SAFE
JOURNAL, CHAPTER 0569
WLSBT-DATFILE-092412.626
MONDAY
AFTERNOON IN FORT PIERCE, FLORIDA, USAESMWG
THE
EPITOME OF HARASSMENT, INTERNET VERSION
MORIANITY-PROJECT
CONTINUES FROM 1995 TAPES
THE
MILLIONTH-COUNCIL-EXPLORATRONS AND ME
BSNF:
“GAMES, GODDESSES, AND GRIEF; FROM THE SHAH OF 1967”
©
2006-2012-MARK WAYNE MOHR
BEGINNING
TRANSMISSION:
Another
real bad day started when I climbed out of bed around an hour and a
half ago. There is a lot of noise from my wonderful lovely
hall-holler and hall singer neighbors. Someone thought it was real
cute to look out of their window facing the parking lot to the south,
saw me exit my vehicle, and somehow fix it so that the elevator that
I came up on a few minutes ago, with nobody on it, had my floor all
ready punched in, as well as the 5th
and the 7th
floors, as in my 1983 song from a musical collection did while I
resided on Chuck Norris Avenue in Atco, NJUSAESMWG; called the “657
BLUES”. The very beginning of it is heard on my opening on the
posted onto YT site, posted earlier this year, called, “Deal With
This Another time”. Please Sheriff Monks and Sheriff Mascara, until
I manage to get to Mexico, I need some real frikkin protection, from
you fine kind gentlemen, you don't want another senseless murder, one
in your county, the other opening a can of worms for another county
bigger than Orange Juice Wife Beater on Medical Center from '70
Simpson. I thought that things were wild in my life before I planned
to rewrite the 1983 song called, “Girl, I'll Tell You Anything”,
changing it in early 2012 to a tune about a greedy fisherman who dies
after being swept off of a very stormy jetty one day. I all ready
printed the lyrics, for those interested, it is on this URL and blog,
back on SAFE JOURNAL, CHAPTER 0555. I knew I would not forget the
number of 555, so I admit to waiting for that blog to come around,
and printing the song lyrics on that particular blog, as at my
advanced decrepit age, one cannot trust many things, ranging from
memory all the way to judging reality properly any longer, especially
after what has been criminally done to me for nearly a half of a
century, by the bottom feeder dirt bag scum of the
WOMO-MILITUFORCE-LAMBRIGG CULT, in their true Astral Plane as well as
Physical Plane counterparts, this being the EW of course, and yes, I
hate them all, without exception. They persecute me, rob me, insult
me, think they're all that, and they are, but we won't delve into all
of what, right now.
Yes,
I got up and went out, and spent my last fifteen dollars on some ice
cream over at the Publix Grocery Store. When I first began going
there, they had a lot of sales, now they never do anymore. Sort of
reminds me of the Winn Dixie Store, same thing. Coincidence? You be
the judge if you must, but I know the answer all ready, and the great
mighty WASH-DOC Library of the Congress, also knows, that yes, and as
stated in my song, another song from 1983 in one of my many projects
that year, “I ALL READY KNOW”.
When
I was driving home and was close to my PH building at 601 Avenue B, a
military plane came low over my area, just ahead of me heading right
or west, while I was basically traveling in a northbound direction.
It made good and sure that it swooped down low and that I could see
its presence. Wow, that criminal MARK, he is so horrible, right Alex
Jones. How spurious he is, wow, he went and spent his last fifteen
clams on a little ice cream. How I'll forever remember David Charles
Roth telling me about his thoughts on the matter, when I told him
that Prosecutor Wirtz said that he thinks you are up to something a
bit spurious. He almost spun around laughing, then got serious as a
frekkin heart attack and in almost a sudden emotional reversal, the
expression on his face was almost like what you see when a big kid
gives a little kid a really hard punch, or at least back in my day,
and the little kid is doing his best to man up and hold back from
crying, but the tears not coming does not change the hold back of
those tears expression on the face. Then David spoke words that stick
with me to this day on many occasions, and just a while ago, being
one of them. He said, Yeah Mark, real spurious pal. I was out looking
for a minimum wage job and a clunker car to buy. This is a
paraphrase, the exact quote eludes me right now.
Not
one person will speak to me or call me on the phone. Then out of the
blue, someone leaves a voicemail to call them, and the cycle starts
all over again. I would have to be a total mother fucking retard, not
to know that some incredible alien force, bigger than all of this
Aries stuff, is, and always has been, all around me, since either my
birth, or the dam day at 440 South 50th
Street, when my mom dropped me on my head outside the home of her
parents there in Philadelphia, while attempting to cross the dam
street. I trusted you with that secret, in that other universe, MY,
oh well, now it is all out in the open, huh Ward Cleaver. WOW, I sure
wish somebody would take a cleaver to me, in my sleep; and just get
all this monster ass fucking shit over with, once and for fucking
all, YO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Well
people, at 3:33, my creditors are all calling me with their UNKNOWN
printings on my call-identification telephone view-screen. I even
received a call from some really wild place, that if I printed it,
would cause the last few minutes on the trading day on Wall Street,
quite a bumpy ride, and you know, at this point, I say, go for it,
bull market, as it is bad for me, but so is Mister Mit, and a bull
rallying stock market continuing for another 6-7 weeks, will only
serve to help my pal in the White House, to get reelected. It is
going to get worse, all odds are, no matter what really happens, at
least for mother fucking me, good folks. What can I say, or do,
Jay-Jay Evans mustache twirler? As I speak, other across the hall
nabes are beginning to slam doors. This has been a very noisy month
here at this building, good old September.
Well,
my wonderful lightning was not only all around me on our special
anniversary date of nine-nineteen, but she came back the very next
day on the twentieth. You are so beautiful my awesome teen queen
goddess. Thank you for being so good to me, baby-blond.
In
1967, my Aunt Geraldine Snow Mason, wife of Stuart Huntington Mason,
had many powerful friends. The only one in the entire family that my
god-uncle up on Long Island in Babylon ever liked, was her, good old
Aunt Jerry. Well, she had a real admirer overseas as well, a CIA
secret operative, posing as the SHAH OF IRAN .Lots of old blogs from
2006-2008 talk about how I know a trip was planned in 1967 with her
daughter and my first cousin Sandy, and this was with my mom and me
to the Atlantic City, NJUSAESMWG Trinidad Hotel, on Tennessee Avenue,
Room number 323. This is where the real meeting of future lineages in
this wild clan, all clashed together took place. This is where Sarah
and her girl gang known then by many local area teen boys as the
Quoddy-Mocker Gang of teen lovelies (teen-queens) were headquartered
right near where the mighty Casino Control Commission of Atlantic
City is in the present days and century.
The
problem with being the great Sarah-Stacey Krassle, is not for HER. It
is for those who she chooses throughout history. I believe this
planet's Holy Bible makes a lot of that truth, abundantly and
exceedingly crystal ass fucking clear, so shy take my word for shit
when just about all folks have a copy of that wonderful book in their
possession. Gates's Games, Gaines's games, wow, they were tame. I had
no idea that that was all just laying inside a huge reality all
surrounding it, huh Mister Longport Stern of 1997? Yes, for emphasis
again, W---O---W!!!!!!!!!!
ENDING TRANSMISSION!
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