MORIANITY
PART FIVE, CHAPTER 00087
THIS
IS MORIANITY,
PART FIVE. PLEASE
HAVE A VERY
NICE DAY.
25
may, 2013, at shortly past midnight, kind folks.
CHAPTER
00087,
WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
I CANNOT, SINCE I AM FUCKING SUPER
BOTBAR NOW, SIX FOR EIGHT; WITH THIS OFF
THE FUCKING SCALE ATTACK, THAT BEGAN ON
MAY THE FOURTEENTH,
YO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
SLAM
BANG BONG BOOM ZAM, my thug neighbors are really paying homage to
KALI's GANG, huh, very informative, H-2? It's half past fucking
midnight, they don't care, just sell your drugs and have your
parties, and decent people be damned. I will tell you world, I
thought Jersey was fucked up, this Florida game down here is even
more rotten and corrupt, but in its own way, completely unlike the
northeastern areas of my earlier life. In some ways, the stuff is not
any different, as it is all part of the shit that is surrounding me,
that the new age folks and ancient-astronaut theorist folks call star
visitors/travelers/aliens/ET aliens/ etcetera; and the church and
religious faith folks call forces of darkness, demonic or satanic,
the enemy, the fall of mankind through sin and the Adam and Eve
stuff, and along that line. One thing that remains constant with me,
and that all connects up with the same truth, that different folks
merely 'believe differently in'; is the WHAT'S
MY EXCUSE
deal, that is discussed in both the new Morianity of the internet
days in this century, as well as on cassette tape back when it began
in 1995 from my apartment in Williamstown, Giant-Officer Syndrome of
Missourians, in New Jersey. This is not something invented by Tom
Cruise and his Top-Gun movie around the Prophet of Nothing days.
Hollywood stole it from me after I had originally copyrighted my
Epitome of Harassment project in the late eighties, from my residence
in Moorestown,
New Jersey,
on Central Avenue. I kind of wonder if a little Magnetic
Sound Machine
Irony is not in and through this, as a result of what I'll now be
telling you, good believers, and others. You see, back in Mullica
Township, New Jersey at the Plageman Trailer Home Park (Mullica
Mobile Manor) as it was called when I was living there and still may
be; I told the landlady how the boob neighbor next to me, Richie,
blared his TV set at all kinds of hours. Nothing was done about it
when I was the only one complaining. But when the neighbor both on
his other side, as well as the ones across from the driveway to his
trailer, also complained to her, then and only then, was it stopped,
and he was told to cut it out or move out. Same thing here in Fort
Pierce, Florida and at this PHA building. The subwoofer box was
complained about by numerous nabes, not everyone here is a druggie
thuggy, KALI, CALLIO AT&T-TEN. But when it is just the banging
doon that is right across the hallway from me and only me, I'm stuck
with it. Sure, I called the police months ago to complain about their
noise, but nothing was done, they did not answer their door, and they
merely laid low for a week or so and then resumed normal uncouth
behavior patterns. Is this supposed to come as some big shock to me,
folks? Hopefully not, as it did not. After decades of hell and shit,
I pretty much am onto exactly how most of the mechanics of my misery,
really operate and work, covertly behind all of the dam fucking
OZ-CURTAINS, Glinda and Dorothy. Not only don't I surrender, Mizz
Bondi, Florida State Attorney General, but as long as breath and life
is in this bloody, I will shout out and tell a whole lot more stuff,
we have not covered 5 percent of my story, and anyone thinking we
have, is a fool. Morianity could stop right now or even in 2010, and
enough would have been told so as to know that my tale of woe is
known publicly, and adding 100 more years to it really will not make
that much difference. Still, I will go on. Originally, I was planning
to wrap it up completely by Memorial Day, and folks, I HAVE CHANGED
MY MIND. My only weapon of fucking defense, is the power of the pen,
and the typewriter, and now so it seems, the computer and this
blogging shit. So on we will go, most likely until the mother fucking
day that I die. As long as they can have an excuse, this will never
stop. Can they always have an excuse? Well, look at Washington, DC,
and if you really need to, then visit the dam city and come to learn
a bit about it. Then you tell me if they'll always be able to fall
back on an EXCUSE! This is what was told on the original EPITOME OF
HARASSMENT TAPES, copyrighted late in the nineteen-eighties, and
please see it at the end of the blog, despite my misspelling the
title, as I am not a good speller, and I fucked it up, and had no
Microsoft Spellchecker back in those days. Yes, H-2, very very very
informative, back on Thursday night. I enjoyed viewing your network
the entire evening, and learned a lot of fascinating stuff. One thing
nobody can teach me, and that is that this problem with whatever it
is that is REALLY out there wherever somewhere, and myself, is NOT
GOING TO EVER STOP OR GO AWAY, and the first world famous wormhole is
not the triangulated McGuire owned one in Atlantic City, but is a
period in time, separating two tunes. I need not be cute or smart-ass
to quote Mashell or Dawn-Marie, we all know what is getting said,
them as well as Toni Beej. Between you and me world, the day he
popped his head into the door of the studio where Ryan and I were,
and made his statement just more than a year ago, things, bad as they
were for me then, GOT WORSE, A LOT WORSE, you know, Gary sir of the
Trekkers, (-77777777777777). I have some major stuff all planned out
to tell you folks, but right now is not the proper time. Billy Harner
taught me the power and importance of timing, and nobody ever seemed
to need to teach that to many others, they sort of, well they don't
all inherit it and that's for sure, but they do get it through street
osmosis or whatever Richard Karpf and his peeps might feel comfy cozy
with, especially when playing poker, and with any hands from any
reality, huh Josephine? I am so very disappointed in you, Jehovah
Krassle, my endless love. I always knew I was right though, and I
feel 9 feet tall that everyone back in time who laughed at me, has to
eat their words and secretly realize that I was decades ahead of all
of them. They can lie to themselves from here to Harold Camping's
next bullshit predicted doomsday and beyond. The last laugh of the
McNulty Club belongs to myself and perhaps, Mister Icabod Crane,
right © Office???
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