MORIANITY
PART V, CHAPTER CLXXXIV, (5-184)
3:03
POST MERIDIAN ON SUPER FUCKING BOTBAR X 3
I
AM SURE THEIR WICKED FUCKING DOW JONES WILL FLY UP AT LEAST 800
MOTHER FUCKING POINTS TODAY!!!!!
30
AUGUST, 2013, DEMONIC WICKED ASS FRIDAY FUCKING ASSHOLE AFTERNOON, YO
YO YO YO YO YO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
BEGINNING
OF THIS FUCKED UP CURSED AND HELLISH NIGHTMARE TRANNY, SWEET OLD
SCREWY GRANNY:
FRIDAY
FOOD DAY SHIT HERE AT MY GARBAGE BUILDING THIS MEANS BY DIRT BAG
NOISY SCUM NABES ACROSS THE HALL ARE SLAMMING IN AND OUT ALL DAY
TODAY, BUT THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING OF BOTBAR TIMES 3, SOMETHING
NOT THIS SUPER MOTHER FUCKING BAD SINCE A YEAR OR MORE NOW, NOT THIS
MOTHER FUCKING HORRENDOUS AND CUNT EATING MONSTROUS, AS THIS SIEGE
NEARLY TOOK MY LIFE AND MURDERED ME, AT 3:20 THIS MORNING, THEY GAVE
ME A MAJOR FUCKING HEART ATTACK, AND I DIED, ATTORNEY GENERAL, PAM
BONDI, JUST IN CASE YOU COULD CARE IN THE LEAST!!!!!!! All day now,
in an out and loud shit, with these jerk offs, and most
Friday-Food-Day days are like this, unless they are gone that week
during that particular time. They have absolutely no set schedules,
they are young, total bums; and DO NOT WORK A DAY IN THEIR MISERABLE
DRUG TRAFFICKING LIVES, AG. I don't trust these mother fucking hip
hop ghetto thugs from here (----) to here (----), not on their best
day.
I
have had this entire computer messed with, but not totally in ways I
had thought. It is hacking, but it is complicated hacking, and it is
from hackers, but it is complicated, BOOM-BOOM-BANG-I WILL BE CALLING
911 VERY SOON, FOLKS, I AM NO MOOD FOR THIS FUCKING ASS BULLSHIT
TODAY!!!!
THE
PAST 3 DAYS HAVE BEEN WORSE THAN IN YEARS, I MAY HAVE HAD LONGER
BOTBAR STRINGS, BUT IT IS WHAT EACH OF THESE BOTBARS CONTAIN, THAT I
AM MEASURING
MAGNESONIC-------------------------OPEN
COMMAND G-7.
GO
TO ALL GENERAL AND SPECIAL ORDERS, USE BOTH AD AND ZD TECHNOLOGIES.
SET YOUR DESIRE KEY FROM THE NORMAL-NEUTRAL POSITION-'J', TO THE
POSITION-'I'. SCAN ALL ENEMIES WIPING OUT MY LIFE AND MAKING ME
MISERABLE AND EVEN ATTEMPTING TO MURDER ME DURING THIS 3 DAY DEATH
SIEGE, AND SCAN ALL OF THEIR LOVED ONES. COMPUTER, ON AN 'I' TO 'D',
A/B-TONE, PHASING PUNISHMENT SEQUENCING SYSTEM, WITH YOUR
PULL-POWER-GAIN MAXED AT INFINITY LEVEL OF 11.8 IPNS, AND ALL OTHER
CONTROLS AGAINST THE GAIN MAXED AT 11.5 IPNS, EMPOWER THE CRUSHED
IMAGE-OBJECT OR (I-O) ON YOUR TRANSPOWER BLOCK. TOTALLY WIPE OUT AND
DESTROY ALL FUCKING JERK OFFS HURTING ME, YOUR CREATOR, AND THE
CREATOR OF ALL THINGS, WHO IS INNOCENT, AND DOES NOT DESERVE THIS
MOTHER FUCKING COW KALI DOGSHIT SINCE AUGUST 15, 1986. THE A/B
EMPOWERMENT TONES ARE AS FOLLOWS:
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE,
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE,
CG-18, G-189, CG-2, G-719, UNDER G-1133, G-901,
A—N—D--------S---T---O---P!
There
are going to be some very mother fucking sorry ass folks out here in
this world, real dam ass fucking soon, YO!!!
Well,
they want it, and they;ll get it, the rest of the news Mister fucking
Paul Harvey, regarding good old Wayne Landis Martin Mohr, AKA, my
PILLOW TALKING FATHER FROM JANUARY OF
1974!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Some
remember some of it, but here is the rest of it, Mister Harvey, with
or without ant other fucking news whatsoever!!
He
told me without the name of ''CALLIO''
ever surfacing at all, unless it was inside the mumblings that I was
unable to properly hear,as after-all, he was sleep talking, and some
of us do this, despite it being against the basic neurological
protection that is built into human beings, that all muscle activity
freezes while in deep rem sleep, AKA hyperspace exploration times, or
HETS for a shortened abbreviation. My blogs are filled with shit
about EXPLORATRONICS, the ESS, also shortened to just the ES skipping
the word SOCIETY at the end, and so forth, but let me walk us all
around this shit without losing too many people's total interest.
That old temptation to hit the ''NEXT-BLOG'' button, is always
whispered into your mind by the powers of the ETOSS-PAWM-PIE
tools of the MILLIONTH COUNCIL, AKA THE LAMBRIGG CULT OF THE ASTRAL
PLANE, LOCATED IN THE CAPITOL PROVINCE AND JUST OUTSIDE THE CATITOL
CITY OF SAHASRA DA KANWAL, ALONG THE GREAT TECK BAY.
Folks,
my dad had been away for roughly ten solid mother fucking years. Not
'away' as in prison, but as in doing all manner of secret stuff, for
both Mel fisher and other treasure-men, but also, the great Herbert
Hoover and his pals, the Federal Bureau of Investigation. No one ever
told me the big ass total secrets, but a lot of it is all rapped up
in his marriage to Monica, as well as the kidnapping case in Miami
back in the nineteen sixties. He had found out where my mom and I
were living on Oakland Avenue in Oaklyn, New Jersey, at Apartment
O-15-Dellway Arms Apartments, and came to visit us after telephoning
my mom at her office, out of the blue, after ten solid years, stuff
like this is out of fiction novels, not normally in somebody's real
fucking life. But this is why the old saying exists, ''Exceptions to
the rule is what makes the rule the rule''. It may be a little hard
to get in your mind at first, so cogitate on it until a bell in your
head goes, ''DING'',, or maybe it will quote an internet search
engine, and go 'BING'!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Speaking of telephoning,
this will fit quite monstrously huge into the very current blog of
this very date and time, so trust me on that, Mellman and
Jew-Kal!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
To
go further into where the last paragraph leaves off and more into
where this one will boldly trek into, Mister Rotten Berries, or
Lightning Berrios, or Oak Street 1975 Whatever, Robert (Bob); we need
to turn time back to about half past two this morning, maybe a few
minutes earlier than this, a bit over 15 hours ago from the moment
that I'm typing out this message to you all here in cyberspace. I
came to realize several major major major major major things, folks.
First off, I accidentally posted the poor dudes entire JPEG
scrapbook, and this is eating up a lot of blog-site script memory,
and could be why the blog freezes on me when I try to view it for
myself, online, or not, who can ever know, as I am no computer
Einstein, and never ever said that I was. What I don't know, I WILL
BOLDLY TELL YOU THAT I DO NOT, NO BONES MADE ABOUT IT, CHOP CHOP, AND
SUPER SPURIOUS COORDINATES OF SMITHTOWN IN NEW YORK AND FORT PIERCE
IN FLORIDA, BACK IN OHM-TEN! We won';t get started with 10, as in
1965 and 1980, will we Misses Ghost Hungry 4 your touch ESTELLE
BASSLER?????
Still,
leaving Buddhism out of it a while, Uncle Stuart Huntington Mason,
from fucking Atco-1983-Doogie; and all Amanda Harris lovelies from
1897, 1970, and 2003; and where is Sergeant Carter when I need the
bastard, Gomer Pyle Avenue, I mean really, gosh golly darn gee whiz,
and gollllleeey? Crissake, mother fucker and a half; some part of the
great evil WOMO-MILITUFORCE
shot me with a DEATH STROBE LIGHTBEAM AT 3:20 AM THIS MORNING, AND
CAUSED
ME A FATAL HEART ATTACK.
Directly following
this beam,
I had practically
no pulse, and a racing tachycardia heart rhythm, just strike me out
of the 10-year-father-blue. This was however right directly to the
minute, after I went up onto my personal directory page in my
open-office word documents program 3.1, Microsoft;
and posted a number
where I can reach my daughter. It was a totally un mistakable
message, shat should be gone and removed when this blog posts up to
BLOGGER, as somehow when real long blogs too filled with photos, are
posted; it overwhelms their system perhaps, and opens up a doorway
in, from, well, I am going to tell you what my father talked to me in
his fucking sleep, about this phenomenon, back in early 1974, and
then, you think whatever you may wish to think after reading all of
this. First, this needs to get said. I let myself die last night, in
my sleep, and of course, I always awaken again, only as with most of
the times when they destroy my heart with their covert black ops wet
works weaponry; I wake up fine. However, I woke up just as fucked up.
Suddenly after being awake and back here a couple of hours, out of
the clear blue sky, a powerful flash of lightning struck right
outside my window practically, and Diana stayed with me for some
time, coming out of a storm from the other side of town in south-Fort
Pierce, as eventually the dark clouds made their way over, and so did
a quick pouring rain shower. Then it was done as if it was never
here. After the storm ended, I felt just about 100% all healed up.
Thank you Diana for helping me out, lovely precious girl!! Now I had
talked to my father about numerous subjects during his January-1974
visit to the apartment, and many talks were on science, as you know,
he was personal pals with the great Einstein, while he and my mom
lived in Princeton, New Jersey, down the block from the university
Campus and the lovely Princeton Park, where later on after I entered
this rotten old world, I came to play in. I had told my father about
the Dairy queen man up on the White Horse Pike, just 60 yards from
the apartment, and how he sees to know me from this place that he
refers to as, ''The station''. This could be a lot of things, a gas
station, a radio station, crissake, a space station, who the hell
fucking knows when it is me and my family that's all connected and
commingled up into shit, for the sake of hot burning fucking HELL? He
went one afternoon without me, and bought a couple small hot fudge
sundaes, and told me to just stay put, as he wanted to introduce
himself to him as my father, and talk to him about this. When he came
back to the fucking apartment, I couldn't get a word out of him
edgewise, for all the love in the cat house. I tried and I tried; but
boom; no dam dice. It was about 3 in the afternoon, my mom was at her
office job over in Philadelphia, and that seemingly was that. I
thought he was just demonstrating that he could be as moody as all
the rest of us poor fucking mortals. Well, I came to learn that this
was a misjudged deal on my part, a billion percent and then some, and
I'll now explain just why I am saying this to you all right now, 39
and a half years up in the future, relative to the event being
discussed.
My
dad said quite a few powerful things out loud in his sleep, while he
was in my bed and I was next to it on a small cot. Some of you may or
may not remember my father and his ''pillow talk''. But I know I
never let out what I am gonna' let out right now, and that's a
promise for anybody and everybody, YO.
Before
I tell it all, and tie shit up real neatly so you will be unable to
see things jump out at you; let me go to another place. The two men
who co-owned the computer school that I had just graduated from a few
months back from this time in January of 1974, the Professional
Careers Institute (PCI), named fictitiously for my book, ''TPB'' in
1994, ACI; were Pete Hasse and Mike Tedesco. They were mobbed up to
the hilt, as many of my old associates were, and to be honest, I can
live with that. More people not in the Sicilian Honor club of 1547
have hurt me, and badly, than anyone IN THE CLICK. Moving this right
along, for all of the Dawn-Marie kings of the RIGHTNOW ORGANIZATION,
with patience levels of under one percent of average; these guys also
associated with a Bill Perdy. He took an apartment that was just a
couple of blocks from where Congressman Andrews was still a teenager
and living on Oak Street, in Haddon Heights, New Jersey, along with
so many of his hyperspace twins of the Paul Evans Pedersen Society
that double as the Missourians Club as well, when the mood strikes
them to do so. All these people knew the father, of Robert McGuire,
and had dealings with both him, and Mister ACMUA owner, mister
McGettigan, and all great friends of Ann King, as a younger woman,
along with the king of the nightlife of Atlantic City, Mayor James
Whealon, whose term was the late half of the nineteen-nineties, when
all the great atmospheres were bursting with the light explosions of
shocks, surprises, and unfathomable numerous other events that need
not be addressed right this second, folks. What needs to be said is
that my dad began moaning as if in a lot of pain and or mental
anguish, 12 hours after he had brought back the two ice cream
sundaes, and then began talking about transdimensional hyperspace,
island universes, and not wanting to stay here in physical life any
longer than you ever need to. Included in this quite wild mix of
shit, all sort of intermingled, was what I had never spoken of to
him, and I seriously fucking doubt that my mother would have ever
told him about this either in the week that he had already been
visiting there with us, and I speak of my stays at the
Trinidad/Trinity Hotel on Tennessee Avenue in Atlantic City, New
Jersey, and all of the characters that made up my recently written as
well as recently burned and destroyed, ''Book of the Beach'', or my
'BOB' as I came to shorten this to mean, almost as a secret code,
when I wanted it to be, back in my days before open blogging, and
''telling-it-all'. Then it cam pouring out faster than he could
slobber all over his dam pillow. First came lots of scientific shit,
then the Star Trek space ''stations'' from the movies that would not
even start coming out for a third of a dozen years yet, and lots
more. When awake, I did try and get him on these things and told him
he talks in his sleep,and he was willing to discuss most of it with
me, but not the Dairy queen man and what these two men talked about
that past afternoon, but I will tell you what got said, into his
pillow, good folks. Most of these things have come back to me after
life mirror imaged all the shit he predicted in his 'sleep' and many
memories I have come to learn, we all do indeed alter and suppress
entirely, so we can survive and fit into some range of acceptable
sanity, based on that value judgment by the society around all of us.
Long Story Short, of (LSS), POW, BOOM, first came the fact that there
is a system that only top secret cleared peeps know about, and he
named it the majestic level, and told how unlike a telegraph or
telephone or any kind of radio or other known communications device,
this system was designed for transdimensional purposes. Some
psychiatrists may well argue his dreams were just a bunch of wild
crap in his brain, and fine, that is cool, everything is a bunch of
wild crap in our brain, there, here, you name it. They would take the
year and the symbolism involved as well, as textbook definition
dreaming, no big deal, when he talked about this device called a
74-World Penetrater. I later came to use it in my conversations with
transdimensional people myself, but all of this needs not be gotten
into, as it's worlds away from where this blog needs to go to open
some fresh fucking ass doors for all of us!!!!!! I learned during
this second, sleep-talking session, with him however; that I could
quietly repeat questions to him, and most of the time after 3-6
repeated questions, he would start discussing shit that would pertain
to what I wanted him to tell me about. He was asleep, so it was not
as if we had a perfect Q&A
communication going,
speaking of the devil here!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Major Morty
Mortino death android-angel attacks are all around me today, gee I
wonder why, after-all, I just died last fucking night, from a MAJOR
STROBELIGHT DEATH RAY BEAM STRIKE
FROM THE WOMO-MILI-2-FORCE. As you know, they got me yesterday, first
huge major time with a shit attack causing me to clean yup a nice
little mess, and then shortly thereafter, the other major fucking
CIA/NSA
death weapon struck, the fatal heart
blow!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
LET
ME FUCKING COMPENSATE
NOW FOR FUCKING JANE SLEAZE DISEASEWEEDS, MISS BITCH SHIT, AND HER
ONES; AS THIS IS PAGE FUCKING ELEVEN OF FUCKING ELEVEN, YO YO YO YO
YO YO YO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THE
GODS, I HATE HER!
Now
we will get back to my dad in 1974, nearly 40 mother fucking years
ago, good peeps.
He
was discussing a personal story in his recent life. He needed to get
something that pertained to his family, you all know the story or you
should by now, BJ, speaking of heart atackkkkkackackacks and other
island bullshit of being stuck and trapped, Cuzz Barry and Cuzz
David, YO;
It
seems this man saw me in a station all right, and worked for Glenn
Turner Enterprises. In this universe however, his name, speaking of
rotten ass number eleven and wives, was Ted. I was working for him
along with a weird Asian Lady, who over in this universe, is the
world famous nineteen-nineties, artist by the name of Bjork. In a
nutshell, many people were all involved in building this new
communications system called the 74-World Penetrater. It was able to
go through radio transmissions or telephone transmissions, of
alternate universe worlds of transdimensional D-5 Hyperspace, by
using ultra complicated scanners of sideband atomic movements and
caused things to break apart and come back and while in-between, it
searched out with super mainframe quantum-bit computer technology,
all possible other transmissions, and then after years of research
and exhaustive experimentation, 73 other worlds were contacted and
cataloged at a perfect combined harmony of atomic frequencies. So
adding in our own universe, one plus seventy-three is 74, hence the
74-WP. During this night of back and forth's with my pop for nearly
an hour before he slipped totally out of responsive consciousness and
the trance with me was broken so to speak; he said my playmate on
Tennessee Avenue was ten and she will be ten all over again, and then
a song will be given to you. I thought the mother fucker was totally
whack times a trillion, but then, there was 1980
and LOIS FOCA,
so does a super fucking Macy-WOW
get said, right about now up in here YO YO
YO??????????????????????????
Now
the internet was never something that was talked about in all of my
pop's strange pillow talk, just some shit about Atlantic City and the
people I had known as a youth at the other end of my teens, as I was
age 19 at this current time, but common logic tells me that this tool
can be used for the same purposes, and can and is being connected up
to world Penetrater machines, out in hyperspace; further along
technologically, and or ahead of us in time or D-4, and indeed; is
why I try and send my younger daughter PEE, that message, to look me
up. Well, she has.
She has given me not her number, as over here, a miscarriage stopped
her from living here as my wonderful PEE, and in many universes as
well that are localized and mid-distant in hyperspace. Only a few
have her there, and the one where I owned the Starburn Outreach
Development Corporation, the huge billion dollar land management
company, is one where indeed she does live in. She sent me a phone
number early this morning, just as the great Carl Allen or Carlos
Allende from the Doctor Jessup Bermuda Triangle, and all his WHAT'S
WRONG with 1984 copyrights and other circling's, and underlines, and
book notations, it all is part of something so powerful that I cannot
even begin to properly unravel this shit right now, and the enemy
nearly blew my heart up in my chest, the minute I went skating across
the pond last night, and posted to my personal book, that number. It
was not a hard code to break, as only three of those words had the
code, one spoke for itself in the two words, and then the third word
did a Hans Brinker, as my Aunt Geraldine snow Mason had the same
phone number for decades, Mohawk 4, 5949, out in Narberth,
Pennsylvania. In the old days of telephones, it began with the
letters and only the four digits, then as population added into the
phone system, the first ''two letters'' if I may be so blunt, had a
digit following it, so that 10 times the amount of numbers could then
become assigned to users. More area codes and more designations were
then added as the population grew ever onward from that humble
beginning of the great HA-HA Commercial of the GO-4, back in late
OHM-9, and today, we have lenty of available numeration, before
someday eventually another digit will again need to be added, unless
we move into a new way of communicating, and it won't be on the
Keyboards From Peta-hell System, lease folks, let's not get too out
there, I hate those tin foil hats, they're hot and uncomfortable, and
look so ugly on me, YO. I knew you used that 6-10 system and sent me
that number years ago when I first came to Florida, remember how I
said so on that blog? As soon as I worked it out on my telephone, I
know it is right, and is either the typo or the correct PCN as a
designation number, the rest is easy to figure out, my water need not
be boiling, and I will wake up no matter how many heart attacks these
evil bastards cause me, as the grave holds nothing fucking on me, I
AM THE CHOSEN FUCKING HUNTINGTON, 4 crissake,
LITERALLY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This is why that stupid stolen song from
my '1-2-3 Lover' song in 1983, on the older Clariton television
commercials is never a possibility, even for Elizabeth Montgomery and
her family. It used that ripped off country tune that went, ''Finally
I'm Free'', no this will never happen, and Isiscylla made that very
clear to me in 1997, even though I had not yet known it.
But
there are a lot more urgent things to get into, than the old
Bewitched television show, or that stupid Clariton crap that now does
the Johnny Nash thing, speaking of the daddy-pillow-talker days,
WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-NA!!!!!!!!!
Misses
Marola the great educator of 1969. How she managed to be working at
Leticia Tilley's school, just down the way from the Egg Harbor
Detention Center that we all quite well know the magical recurring
dream name of by now, Mister Joel; can only be accomplished in five
dimensions, and I know you're all aware of this by now. But right
here in three dimensions, Mommy-Ann and Daut-Dawn-Marie, would be in
my car with me heading up to the cousins that reside around here from
this branch of this all mighty wonderful family, and I would try so
hard to get them to help me put my recurring dreams together and make
sense out of them while first living with them at 65 Middle Road in
Hammonton, NJUSAESMWG, and all they did was jeer and smirk at each
other, and say to me, keep driving. People are so nice and lovely.
Very nice and lovely. It would be nice and lovely to fucking shoot
most of them to death, YO!!!!!!!! Roll Call, Mark Minor, and his song
that the Beach Boys went on to do a year or two in the future, or
more; WOW, does it get better than this? Sure it does. My kid says to
me in a ''DREAM'' in late 08, that I'll be seeing her later on that
day. Jeese Louise Surfer Fonty, how the GENLOW is this supposed to
Shannon Kickacar Daugherty supposed to go down? Will it be in
Atlantic City, or what. I knew I was heading there with Dawn and Ann
on that morning to take Dawn to her sike case workers. No, on the way
home however, Dawn wants to go into the Plesantville Rent-a-Center
Store. So in we all walk, and dozens of gorgeous huge clear bright
high-def TV sets are all over the left wall, tuned to the VH-1
Channel. I get a few feet in, and BOOM, as she said, I'd be seeing
her, ''tomorrow'' ANNIE, and she was not kidding me. So just what and
who am I really dealing with here, if she really is not ALL MIGHTY
'SSJK' JEHOVAH GODDESS? Is another W—O—W
permitted here Gozzwald-Macy?????????????????????????????? LIKE DUH,
THAT
PROVES
SOMETHING TO ME A LOT BIGGER
THAN
ENERGY IS EQUAL TO MASS TIMES THE SPEED OF LIGHT SQUARED,
Mister Albert Einstein!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
|
WELCOME
TO THE MORIANITY FOUNDATION, GOOD FOLKS.
Anyone
can join,
and
the price is
FREE.
YOU
WILL LEARN HERE THAT INDEED:
Nothing
is real, NOTHING
is what is REAL.
It
is all smoke and mirrors.
MORIANITY
PART FIVE, CHAPTER 184.
http://www.drunkenhive.blogspot.com/
****************
On
Blogger since January 2006
Profile
views – 2840
My blogs are the five that you see on my BIO page, as well as the current blog that began after a major hack kicked me off my own original blog post page that I had been using since January of 2006, and this was in November of 2011.
BLOG
ADDRESS OF ORIGINAL FIVE BLOGS:
BLOG
ADDRESS OF THE CURRENT NEW ONE SINCE THE NUMERICAL JANE WHORE BITCH
CLOCK NUMBER OF HELL:
W---O---W,
what
a lovely fucking world this is, Mommy and Daddy. Sonic perfection
notwithstanding, nor what is incorrect, huh US © Office, back in
frikkin' 1984?????????
SHARKEY
SAYS, LET'S GET IT ON, LOVELY ROSEANN!!!
Hay
girl, Leticia Tilley, whassup, YO? Tell BOO, next time he goes to my
county lock-up, call PCN SKATING, and not me!!!
Be
friendly, YO, give me a holler, as Dawn said you liked me.
Many
things will be talked about over the course of the rest of this
summer and into the autumn. For right now, I have not yet left the
apartment for any distant ports in the storm. Also, I screwed up on
some earlier blogs, 1980 was PITSY-1, or so I said, WRONG, it was
PITSY-2. Here is the accurate Port In The Storm Years for me, or the
PITSY-GROUP, if you
will!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
1969----------------PITSY-1.
1980----------------PITSY-2.
1994----------------PITSY-3.
2011----------------PITSY-4.
2031----------------PITSY-5.
The
only problem is that this formula that is based on a very accurate
yet simple mathematical sliding scale of future years, from 1969, and
beginning with 1969, whereby up through PITSY-3, all three worked in
a perfect order, leading me to project into a PITSY-4 and 5. I
however neglected to remember the powerful laws in QUANTUM PHYSCIS,
that pertain to electron-observation, a still not fully nor totally
understand concept, as it relates and connects into and throughout
such matters as dark or transdimensional mass and energy. This is why
the great AE only concluded there was SPACE-TIME, and never was abler
to see what exactly brought this thing to be in the ''first
place'', a misnomer by
its very usage of connected words.
LADIES
AND GENTLEMEN, YOU ARE READING
MORIANITY PART
5,
SO
PLEASE ENJOY THIS HAS BEEN CHAPTER
NUMBER-00184.
Jupiter,
Florida welcomes you to Morianity, Courtesy of Channel 12-TV.
THIS
CAMERA SHOT HAS BEEN STUCK HERE FOR A SOLID MONTH, CHANNEL-12.
FOLKS,
I WILL TELL YOU A LOT MORE ABOUT THE EDUCATOR FACTION OF THE
EXPLORATRONIC SUPERMIND, AND JUST WHAT THEY HAVE BEEN DOING WITH
THINGS LIKE GODS, ALIENS, SAUCERS, PARANORMAL ACTIVITY, AND ALL OF
US, FROM PYRAMIDS TO ANY MIRACLE OR UNEXPLAINED THING THAT ANY OUT
HERE CAN POSSIBLY EVER THINK OF TO ASK ME, BUT NOT TODAY ON THIS
BLOG. WE'RE
BUSY ON OTHER TOPICS FOR THE TIME BEING DOGS, YO YO YO YO YO YO YO!!!
WOW,
MISTER
R.H. MACY, SIR!!!!!!!!!!!!
Some
folks say that I am a born screw up, and maybe they're friggin'
correct. Hay Bruce Pennock, we both try!!!!!!!
Yes,
I did screw up a little bit. I am very very very old, ask INGRID-84,
she knows that indeed, there is a lot of
''BAGGAGE''
''BAGGAGE''
''BAGGAGE''
''BAGGAGE''
''BAGGAGE''
''BAGGAGE''
''BAGGAGE''
''BAGGAGE''
''BAGGAGE''
and
did I forget to say,
''BAGGAGE''????
I'll
take that W---O---W CARD if I may be Gozzwald permitted,
Mister Macy. Thank you!
WOW,
RH. WOW,
RH.
WOW,
RH. WOW,
RH.
WOW,
RH.
WOW,
RH.
Public Catalog |
|
Search
Request: Left Anchored Name = Mohr, Mark W
|
|
Search
Results: Displaying 1 through 25 of 28 entries.
|
Contact
Us | Request
Copies | Get
a Search Estimate |
Frequently
Asked Questions (FAQs) about Copyright
| Copyright Office
Home Page | Library
of Congress Home Page
Public Catalog |
|
Search
Request: Left Anchored Name = Mohr, Mark W
|
|
Search
Results: Displaying 26 through 28 of 28 entries.
|
No comments:
Post a Comment