SAGA
OF NON-MUSICAL SONGWRITER MARK MUD IN 1983, PART TWO, FROM 32 YEARS
AGO
CHAPTER
00004/00005 A&B, THIS IS THE 'B' PART
OH
BOY,
THIS
HAS
NOT
BEEN A
VERY FAIR LIFE FOR ME; AND SOMEONE WILL
PAY FOR IT IN BLOOD, AND THEIR ENTIRE LINEAGE OR 'HOUSE' WILL AS
WELL; TO USE OLDEN DAY VERBIAGE FROM THE BIBLE. Does
this
rate
even
a
small
W—O—W?
Strange
shit is going on, but this has been the case since the middle
nineteen-sixties. My health provider (Well-care) asked me why I was
sent to the NJNP Institute in September of 1965, to do my sixth grade
school year at the 'K-COTTAGE' there on the nut house grounds, and I
told them the same truth that I would tell Attorney General Pam Bondi
or a judge in a court room if I was legally sworn and under oath. “I
honestly don't know why I was ever sent there”. But this is just
the start of things that I absolutely don't fucking know with
anything close to pinpoint accuracy, why major events went down the
way they al did around me and my life since the middle fucking
sixties. You might as well ask me to pop off and give detailed
accounts on my personal knowledge of why the two Kennedy men were
assassinated along with Marty King and many other powerful events of
the great wild sixties, when all of this appears to have started.
I'll use Mister 700-Club owner Pat Robertson's own words, hopefully
with the dude's permission here, 'The world turned a cornerstone in
1967''. He was totally correct and accurate, it did, folks. This is
major real, and don't discount it ladies and gents. THAT would be
your ultimate mistake, and in many of your lifetimes, and this is
real truth, so help me Goddess
Jehovah Sarah-Stacey Krassle.
JANUARY
17, 2015,
SATURDAY
AFTERNOON AT 3:17,
HERE
IN FORT PIERCE, FLORIDA,
CURRENT
TEMPERATURE, 75 DEGREES FNHT.
RANGE
TODAY, (H-75/L-50).
HUMIDITY
IS 53%, IT FEELS LIKE 77 DEGREES.
WINDS
ARE EASTERLY AT 12, GUSTING TO 12.
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 to doing blogs, I never actually made it appear this way,
focusing much more on the two large incidents that followed my
becoming connected with these people there, the owner Mister Simpson,
and then his two side kicks, Herby Letts, and George Belton. Herby
worked for Simpson, while George was the weird '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
all over 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'.
YOU
MISSED ME YO, MISS JANE WITCH BITCH SLEAZEWEEDS
DISEASE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.
WHAAAAAAAAA.
THE
WEATHER BUG,
In Partnership With
and
shared by this blogger, who may be contacted through:
Local Weather Cameras
Fort Pierce, FL 34950
AS
LONG AS THESE MONSTER MOTHER FUCKERS HAVE PITIFUL ME TO PICK ON, AND
RELENTLESSLY FUCKING PERSECUTE; THESE MARKETS WILL
MOVE ONE WAY AND ONLY ONE WAY,
UP AND UP AND UP AND UP AND UP AND UP AND UP FOREVER AND EVER AND
EVER, SEE HOW FUCKING CORRECT I AM, YO?????????
Some
person had the actual gall to tell me recently that rumors have it
that I am holding back on really huge secrets. They base this on the
fact that I appear to be doing a lot of paste in only stuff on my
blogs. I will tell more if the numbers show that there is an
interest. My mama did not raise a fool, and we don't sit around
chasing each other up flights of stairs. Whether it be cats,
goddesses, or toddlers, even the DVD can make us all laugh, I
suppose, to vent our frustrations with our own lives, but really, we
all know there is nothing funny about all of this, and that as soon
as I remembered all of this, even in fragmented nightmares and
waking world bits, nobody was laughing. No Ziggy's, no jetty's, no
falling and bleeding. So please, don't get all worked up with this,
lovely 1969 Roseann Delaney! No I am not keeping secrets, but my
recent count has gone to hell in a hand basket, so forget about
reading any major new stuff, folks. MORIANITY
HAS NO SECRETS. MORIANITY DETESTS AND DESPISES SECRETS. I LOST MY
DAUGHTER DUE TO SECRETS.
MORIANITY
HAS NO SECRETS. MORIANITY DETESTS AND DESPISES SECRETS. I LOST MY
DAUGHTER DUE TO SECRETS.
MORIANITY
HAS NO SECRETS. MORIANITY DETESTS AND DESPISES SECRETS. I LOST MY
DAUGHTER DUE TO SECRETS.
MORIANITY
HAS NO SECRETS. MORIANITY DETESTS AND DESPISES SECRETS. I LOST MY
DAUGHTER DUE TO SECRETS.
MORIANITY
HAS NO SECRETS. MORIANITY DETESTS AND DESPISES SECRETS. I LOST MY
DAUGHTER DUE TO SECRETS.
MORIANITY
HAS NO SECRETS. MORIANITY DETESTS AND DESPISES SECRETS. I LOST MY
DAUGHTER DUE TO SECRETS.
MORIANITY
HAS NO SECRETS. MORIANITY DETESTS AND DESPISES SECRETS. I LOST MY
DAUGHTER DUE TO SECRETS.
MORIANITY
HAS NO SECRETS. MORIANITY DETESTS AND DESPISES SECRETS. I LOST MY
DAUGHTER DUE TO SECRETS.
MORIANITY
HAS NO SECRETS. MORIANITY DETESTS AND DESPISES SECRETS. I LOST MY
DAUGHTER DUE TO SECRETS.
MORIANITY
HAS NO SECRETS. MORIANITY DETESTS AND DESPISES SECRETS. I LOST MY
DAUGHTER DUE TO SECRETS.
MORIANITY
HAS NO SECRETS. MORIANITY DETESTS AND DESPISES SECRETS. I LOST MY
DAUGHTER DUE TO SECRETS.
MORIANITY
HAS NO SECRETS. MORIANITY DETESTS AND DESPISES SECRETS. I LOST MY
DAUGHTER DUE TO
SECRETS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Oh
boy, life stinks!
Oh
boy, life
stinks!
Oh
boy, life
stinks!
Oh
boy, life
stinks!
Oh
boy, life
stinks!
Oh
boy, life
stinks!
Oh
boy, life
stinks!
Oh
boy, life
stinks!
Oh
boy, life
stinks!
Oh
boy, life
stinks!
Oh
boy, life
stinks!
Oh
boy, life
stinks!
***OH***SHIT***,
CALLI-KALI-CALL TEN CALLIO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
SO
HOW DID ALL OF THIS HAPPEN TO ME ALL
THESE YEARS, WITH ALL OF THIS; OTHER THAN FOR THE GODDESS DAM
EXPLORATRONIC
SUPERMIND
SOCIETY???????
EXPLORATRONIC
SUPERMIND
SOCIETY???????
EXPLORATRONIC
SUPERMIND
SOCIETY???????
EXPLORATRONIC
SUPERMIND
SOCIETY???????
EXPLORATRONIC
SUPERMIND
SOCIETY???????
EXPLORATRONIC
SUPERMIND
SOCIETY???????
EXPLORATRONIC
SUPERMIND
SOCIETY???????
EXPLORATRONIC
SUPERMIND
SOCIETY???????
***OH***SHIT***,
CALLI-KALI-CALL TEN CALLIO
***OH***SHIT***,
CALLI-KALI-CALL TEN CALLIO
***OH***SHIT***,
CALLI-KALI-CALL TEN CALLIO
***OH***SHIT***,
CALLI-KALI-CALL TEN CALLIO
***OH***SHIT***,
CALLI-KALI-CALL TEN CALLIO
***OH***SHIT***,
CALLI-KALI-CALL TEN CALLIO
***OH***SHIT***,
CALLI-KALI-CALL TEN CALLIO
dddddddDDDDDD,
same old same old song huh, not even a different beat you say,
Callio and McGuire?
BULLSHIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AND
I FUCKING want this on the record, peeps! In case I need to make a
stronger point, I said I
want this on the record, I want this on the record, I want this on
the record, I want this on the record, I want this on the record, I
want this on the record, I want this on the
record!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
All
Babylonian Pharaoh's behold, YO. As it is written, so it shall be
fucking done!
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