PRIVATEJOURNAL, SAFE ON INTERNET

DECEMBER 11, 2013,

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON AT 3:20

HERE IN FORT PIERCE, FLORIDA

CURRENT TEMPERATURE 81 DEGREES FNHT.

PRIVATE LIFE JOURNAL OF MARK WAYNE MOHR-AAAA

It is fucking 22 past three on a super fucking botbar afternoon, and why not, as the number is 11 and the date is the 11 day in December, a miracle that this is not a mother fucking month ago on 11/11-13, and a really big miracle for me it is not 25 on ths ago on you know fucking when, I sure as shit ain't typing in six mother fucking one digits, not for all the fucking love in the cat-house.

I am under a major death siege today that started last night obviously, causing my tooth to fucking go into AGONY MODE, and the CHEMTRAILS are SUPER UGLY FUCKING BAD, all over the skies of Fort Pierce, Florida. I do not think the fucking WOMO-MILITUFORCE really got what happened back yesterday, but who cares, as they will as I explain it now. THESE ARE NOT BLOGS, these are my private journals. However, in case the computer system all crashes or is stolen or 'whatever', as Bob Andrews put it so well back in the seventies; I am still going to post up to blogging sites, most likely both WORDPRESS and BLOGGER. I am not into this computer shit enough to play around with things like Carbonite Online File Saving, and many other things, even privacy settings on blog sites. Peeps can read shit if they like, or stop. However, if they read, they'll notice some marked major differences beginning with this blog. I will not be speaking as if to an audience. The BRAH, and the BRO, and the my peeps, and even lots of fucking YO's will all be gone. I will swear, I have sworn since Tom Hatmaker taught me how to, when my mom moved us into our first apartment in New Jersey and out of center-city fucking Philadelphia, but I am merely recording and reporting, for the record, on the record, and by the record, only this is no longer phone program or journal cassette tape number this or number that. So these changes will be noticed by viewers. They will if staying a viewer or even coming up upon occasion when and if the mood strikes them to do so, that the fancy colors, the photos, the lines, all the little extras, are all gone now. This is a journal, not a Central Park Show-Off Booth in Man-fucking-Hattan! No, there will be no more lots of exclamation marks, question marks, or large font sizes, no more WOW'S, all gone. As General Patton might put it back in the world war Two days, This is a journal-barracks, not a show off booth bordello fun-house. Now let me move this on. I* am under major fucking death siege from the WOMO-MILI-2-FORCE, and what else is new, as this comes and this goes, and has done so ever since 1986 when I told Dave Roth outside the Medport Diner in the spring time, about the GREAT SARAH KRASSLE. The problem is that I never told him how she got into the mix of it all, and for one very good reason. I did not know until about a week ago. Now I do know, and I want it written down and saved online, just in case this computer is totally crashed or stolen, these words must mother fucking survive the deep snows of Atco, New Jersey, and the Space-time-Mind parlor tricks, of the LAMBRIGG CULT of the ATRAL-PLANE!

I will be querying my magic Astral cat, Gawky Gaukauk on just why this fucking cunt lapping assault has struck me, but I am not a stupid moron. The real reason is that THESE DIRTY PRICKS ENJOY PERSECUTING MY GUTS OUT and will go on doing this monstrous fucking behavior until the day they plant me in the cunt lapping ground, dead!

Now as for the reason I got onto the Social Security Disability System in late 1994, and made it onto the system the very first time applied, which is a very rare occurrence I have been told; had to do with me telling the absolute truth about my life in the future, as someone named ZERANNISS ARTHUR YANCY JONES. My actual occupation in this Scientificly-controlled empire that replaces the current quite evil ones around the world, for one great example, the United States; is a LABBER. I am or will be in proper tents, a ''labber''. This is not a scientist or a present day type of lab-technician. It is sort of indescribable with current phrases and time-spirit of the present, and the best I can put on this journal is to say it is being a member of the science-government, whose headquarters, is a place that exists today, Westmont, even though, in the middle 22 hundreds, there is no more New Jersey, time for my cake and ice cream celebration. Still, and all kidding aside, this is who I am and what I do, and along with that, I came or will come, to do a lot of things that got, or will get, sorry, me into a lot of major trouble. I told a lot back in my blogs made intentionally public, for nearly 8 solid years, all about the 600 retraced-love-slaves, and how I was sentenced to a hell-box, and on and on. I did not tell the details about how I created a super android by the name of SARAH-STACEY JEHOVAH KRASSLE. This I did not tell, publicly. If it is read now, it is going to be public. I don't give a hell one way or the other, I am just recording this for the record, or some might say, for posterity, I don't know if I would agree. I gave her this name, and had reasons for giving her this name. Recently, I had been made part of a team at the World Laboratories that did what in my opinion, was the wildest experiment in the all time history of the worlds of science, throughout the known multiverse. I had no memory why back in 1969, why I did the things that I did, and if I had the recall of that, this world today would be so different, and no one would ever believe me here, but I know how accurate and true this statement really is, and there is just no way to properly express how different things would fucking be, all over the entire rotten sick world! I will be filling in the major and many gaps as these journals march along, the details about how I created Almighty God, or GODDESS really, and how this huge team experiment led to things that would really be unbloggable, but I'll take my chances now in this recording of words, since I personally believe that I have a zero audience, except for Sarah in her living newest form, and friends and family, and anything beyond that, government and agencies, SPIES of the citizenry, in other words, so family and spies, and family are spies, so Sharon Payne, may this house of cards all fall deep down into the great Christmas snows, Geraldine and Phoebe.

It is only important that I know what gets said when I am not being perfectly Nixon clear on something in these journals, just as again, my hero, and the great world famous general said back during the greatest monstrous war that humankind has fought so far to this date on this journal, WW2. Of course, family knows, and of course, government spies know, so I am left to ponder and ask the great question, David Speas, is time catching up with me even more, or does it matter when it makes me the TAG-IT, with little TV sets going off inside my head, and producing wild song rip offs from my ending final days working with Assets Protection of Pendell, Pennsylvania in early October of 2004 somewhere, if we add the great letter 'R' to your name, old Haddon High school chum, of shore reports, and penis punishments, I suppose my other school idiot Mike McNulty would begin his sick laugh, right about here and now.

I went out on a couple small errands, to buy some juice and check on some cabinets at goodwill that came in to see if they would measure well into a place in my apartment. As I said, huge giant menacing chemtrails were wall to wall in the skies over fort Pierce. I made it home, and in the fucking cock sucking nick of time, to be struck with a brutal diarrhea fucking attack on my body, from these poisonous fucking jet trails in the sky, in total violation of my cunt eating fucking civil and constitutional, and human rights as a born so-called free citizen of this totally fucked up nation, the UNITED STATES of AMERICA.

Here are the answers for why this siege is striking me, last night with the TOOTHACHE-MAJOR-BUTTON, and then today with this huge CHEMTRAIL POISON GAS STRIKE resulting in a huge hit on my PHYSICAL BODY AND HEALTH, THAT'S SLOWLY KILLING ME NOW, OVER A NEARLY 30 MOTHER FUCKING YEAR PERIOD NOW!

The answer to why last night's tooth strike came upon me, was PCN-817, and this includes the following items:

MAYAN CALENDAR ENDS, MAILBOAT, LONG-ROOM, ONE THOUSAND EIGHT HUNDRED TWO (1802), TALL GIRLS, HOSPITAL, MARY ROTH, HIGHVIEW..........

The answer to why this monster horrific sky siege and major fucking diarrhea attack struck me here today, was PCN-198, and this includes the following items:

WALL STREET, SEPTEMBER TWENTY NINE, UNCLE HEINZ, CAPITOL CITY OF PROVINCE OLYMPIA, NICKNAME 'MY', 'THE MORNING LIGHT SONG' SONG, NEIGHBORS COMPLAINED..........

DEAR LIFE FUCKING JOURNAL, HERE IS YOUR MAGNETIC PERCENTAGE BOTBAR (MPB) CHART, SHOWING LEFT TO RIGHT, DATE, YEAR TOTALS, MONTH OF DECEMBER TOTALS, AND YEAR/MONTH AVERAGE TOTALS IN MPB FIGURES FOR THE FIRST FUCKING ELEVEN DAYS IN THIS TWELFTH MONTH OF DECEMBER.

DECEMBER 01----32X08----00----16--NOTBOT

DECEMBER 02----32X09----00----16--NOTBOT

DECEMBER 03----32X10----33----33--BOTBAR

DECEMBER 04----32X11----25----29--NOTBOT

DECEMBER 05----32X12----20----27--NOTBOT

DECEMBER 06----32X13----17----25--NOTBOT

DECEMBER 07----32X14----29----31--BOTBAR

DECEMBER 08----32X15----25----29--NOTBOT

DECEMBER 09----32X16----22----27--NOTBOT

DECEMBER 10----32X17----30----31--BOTBAR

DECEMBER 11----32X18----36----34--BOTBAR

Recently a motherfucking new and quite novel thing is taking place, Mark Wayne Mohr, so notice it real well. For most of this post August 1986 major total life hell that I've been forced to deal with and endure that would have killed off 99.99999999% of the human population if they had to experience this bullshit; the first five days of months always seemed to come in super BOTBAR, or dam nearly always. Then it either slowed down and came back real late in the month, or just kept right on going horrendously on so many putrid and rotten months of this nightmare. But in the year of 2013, this very year; wow Jesus and shit, look at how the months all come in for the most part, the first 2, 3, and 4 days without real super ass fucking calamity. Then kaboom, by the start of the second fucking week in each month, especially on the really bad bummer ass months; ALL GODDESS DAM HELL BREAKS LOOSE!

Now these private journals, that will post publicly, will basicly run with me telling shit that is happening to me, and also my thoughts and ideas and experiences all along the way, along with recorded graphs and charts as shown above. This is still my private journal. I cannot stop folks from going up and reading it, but for the most part, I fully realized late last night, that nobody is doing so, other than those harassing and wishing evil on me to begin with, hence if not for these people, these journals never would have started, back on cassette tape back in the beginning of 1983, called 'phone-program' tape numbers, the A side being 1, the B side being 2, and then the next tape's A side being 3 and b side being 4, and so forth.

Dear Journal, I have a lot of mother fucking super secret shit to tell and say, and if it gets examined by others, oh well, maybe that is what this shit all needed to come to, and let the chips then fall where they fall. For the record, November 27 was the final BOTBAR DAY in the November month, I misprinted on a blog some time ago, saying only the 28 and the 29 day were NOT-BOT. No, the last three days all went by without a BOTBAR, the 28, 29, and 30 days. Then I had the first two December days,m and believe it or not, I SURVIVED MY MOTHER FUCKING BIRTHDAY, MIRACULOUSLY. Ron Wirtz and his monster feed/starve miracle philosophies of early 1992 somewhere, boy oh boy, the real miracle is how so many lies perpetuate themselves, right down to my answers found in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. I would say in more complete candor that I found out in this sleepy Pennsylvania town, that 'something' was very wrong, and that someone or many someone's were going to make dam fucking sure that I did not ever do anything about it. Well, like all things, they were not enbtirely successful. Maybe if I had never slowly learned about these horrible horrible fucking people all these years, who had been hurting me all along all these years, my worst nightmare come true, I would be able to shout a victory yell, rather than an alert, Paula I Revere You, one if by land, two if by sea. Yeah, he shouted this with the British all over the bushes skulking around and hiding, waiting to fire their muskets. Paul rode around, jumped off his horse, and banged on doors and when they opened, he whispered this code, shouted, what is this fucking world nuts? If only I had never shouted a lot of shit on the fucking internet, but unfortunately, the red coats all came, and it is too late, and I do believe in symbology, 1005, and the scientists of 2013 are JUST NOW ASTARTING TO CATCH UP WITH ME AND THE SHIT I HAVE BEEN TALKING ABOUT FOR 40 FUCKING YEARS. Where've you been Professor Kaku, old pal? Get the Microsucks spellchecker to recognize your great name. I mean HELL, I am a total nobody; but I don't get red wavy lines under Mark Wayne Mohr. But then this stupid ass fucking thing doesn't recognize an established verbal contraction, such as 'where've' for (where have), so maybe it is time for some late December midnight action, Diana Ross Trinitrailchains, and maybe even some old fashion book burning, or witch burning, whatever the case may be, right Evesham Township, New Jersey police Department? I am going to speak plainly eventually, if it means I vanish to Buzz Island or get myself shot, then so be it. They can only kill Mark Wayne mohr, and they can only hurt Mark Wayne Mohr. They cannot kill or hurt me, the real me. Not one scientist knows where this real ME in all of us comes from, or where it goes back to. Religion and philosophy have all failed us, and so far, science as well, just as the great Kiefer Sutherland said, in the ''Flatliners'' movie of 1990.

(LSS) Long Story Short, here I sit broken hearted. Came to shit and only farted. What really has changed since I sat on that shithouse crapper seat reading that writing on that Atlantic City public restroom stall-wall? Well, just exactly as much as anyone pondering things, thinks that it has. Some have this opinion, some have that. This in my opinion, is the only thing that keeps human life at all interesting. Still, cousin Chris Myers, and any and all Huntington's or Gottwald's, remaining up on that lovely long-room, (Long Island, New York), just wanted you to know if you ever stumble onto this bullshit, we have quite a mother fucking family, and that is not coming close to honoring the catch-phrase, from the biggest hit record, done by our great local hero, Billy Harner, back late in the nineteen-sixties.

Zero or One, huh Paul Revere? But are about twenty eight quintillion other items all intertwined and spliced throughout this historical horse ride, ever going to come to light? I mean if they do, we all will probably learn the real reason why Mister Inductatherm, down the road from Paul Pedersen's daughter, Loretta and her hubby, made that five hundred million dollar donation, to the Glassboro State college. You are so far off base, great lovely Julia Roberts, speaking of the Flatliners Movie, the renaming of this think tank had about as much to do with all of this as a frozen glass of beer being used to knock out a polar bear up near Saint Prick's place somewhere way north of the Yukon. Lick my gray fucking matter, hacker scum that never lets shit capitalize. You have no fucking life at all, but beer is not what is here, in this message to my dear-diary self, as only I know the real and total reasons for my KEYBOARDS FROM PETAHELL, and only I know the full extent to all the shit that this caused, Jan Nace, and Howard fucking asshole schmuck Solomon. If Agent Caruso ever puts it all together and is the one who ended up with my thousands of life journal original cassette tapes, my he rest his Herbert Hoover head in blissful heavenly peace, great great gramps Father Mohr. Even the great Kaku can't figure out my life, and he never ever will, lovely mailbox Meagan Humelon!

The following journal entry is AAAB.

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMagnesonic, you know what to do, and you know when to BRENDA MOORE-21 do it, so DO IT! All orders, all tecks, all commands, punishment destruct sequencing system, at full crank max out of 11.8 inches per nanosecond (IPNS).

Suddenly noon to the night seems to hurry, right old buddy, Russell Deflavia from Andrews 1975? A cup of tea for this poor old soul would do nicely, you Brits? TANKS, TANKS, TANKS! Margie Leo, come on, cut me a break girl, even if it isn't fucking ass 1985 any longer.

THANK YOU SEABOTTOM, I ALWAYS DID BELIEVE IN YOU. WE NEED TO TALK SOMEHOW, about W----U radio.