the situation, but he reads how my life is falling apart at the speed of light and doesn't even ever call. Hay, I wish someone would tell me just what they want me to do or feel about of this. People are down right nasty in my book, they might mean well, and that is where it stops.

On top of that, I am sure that everyone is just scheming to take my money, a feat of true accomplishment at this point as I have none. Still, I will bet that all that is being offered by one of my commentor's on the You-Tube, is PAY ME $$$$$$, and I'll do something or whatever, I would pay, and of course, nothing would happen. There is a simple way to cheat on the YOU TUBE, in so far as getting COMMENTS and VIEWS. You just GOOGLE up the three words, “YOU TUBE VIEWS, and a slew of peeps supposedly, one I know for sure, will sell you packages of 10K of them for $26 dollars each, up to 10 packages, or 100,000, enough to reaching advertising offer level as they say. They do not use bots which are detectable, but have formed a large social networking operation that is still virtually undetectable by the website authorities, as if they cracked down on every video that started to go viral, legitimate videos that are doing just that without any help, would be stifled, and that would be simply wrong, and a total miscarriage of the First Amendment of free speech. Cheating to make your video appear more popular is silly. You post it, and it does what it does. I know that I can write good music. I also know that my lack of real view amounts is based on silicon mind control. Call me all the sike works in the DSM-4 for all I care, I know the real truth, I may not be Jewish, but I sure do know after all these years of going through my whack personal life, just what ISREAL. I'll admit that I am from a million years ago, and I don't do rap and I may not be up to date, but neither were many folks who peeps clicked a lot more onto their stuff than a couple of dozen. What is holding me back is what my story is telling. This same BRICK WALL is what is causing 'THEM', or the WOMO FORCES; to block me out. Many times folks tell me they cannot get to my blogs or to You Tube stuff. When I made a big enough stink to enough people and even told a friend of mine who does indeed work at a press outlet, a lot of the more direct stuff to block me out did stop, but by then folks, it was too late. Any interest in me is gone at this point, despite my wild true story that could have even perhaps saved all of humanity from destruction in eighty years or so. You have sealed your own fates of doom, not for you, but worse, for your offspring, oh I forgot, selfish capitalists don't care one iota about their grandchildren or their world that is left behind to them, as only the BOTTOM LINE OF RIGHT NOW is ever what counts.

So just how do I know that I am being blocked? Well it doesn't take rocket science, or my going back before this very month that ends at midnight today. When I posted up onto the YOU-TUBE, the song called, “Chemtrails of 1987”, we all know I did a little more than the normal poster. Now even with this, only a few dozen, perhaps only two dozen folks, ever viewed it. The count is higher because I enjoy viewing my videos and do not know how to work my files inside my computer, this was all done by the rapper friend I worked with at HARVEST OUTREACH up on 25^th Street, as well as Meagan who turned into another druggie and took 30 dollars from me and got high and that was that, and then called twice and left no message, I have no planes to ever call her back. You know how I feel about this subject Bobby Brown, and my heart goes out to you Cissy Houston, I hate shit like this every bit as much as you do. It causes nothing but destruction and heartache, I see no upside potential whatsoever to abusing drugs. It is even responsible for my being constantly at war just to get the medication that keeps me literally alive, and obviously will be forcing me endlessly to renounce my citizenship soon, and become a proud citizen of the great country of Mexico. If my nation wants to murder me under the deceptive guise of the war on drugs that has nothing whatsoever to do with me or my idiopathic medical fucking condition, then I must do what I must do, and leave this nation forever behind. But again, those that do abuse drugs, are directly responsible for causing me this great problem, so yes Cissy, my heart goes out to you. Bobby is one of the ten peeps on my surf & turf list. This means people who when I learn they have departed this world, I will be treating myself in the honor and glory of that wonderful day, to a meal at Red Lobster, and totally pig out and splurge on a great S&T meal. Can anyone blame me after what has been done to me for dam near fucking 58 years now since birth? Anyone who can, or who hates me when I am just a pathetic innocent victim, well, you have one dark and evil soul. I would doubt that you ever seriously cared about doing any good deed

or ever had one small part of a laudable goal.

Every emmereffing year, I go through two seasonal things, FLYERS SPRING SIEGE that begins late in the winter, and THANKSGIVING SIEGE, that can begin anytime from early middle October through middle late November, and in both cases, it all had to do with my somewhat blog-world famous, Philly 57 Hockey Sticks, or actually, THE FLEYERS HOCKEY TEAM of Philadelphia, the dirtiest cheating mobbed up evil group of sports players on this planet since the day they started in the nineteen-seventies, making my life a LIVING FUCKING HELL EVER SINCE. I would sell my soul to the devil to read about the airplane crash with all of them aboard, one day, but they are being major protected by the owner power forces in the SILICON LIFE SYSTEM of this universe. It won't ever happen in my lifetime and my irony of parkways and driveway will be that this will maybe result the day after I die. What a royal screwing that would be, but it would further prove Morianity, so just as with the great Christians, and their miraculous parlor tricks planned from Walker and Water Streets, of the high speed current rivers, and also the World Labs of the future; so should anyone be in fact a follower of this, and wants it to burst into flaming life someday, and has power to do big things, they could edit this one part out, wait for my death, and then pay 50 million dollars to the pilot to grab a parachute and put it on after sabotaging the airplane, jumping out; and then really going onto make huge history, by beginning “MORIANITY”, hay this is just a little joke FBI, so don't come knocking on my door now. I learned from Lee how to laugh at really bad stair-stuff. Still, this is how another 'Anity' was started, and you can all go and believe whatever you want to. Some know about the story of 1986, and the promotion on television station WGBS, Philly-57, with that putrid horrible voice singer doing that no talented shit bit about and I'll quote it here, “Watch Flyers Hockey, on Philly-57” C-C-B-C-E----E-F-E-F-E-F-A. The tune blows, the singer made me throw up, and I had to hear it over and over, and I had no remote control at the time in July of 1986 over at Richard Dirtbag Karpf's home at 1931 Route 70, in Raspberry Valley Permissionbarrierville, in New Jersey, USAESMWG. Mr. Richard Karpf is high up on my SURF & TURF list, some all ready have checked off, but I need to postpone the dinner until I have a little money saved, I speak of Dawn-Marie King for one, there are some others. Oh a footnote, those notes of music, praise the gods, they belong to the promotion team in 1986 of WGBS Television and the Philadelphia Hockey Club, not to me, as do the words in that promotion, quite naturally; so since this blog is copyright, this part is not part of the copyright and as stated, is owned.

I have told some little white untruths, and have admitted to a few of them, no major lies however. The time I said that I saw Sarah Krassle on the bus that night at around half past ten on the night of the 12^th of July back in the year of 1970, I said she was heard by me saying in a hushed soft voice to a couple of her girlfriends all sitting near and around the seat where I was, and since I was on-board this bus first before any of them, so they obviously sat all around me intentionally, but she said in a voice that was more a whisper yet had a bit of vocal sound to it as well and I will quote, “There's THAT-BOY”. Then her friend replied afterward, or one of her friends, “His face is all messed up”. I did have a nasty sunburn, and Sarah's friend was no liar, as my face looked like a pizza pie that fallen in love with its pizza oven. But in my originally 2006 blogged story, I told how Sarah came back to defend me, only she did not, not in this dimension. But that very night around 3 in the morning when I had just fallen into a strange and almost mystical sleep, back in my own bed at Dellway Arms Apartments in Oaklyn, New Jersey, USAESMWG, early on July 13^th, in 1970, I began to be back on the bus, and in this parallel universe reality, Sarah grabbed her friend for saying this bad thing about my face, be it true or not, and she punched her so hard in her chest that her fist went right through, killing her beautiful teenage friend immediately, and making a sound so loud that the bus driver pulled his bus over instantly to check out what that sound might have been, maybe he thought it was a tire blow out. But within a minute's time, he came to learn after seeing a blood flood all over the floor of the bus, and this girl laying lifeless in her seat with a hole in her the size of glass scented candle, he passed out and he too fell onto the floor of the bus. Then my beautiful awesome giant 6 foot seven inch teenager came over to me and said that she loves me and will never ever leave me or let me escape her, that I will be with her forever, but that I need to stay watchful so that we never get parted from each other. I smiled and managed to tell her that I would never let her out of my sight and that I had love4d her from the very first time that she smiled at me in 1965 when we were bothy ten years old, that early morning on Tennessee Avenue near her shop, after I had left the Trinidad Hotel to head up to the boardwalk on-ramp where bicycles were all laid in large rows for people to rent and ride on the boardwalk at reasonable hourly rates. The dream consisted of this short little exchange between the great Sarah Krassle and myself, and then I was awake, and somehow it was bright morning around ten or so on the 13^th of July, my first day home after my 19 day stay at the home of the child molester pervert home on Cornwall Avenue, owned by studdering Thomas J. Reale, still alive and well and living in Somers Point in New Jersey, having gotten away with his filthy dastardly monstrous deeds, only more than just child touching was involved here, I told the story of how he later asked me if he knew what I he was doing, and I thought I did, only I did not. He was paid off by Victoria Callio to get my sperm collected in a bag. This is an unbloggable story. I was going to tell it, and tell how two men besides Tom and Vicki were involved, I call them Mister Imlate Onbeach, and Mister Hoffateller Alchemist. Bess had a baby sitter on the Mary Tyler Moore show around these same times, in 1970, and Bess was a young girl in the television show being discussed. There was a jigsaw puzzle that Bess was trying to do, and her babysitter was always pounding pieces in that did not really fit together, trying to cheat. As we all know, doing this will never bring the puzzle anywhere near to a picture perfect solved end, will it? I may have been guilty of doing just this, especially in lieu of the actions of tom Reale on the night of July 5^th when I got off of that Jitney-Bus on Cornwall Avenue. Maybe none of this happened quite the way that my repressed memories were trying to take unfitting pieces, and slamming and pounding them as though I was the twin of Bess's babysitter in that great show, yes Mary, I do know that I should have stayed garden crazy, with or without any roses or Family Channel Networking systems of old studio bosses from Virginia Hurricane Beach, thank you Pat;l but I will say this. I know now that one of the reasons I love to say the word GIT-BAG so much, as well as discuss time travel intelligently as opposed to fictionally, might just be the proof I need. So I am now talking to doctor Jack, my Florida Attorney, about compelling Tom Reale under a subpena to tell the truth about this entire four and a quarter decade mess now. He can deny stuff, and I can sit there and make his old life a living hell in that court room.

In any case, this will not stop, this will only progress to the point where I get a lot more than 'lovely Flo squirrel justice' (LFSJ), or some nasty ass bum will end up finding pieces of me in a dumpster down at West Palm Beach early one morning soon. In any case, this is total war; one or the other, no backing down.

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