AUGUST
2, 2014
SATURDAY
AFTERNOON
89
DEGREES, HUMIDITY 72 PERCENT, FEELING 102
SUNNY
WITH A FEW WHITE CLOUDS FLOATING AROUND
MORIANITY
FOR MILLENNIUM-3
CHAPTER
007
ESS
IN THE SECOND DECADE BLOG
I
will get right to it, folks, this will not be the blog that tells and
describes in detail, what I quickly tell you, but I will give the
major most current six Q&A detailed information with the GAWNUM,
and get into the final ones, especially #671 when I asked how and who
and why was that auto switch broken, three times now in Florida now,
on critical days always, and since middle 2010, when they are built
to last four years minimum according to the
mechanic!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! GOOGLE is PCN-671, as in
tracking and maps and cartographic scanning, and hacking cars to
break them, which came on YESTERDAY'S NEWS BROADCAST. It seems
''hackers'' can now get into your automobile and do these things,
Jeese Louise; I thought I had been telling that
story to the local police, back up in New Jersey, since 1986, when
this all began; only it actually did not begin there. I
remember a night in the late winter time of 1983 living in Atco, New
Jersey, driving to where a musician friend of mine was playing a gig
and I wanted to bring my RUSS-1500 open reel over and make a
recording live of a few songs they played. First the club threw me
out, and second, on the way home down Route 73 back towards Atco, my
car died, the part that does not allow the battery to regenerate, and
at light with needing to use headlights, I never made it home and had
to call my fucking Triple-A Auto Club for a tow back home. DON'T
DO ANYTHING INVOLVING GOOD-OL'MUSIC; remember
the old no-no list, and what lays at the fucking top of it??????????
But
I will get huge time into shit on the upcoming blogs, as you know, I
am LAYING REAL FUCKING LOW ON THIS 28TH MAJOR NEGATIVE ANNIVERSARY,
OR ELSE. Remember how my mom and I were nearly murdered, Pam Bondi;
on the 10th anniversary on 08-02-1996, at Pathmark
Shopping Center up in Jersey? I seem to recall just last year's
August second as not letting me down with this horrendous nightmare
as well. SSSSSSOOOOO Mister Arthur Crane, I am laying low and not
risking being a pedestrian casualty of exploratron somnambulist
Patty-Paula, or maybe worse. I can live another day on saltines and
luke warm tea!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This way I look down on
green, not up at brown if you get me' ol' driftee Meester
Meeguire??????????????????
Last
week on a scale from 01 to 99, with one being so bad I would take my
life, and 99 being so good, I either won the Powerball Jackpot of 400
million after taxes, or some equally cool game changing deal, I would
put the score at maybe, just maybe a THREE, so things were about as
bad as they can get on a week of time. Still, Bourbon Wing Daddy;
your super new roulette system has now made me a total profit, in 9
games, during that period; on the 25-50-100-200-400 betting stage
level; of just under a grand, and the house vig-edge was all factored
in as well!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This really pisses off my enemies,
MAJOR TIME!
Now
good people, I just want to add this, as this is a glorified tweet
blog only, or a (GTB). As you know, this is not a day of the year
that it is smart for me to leave my own locked in premises. I WON'T,
but still, Attorney General, Pam Bondi, please have my back today,
you have no idea how dam ass dangerous and powerful my dam ass family
can be, and most definitely
is!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Last
night, all night long, I was taken (abducted) into a PLAYFIELD from
HELL. I will only give you super compressed and abridged highlights
on this GTB. Upcoming blogs will tell a lot more detail. I received a
phone call and was residing in a large house containing a large
basement, that I never have any conscious memory to, until last
night's evil playfield abduction, oh great God of
Shitsapookna-Google-CARWRECKER and wife hyper-dimensionally, Mizz
Shannon Doe-90210. I was in the basement and a telephone call came in
on a landline, and I was told to answer it by a voice from upstairs,
and they said, it's the Marines. Startled, I said my name, followed
by the word 'speaking'; and yet I never heard anything, other than
for strange sounds and noises. I hung up and some of those who were
living with me in the home, who I never at all knew from here, or so
far, from my travels in any parallel universe, (remembered in all
past dreams), came rushing down and told me we are in Martial Law,
and the servicemen are coming down the street knocking on doors. When
they arrived at our door and came in, I still was in the basement,
and one of them, a general, followed one of my co-residents
downstairs to where I was standing in a fully carpeted, curtained,
apartment like area just past the utility area of this home's
basement. I said I am 60 years old but I will serve if I am ordered
to, but have my share of health problems. The general smiled a smirky
look at me, and said, let's talk about it over lunch and he opened up
a bag of food containing some very weird cookies. He said to me, “I
always eat the good shit before the sandwiches”. He slid two
cookies away from him towards where I had sat down across from him. I
did not trust him or what was going on and pretended to eat the one
cooky in a pile of three, they were large chocolate chip looking
cookies. Suddenly I looked at the other cookies and they were foaming
and turning horrible ugly poisonous colors and began to stink
profusely. The aroma was beyond fucking revolting, and the general
belted out in laughter, saying afterward; “How do you feel,
traitor”? I pretended to die, and he left an dwent upstairs and out
the door, as I could clearly hear the front door to the home being
opened, and shut. Then everyone raced over to me, and I opened one
eye half way and said softly, “Is the coast clear, is he gone”?
With that, I felt a horrible thick greenie strike my lips, and jumped
up wiping it off with my handkerchief and saw glaring at me, the
general. He had, so it seemed; only pretended to be leaving the
house. I was placed under arrest and cuffed and told that my next
stop was Guantanamo Bay. Then I felt horrible punches in my back
while walking, by men behind me, every five or ten seconds until I
collapsed after getting outside with a punch that was so hard, both
my lungs fucking cunt collapsed.
I
will tell a lot more on soon to follow blogs. Naturally, what is the
date, but again, the second of August. But that is not quite all.
Something revolting happened in the bathroom that is beyond what I
care to blog. If it happens again, I will check into the hospital. I
will most likely be dead soon, killed by this FAMILY FROM HELL, the
TAWF-1970 bunch, from my Ventnor, New Jersey 1970 nightmares, all
alone in child molester Tom Reale's home on Cornwall Avenue that now
is water company property; the Atlantic City Municipal Utility
Authority, secretly owned totally by Sarah Callio Martino and her
husband and father in law, and McGuire and McGettigan. I am not safe
to talk another minute until this day ends, Mz. Bondi.
THIS
PARTICULAR TRANSMISSION TERMINATES HERE FOR NOW!!!!
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