There
are some things that need to be said. If things were different, it
all would just be said at once, all the really important things. But
I learned long ago, doing this is more dangerous to the health and
well being, at least for me, than smoking, texting and driving, and
cheating on my taxes and bragging about it on Facebook, all put
together! To quote the great Billy Harner from New Jersey, timing is
everything. We all know this. We've all heard about being in the
right place at the right time, then there is what we do not hear so
frequently. My situation, and perhaps yours as well once in a blue
moon, being in the wrong place at the wrong time. One such time was
in 1984, and it all started after Donald J. Trump opened up his first
casino in Atlantic City, New Jersey, the Trump Plaza Hotel.
Strange
shit is going on, but yesterday as well, same thing was happening,
really strange noises, not real loud, are heard all around me. Very
powerful and weird new computer hacks are happening and have been
from the second that I turned on this fucking computer, also, good
people. I want that on the record, old friend from 1972 in Dan
Mackey's class at Cooley Hall at school, Bob McDowell, and all other
authorities out here who need to do their hob to protect and ensure
my civil freaking rights, YO YO YO YO YO!!!!!!!! This is probably
going to be one of these real bad days, folks, and my stomach muscles
are all tensed up and ready for Mister Houdini's death punch of
retaliation. Yes this all started at 7:50 AM on this eleventh day in
March, give or take a few minutes. Less than an hour away, is thew
middle or second third of the third month. Towards the end, or start
points, of anything possibly divided up, I have observed with
meticulous precision, that the WOMO-MILITUFORCE, loves to start
picking the fuck on me, during these two parts of stuff. It has a
modus operandi, and it is very mathematical. I
call it magnetic percentage technology and have, since
about 1984; but let us go back now, and speak about both
exploratrons, as well as 1984; when these things were really getting
going, both in my life, and also, in the general population of our
entire race of life in this particular atomic universe.
MARCH
11, 2014,
TUESDAY
MORNING AT 7:08,
HERE
IN FORT PIERCE, FLORIDA,
CURRENT
TEMPERATURE, 57 DEGREES FNHT.
Between
the shit they did to me in the casinos and the shit they were
stealing, these mobbed up Sinatra fucking jerk off PIGS,
in
league with dirt bag Donald, enjoyed messing with me illegally, every
chance they got. It began when George Belton first took me to Resorts
Casino in Atlantic City, and introduced me to casino-roulette
playing. From there things were down hill all the way, leading to my
first trip to Florida one year after George first began doing this in
December of 1982, during my final months at 1802 Robin
Farm-Outside-of-Future-Haddonfield Hill Apartments, in Voorhees, New
Jersey. The mysterious Warwick Auto Sales, owned by the even more
mysterious Mister Everett Simpson, well, this is a story that could
go on for 1000 Moby Dick sized books, and I don't plan on boring you.
I call this the end of 82 set up that led to the land of mystery, or
for short, the EO1982SUTLTTLOM, my own little coded alpha-numeric
private, and one of so very many; headings to outlined stories for
future postings, when things are more in the swing for telling the
world about these things, one by one. I can say without a question,
that even beyond my choking condition that lasted for life, and my
nightmare crossover into hell in 1986 from some weird strange
''dreaming'', that these two invents, huge as they are; both are
simply existing inside of this even larger truth, and that being,
this early December of 1982 situation at this auto repair garage
place near the intersection of the White Horse Pike and Warwick road,
in Magnolia, New Jersey; and just a little over a mile away from
Robin Hill Apartments Complex; and I knew this all along, but when it
came t doing blogs, I never actually made it appear this way,
focussing much more on the two large incidents that followed my
becoming connected witht hese people there, the owner Mister Simpson,
and then his two side kicks, Herby Letts, and George Belton. Herby
worked for Simpson, while George was theweird 'hang-around' guy, and
had no connections with the place. I was there to purchase a vehicle
to allow me to get the money I needed to leave that horrible Debbie
Harry and her friend and their horrific loud weekend parties, and
move out of there and into Atco, New Jersey. So I needed to take my
nicer vehicle, and trade down on it, so that I could put the needed
moving cash into my pocket, and this is exactly what I did back then,
and how these folks and I all managed to cross paths, Mister
Redfield. There is some real loud hallway yelling at 7:26, suppose
the fawces of Mister Hall do not want me talking about Everett
Simpson, the man of mysteries. You only know a tiny smattering of
things that could have landed me in prison, there is a lot to this
powerful story, most will not be talked about for reasons of my
obvious safety, both from highly dangerous people, and even, problems
with the law which I certainly do not need, despite the statues of
limitation, I believe, running out on what was done, but in case
certain tings such as murder do not ever run out, and no, there was
no murder; still, I am not sure what is covered in this cold period,
so I am keeping quiet. Now the real joke is on me, as it normally is,
and I just got a major computer hack, bob McDowell again, at 7:32,
and am about to go BOTBAR today, as this is real mother fucking bad.
Then in the middle of these two major hacking periods, was the
hallway shouting which has not been bad for days. Something is going
down around me and a fucking cunt retarded child with a runny snotty
nose should be able to see it, if paying any attention to this shit
whatsoever.
Not
even two years after I met these creepy weird people, it was spring
time somewhere in 1984, and Trump was going to open his casino called
the PLAZA, his very first one, in Atlantic City, New Jersey. Why I
could not tell you in a million years, but I wanted to go down on
opening day, and began to drive from my residence to the casino in
Atlantic City. I was living right back at the Robin Hill allover
again, for my second out of three total stays in this hellish
nightmare place, other than for my first 14-24 months there in 1980
and most of 1981 when that mysterious incident happened that I
blogged several times about, where magically, that evil Playboy bunny
just popped up out of the blue one night, right after somebody heard
me tell my mom in that bugged apartment, that I was going to have my
friend Jim Burr look at the place downstairs as he is interested in
renting it. It was all fake, I had handed her a note to read, telling
her to just play along and I then winked at her, and then I went off
to work, and when I came back for the river at the Mac Andrews and
Forbes Plant where I did security guard work there, a light was on in
the apartment,and she had moved in just in those hours while I was
working. But this is old news, and we are on the exploratron subject
recently, and need to discuss what pertains most to this, not that
she and her friends were not also, host bodies to inter-dimensional
exploratrons coming awake in them from their controlled dreams in
their own parallel universes. Still I am more interested in
discussing another person who I know had an exploratron inside of
him, the young dude gasoline station owner in Hammonton, New Jersey,
named Jerry, back in 1984. My mother told me he has to be on drugs,
but looking back, NO HE DIDN'T HAVE TO BE ON DRUGS. Many weird acting
folks are, maybe the majority of them are; but some of them, ladies
and gentlemen, are not. Instead they are what in the old days would
be called ''possessed''. They are what in the new age Ufology days
would be called controlled abductees. Neither of these things are
real, but what is happening is very real. THEY HAVE AN ACTIVE
TYPE-2-EXPLORATRON INSIDE OF THEM, asleep in their universe, and over
here in ours, they have taken control over the person, and can do all
sorts of stuff to many innocent people, by using these basic sleep
walkers as pawns and tools and puppets and yes I'll say it, AS
WEAPONS! Another possibility for why people suddenly go and shoot up
malls and schools and work places, and you name it. This Jerry made
my life, and the life of my poor mom, a total hell. He was being
controlled by my cousin Donald. First, on the way down to his hotel
and casino, somehow, he had my car blow up, and I barely made it to
this gasoline station, the one in Hammonton, owned by this Jerry
character. This all was totally planned out millions of years ago. He
ended up putting a new engine in the vehicle, a total joke, as the
car was 10 times worse when the job was done, than before; and twice,
my mom and I went to pick it up, and ended up taking the bus down to
his station, breaking down 2 blocks away or less, and waiting for a
bus right back home again. He had us literally going out of our
minds, and the entire state was in on all of our miseries, as just
from watching shows on TV like Judge Judy, I know that these
repeating incidents that happened to us for 20 plus years back in
Jersey, just does not happen and that innocent folks who get totally
scammed and ripped off do have some legal recourse, yet each time we
tried talking to anyone about getting any, we were just fucked and
fucked and fucked, all the more. If you live in Jersey, have big name
enemies, and have no one in your corner to fight for you such as a
politician or three in your pocket, you might as well dig a hole and
jump in, or move the hell far away, as did fucking cunt eating I,
back in December of 'OHM-9'.
This
Jerry character was literally, over a period of 10 weeks or so,
making my life and the life of my mother, a living burning nightmare
fucking hell, and no one anywhere would or could seem to help us
against this horrible fucking sick young monster, who held the power
of life and death, literally over our heads, and was actually
torturing us and our pathetic lives in ways inconceivable. Everyone
needs a car, and he was keeping us from having ours. And this all
started, because
I wanted to go down to TRUMPS NEW HOTEL CASINO in springtime 1984.
Where is Yogi Berra and his non belief in coincidences, when you
truly need him, Mister Voicemail Walmart, sir????????????????????
Now
this was all right after I had met and interacted with the throat
specialist in northeast Philadelphia, and his magical lovely young
lab-tech assistant. He seemed to do the very same thing with her, up
in the future by 20 years give or take, that he did only a few years
away with Donna Summer, naming his ugly harbor tub, the PRINCESS,
right after I copyrighted my EPITOME
OF HARASSMENT PROJECTS, really the first one in 1988,
misspelled on the copyright forms, and is why the words 'sic' appear
on the title block on these forms that I now will re-post so that you
can all see; which stands for Spelled In-Correctly. When patters
continue to reflect a repeating item of anything is happening, the
odds increase exponentially, that it is all just up in someone's mind
or just a big ass fucking coincidence. One time, that's one thing,
but then there came Mister Macy. Now at this point of things, I was
at Jenny's Park and living a hermits life, not yet blogging on the
net, as I had yet to meet Chris Bennett, who started all of this by
telling me that maybe I need to do this to tell my story. But my real
point on all of this is that all this time I had no clue how this was
all done, or even a clue as to why. Now with the ESS, it all comes
together so incredibly, that to quote the CCR Band of the sixties, I
can feel this thing's fucking disease. And no, Jane and her weeds are
not the only disease in town, not with all of this shit for the past
30-60 mother fucking years, great folks!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WHAT'S
UP DOC? SILWEE WABBIT ME.
HIGHLIGHTED
IN THIS COLOR, FOLKS, TO SHOW YOU!
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Yes
I do not know if it is my upstairs kookie nabes, but lots of weird
shit noise is coming from their place the past two days; and is
getting on my nerves. WHAAAAA!
What
folks do not know or understand, is anything about the ESS.
This
is not a bunch of aliens from distant expansion points that access
wormholes or any other silliness.
This is all EXPLORATRONS
of the TYPE-3 advanced section,
and nothing is being done for good or for bad, but merely all is a
huge GAME, and this is to distract those who know, that there is no
way to ever reach oblivion, ''NIRVANA''!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WHY
NOT GET TO KNOW ABOUT MY MAJOR
recurring nightmare school, THAT WAS
FINALLY FOUND WHILE I WAS KINDNAPPED BY THE MIGHTY KING BRANCH OF
TAWF-70, YOUR EM!!!!!!!!!!
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