GUESS
THE NAME OF THE GUESTS, CHAPTER 21
For
several days, the general area around my apartment had less activity.
But doors were all day today, and of course, with these roach fucking
nabes being back, so are my god dam fucking roaches. LIKE-DUH! I am
going to have to contact the BOARD OF HEALTH, Sheriff sir, because to
quote what I used to say to my camp counselor Mister Mack Kaiter in
1967 and 1968, at Camp Chesapeake, in Maryland; “THIS
IS RIDICULOUS”!
Lots
of facts don't change, but with time and experience, we all put
those same facts into better light, at least we should unless we've
been totally lobotomized by this mechanized social media garbage new
age society 100%!!!!!!!!!!!! When you read a paste in like this
below, you see how Morianity learns and grows, as does all life in
hyperspace. Things do not stay the same. The old saying about cities
is only too real. If they stop growing, they die. This is what
happened to Atlantic City in th elate sixties, despite all the great
Donald Trump stuff that happened. Need more convincing? Fine then
folks, see how things were a while ago, and how they always seem to
be more clearly revealed when we ponder on them and meditate on them.
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\/////////////////////
1980
KEYBOARDS FROM PETA-HELL ®
MARK
WAYNE MOHR--------1980, ALL BLOGS © 2006-2014
BOM
© 2015 BLOGS OF MOUNTAINPEN
Only
the Vatican really understands MORIANITY, and even they are smart
enough to keep their mouths shut. Lightning told me last night in
Akoslem City, that I better tell the truth and not leave my Morians
hanging in there with the Hammonton's and the Huntington's, so I must
now obey her commands. After-all, she's my beyond hot and
unfathomably awesome baby-blond love of my life, and the third part
of a wild triple GODDESS, and no more needs to be said now or ever,
or the entire thing will go right into the NUKESON can! Not yet,
Mister McNulty, not unless you think a set of stairs in Suffolk
County, New York was real funny in the very early seventies as well,
old pal from Exton, Pennsylvania! So here I am in my car with a tape
playing, while doing guard duty one night, during my STOCKHOLM
KIDNAPPING days of latter ohm-8 through most of all of ohm-9. By
December of 2009, I thought I had learned the full depravity of my
oldest daughter's sense of humor, I hadn't. Now laugh if you really
are dirt bag enough to want to,
MMCN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
This
is like discussing Atlantic
City,
or Sarah
Jacobson,
or for that matter; the
great United States Government, the Vatican, and the
WOMO-MILI-2-FORCE.
We can talk, we can cry, we can do a Disney cower speed away with
Gramps Spears screaming his lungs out in the back seat for an ever
greater metal pedal, but all of that, and so much more, I never until
just today, really knew just how down right mean and frightening, my
kid can be, once something you do pisses her off. There is no
grabbing the minute hand, and trying to fling it back; as it is
simply a hopeless cause. The difference between doing things via the
ES, and just lots of other great parlor tricks; is that all averaged
out and then remeasured again, the agonies inflicted upon those
victimized by either of these monstrous atrocities that dwarf any
concept ever conceived by Hitler, the ES causes way more lifelong
everlasting deeper unhealed injuries, after all is said and done,
after all the pieces of dog shit are swept up off the smelly floor,
and after the fat lady finally sits down, stops writing, stops
singing, and keels over like Shelly Winters' heart attack, after her
heroic swim-dive, in that great movie, “The Poseidon Adventure”;
the ship named after the true King of the sea, Mister
Cavelantisocleevious Krassle, AKA Neptune-Jupiter-Poseidon. Him and
his lovely wife, on the Astral-Plane, chase me away from their great
daughter, Sarah Stacey Jehovah Krassle, and then I am the bad guy for
being the victim of this hellish hyper video-game of the
Lawnmower-Man-2 system, for roughly, 1.49720507 times ten to the
twenty-fifth trillionth power year equivalent in
Astral-Interaction-Event or (AIE), something never measurable to the
last drop, any more than we can ever determine an exact relationship
of a closed curve (circle), between its through-ness (diameter) and
it's all the way around-ness (circumference). We can say 3.14, or
take it out a bit more to say, 3.14159265, but it still never ever
stops, yet there is perfect connection, and we can see it with any
circle a child of two draws on a piece of paper. So before you tell
me there are no mysteries unsolvable, let me first take a good
healthy crap into your brain, so that maybe you will think better
after that. Who can ever know, with or without those cool ass breath
echos, Copyright Examiners, AHA-AHA-AHA? Go back to 1971, Mike
McNulty. You're not welcome here today, on Morianity. Thank you.
Yes,
Lightning told me that I must be honest,
and tell the truth. I admit I slightly made things appear just razor
edge off of perfect truth when I said on a previous blog that Diana
is scared to come around me, just as with many others, and I gave the
one real good example around the time that Iraq invaded Kuwait, with
the Resident Manager Nate, at the Echelon Towers Building of
Voorhees, Township, New Jersey, USAESMWG. I'll bet dimes to cunt
sniffing donuts right about now, my old ex-bizz partner PP, is
heading straight for his local K-Mart, with his own dirty pants. He
must remember the shit I told him through the phone back before he
had me rolling on the floor with his voice-mail message that he left
me, a year and a half back somewhere in time. He knows I do what
needs to be done. He know if you bastards won't stop hurting me, that
I'll do exactly what is needed, to deal with the situation and take
care of bizz, a lot better than he ever took care of making all those
millions in the music business, WEEEEENA. Yes there have been a lot
of very special and very precious girls in my life, and all anyone
has to do is examine the United
States Copyright Office
records, under the name of MARK
WAYNE MOHR,
to see that this is all true. I do not get stuff from all of them.
They get it from me; unless you want to seriously believe that I am a
real live true honest to the gods,
T—I—M—E
T—R—A—V—E—L—E—R!
Dear
Diary Journal Tape, another day has come and gone, without any
teasing Nissan Cars, Finally I'm Free Clariton Clear medications, or
higher stock prices. All that's left is my sweet song, Copyright
Examiners of 1983, and it makes very blue, 657 times blue, to be
quite honest. Still, I doubt that I will be around very much longer,
and cannot wait to make my exit from this prison sentence, called by
most, our life. Whether I share any of these coded poems or rhymes
with nobody or everybody, is as meaningless and moaningless as 100
great educational television stations. But to Anna at the Medical
Institute, and her precious jet black cat back in 1982, I say unto
you; wow, soon I will be out of here, paroled, and ready to finally
indeed, be Clariton clear and totally free of these emmereffing
Earthly bonds!
The
women in the lives of heterosexual males, would make quite the
biographies in and of themselves. History as the more intelligent
souls out there know, doesn't focus too much on people's private
personal lives, probably because what little information does indeed
make it into history, is merely who did what to who and when and all
of that happy crap clap from John Lennon to Sarah McLaughlin. Before
I march on with this, I really like this SYLFAEN-FONT. It is nice and
not too bold or light, and clear, yet quite different from many
others used recently by the ol' fucking Mountainpen!!!!!!!!! Yes, the
women in the lives of 'normal' men, as this is saying it very
POLITICALLY INCORRECT, but hey, I am saying it, so sue fucking me!
The laugh was on you, Tom Glenn old buddy, from early in 1981 over at
1802 Robin Hill Apartments. He was convinced for reasons that made no
Earthly sense, that I was a bit light in my fucking loafers, because
he heard the song that I had written as a boy, or one of the two I
had written in 1969 at age 14 and a half. I was hoping Paula King
would someday sing it to me. She has such a lovely voice, and she
even sang something underneath of Central Pier to me on that far out
first Saturday of July in 1969, when she had dragged me under a very
private place where no one could see us. I had written this song
shortly after I had written, “THAT'S THE WAY IT GOES”. This song
was called, “BURN WITH FIRE”. It was done in lyrics for a girl to
sing for her boy. But the great musical arranger, Mister Glenn didn't
believe a word that I said to him. He did not ask me any details, and
just insisted that I was some fagot, in a nice way of course, and
that the song was about some kid that I knew. This of course was
beyond disgusting and revolting to me, and I actually was thinking
that I wanted to walk into the kitchen, grab a sharp turkey knife,
come back into the living room where we had set up some recording
equipment and his guitar, and I was thinking for a quick second, that
I wanted to cut his living fucking guts out. This is why the great
National Rifleman's Associating cannot be argued with, much as I
personally despise all guns and weapons; but I could have left old
Tommy boy all cut to hell and bleed out, on Robin Hill's nice
apartment rug, on that day early in 1981, and I have never owned a
gun or any projectile firing weapon. But I do confess to loving meat,
eating meat, and needing large cutting knives to prepare that meat.
But getting back to the topic of the ladies in the lives of us normal
non-gay dudes out there, Tom Glenn was totally convinced and wouldn't
listen to a very logical and true reason, for why my song lyrics in
“BURN
WITH FIRE”,
were written as follows:
I'm
sayin' this to you boy
You
bring me thrill and joy
When
you just touch me
What
can I say
I
want you real bad
You
make me so glad
Just
you and me boy
Please
baby stay
The
things you do to me
Beyond
my fantasy
The
way you hold me tight
Let's
keep it hot tonight
Don't
let it ever end
Oh
baby please pretend
Just
say you love me
Make
me feel so right
You
make me burn with fire like a soul in hell
You
bring me more desire than I could ever tell
I
wanna' love my baby 'till the end of time
Come
on lovely baby, gonna' make you mine
This
chorus is then followed by a second verse, and that can wait for
another time, if ever, but my point is Tom Glenn's weird attitude
about not believing that this was not a song for me to sing to some
boy, but that I was hoping someday to have someone I knew a dozen
years ago, to sing it to me, as she had a lovely voice. As I told him
this, my memories of many things flooded in to me, but so did lots of
intense anger as he kept laughing and saying he knew better, and on
and on. The details that follow, leading to a block out of lots of my
memories for about a month or so that my own m,om thought I was
faking, can wait to be told as more blogs are written in future
times. But as stated, the real stories of men and history, are ALL
ABOUT “THE
WOMEN OF THEIR LIVES”,
to quote the great and powerful cool wild dude from the middle
eighties, Mister Bob Patterson Cheatley!!!
W---O---W
W---O---W
W---O---W
W---O---W
Gina
my giant lovely night girl of the nineties, YO, I TOLD
YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Maybe you listened, but I doubt it. You and I
were kind of busy in bed!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'll bet dimes
to donut holes that AT&T and Verizon got a kick out of my speed
dialer that they featured with voice control. I would just say GIANT
GINA, and boom, her sex-service would ring. WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. Hay,
under 18, stay off the dam MORIANITY BLOGS, YO.
|
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|
Audience |
END
TRANSMISSION.
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