SAFE JOURNAL, CHAPTER 0421, KING NEB

SAFE JOURNAL, CHAPTER 0421

KING NEBNOOSHOO

SUPPLEMENTAL ENTRY

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My dirt bag neighbors are being noisy today, not as bad as they were on Friday. Still, they are a bunch of ass holes, and I know that both of these, new since around the Christmas Holidays times, peeps across the hall came here; this is when my roach infestation came as well, driving me insane. My letter to the PHA is in the mail, we will see what happens, if nothing, I have a letter ready to go to the Board of Public Health Authorities, with CC to the Florida State AG Office. This is not going to be allowed by me to go on endless;y, unchecked, and without a fight. I pay my mother fucking rent, and am demanding some fucking action, my lease guarantees me certain rights, and protections, from violators.

Yes, thank you so much for helping me with this mind blowing nightmare problem when I really needed help, oh great Mister Chester Perkowski. Aren't you so gods awful wonderful? Speak about how MIND is totally controllable by those who own and rule or who might be given power and authority to assist in all of this, look how good old sir 16161616161616161616161616161616161616 was influenced to not see that IN YOUR FACE blatantly obvious sentence, in that famous Chester Perk Letter (CPL) as I call it in a shortened abbreviation, where as David Roth and myself recognized this sore tooth stand out instantly upon reading this powerful letter to me. Speaking of Chester Perk, in case you are reading this, All Mighty Nelson Fish-Face Trout Lane, back in jerky Jersey; huh DJ Donna Jason; you don't own me or my music, and I will be posting up later on, at and at a time that only I know when; not only the other SARAH version by the PERK, but two other songs as well, “Lost Without your Love”, and “Summer of Love”. There will be no comment-box, or any place for anyone to do anything other than to listen to the posted video. You cannot stop me, this is my song, I paid for this work, and if you don't like it mother fucking Trout, get a lawyer, and Doctor Jack and the copyright Office of the United States will gladly see you, IN COURT, after number Dellway Arms-16 has the good doctor over for a meal, and perhaps Hannibal Lechter as well. We can all dine on each others' brains. Good old Hollywood, I'll give them this much, once in a while, these crazy wild ass holes do in fact come up with some really great original stuff. Or do they? Remember that none of us can really make up one thing, or write so much as one original word or note of music. This is no more than an open channel between those choosing to open it, and the PHASE-4-ENTITY beings from the P-2-Astral Plane who try and dream-down into P-3 human waking life here, and cannot break the Lawtronic filtering system or the (LFS) for a short abbreviation and future usage. Anyway, this musical-legal information was given to me by Ryan, my engineer, over at BonJovi's place the last day I was over there posting up the newest material to the YOUTUBE, the Avalon Recording Studio, of Port Saint Lucie, in Florida, USAESMWG. This was legal work for hire, and fully paid for. I did not have to go through anyone's coat pockets and steal their money, to do this. Pretty low, taking a persons money after their mother dies. 'WOW', will you please chime in here, oh great one. It's sampled and saved anyway, if I need it. Lifting things from ancient phone conversations is difficult enough, you need to edit words, clean up noise around the signal, equalize the voice back to a fairly normal range, and many other technical things. Did anyone ever wonder just who and what these strange mysterious forces are, that made sure for reasons known only to them I'm quite sure; that the few things that did manage to get down here with me that night that I ran away from my oppressors and kidnappers in New Jersey, one would be a tape of these phone conversations between me and my wonderful future Labber that was sent back into time?The odds would be beyond jackpot lottery staggering, and yes I know, somebody has to win, but why am I the winner of this wild HELLOTTERY over and over abnd over again, doesn't anyone ever cogitate on this, and wonder at all? I know the answer of course, and if you want to hear it, then read it, otherwise, this is an excellent time to switch over and read the Blogs of Henry the Butcher from queens, or Jack McDiffle and his poker stories, or why not try old Granny Lee Simpson and her magical tonics, hell, we turn on the internet and things pop up like women almost 60 claiming to look 25. Right, and if this was true, the world would be all over it in 10 seconds, and folks will fall for con jobs and smoke and mirror dog and pony shows forever, I suppose, YO. The answer is the HUNTINGTON-CURSE. Gee, what else is new? Same old same old, same stuff-different day (WEIN-SOSO-SSDD) for short. Yes HC's will indeed bring endless HELLOTERIES to bare against the sufferer. Oh well, boo hoo hoo, like anyone gives half of a smelly shit about any of this, WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!

In 1980, I had a lot of powerful, “DREAMS. In early June, came the great SCYLLA singing HER great tune to me, LOVE IS FOR CARPENTERS, and it took the foreign powers five years to begin wondering what else love might be. Hell even my daughter seemed to get into the act, literally, eventually, telling me I cannot be imagining all of this. Still, it is sort of like Chester Perk and mighty letter to me in 1988 that I received from him after writing to him, while living over in blue Anchor, NJUSAESMWG, and renting Guthrie Short's mansion with the six acres of land surrounding it. I wasn't always Trailer-Park Tuna-Charlie folks. I had a past, it is real, and the world is trying their best to make it vanish into the ether's of Merlin Potter, and sonny Ed of Chicago Lavino. A child can see why he was SENT to Philly on a mission in 1976, to covertly kill my mother; years ahead of the 2^nd covert attempt, that could not lose the second time, with the powerful Exploratron-Paula, behind the operation.

Not only conversations with my wonderful lab technician survive, but so did a powerful message from my mother, so make all the noise you want with the doors and the shouting but wipes, this will be told. I told you all ten years ago, and you can bet your bippies on it, an old sixties expression meaning that you can bet your British Petroleum, that my letter to the world from my mother, after Potter tried to have her secretly vanished away and 'killed' so as to destroy me for sure back in the Bicentennial year of this great land, or 1976; and her letter about how she did not take an overdose of pills intentionally or to kill herself, will indeed be blogged and printed, word for word, her exact story, and her exact words, believe THAT, 601 Mickey Kin. Let me now get ready to lock my doors and gates, Copyright Office, and if attacked enough, use my old Naval Jap Carrier Attack tape at full blast on my KB300 Peavey Musical Amplification system, and blow the entire building down, huff, puff, and Dick Wolffffffffffffffff. Yes at a later time and on a later blog, I will print so you can read, my mother's message to the world from early in 1977, when she recovered a long time later after the magical incident, as lots of dreamboat Annie Wilson stuff was ongoing around these times, from strange happenings at the Bellevue Stratford Hotel of Philadelphia, to Star Rider James T. Burr, and his transformation to colony Non-Quna-TPB-256, so don't die of a heart attack Donna Summer, but yes, this will be soon printed, just as I printed those two THAT-FAMILY lovely letters near,y two years ago in 2010, from lovely Ann and Dawn-Marie King. This was the original ALS-Cauldron that my mother had mistakenly talked about with my Cousin Sandra Snow Mason, and her mother and personal friend of the Shah of Iran back in the late seventies, the great and illustrious Geraldine Snow Mason, wife of my Uncle Stuart Huntington Mason, son of Grace Isabelle Huntington, fifth great granddaughter from the founding father (UNCLE SAM) and great pal of Benjamin Franklin, Mister SAMUEL HUNTINGTON. What a wild family, YO. On one side it goes back to King David through Sam Huntington, the direct descendant of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, and before that with a name skip or two, the Carpenters of Galilee. On the other side, my father, he found out at the ripe out age of sixteen 1616161616161616161616 that his brothers abnd sisters were half's, and that he was not really Wayne Martin, but Wayne Mohr, of Toledo Ohio, a then, very small town in early 1935. He was teased in those days because he was not only illegitimate, but because his mother had cheated in her new marriage at the tender age of also, you got it, 16, and with a boy named Mohr, grandson of Joseph Father Mohr, writer of the world famous Christmas song we all know and love, and is never played any more, just because this world hates me so very much, “Silent Night”. You never hear it, ever, or at least the world keeps me from ever hearing it wherever I am living. Talk about a Satanic Payoff, initials known by some other friends of my lovely kid. I'm sure they all know about the astronaut family too. Wow, aren't all of you smart, WHAAAAAAAAAA. Move those photos down off the wall, gotta' make more room. Anyway, cousins of Joseph Moore were not all so Lilly ass white. This is due to the fact that my father's mom, Clara Block, when she played around with the young Mohr dude, was adding some wild new genes into her lineage. It seems that his mother's father had a mother, whose father owned a cotton plantation in South Carolina somewhere. One day, this very slight man of 4 foot 10 inches and 105 pounds, was walking near the edge of the property inspecting the fence or some minor task such as this, when this lovely tall black goddess slave hiding in some trees, had been waiting for him to go by, and she grabbed him and pulled him into the woods and raped him. She bore him a son as a result, in secret of course, as this would all be a major hanging offense in those pitiful dark age days. This son however had all white facial features, and was almost a white as his father. The family diary that I was told by my mother to read when I turned age 21, and did so, told that the slave girl had remained on the property for ten years until later being transferred to a place much farther down south, Southern Alabama, I believe. Her roots had been investigated by detectives who did that type of work, and who had been employed by third great grandfather who was left to raise this nearly totally white son, along with other sons and daughters. It was discovered that one parent of this slave girl had roots in Portugal, and the other one had roots in Africa. I have the information inside an updated genealogical report, locked in a small strongbox right here in my apartment. The reason that my father when he went running off to join the Merchant Marines in 1936 with a forged note from his grandmother who he adored, who signed it as Clara Block, her daughter and my dad's mother, was able to get into secret areas in secret Portuguese museums, was because they checked out his family line very carefully, and because of his direct relation to the parent of the slave girl, I do not remember if it was the mother or the father without checking it in my strongbox documents, but this is how he came to become great friends with the Portuguese curator at this very secret museum that few had access to, and he was able to learn the last known positions of many sunken treasure galleons. Precise positions at the time of the sinking were always compass recorded to the minute and degree of longitude and latitude, and placed in bottles, washing to shore for other Spanish conquerers that waited behind, in the case of just such an event. They knew little of the Atlantic Ocean and its tropical hurricane seasons, and always seemed to be caught in these storms and were sunk. The beach retrievers then took these positions to the secret museums of the times about 400 years or so ago now, and my father was permitted to get this secret information, because of who he had been descended from, and a promise that he had made to the museum that they would get the artifacts when the booty is retrieved, at a bargain price. Then he used the great war ship magnetometers, along with his friend the captain, and their friend, Jack, and they found and recorded the updated positions of the heavy booty at the very bottom of these seven located sites, and my dad charted them, and in 1976, gave them to me for safekeeping. This is why I am proud of my heritage on both sides of my family. I plan to pass down these charts to my daughter, the will is all ready completed. The value just in the metal blocks by today's prices, along with all the dubs and 8s and jewelry, of the combined seven sites, is around thirty billion dollars in US dollars. Slam bang boom, these ass holes across the hall are uncouth and crazy, but what else is new. My dad was an experienced deep sea mixed gas diver, and even the FBI had him do some dives for them during the period that he also worked on the salvage vessels, owned by both the world famous booty hunters, Kip Wagner of the Real 8 Corporation, and Mel Fisher, of the Treasure Salvers, Incorporated. I cannot do anything with these charts. I takes money and influence, so after I am dead and gone, maybe my kid might want to offer the State of the Florida and the fisher descendants a share, to allow them all to salvage this awesome fortune from less than ten miles out off of my buddy's beach house. I will be calling him and driving over there soon, to get away from my ass hole nabes, as I normally do on Sunday's.

Well folks, this will be posted up now, and to hell with the world, to quote my treasure salver father. Loots of things break up marriages, treasure broke up my parents. I hope it was all worth it, POPSTEIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

END OF THIS TRANSMISSION, YO.