SAFE JOURNAL, CHAPTER 0334
WORLD LABS DATFILE: 020912.012
TEOHIV/TMCAM/MORPRO-1995
BLOG SUBTITLE NUMBER FOUR:
“CLARENCE HARRIS KNOWS THE TRUTH”
COPYRIGHTED BLOGS OF MOUNTAINPEN
© 2006-2012 MARK WAYNE MOHR/
MICHAEL WAYNE MOUNTAINPEN
BEGINNING TRANSMISSION:
Another bad day, without leaving the apartment, major fucking neighborhood siege, today with the scum bag illegals across the hall from me. I say illegal, because there is no way that the lease rules are being followed, not when there are a dozen or more peeps that are slamming in and out continuously, from a one bedroom apartment. My letter to the Florida Attorney General will be in tomorrows' mail, about the horrific roach problem that has been reported in futility, the neighbors, thievery, and many other illegal things, some will be touched on with this blog. Nothing gets done here, so I will go over their Misses Kinsel fucking heads and it can be 1969 all over again for all I give a shit, mama. I all ready saw this future in dreams back as a young adult, and if I allow it to continue unchecked, I will end up stabbed to death here in sunny paradise, where is fucking laughing 1982 Icabod, when I need the jerk off?
The reason the other neighbor blasted music at me all day Monday, was when I was at at my job, the family called me and left a message on my voice-mail. Every time the family calls me, he does this, FBI, so tell me this agents, why are these people allowed to spy on me and mess with me and fuck with my personal life, and you either stand by permitting this totally illegal activity or worse, you are aiding and abetting and are behind it all, and still I ask you, why, what did I ever do to any mother fucking one of you out here, just fucking what? Previous blogs reflect me telling that every time the family calls me, this music blaster strikes. When I walked past his door, he was watching television quietly with his door open and his road-chair in the hallway. He all ready struck in the morning, and when I came home, struck me again, just waiting for me. I know for a fact that he was 'given' a powerful sound system, and remember hearing it being set up and tested back early in the autumn in 2011 somewhere, as the loudness of it was horrifying. I have to always get the most noisy possible fucking neighbors in the world no matter where I ever go to or live at. But if it was random events that happen because they like to make a lot of noise, that would be one thing, but this machine was given to this person just to do this to me, and across the hall, these peeps also are being told to shout and slam doors all day long when the markets or the sporting parallel event situations call for my getting major fucking persecuted that day or night or mother fucking ass both.
As for the theft, somebody stole my mail. Ann King left me a message telling me she sent me a Christmas card and a gift, and I never got it, yet somebody did. On Deejay Scummer's birthday on the 31st of last December, this is why the music blaster literally knocked down my wall with thumping pounding music all day long from eight something, until nearly midnight or so. I was in a powerful dreaming experience where peeps were scaring me and calling me the “record singer”, and banging on my door, until in the dream, some nice dude stopped them and they left me alone and somehow, two parallel worlds blurred into one, because there was loud shit going on in the hallway from all these total lowlife douche bags in the waking world, and my dreams then incorporated this all together. Still, somebody got the gift. Ann said she would send me my tapes and music that I had at the house. This explains everything. On top of this, my computer guru took thirty dollars from me that Saturday and used it for drugs and she has never been the same. Just when I finally had someone helping me do stuff on the computer, poof, Satan got to her. This nightmare curse has been going on around me since the fucking cunt day of my current-me-birth, on 12/04/54. When I asked the great Gawky Gaukauk LOTTERY CAT OF 1980, why the man next door persecuted me to death on December 31st, the number came out GAWNUM-ROOT-#98. One of the many very pertinent things that I have in my matching list for PCN's, for the number 981 that results from the root number 98, hold onto your disbelieving mother fucking Missourian hats folks, “STOLE MARK MOHR'S SONG”!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Oh yeah, sure, right, happens every mother fucking day, odds like this, like JOY, FUN, and SEASONS IN THE SUN, from earl-lee in 1974. Cut me a turd chewing break peeps, YO.
I had serious debates and discussions with both Ron Wirtz, ADA, at the Camden County Prosecutor's Office as well as Assistant to Congressman Rob Andrews, Mister Clarence Harris, who became a good friend of mine, and paid me the ultimate compliment that an African-American can ever make to a honky white dude like me when he told me it I was half the age I was, he would want me to marry his daughter, Minda.
I plan to write another letter to the Post Master General of the United States about my stolen mail out of my legal box. The RPL-DD where the huge muscle dude told me I must be haunted, explains the record singer fucking crap. I maybe a rotten singer but that's no reason to hate me and persecute me, I still have a right to enjoy recordi9ng and writing my music, at least I am quiet and do all my work with headphones, and scream out when I am all by myself such as on those two security jobs out in the middle of nowhere, both at Roadway in 2003 and then at Cifaloglio in 2006. You have no fucking right to mess with me and my fucking shit, and I will go to the fucking Hague and the United fucking Nations.
PP, I NEED HELP. If you are ever down this way, I will make it worth your while to scare these peeps for me, I don't know what to do, I am on the fucking verge of killing myself, it is not fair. You of all peeps know I hurt nobody, I bother nobody, and all I get is fucking picked on. That is why I cannot fathom why even you see only their side, when you tell me my blogs are so hate filled, PP, what would you be writing if this was happening to you and those who you love, should I really be saying how wonderful these lovely nice darling people are, and wow, I hope they are happy and well, and please keep right on messing with me as I am really enjoying this life of mine? Please PP, I am not being cute with you, this is a man to man question????????????? Could you live like this? Stop and think PP, you know why I am hated, you know Dave Roth was not a liar, remember the old days and stuff that got said, even though you did not believe it all, just please my old pal, keep some open mind. These peeps all hate my guts and I have never done one thing to any of them to deserve this, other than get myself hypnotized to try and get to the bottom of recurring nightmares from the middle eighties, the hugest error in all of hyper-cosmos. Yes, of this mistake and my fallible lousy decision making, I'll plead guilty to with no contest. But why should I be taken out and shot and have to spend eternity burning in hell. What did I do, sir? Please, call me and tell me what to do before I shoot myself for real. We shared some cool experiences, and you kn ow me better than all of my associates, ranging from so-called friends, worst enemies, and family, if you can even consider how this motley crew would all somehow cohesively share reality with one another. PP, I thought this was all about the Callio's in 1997 when we met early that December. Was it really all my fault, really? I want your opinion. I did nothing, and look what they all did to me. They cannot possibly come from this time or this world, they are advanced so far beyond what you and I understand right now, what words can I type on this mickey mouse keyboard that approaches an intellectual discussion on the subject? Ignore them? Show me how? They won't even let me die physically, and appear to have rigged up an atomic laser that scans and copies me over and over again no matter what happens to me. Before you laugh too hard, remember that 100 years ago, you could not walk outside and safely tell a crowd of people that lasers can copy music and movies and we can see and hear dead people now, like seeing a John Wayne Movie, and in another 500 years, oh yeah, they cannot copy the entire thing and send it back, please, PP, keep an open mind old buddy, please, I'm dying down here, and they are laughing at me at the speed of light cubed.
Folks, I will tell more about Jerry Heitzmann, Sarah Jacobson, Paula Exploratron King and her mighty hyper cosmic family (the gods) and so much more. Every time I hear the freight train whistle outside as I am hearing now, I dream and pray to the fucking gods in the shit heavens that I could be back home, but it is not that simple. Who is going to help me when I go back there, I feel like a fucking intergalactic traveler? Who is going to care or help me live until I get on my feet? You think Uncle Sam will give a fucking shit what has been done to me? Will they believe it or say I am crying Wolf? The Copyright Office has the 2007 project where I really am crying wolf, and not Dick, but the really sad part of this, Pandora Hellfire Ink, is that if I had lied or did anything to be mistrusted, then this would all be fair and square, but what did I ever do other than get hypnotized, and have all of hell come raining down on me. Dave Roth called this the second bear, as in Wall Street and its bull-bear movements. The first bear was the original one on the 15th day of August of 1986. Long before I had the smallest fucking inkling about details of the great THAT-FAMILY of 1970, and the connections through hyperspace to the Ventnor washcloth chemtrail lungs and glands of President Grant and his lovely Floridian descendants; I used to say from late in 1986 right through the time of the hypnosis done by doctor MARK WOLF in Moorestown, NJUSAESMWG; at the clinic next door to the Friendly Ice Cream interestingly enough, not the one in Pennsylvania where my car stereo and magical tape all got boosted by the Cannon Teen Crew of monster ass recordings and Next Generation Linda Carter gangs; but yes folks, I would repeat over and over again, referring to the magic line in the sand date of 08-15-86, as “Ever since I sent the REAL-GOOD-GIRL song down to the Copyright Office”, life changed on that very night, AND IT MOTHER FUCKING DID, and only the “Rosewellians”, and the government, know exactly YYYYYY folks; because in total honesty; I have not got a clue, no pun intended with any Diana's, not one of them, or six hundred and fifty seven of them, not blue or in any other hue, great queen of Roman six, as in VI, how it is quite easy to fall in love with the VIQUEENS, ask Billy Harner, as he and I saw the next generation of this wild girl gang that night in 2000 in Northfield, New Jersey, go to www.billyharner.com/ only enjoy his music and don't bother asking him to discuss that night, I do not exist to these people, I have vanished away through the magic of Castaneda and Goldberg and Hawking, and all of the other hyper parallel miraculous events of the Water Walkers Sharkwarners club of twenty-eleven, on Hutchinson Island. I know when to keep my mouth shut. My own kids do not recognize my existence, and you know what lads and lassies, maybe I am just a figment of my own mother fucking imagination after all. The problem is that my imagination has done a fantastic job of creating misery and pain, and eternally.
Whoever stole my shit in this building, I will have you locked up in prison for this, I promise you. WHERE IS THE FUCKING FBI? YOU SHOULD BE ENFORCING LAWS THAT PROTECT MY CIVIL RIGHTS, NOT OPEN MY PHONE CIRCUIT IN 1983, AND THEN GO ON HURTING ME WHILE THE ASSHOLE WORLD OWNERS LAUGH, YA SLOBS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Shame on you too, Agent Caruso, you know every word on my blogs is totally real and true, shame on fucking you Steve of Texas, sir. You know this horrible bunch of pricks from thousands of years from now have come back here and are operating a huge video game of a sort, and I am the main blob in the hologram. Shame on every mother fucker out here who knows what I am going through and is laughing. This is not funny. The very proof of this shit is how they can laugh at that horrible stair-chase-game. Real funny Michelle and family, HA-HA-HA. Please never fall off any more jetty's, Ziggy, we are giving these washcloth pricks too many ideas on how to hurt us, YO. What rhymes with Jetty, Donald? Maybe you were right to worry and not land that bird that day in oh-nine. I know I tore down that escalator so that I would not have to take her on the beach. I have lifeguards that hate me enough to kill me now, abnd then I could have done that, right Don. Hope your plan works buddy, I want to see you do what no one has done before. Say hi to Roddenberry while you're at it, BRO, WHAAAAAAA.
Well, this tir4ed old shark bell needs to post up and fucking crash, it is half past one in the freaking ass black out morning, cats and all, 495495495495495495495495.
BYE-BYE, WISH I COULD FUCKING 495 (DIE), GAGANU.
END TRANNY, MISERABLE GRANNY, but I'll-B-BACHH, GOV.
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