Although you may not be able to tell at first glance, I am a dedicated patron of the arts. Prior to meeting my darling, I sustained an acute injury while seated near the explosive voice of Luciano Pavarotti, in what turned out to be a thunderous, spellbinding performance at the Met. It was an ear-shattering event that far exceeded the decibel levels normally attributed to a Boeing jetliner and the pneumatic drill breaking up the cement walkway outside of my abode. And from that moment on, my cochlea, anvil, hammer and stirrup decided to pack up their bags and go out on strike, without giving notice. Thus began a hellish, 2-year legal battle where I was sued by my ears for auditory abuse and neglect. I was practically left destitute and deaf. They won big time. As a result, my ears and I are practically estranged, they live a life of luxury and privilege and I subsist on the charity of strangers, plus a small monthly stipend my ears grudgingly pay for leasing non-commercial space on both sides of my head.
My case is well known in the annals of jurisprudence and became part of established legal precedent. It is derisively referred to as the only case where the litigant's brain lost to his ears. Once it became public knowledge that I had the IQ equivalent of a cinder block, that's when the job offers for political office started rolling in. The phone rang off the hook and couldn't believe it when George W invited me over for a spot of tea and Governor Zoolander extended an invitation to take a spin in a MiG-35 fighter jet. I'm still not sure if the Governor is aware that the MiG-35 is a Russian fighter jet, or if I was being hired for my first undercover assignment. But one thing is for sure, these two fine Americans felt I possessed certain personal attributes they wanted to get to know more about.
As a consequence of the above, instead of hearing that she loves to "look at flowers", I heard she wants to "cook with flours." After all, I reasoned, she was attracted to dough. It was perfectly logical to me and, furthermore, her ungular hands were ideally suited for the process of kneading, among other activities. This is why I purchased the King Arthur product for her. When she asked "what's the purpose of this," I reflexively pointed to the copy on the package that read "All Purpose."
It was difficult for me to characterize her reaction at the time being unaware that certain individuals are born with a genetic predisposition for blowing steam out of their ears. But, I’m really good at understanding body language. And so, when she gestured that I would “never, ever get near her oven, let alone savor the flavor of the hot, creamy concoctions that were her speciality,” although expressed not exactly in those words, I knew that the premiere service that I had heretofore been accustomed to, would no longer be available to me at the same discounted price. I detected a distinct change in her demeanor towards me, even down to the way she made eye contact. I'd compare it to the look a waiter throws your way when you fail to leave the proper baksheesh. This was quite hurtful to me, never having witnessed this kind of treatment from her before.For sure, we had heady times together, but it seemed I would never again hear the music of the words “do you want cream on that cookie.” Distraught and dejected, I went on a reckless eating binge trying to fill the emotional void, according to my diabetes doctor and psychiatrist, who's specialty was treating debilitating anxiety disorders in canines, which I did not think a significant impediment to my successful treatment, despite his repeatedly calling attention to the fact that he was a veterinarian.
Driven by mad obsession, I patronized all the patisseries I could find, which proved nearly impossible since I lived in the United States. However, I did acquaint myself with establishments that specialized in cookies and croissants, and endeavored to bury my pain by stuffing down a breathtaking variety of bakers’ confections. I consumed abnormal quantities of shortcrust pastry, so much so that I shrunk 2 inches and needed to get all my pantaloons hemmed.
And so, when I see frequent mention of confections and other goodies among the chatters at Talkshoe (TS), please understand that this is an extremely poignant memory for me. I wonder too, if this could be because carbohydrates raise serotonin? Eating freshly baked breads, cookies, muffins, etc. provides the tryptophan for boosting brain serotonin. I've come to realize that one of the saddest consequences of this entire matter is that a large subsection of the TI community is completely unaware of the true cause behind their exorbitant outlay of capital on alterations.
It is a fact not widely appreciated by the masses that the population’s attempt to rebalance their neurochemistry is causally related to the boom in the tailoring industry. In some small way I’m hoping to change that. This is what
has led me to the inescapable conclusion that large numbers of people are
targeted and harassed by haberdasheries and hand-washed laundry services
all along this great land of ours. The more pronounced the imbalance in our brain chemistry, the greater the net profits for these businesses. This is called motive. It's as simple as that. And while I am no expert in the field of
comestibles psychology, since this field doesn’t yet exist and I just coined
the term, I have known for quite some time, well, at least since last week,
that carbos impact serotonin levels. I personally verified this theory when, in
one sitting, I consumed a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream and a
box of Entenmann’s coffee crumb cake. The good news is that the EMS driver
shuttled me to the emergency room in near record time and my serotonin syndrome
was deemed non-life threatening by a shabbily dressed orderly.
I wouldn’t be too off base by saying there’s a lot of chat about food, nudity and sex on TS. When I hear talk about how delicious a particular dish is or what a fantastic recipe that is, after a while, I grow ravenously hungry and feel this inner tension crying out for succor. That’s why I never visit any of the TS rooms for an extended period of time unless I have a loaf of rosemary bread and a tub of butter at my side. Few understand my peccadilloes and that’s okay. I think we can all agree that we respond somewhat differently from each other with respect to our triggers. But I must say, there are striking parallels to my behavior with food when the discussion turns to sex, as it invariably does. Soon, I am seized with a frenetic urge to quell these desires as well. That’s why, understandably, I will never visit any of the TS rooms unless Rosemary agrees to loaf in the tub with me for an extended period of time with a little butter on the side. Seriously though, the fact that Rosemary is an octogenarian with brittle bones and a bad hip, and not too sure footed around porcelain, she never ceases to remind me just how slippery things can be when wet. I politely ask her never to jog my memory about that again. Nevertheless, this in no way diminishes the validity of my forthcoming declaration. If a first-time listener to TS randomly dropped by the chat rooms, he or she would get the impression that participants almost certainly want to get the sex talk over and done with, so they could work on the immediate goal of finding solutions to the vexing problem of organizing a sexual and culinary lollapalooza ASAP.
I wouldn’t be too off base by saying there’s a lot of chat about food, nudity and sex on TS. When I hear talk about how delicious a particular dish is or what a fantastic recipe that is, after a while, I grow ravenously hungry and feel this inner tension crying out for succor. That’s why I never visit any of the TS rooms for an extended period of time unless I have a loaf of rosemary bread and a tub of butter at my side. Few understand my peccadilloes and that’s okay. I think we can all agree that we respond somewhat differently from each other with respect to our triggers. But I must say, there are striking parallels to my behavior with food when the discussion turns to sex, as it invariably does. Soon, I am seized with a frenetic urge to quell these desires as well. That’s why, understandably, I will never visit any of the TS rooms unless Rosemary agrees to loaf in the tub with me for an extended period of time with a little butter on the side. Seriously though, the fact that Rosemary is an octogenarian with brittle bones and a bad hip, and not too sure footed around porcelain, she never ceases to remind me just how slippery things can be when wet. I politely ask her never to jog my memory about that again. Nevertheless, this in no way diminishes the validity of my forthcoming declaration. If a first-time listener to TS randomly dropped by the chat rooms, he or she would get the impression that participants almost certainly want to get the sex talk over and done with, so they could work on the immediate goal of finding solutions to the vexing problem of organizing a sexual and culinary lollapalooza ASAP.
I hope I’ve been able to convey the point that negative
stress is a defining characteristic of the TI life experience. And this is why I can’t emphasize too strongly, just how important it will be for us to keep neurochemical homeostasis and a seamstress on retainer to make all necessary
on-the-spot alterations.
But please don’t try to accomplish this by focusing
exclusively on serotonin. There are many other neurochemicals that affect mood
besides this one neurotransmitter. Hormones too, influence brain chemistry.
Here’s an article that appeared recently in the British Medical Journal and
written by a professor of psychiatry that pretty much demolishes the serotonin
myth of depression.
http://www.bmj.com/content/350/bmj.h1771
http://www.bmj.com/content/350/bmj.h1771
And now with warmer weather on the horizon, psychologists
and criminologists warn that antisocial behavior skyrockets during the summer
months. One profession postulates genetics as the determining factor in how stress
impacts serotonin levels, while the other correlates sweltering temperatures to
the dramatic increase in crime. Both disciplines vied to establish theoretical
dominance for this phenomenon, and for a while it was unclear which school of thought would prevail. Then, in a not well-publicized study, behavioral scientists and
criminal justice scholars serendipitously discovered that low serotonin levels
seem to predispose susceptible individuals to extreme violence. This
groundbreaking conclusion, and I say that without exaggeration, was arrived at
when these two groups whacked each other mercilessly about the head and body for
no other reason than the simple fact that it was July. The mainstream media
once again filtered out the truth of this spectacle when they failed to disclose
that the recently renovated facility intended to house the flood of
non-criminal offenders, was destroyed in the altercation, and that all innocent
victims were grudgingly released due to a shortage of sufficiently humiliating
holding pens.
One recent study claims that climate change will raise
serious crime rates.
In a paper entitled “Heat and Violence,” a professor writes
that violent crime correlates with a rise in temperature.
http://www.cbsnews.com/news/hot-and-bothered-experts-say-violent-crime-rises-with-the-heat/
http://www.cbsnews.com/news/hot-and-bothered-experts-say-violent-crime-rises-with-the-heat/
And the following study covers the Role of Serotonin and
Dopamine System interactions in the Neurobiology of Impulsive Aggression
http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2612120/
http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2612120/
Do they want the whole world sedated? I’ve been screaming
“YES” for years, having been nudged along in that conviction by the punk rock group, the Ramones. They had produced one of the most critically acclaimed classic punk albums of the era, “Too Tough To Die." Then, in what seemed like a slap in their face professionally, in contradistinction to a professional slap from someone like a Mike Tyson, music critics reevaluated the Ramones oeuvre and cultural relevance and found them lacking, primarily due to the fact that the
Ramones are now all dead, and continue to remain so in what seems, for all intents
and purposes, like an eternity.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NP4OvJPrcsA
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NP4OvJPrcsA
With songs like "Gimme, Gimme Shock Treatment," "Psycho Therapy" and of course, the mega-hit “I Wanna Be Sedated,” most aficionados of the genre, including yours
truly, were shocked to learn that these bastards were receiving money, under-the-table, from Bristol Myers-Squid, Glecko-Smith Kline, and the Medellin
Cartel. Senior vice presidents from these businesses agreed that this was the
best method to funnel money to the group for their mind-controlling lyrics, as
the Ramones could most reliably be found semi-conscious and under the table.
So, when you read these scientific articles, I ask only that
you please keep in mind that the results of most studies are heavily influenced
by pharma-dollars and government largess; and that it’s extremely rare to get
independent, objective reporting on such issues. In any event, it seems increasingly clear that the only people who will be allowed to express anger or show the
slightest hint of aggression will be the police. This does not bode well for
society, and humanity on the whole, because it may come to pass that only those with a gold-plated
shield will be allowed to reproduce. If you can't show anger, what would that mean for love? Importantly, if you can't show love, or are reprimanded if you do, we would lose Valentine's day. That would leave a paltry 27 days for the month of February, exposing it to a humiliating loss of prestige among eleven of the most venerated members of the calendar, as well as possible litigation from the financially embattled chocolate sellers syndicate.
Knowing the valuable role chocolatiers play in our society, would Mars and its affiliates allow itself to be pushed around, or worse, go out of business from the rising tide of hatred throughout the land? Or would Mars opt to start an intergalactic war? Oh, you're still in doubt about aliens are you? Then I see you have yet to meet my brothers, Ajax, Scibus and Q2.
Chocolate, originally called the food of the gods by the Aztecs because of its health-promoting effects on body, mind and spirit, has more than 300 different compounds, many of which positively effect our brain chemistry. One such compound is anandamide, a neurotransmitter that activates the same pleasure receptors in the brain as does THC, the psychoactive chemical in marijuana. It can facilitate some very wild adventures, if you know what I mean. Years ago, I was not knowledgeable about chocolate's affinity for the cannabis receptor, but I should have been, had I paid more attention to its subtle effects after consuming massive amounts of 90% pure dark cacoa one rainy night.
Driving from Greenwich Village to the Upper West side in Manhattan should not seem like an extraordinary feat, but I was unaware that I had accomplished this by driving in reverse while looking in the rear view mirror. It appears my brain had tricked itself, making a calculation error, a category error, and a systematic error, by applying mathematical rules for negative numbers to driving. In other words, I couldn't have been more wrong. It turns out two negatives do not make a positive when the negatives are reverse driving multiplied by rear view. If I had created a rule for my hypothesis it would've looked something like: r x rv2 = f or [(reverse) x (rear view)2 = forward]. I then would've realized that this was an invalid hypothesis and revised my commuting plans for the evening, as it was now quite obvious that my formula had violated all accepted laws of physics since the Copernican revolution. Instead, my lady friend, who was my companion that evening, never saw me again after this trip, as she could not stop screaming and destroying all the mirrors in her house, according to her parents, who compassionately signed her into a psych ward for an unspecified period of time.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, if you're going to experiment with 75-90% dark cocoa, be extremely careful. Plan ahead and have a designated driver or just stay home. Don't be foolish like I was. The psychoactive, hallucinogenic properties of chocolate have many similarities to that of cannabis. And if you're driving under the influence of chocolate after a few hits on a bong, you are taking your life into your hands. Dr.Leslie Grinspoons, Professor Emeritus of psychiatry at Harvard Medical School said recently about chocolate, "there's some really potent sh*t out there. I'm talking 95% pure and a lot of novices are making fatal category errors, like the young man who believed he could hang out in the tiger's den at the Bronx Zoo because he'd been eating Kellogg's Frosted Flakes for years and thought Tony the Tiger and he were "buds." Turns out he smoked a few buds that day and ate some cocoa that was pure and uncut. His behavior was a classic category error which can be fatal."
http://usnews.nbcnews.com/_news/2012/09/21/14017125-man-jumps-into-tiger-den-at-bronx-zoo-is-badly-mauled?lite
So where would love be without ocassional fighting, you ask? A mirage, not real? My inamorata once threw a frying pan with hot oil at me because she didn't like the way I prepared the potatoes. She complained that my cooking caused too much glycation and toxic acrylamide to form. She attributed this to the belief that my hashbrowns had way too much brown and not enough hash.
Fortunately, my natural disposition served as an emotional equipoise to her outbursts. And just as quickly as the disagreement started, so did the passionate reconciliation. Long-intervals of steamy sessions followed, and while I will not describe the play-by-play acrobatics that took place, suffice it to say that much of the steam resulted from putting the oil to good use. And yes, it was very hot.
Sadly, we’ve been conditioned to believe the ideal about love: if it's true LOVE, then it should be a no-conflict zone. Except that's not how it works. Hyping Ozzy Osbourne and his wife Sharon, as representative of marital bliss, is nothing but hocus-pocus, deceiving you into believing that this is the blueprint for connubial Ecstasy. While it may seem true that the Osbourne's don't fight, that's only because Ozzy has lost massive amount of brain tissue from, you guessed it, Ecstasy, along with other illicit substances. And Sharon doesn't fight because she's fearful of undoing that perfect halibut mouth her cosmetic surgeon worked so tirelessly to achieve. Love without ever fighting is an oxymoron, a lot like beIng a TI wIthout being harassed and tortured. What are they going to try to push on us next, vaccines that promote good health?
But you should know that I am not the studly type, and that's been certified by the Town Director in charge of overseeing Machismo in the targeted individual population. There was a time not too long ago that I could have been mistaken for a lady's man as I once caused a female's toes to curl so far backwards that she had to be rushed to a podiatrist to get them uncurled. But if you've been in this program for any significant period of time, you would likely agree that appearances can change drastically and dramatically, as mine unfortunately did.
If you do not know what the Erotic V is, just let me say do not be off-put by the fact that it involves large pieces of furniture. She said I had the type of decor she was most attracted to, and that was the Chippendale design. In fact, she liked the furnishings so much that she affectionately called me Chippen. She believed this was due to her uncontrollable desire to bounce up and down on me. She was particularly attracted to my drawers and nightstand as it has that distressed look, and had been hand-shaped, which unbeknownst to me, adds value at auction. Plus, I'm the original owner so I could probably fetch top dollar. For what it's worth, I was told that she refused to work with anyone who had Scandinavian Contemporary in the their living quarters as her vertebrae nearly ruptured in what she contemptuously refers to as her Ikea incident.
I share these details so that you should not be surprised by the announcement that the limped-phalluses, or as I prefer to say, "members" of the totally corrupt Congress, are considering passing legislation that labels an erection as a potentially invasive act that needs to be monitored by those in charge of protecting the Homeland. Had this legislation been in effect when I met Anjali, I would have been denied the unforgettable experience of going on the Antiques Roadshow and being called Mr. Chippendale.
Knowing the valuable role chocolatiers play in our society, would Mars and its affiliates allow itself to be pushed around, or worse, go out of business from the rising tide of hatred throughout the land? Or would Mars opt to start an intergalactic war? Oh, you're still in doubt about aliens are you? Then I see you have yet to meet my brothers, Ajax, Scibus and Q2.
Chocolate, originally called the food of the gods by the Aztecs because of its health-promoting effects on body, mind and spirit, has more than 300 different compounds, many of which positively effect our brain chemistry. One such compound is anandamide, a neurotransmitter that activates the same pleasure receptors in the brain as does THC, the psychoactive chemical in marijuana. It can facilitate some very wild adventures, if you know what I mean. Years ago, I was not knowledgeable about chocolate's affinity for the cannabis receptor, but I should have been, had I paid more attention to its subtle effects after consuming massive amounts of 90% pure dark cacoa one rainy night.
Driving from Greenwich Village to the Upper West side in Manhattan should not seem like an extraordinary feat, but I was unaware that I had accomplished this by driving in reverse while looking in the rear view mirror. It appears my brain had tricked itself, making a calculation error, a category error, and a systematic error, by applying mathematical rules for negative numbers to driving. In other words, I couldn't have been more wrong. It turns out two negatives do not make a positive when the negatives are reverse driving multiplied by rear view. If I had created a rule for my hypothesis it would've looked something like: r x rv2 = f or [(reverse) x (rear view)2 = forward]. I then would've realized that this was an invalid hypothesis and revised my commuting plans for the evening, as it was now quite obvious that my formula had violated all accepted laws of physics since the Copernican revolution. Instead, my lady friend, who was my companion that evening, never saw me again after this trip, as she could not stop screaming and destroying all the mirrors in her house, according to her parents, who compassionately signed her into a psych ward for an unspecified period of time.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, if you're going to experiment with 75-90% dark cocoa, be extremely careful. Plan ahead and have a designated driver or just stay home. Don't be foolish like I was. The psychoactive, hallucinogenic properties of chocolate have many similarities to that of cannabis. And if you're driving under the influence of chocolate after a few hits on a bong, you are taking your life into your hands. Dr.Leslie Grinspoons, Professor Emeritus of psychiatry at Harvard Medical School said recently about chocolate, "there's some really potent sh*t out there. I'm talking 95% pure and a lot of novices are making fatal category errors, like the young man who believed he could hang out in the tiger's den at the Bronx Zoo because he'd been eating Kellogg's Frosted Flakes for years and thought Tony the Tiger and he were "buds." Turns out he smoked a few buds that day and ate some cocoa that was pure and uncut. His behavior was a classic category error which can be fatal."
http://usnews.nbcnews.com/_news/2012/09/21/14017125-man-jumps-into-tiger-den-at-bronx-zoo-is-badly-mauled?lite
Please accept my apologies for having gone on another tangent, as chocolate can affect me so. To continue from where we left off, chocolate not only boosts the feel-good chemicals in the brain, in a very real way, it mimics the biochemistry of love. It supplies the same neurochemical that floods our brain during courtship. Phenylethylamine (PEA) is that high-spirited constituent of chocolate that increases dopamine, the neurotransmitter of pleasure and motivation. PEA entices and beckons us, lifting our mood with its aphrodisiacal and antidepressant properties. But why? If chocolate is a godsend, its message as clear as it is divine, persuading us with every bite that nature enhances love, but even more important, love enhances nature. Because when we love, we respect, care for, and protect nature, which is the very thing giving us sustenance: air, soil, water, plants, animals, insects, and so on. Love does not abuse, exploit and damage that which our very survival depends upon, and maybe, just maybe, the cocoa bean and her chocolate sister will wake us up to this globally urgent message.
So, the choice is ours, more police, more repression and more killing; or more chocolate, more expression and more loving. If we lose Valentine's day, its symbolism and its converse with our hearts, could you blame me for hitchhiking out of here on the next launch to the big red planet?
Anger is one feeling among the vast palette of emotions that helps define and color our personality. When used appropriately, anger can be very healthy and healing. Used inappropriately, you could end up on the Jerry Springer show or express it to someone that recently competed in the Mixed Martial Arts Ultimate Fighting Championship Tournament. Hence the wisdom from from the sages throughout the ages: anger is a double edged sword and can hurt a lot to those who wield it.
Anger is one feeling among the vast palette of emotions that helps define and color our personality. When used appropriately, anger can be very healthy and healing. Used inappropriately, you could end up on the Jerry Springer show or express it to someone that recently competed in the Mixed Martial Arts Ultimate Fighting Championship Tournament. Hence the wisdom from from the sages throughout the ages: anger is a double edged sword and can hurt a lot to those who wield it.
So where would love be without ocassional fighting, you ask? A mirage, not real? My inamorata once threw a frying pan with hot oil at me because she didn't like the way I prepared the potatoes. She complained that my cooking caused too much glycation and toxic acrylamide to form. She attributed this to the belief that my hashbrowns had way too much brown and not enough hash.
Sadly, we’ve been conditioned to believe the ideal about love: if it's true LOVE, then it should be a no-conflict zone. Except that's not how it works. Hyping Ozzy Osbourne and his wife Sharon, as representative of marital bliss, is nothing but hocus-pocus, deceiving you into believing that this is the blueprint for connubial Ecstasy. While it may seem true that the Osbourne's don't fight, that's only because Ozzy has lost massive amount of brain tissue from, you guessed it, Ecstasy, along with other illicit substances. And Sharon doesn't fight because she's fearful of undoing that perfect halibut mouth her cosmetic surgeon worked so tirelessly to achieve. Love without ever fighting is an oxymoron, a lot like beIng a TI wIthout being harassed and tortured. What are they going to try to push on us next, vaccines that promote good health?
But you should know that I am not the studly type, and that's been certified by the Town Director in charge of overseeing Machismo in the targeted individual population. There was a time not too long ago that I could have been mistaken for a lady's man as I once caused a female's toes to curl so far backwards that she had to be rushed to a podiatrist to get them uncurled. But if you've been in this program for any significant period of time, you would likely agree that appearances can change drastically and dramatically, as mine unfortunately did.
However, one pleasant transformation did come about after meeting a Hindu female, with the lovely name Anjali, meaning "offering" in eblogger. From what I could tell at the time, this was most apropos because she was very thoughtful, preparing meals in advance several times a week for me. When I noticed that everything she served was heavily charred, I complained. She apologized profusely, telling me this was her way to pay homage to someone she thought of as a god, as these were her burnt offerings to me. But try as I might, I could not find fault with her logic and so for the next year, I continued to consume food that can only be described as incinerated. The one minor down side to her meal prep I was able to detect is that my teeth are now a permanent shade of charcoal.
Anyway, she taught me all about the Kama Sutra, and what a teacher she was. I became an honor student for the first tIme in my life! One of her favorite lessons was called the "Erotic V." This was a long way from the bland "Vanilla M" that I had been performing prior to making her acquaintance. Soon, we worked our way through the entire alphabet, exceeding all her expectations as I graduated summa cum laude, which bettered her cum laude efforts, although she assured me she was more than pleased.
If you do not know what the Erotic V is, just let me say do not be off-put by the fact that it involves large pieces of furniture. She said I had the type of decor she was most attracted to, and that was the Chippendale design. In fact, she liked the furnishings so much that she affectionately called me Chippen. She believed this was due to her uncontrollable desire to bounce up and down on me. She was particularly attracted to my drawers and nightstand as it has that distressed look, and had been hand-shaped, which unbeknownst to me, adds value at auction. Plus, I'm the original owner so I could probably fetch top dollar. For what it's worth, I was told that she refused to work with anyone who had Scandinavian Contemporary in the their living quarters as her vertebrae nearly ruptured in what she contemptuously refers to as her Ikea incident.
I share these details so that you should not be surprised by the announcement that the limped-phalluses, or as I prefer to say, "members" of the totally corrupt Congress, are considering passing legislation that labels an erection as a potentially invasive act that needs to be monitored by those in charge of protecting the Homeland. Had this legislation been in effect when I met Anjali, I would have been denied the unforgettable experience of going on the Antiques Roadshow and being called Mr. Chippendale.
So, whether you are in a loving relationship or merely pleasuring the self, you are now skirting into dangerous territory because soon it may be considered not only unpatriotic, but illegal too, unless you have on your person at all times, a valid annual eyeglass prescription, that is, if you can afford to drive a motor vehicle.
In conjunction with their "invasive acts" legislation, there was a no "holes" barred, heated debate on the natural gas bill, which stipulates that when any member of Congress lets a butt bazooka rip, a flat tax will be imposed to offset the annual deficit. It is estimated that the 18 trillion dollar Gross Federal Debt will be halved in the coming decade thanks to the unending hot air and unlimited flatulence generated by these high-ranking members, who plop down on their plush derrieres, deep in the bowels of the Senate and the House. “Man, that sure is gross!” as one incumbent, who wished to remain anonymous said, “This is a great thing, no ifs, ands or buts about it.”
Additionally, the House Whip Majority Leader included a provision that protects Congress from any fallout, (the imagery here is just to horrific to contemplate) stating that ridicule and shaming of public officials are now unconstitutional, but the cheap shot and giggle were still permissible. Several key legislators know that the noxious effluvium permeating the imperial halls of Congress is the real reason why they always seem to be in recess.
Protestors are rightfully up in arms over the growing stench and lessening of our freedoms, as arms raised over one's head now seems to be the only universally recognized position allowable in our constitutionally protected Republic.
What could possibly be the true cause for all this naked surveillance? Is it Jealousy? Obsession? Desire? Hiding out in the shadows among these three, is the aroma of Madness. If fact, I’m drenched in these four
fragrances right now so that whenever any perp gets within three meters of me,
their olfactory bulb explodes. What’s even better, two of the fragrances are
colognes and two are perfumes, which has disturbed the already confused sexual identity of two male Perps on my heels. This must have triggered a response through some neuro-linguistic mechanism because, the last I heard, they had bedecked the walls of their apartment with posters of Caitlyn Jenner and Chelsea Manning. If my actions have, in any way, helped to accelerate the transitioning of these fledgling "ladies" into mature and confident transgender adults, then I feel blessed. I am as pro-gender equality as any libertarian and was pleased upon hearing that their gynecological surgeon, Dr. Hugh Hymen, has already said that he "will go to any lengths to make them happy."
Naturally, they are contemplating career changes along with their lifestyle upgrade. The two perps, Nick and Tony have already changed their names. But why Nick changed his name to Antonia and Tony flipped his to Nikki defies explanation. It's just too mind-boggling to even attempt to understand what they're thinking.
It did, however, dawn on me that they must have been in the program too, as most Perps do not realize that when they signed up to harass others, they are being monitored and injected with subliminal programming as well. This government sponsored program attempts to turn you into the opposite of what you are. They try to change your motivation and drive. And this is what happened to Nikki and Antonia, but I never imagined just how that would find its expression in Nikki.
Nikki, the foxier of the two, if that characterization is not considered too gauche for some, wants to open a combo auto repair/clothing store. It's a novel idea and should appeal to a wide "cross-dressing" section of the population, who also happen to be in the market for that new Tranny. It's tentatively called "Shifting Gears" for those who, as Nikki says, "want to change from front wheel drive to more of an all wheel drive option." Other customers noticed that their bushings were worn down and needed to change. I only have compassion for these two former perps because I know that, if my axel thrust and drive shaft were not functioning up to par, as they claimed theirs were, I just don't know what I'd do.
The Nook and Tranny sector is a huge, untapped market and now Nikki and Antonia are going to be tapping it every day for profit. I couldn't be any more delighted than I already am for their impressIve business savvy. And if you watch television programs, like "Transparent," "Orange is the New Black", or any of a dozen other shows, it's obvious the transgender movement is turning into a genuine cultural phenomenon. These lucky two timed it perfectly and are now riding the crest of a very large wave. But the best news by far is there are two fewer perps on the road. And that means the world is just a little bit safer and kinder, that is, if they don't get recruited again.
Naturally, they are contemplating career changes along with their lifestyle upgrade. The two perps, Nick and Tony have already changed their names. But why Nick changed his name to Antonia and Tony flipped his to Nikki defies explanation. It's just too mind-boggling to even attempt to understand what they're thinking.
It did, however, dawn on me that they must have been in the program too, as most Perps do not realize that when they signed up to harass others, they are being monitored and injected with subliminal programming as well. This government sponsored program attempts to turn you into the opposite of what you are. They try to change your motivation and drive. And this is what happened to Nikki and Antonia, but I never imagined just how that would find its expression in Nikki.
Nikki, the foxier of the two, if that characterization is not considered too gauche for some, wants to open a combo auto repair/clothing store. It's a novel idea and should appeal to a wide "cross-dressing" section of the population, who also happen to be in the market for that new Tranny. It's tentatively called "Shifting Gears" for those who, as Nikki says, "want to change from front wheel drive to more of an all wheel drive option." Other customers noticed that their bushings were worn down and needed to change. I only have compassion for these two former perps because I know that, if my axel thrust and drive shaft were not functioning up to par, as they claimed theirs were, I just don't know what I'd do.
The Nook and Tranny sector is a huge, untapped market and now Nikki and Antonia are going to be tapping it every day for profit. I couldn't be any more delighted than I already am for their impressIve business savvy. And if you watch television programs, like "Transparent," "Orange is the New Black", or any of a dozen other shows, it's obvious the transgender movement is turning into a genuine cultural phenomenon. These lucky two timed it perfectly and are now riding the crest of a very large wave. But the best news by far is there are two fewer perps on the road. And that means the world is just a little bit safer and kinder, that is, if they don't get recruited again.
Last week, I had an associate tell the Mayor in my town that he, the Mayor, has driven me to Madness, at which point he suggested I get a mental evaluation. That was until he inquired about the fragrance my friend was wearing. She spritzed the Mayor with some perfume from her knapsack.
I can’t be totally sure what the Mayor thinks of me now, but I surmise that he must
have fallen under its spell because, for the next several minutes, he performed an impressive
pas de deux (Japanese for two nothings) with a rather fetching postal worker dressed in a beguiling powder blue pants and blouse ensemble.
Those in charge of monitoring you, the local, state and federal government, including
the military, police, and private security contractors, have technology that you just wouldn’t believe. Is it any wonder then that these professional harassers and government-sponsored perps, with depraved indifference to human life, would eventually target perhaps the single greatest natural resource this world has ever produced, women? Make no mistake about it,
these weiner’s with their two amigos, (a.k.a. dickheads with balls) want dominion not only over a woman's mind, but her crotch too. The testosteronic state
has declared war on your choochie-choo, your life-giving bird’s nest, and want total control and ownership over this precious resource, just as with any
occupation. Don’t be surprised when you read about “Operation Cherry Pie” and the need to carpet
bomb the thatched huts, firing phallic-shaped missiles and electromagnetic beams
near the Cape. They are talking about your carpet, your thatch, your V-J-J, and
every woman out there is at risk! I truly believe it’s because the state is
afraid of the feminine mystique, the strong-female archetype that’s encased in
the mind, heart and spirit of every self-aware woman. This is who you are,
hence, the hyper-masculinized, hyper-militarized approach to faux security,
coupled with the very real torture and oppression of women in the community and
society at large.
Today, we see growing numbers of women referring to their lady parts as Mount Pleasant, the Netherlands, the Bermuda Triangle, the South Pole, Georgia Peach, Garden of Eden, Grand Canyon, Mount Ever-Rest, etc. Why? Is it because the Vajayjay has now become a place, a public place, not a private, pubic space? You, and you alone, own your yoni and don't ever forget it! Do you realize that you have the ultimate weapon, more powerful that any nuclear bomb, any laser guided munitions, or any plasma particle beam. You possess the creme de la creme, top du top, (as the Italians are fond of saying) of weapons. If you decide to close up shop down there, you females could collectively wipe out life on earth as we know it in less than 100 years, (or 150 years max, if you count Suzanne Somers). CALLING ON ALL FEMALES TO UNITE. RAISE HELL. RAISE YOUR VOICES. RAISE THE RAFTERS. TELL THOSE BUSHWACKERS "YOU'RE TAKING BACK YOUR YONIS!"
This dovetails perfectly with the latest research on masturbation and also confirms how savvy I've been for almost the last three months.
http://www.popsugar.com/love/Health-Benefits-Masturbation-37241890
So, review the scientific literature for yourself, don't just take my word for it, and start experiencing the health benefits of "spending a night in with the girls" or "going out on a big date with Rosey Palms and her five sisters." Before trying your hand at this, l encourage you to first read some of the extensive literature out there on the topic, so as to be better equipped to handle any unexpected snag or emergency, if the situation should arise. There are definitely techniques and tools one should not use. For example hand puppetry and salad tongs are poor choices. So do read up.
If you are going to take the plunge, I hope you don't mind me recommending that you proceed slowly, very slowly, and make every effort to be sequestered from the maddening crowds. Allow yourself to get quiet and empty your mind. Now, surrender to the flood of sensations that are gradually climbing inside you. You may feel a pleasant kind of tension building, and this is good, it means you are on the right track, so continue at a slowish pace. Your pulse and heartbeat start to quicken and now seem synchronized to your breathing, which is shallower, yet more rhythmic. You feel an excitement mounting inside of you, as if it had hands and fingers detonating little sparks of desire all over your body. You become aware that this tower of living energy is about to explode inside of you if you try and contain it any longer. You realize that you are no match against this force that you have, by your own hand, set in motion, as it spirals, surges and rises within. You are left with no choice but to surrender completely to its overwhelming, transcendent power. You are almost ready to release a tidal wave of tension as it urgently, deliriously pleads for its emancipation. All of a sudden the walls of your fortress have been breached and you burst forth with an eruption of liquescent bliss. The bars that had been imprisoning the mind melt from the flames of your sated desire. The voluptuousness of the stillness and gratitude within transport you into another realm. It feels very much like a lIttle death, le petite morte, le mot juste, and we can thank the Bulgarians for coining these terms.
So definitely give it a go, just to see if you two can get along, so to speak. If you think you can be a couple, than be an early adopter of this earth-shattering, mind-blowing work out. I predict this is going to be the next fitness trend, no, let me restate that. It's going to be next great fitness craze, far surpassing Tony Horton's P90X workouts and even Dr. Oz in popularity. To prepare yourself and to get the ultimate benefit for your effort, I personally recommend taking up a hobby that will help get a rise out of you for years to come.
There is this truly intelligent caller on TS, and I say that without fear of contradiction, because he goes by the chat room alias "Truly intelligent." He talks continually about being manipulated into masturbation by his remote neural manipulation (RNM). He feels absolutely terrible about this too. Yet, he returns nearly every night telling the TS audience how we need to watch out for this manipulation, right after he finished giving a private audition to Mr. Knuckles and his hand puppets. I've never seen anyone vacillate between extreme agitation and Zen Buddhistic calm in one evening as this guy, unless you include the hair pulling, table flipping, knock down slugfest, kissy-kiss makeup of the Real Housewives of New Jersey. The first time I saw these characters on a mobile device, I was shocked and horrified. It was then that I knew that as long as I resided in the Garden State, I would be committed to a position of total celibacy.
But please don't misconstrue my intention. I'm not saying that he, or all TIs, for that matter, aren't being RNM'd, but I just wish he'd stop choking the one-eyed cyclops till it throws up, then going on air to "clean up his mess," and telling everybody else they are being manipulated if they decide to self-pleasure too. If that isn't a straight up definition of a hypocrite and a kill joy, I don't know what is. And besides, the clinical research supports masturbation as a healthy sexual alternative for those not already in either an intimate relationship or a mutually degrading and exploitative hookup, the latter now seeming to be the more popular of the two.
No one would disagree that being a TI is abnormally stressful, if for no other reason than that the government program of covert harassment and physical assault is designed to destroy your life. But, no, let's adopt this gentleman's Puritanical ethic so that the stress-busting, anxiety-reducing, relaxation-inducing benefits of self-love are viewed with distain, or maybe, even prohibited. This way you and I can walk around looking as friendly as a clenched fist. I wonder how total abstinence would help our cause. Here's a small hint. It won't.
I now believe that the most unpatriotic activity you can perform is masturbation. This has nothing whatsoever to do with terrorism, and I resent the implication that it does; unless you prefer the use of a vibrating hand grenade to get off, at which point I can offer no advice other than to "hit the deck" or, to just bid you a fond adieu or a fondue, (as the Turkish love to say) in case you also happen to be hungry before you die.
Justification abounds for this point of view. If you don't masturbate, you will have more tension, more anger. And the state needs angry people so that they can get them to discharge their hostility using assault rifles on many of the known ethnic groups around the world. These people are deceptively labelled mercenaries and heroes, instead of state-sponsored killers.
Also, masturbating is an activity diametrically opposed to the work ethic, one of the foundational principals that built this great country. So, when you self-pleasure or when you fuck, you are having fun, and having fun makes people happy and happy people don't want to kill. Thus, whether you are "brushing your carpet" or "polishing the timber," you are behaving in a manner that's fundamentally in opposition to the ethics of our country. So, to say it as bluntly as possible, every time you come, you're screwing the soulless totalitarian state.
In an undercover survey conducted by Freedom From Covert Harassment and SurveIllance (FFCHS), an organization that provides support for Targeted Individuals, it was discovered that only 5% of TIs willingly had sex with another over a 2-year period. But that percentage jumps to 97% when you include masturbation. This is vital information for FFCHS to possess because it provides raw data and proof about our isolation and the dearth of intimate personal relationships. Moreover, it tells the leaders of FFCHS who in our community still has a pulse and, ultimately, who they should invite over for the next fund-raising candlelight dinner.
In what may perhaps be the most interesting of all the research findings, despite the thousands of hours dedicated to discussing sex, shielding, protection, and masturbation, there still has been no known mention of the phrase "safe sex" which, according to unofficial sources, is still very much in vogue in nursing homes and, oddly enough, my home.
Naturally, this makes you wonder if the obsessive glad-handing, sociopathic, multi-millionaire members of Congress have anything to do with your targeting? Since the Patriot Act and multiple extensions to the NDAA, which transformed COINTELPRO into a SUPER COINTELPRO, the state has created a satellite super highway for non-stop surveillance, physical torture and psychological harassment of the average citizen. "Protecting our freedoms" has just become another bromide in a land where pleas to stop the torture, stop the experimentation and stop the killing creates the very signals for the soulless state to increase our persecution.
Of course, maybe Congress got doused with too much of that cologne themselves, but their fragrance of choice is called Money, which over time has an aroma akin to Madness. But professional perfumers say it's much stronger and closer to the scent of Insanity. If you get a good whiff, you’ll be able to tell Congress’ actions reek of Insanity, so much so, it's hard to distinguish it from the smell of pure evil bullshit. In the event Congress is unable to hear our pleas for the torture to stop, we will have to pump up the volume of our speech. And we can thank the Supreme Court for their decision on Citizens United, as it is this decision that ruled money to be free speech. Of course, the corollary to that ruling is that poverty is silence. Is it any wonder then why the state keeps targeted segments of our society chronically unemployed or underemployed?
Is the stench that's spreading across the U.S. from toxic special interest groups finally just getting too foul and too ruinous for the population to tolerate any longer? Maybe so. It seems, by and large, that the masses have lost their high frustratIon tolerance when it comes to being treated like non-entities or, if it is an entity, like fecal matter.
Today, we see growing numbers of women referring to their lady parts as Mount Pleasant, the Netherlands, the Bermuda Triangle, the South Pole, Georgia Peach, Garden of Eden, Grand Canyon, Mount Ever-Rest, etc. Why? Is it because the Vajayjay has now become a place, a public place, not a private, pubic space? You, and you alone, own your yoni and don't ever forget it! Do you realize that you have the ultimate weapon, more powerful that any nuclear bomb, any laser guided munitions, or any plasma particle beam. You possess the creme de la creme, top du top, (as the Italians are fond of saying) of weapons. If you decide to close up shop down there, you females could collectively wipe out life on earth as we know it in less than 100 years, (or 150 years max, if you count Suzanne Somers). CALLING ON ALL FEMALES TO UNITE. RAISE HELL. RAISE YOUR VOICES. RAISE THE RAFTERS. TELL THOSE BUSHWACKERS "YOU'RE TAKING BACK YOUR YONIS!"
This dovetails perfectly with the latest research on masturbation and also confirms how savvy I've been for almost the last three months.
http://www.popsugar.com/love/Health-Benefits-Masturbation-37241890
So, review the scientific literature for yourself, don't just take my word for it, and start experiencing the health benefits of "spending a night in with the girls" or "going out on a big date with Rosey Palms and her five sisters." Before trying your hand at this, l encourage you to first read some of the extensive literature out there on the topic, so as to be better equipped to handle any unexpected snag or emergency, if the situation should arise. There are definitely techniques and tools one should not use. For example hand puppetry and salad tongs are poor choices. So do read up.
So definitely give it a go, just to see if you two can get along, so to speak. If you think you can be a couple, than be an early adopter of this earth-shattering, mind-blowing work out. I predict this is going to be the next fitness trend, no, let me restate that. It's going to be next great fitness craze, far surpassing Tony Horton's P90X workouts and even Dr. Oz in popularity. To prepare yourself and to get the ultimate benefit for your effort, I personally recommend taking up a hobby that will help get a rise out of you for years to come.
There is this truly intelligent caller on TS, and I say that without fear of contradiction, because he goes by the chat room alias "Truly intelligent." He talks continually about being manipulated into masturbation by his remote neural manipulation (RNM). He feels absolutely terrible about this too. Yet, he returns nearly every night telling the TS audience how we need to watch out for this manipulation, right after he finished giving a private audition to Mr. Knuckles and his hand puppets. I've never seen anyone vacillate between extreme agitation and Zen Buddhistic calm in one evening as this guy, unless you include the hair pulling, table flipping, knock down slugfest, kissy-kiss makeup of the Real Housewives of New Jersey. The first time I saw these characters on a mobile device, I was shocked and horrified. It was then that I knew that as long as I resided in the Garden State, I would be committed to a position of total celibacy.
But please don't misconstrue my intention. I'm not saying that he, or all TIs, for that matter, aren't being RNM'd, but I just wish he'd stop choking the one-eyed cyclops till it throws up, then going on air to "clean up his mess," and telling everybody else they are being manipulated if they decide to self-pleasure too. If that isn't a straight up definition of a hypocrite and a kill joy, I don't know what is. And besides, the clinical research supports masturbation as a healthy sexual alternative for those not already in either an intimate relationship or a mutually degrading and exploitative hookup, the latter now seeming to be the more popular of the two.
No one would disagree that being a TI is abnormally stressful, if for no other reason than that the government program of covert harassment and physical assault is designed to destroy your life. But, no, let's adopt this gentleman's Puritanical ethic so that the stress-busting, anxiety-reducing, relaxation-inducing benefits of self-love are viewed with distain, or maybe, even prohibited. This way you and I can walk around looking as friendly as a clenched fist. I wonder how total abstinence would help our cause. Here's a small hint. It won't.
I now believe that the most unpatriotic activity you can perform is masturbation. This has nothing whatsoever to do with terrorism, and I resent the implication that it does; unless you prefer the use of a vibrating hand grenade to get off, at which point I can offer no advice other than to "hit the deck" or, to just bid you a fond adieu or a fondue, (as the Turkish love to say) in case you also happen to be hungry before you die.
Justification abounds for this point of view. If you don't masturbate, you will have more tension, more anger. And the state needs angry people so that they can get them to discharge their hostility using assault rifles on many of the known ethnic groups around the world. These people are deceptively labelled mercenaries and heroes, instead of state-sponsored killers.
Also, masturbating is an activity diametrically opposed to the work ethic, one of the foundational principals that built this great country. So, when you self-pleasure or when you fuck, you are having fun, and having fun makes people happy and happy people don't want to kill. Thus, whether you are "brushing your carpet" or "polishing the timber," you are behaving in a manner that's fundamentally in opposition to the ethics of our country. So, to say it as bluntly as possible, every time you come, you're screwing the soulless totalitarian state.
In an undercover survey conducted by Freedom From Covert Harassment and SurveIllance (FFCHS), an organization that provides support for Targeted Individuals, it was discovered that only 5% of TIs willingly had sex with another over a 2-year period. But that percentage jumps to 97% when you include masturbation. This is vital information for FFCHS to possess because it provides raw data and proof about our isolation and the dearth of intimate personal relationships. Moreover, it tells the leaders of FFCHS who in our community still has a pulse and, ultimately, who they should invite over for the next fund-raising candlelight dinner.
In what may perhaps be the most interesting of all the research findings, despite the thousands of hours dedicated to discussing sex, shielding, protection, and masturbation, there still has been no known mention of the phrase "safe sex" which, according to unofficial sources, is still very much in vogue in nursing homes and, oddly enough, my home.
Naturally, this makes you wonder if the obsessive glad-handing, sociopathic, multi-millionaire members of Congress have anything to do with your targeting? Since the Patriot Act and multiple extensions to the NDAA, which transformed COINTELPRO into a SUPER COINTELPRO, the state has created a satellite super highway for non-stop surveillance, physical torture and psychological harassment of the average citizen. "Protecting our freedoms" has just become another bromide in a land where pleas to stop the torture, stop the experimentation and stop the killing creates the very signals for the soulless state to increase our persecution.
Of course, maybe Congress got doused with too much of that cologne themselves, but their fragrance of choice is called Money, which over time has an aroma akin to Madness. But professional perfumers say it's much stronger and closer to the scent of Insanity. If you get a good whiff, you’ll be able to tell Congress’ actions reek of Insanity, so much so, it's hard to distinguish it from the smell of pure evil bullshit. In the event Congress is unable to hear our pleas for the torture to stop, we will have to pump up the volume of our speech. And we can thank the Supreme Court for their decision on Citizens United, as it is this decision that ruled money to be free speech. Of course, the corollary to that ruling is that poverty is silence. Is it any wonder then why the state keeps targeted segments of our society chronically unemployed or underemployed?
Is the stench that's spreading across the U.S. from toxic special interest groups finally just getting too foul and too ruinous for the population to tolerate any longer? Maybe so. It seems, by and large, that the masses have lost their high frustratIon tolerance when it comes to being treated like non-entities or, if it is an entity, like fecal matter.
As I returned to investigate the criminal injustice system,
I discover that among the most popular activities offered to prisoners,
in spring and summer, is gardening. Through a process of trial and error,
compassionate wardens all throughout this great country realized when inmates were cultivating soil, they were much more content, compared to, let’s say, the
invigorating activities associated with ice fishing in the pristine waters off of the coast of the Siberian gulag. Horticulture has now become a mainstay of every convict’s
re-education program. Court documents also show that a high percentage of
prisoners already possessed a remarkable aptitude for gardening, allegedly
having planted many bodies in shallow graves prior to getting busted. No one
would disagree that working with mother earth is a good idea for convicts with
the rare exception of those individuals who killed their mothers.
Gardening, or even just pausing to
appreciate the beauty of flowers, will elevate our mood. I often wonder if our
knowledge of the antidepressant qualities of certain flowering plants was first
brought about because we noticed how merely looking, touching, and smelling
them lifted our spirits. Passionflower is a colorful and fragrant plant well
known for its MAO inhibitor properties and St. John’s Wort, another flowering plant,
acts by increasing neurotransmitters but without the adverse side effects of
the SSRI’s.
So, the choice is ours, flour or flower – baguettes or begonias, pretzels or
petunias, churros or chamomile, marshmallow or marijuana, donuts or daffodils, croutons or carnations, two lips or tulips? **
Well, okay, even though lips are relied heavily upon when eating, and importantly,
prevent food from falling out of your mouth so others don't call you a pig, lips can also be eaten. There are tasty recipes for fish lips sushi,
deer head in light BBQ sauce (PLEASE DO NOT CONFUSE with the Bible-study Talkshoe program hosted by "deerinheadlights" – I would not want to be criticized for
organizing a deer headhunting hit squad!). However, the most
avid deer hunters in my neck of the woods go to church and can cite chapter and
verse of scriptures too. There’s a segment of the Christian community in my
town that seems to embrace the sniper ethic of pumping lead into God’s
most beautiful and wild creatures. They confess that nothing quite equals the exhilarating rush they feel when bringing down a wild animal.
A few hours after a fresh kill, my australopithecine neighbors can be seen ripping into the tender meat of deer head in light Bar-B-Que sauce with their incisors. Driven by an insatiable appetite for conquest, they’ll barely take the time to wipe the gravy dripping from the sides of their grotesque mouths with the sleeve of their stained shirts. A malodorous burp erupts from one of their orifices, momentarily interrupting the tenor of the feeding frenzy unfolding right before my eyes, which I find strikingly reminiscent to the maniacal squeals of a pack of hyenas on the plains of the Serengeti after slaughtering a wildebeest. This will repeat itself over and over and over and over and over again, much like this sentence, after which they’ll wash away the gristle stuck in between their tobacco-tinted teeth with a swig of cheap beer.
In all deference to these men, who may be deserving of a modicum of respect, and you can argue the point, but when they sit down at a table in a restaurant, at least they have the good manners to remove their baseball caps. Oh, I could criticize the rectal air biscuits they drop when nearby or that their hairstyles resemble those of well known anarchists, but this could be risky business and increase the intensity and number of skuzzy people that shadow my every move. Many TIs have told me they would give these Perps a piece of their mind for being so rude and disgusting, but I think it far more impactful to just leave a comb and the Glade Sense and Spray Automatic Air Freshener.
It seems our society has developed a penchant for destroying that which is most alive with wildness, and that which can't be controlled. The parallels to the Targeted Individual are striking. Many TIs, blessed with a wildness of spirit and independence of mind are seen as threats to the Obsessive, Compulsive Disordered state of totalitarian control, which by the way is the real OCD. The repressive state wants to capture and ultimately destroy beauty, crush wildness, curb independence, and massacre the Spirit. They want us all to live like bugs caught in a bait trap, like prisoners on death row, alive yet somehow dead, turning our existence into a living contradiction, as well as a living hell.
It may be a truth long unacknowledged, yet seeking expression from the intuitive heart, that the more wild our Spirit, the more beautiful our Soul. Spirit and Soul fill each other, like the proverbial sands flowing through the hourglass. While we are inclined to interpret this as measuring the passage of time, in reality, it can be seen as symbolic of something far more important. If Spirit and Soul enrich and feed each other, and are also within each of us then, is this not the actual "stuff" from which you and I are made? The great religions of the world have taught that Spirit and Soul are indestructible, immortal and everlasting. With this understanding, fear dissolves and disappears into the lower planes of our existence. Yet, you and I still won't be able to reach out and hold Spirit or Soul. But it holds us, secure and close, tenacious in its grip whenever they feel we need to be reminded of its presence. So take great care of these gifts. It is the measure of who we are. An awakened Spirit and Soul are the quintessence of a life well lived in the eyes of God.
There are a number of you who have inquIred about the source of the many inspirations that I share with you. You have asked me "are you the Lamb," or "are you the Good Shepherd?" And I say unto you, do not worry, my flock. If there is mystery, then live with mystery. If there is no mystery, then you may have already met my two belligerent parrots, Spirit and Soul.
They talk and squabble incessantly. All I am doing is transcribing much of their dialogue. Spirit is a Cartesian Dualist and Soul is a Christian Marxist. I have been unable to free myself from the influence of Spirit and Soul for over a decade, about the same time I became a target. Attempting a synthesis of their thought is a complex task, but I believe the general takeaway from their endless squawking goes something to the effect of "I thInk, therefore I am," and "achieving a dictatorship of the proletariat." Round and round, this conversational loop "I think, therefore I am achieving a dictatorship of the proletariat" pounds into my cranium, driving me to the outer limits of my endurance and closer to the edge of a craggy precipice.
While I struggle to find some satisfying intellectual premise to justify my existence, I have now decided to fight back against my two captors. But they won't allow me to be angry. As soon as they see I have a chip on my shoulder, they eat it. And given this propensity of theirs, what would that mean for me if I went nuts. I shudder to think.
That's why I'm blaming Spirit and Soul for torturing me. Even so, I'm hesitant to bring a lawsuIt against them because they have connections, and besides, they would be a much more formidable opponent than my ears were, when they dragged me into court, and subjected me to the most damaging and degrading ignominy. My parrots brazenly let me hear talk about their buddy from Alcatraz and this other guy who's half human and half feathered, a Birdman, if you will. They send shivers of fear up my spine when they talk knowingly about the CIA torture manual, quoting long passages by memory. To read what these feathered demons, perps, handlers, and government contractors know about the CIA torture manual, see the KUBARK COUNTERINTELLIGENCE INTERROGATION MANUAL.
http://firedoglake.com/2014/04/10/newly-revealed-portions-of-cia-torture-manual-doctoring-tapes-foreign-illegal-detentions-interrogating-defectors/
And the demonic American Psychological Association secretly worked with the CIA, the White House and the Pentagon to change their definition of torture so that our sadistic government agents could continue the unconscionable practice of torturing people with impunity. Prettifying the meaning of torture to make the ugly truth seem more attractive is the apotheosis of Doublespeak. In the wake of these "corrections", should we expect convicted murderer and organized crime big shot Whitey Bulger to be released from the correctional system to head the Department's of Justice ethics panel? If that's not too much of a stretch, then consider the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services enlisting the planning and persuasive talents of Charles Manson to top off the whole stinking CIA doublespeak enchilada? For more on this story visit Democracy Now website
To add insult to injury, many, including a leading interrogation expert, admit torture does not work, extracting what amounts to little more than useless information and lies. To get more info about this see Washington's Blog
http://georgewashington2.blogspot.com/2009/04/top-interrogation-experts-say-torture.html
What keeps me from sleeping at night is the troubling thought that Spirit and Soul are Super Patriot Parrots. They seem indestructible and immortal. Now, they physically restrain me whenever we disagree. Everything I do and say, they parrot. This adversarial relationship prevents me from ever inviting any one over to my place. Furthermore, their radical political views are not pleasing to corporate America, which has not helped my chronic unemployment. Plus, they open my refrigerator any time they please, eat my vegetables and then leave little pellets all over the floor for me to pick up.
There is no representative government that I can call upon to to assist me in my travails. I have not lived in a functional democracy for over a decade and realize that I now dwell in one of the most repressive political systems imaginable, the dreaded Parrotocracy, and the implications for all the non-feathered are chIllIng.
I have pleaded, cajoled and screamed at them to stop controlling me. But when I'm in the grasp of their talons, I know better than to move or make a sound. At times, I believe I'm suffering from some kind of PTSD. Oh, it's not your run-of-the-mill PTSD. My illness presents with several unique features that turn me into a diagnostic case study, much like the elephant man. I say this because not much is known about Parrot Traumatic Stress Disorder when the one suffering from this ailment is not a parrot. Hey, the elephant man wasn't a pachyderm either, in case you hadn't noticed. Two of the defining features of my condition are taking fruits and vegetables that don't belong to me; and obsessively repeating or describing any thing anyone ever says or does in front of me.
Only a few psychotherapists in the country have been trained or would dare to handle this disorder, for most people in this profession have a palpable fear of large beaks. Although I am a very good jumper, those with more advanced symptoms will often commit Parracide by leaping off a mountain while frantically flapping their arms, remaining in denial about their inability to fly even while free falling at 75 m.p.h. These victims have been so traumatized by these birds of prey, that they refuse to consider what the general population takes for granted, which is, that commercial jets are the preferred mode of transport when desiring to be airborne. And that is still the preference of the majority despite TSA's mission to promote disgust and nausea every time you embark on a flight.
I am left crestfallen as I realize that I am destined to live alone, and that no one will ever ask me to be their confidante again. To me, there are few hardships more burdensome to carry than this. Pray for me.
In spite of all this, I still have a genuine desire to escort you into the inner sanctum of the deer head to witness its true, magical allure. Behold the LOWER lip of the female deer head, as it is this anatomical structure, situated directly above the chin bone, that’s reputed to be the finest gustatory pleasure ever to have been discovered.
A few hours after a fresh kill, my australopithecine neighbors can be seen ripping into the tender meat of deer head in light Bar-B-Que sauce with their incisors. Driven by an insatiable appetite for conquest, they’ll barely take the time to wipe the gravy dripping from the sides of their grotesque mouths with the sleeve of their stained shirts. A malodorous burp erupts from one of their orifices, momentarily interrupting the tenor of the feeding frenzy unfolding right before my eyes, which I find strikingly reminiscent to the maniacal squeals of a pack of hyenas on the plains of the Serengeti after slaughtering a wildebeest. This will repeat itself over and over and over and over and over again, much like this sentence, after which they’ll wash away the gristle stuck in between their tobacco-tinted teeth with a swig of cheap beer.
In all deference to these men, who may be deserving of a modicum of respect, and you can argue the point, but when they sit down at a table in a restaurant, at least they have the good manners to remove their baseball caps. Oh, I could criticize the rectal air biscuits they drop when nearby or that their hairstyles resemble those of well known anarchists, but this could be risky business and increase the intensity and number of skuzzy people that shadow my every move. Many TIs have told me they would give these Perps a piece of their mind for being so rude and disgusting, but I think it far more impactful to just leave a comb and the Glade Sense and Spray Automatic Air Freshener.
It seems our society has developed a penchant for destroying that which is most alive with wildness, and that which can't be controlled. The parallels to the Targeted Individual are striking. Many TIs, blessed with a wildness of spirit and independence of mind are seen as threats to the Obsessive, Compulsive Disordered state of totalitarian control, which by the way is the real OCD. The repressive state wants to capture and ultimately destroy beauty, crush wildness, curb independence, and massacre the Spirit. They want us all to live like bugs caught in a bait trap, like prisoners on death row, alive yet somehow dead, turning our existence into a living contradiction, as well as a living hell.
It may be a truth long unacknowledged, yet seeking expression from the intuitive heart, that the more wild our Spirit, the more beautiful our Soul. Spirit and Soul fill each other, like the proverbial sands flowing through the hourglass. While we are inclined to interpret this as measuring the passage of time, in reality, it can be seen as symbolic of something far more important. If Spirit and Soul enrich and feed each other, and are also within each of us then, is this not the actual "stuff" from which you and I are made? The great religions of the world have taught that Spirit and Soul are indestructible, immortal and everlasting. With this understanding, fear dissolves and disappears into the lower planes of our existence. Yet, you and I still won't be able to reach out and hold Spirit or Soul. But it holds us, secure and close, tenacious in its grip whenever they feel we need to be reminded of its presence. So take great care of these gifts. It is the measure of who we are. An awakened Spirit and Soul are the quintessence of a life well lived in the eyes of God.
There are a number of you who have inquIred about the source of the many inspirations that I share with you. You have asked me "are you the Lamb," or "are you the Good Shepherd?" And I say unto you, do not worry, my flock. If there is mystery, then live with mystery. If there is no mystery, then you may have already met my two belligerent parrots, Spirit and Soul.
While I struggle to find some satisfying intellectual premise to justify my existence, I have now decided to fight back against my two captors. But they won't allow me to be angry. As soon as they see I have a chip on my shoulder, they eat it. And given this propensity of theirs, what would that mean for me if I went nuts. I shudder to think.
That's why I'm blaming Spirit and Soul for torturing me. Even so, I'm hesitant to bring a lawsuIt against them because they have connections, and besides, they would be a much more formidable opponent than my ears were, when they dragged me into court, and subjected me to the most damaging and degrading ignominy. My parrots brazenly let me hear talk about their buddy from Alcatraz and this other guy who's half human and half feathered, a Birdman, if you will. They send shivers of fear up my spine when they talk knowingly about the CIA torture manual, quoting long passages by memory. To read what these feathered demons, perps, handlers, and government contractors know about the CIA torture manual, see the KUBARK COUNTERINTELLIGENCE INTERROGATION MANUAL.
http://firedoglake.com/2014/04/10/newly-revealed-portions-of-cia-torture-manual-doctoring-tapes-foreign-illegal-detentions-interrogating-defectors/
And the demonic American Psychological Association secretly worked with the CIA, the White House and the Pentagon to change their definition of torture so that our sadistic government agents could continue the unconscionable practice of torturing people with impunity. Prettifying the meaning of torture to make the ugly truth seem more attractive is the apotheosis of Doublespeak. In the wake of these "corrections", should we expect convicted murderer and organized crime big shot Whitey Bulger to be released from the correctional system to head the Department's of Justice ethics panel? If that's not too much of a stretch, then consider the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services enlisting the planning and persuasive talents of Charles Manson to top off the whole stinking CIA doublespeak enchilada? For more on this story visit Democracy Now website
To add insult to injury, many, including a leading interrogation expert, admit torture does not work, extracting what amounts to little more than useless information and lies. To get more info about this see Washington's Blog
http://georgewashington2.blogspot.com/2009/04/top-interrogation-experts-say-torture.html
What keeps me from sleeping at night is the troubling thought that Spirit and Soul are Super Patriot Parrots. They seem indestructible and immortal. Now, they physically restrain me whenever we disagree. Everything I do and say, they parrot. This adversarial relationship prevents me from ever inviting any one over to my place. Furthermore, their radical political views are not pleasing to corporate America, which has not helped my chronic unemployment. Plus, they open my refrigerator any time they please, eat my vegetables and then leave little pellets all over the floor for me to pick up.
There is no representative government that I can call upon to to assist me in my travails. I have not lived in a functional democracy for over a decade and realize that I now dwell in one of the most repressive political systems imaginable, the dreaded Parrotocracy, and the implications for all the non-feathered are chIllIng.
I have pleaded, cajoled and screamed at them to stop controlling me. But when I'm in the grasp of their talons, I know better than to move or make a sound. At times, I believe I'm suffering from some kind of PTSD. Oh, it's not your run-of-the-mill PTSD. My illness presents with several unique features that turn me into a diagnostic case study, much like the elephant man. I say this because not much is known about Parrot Traumatic Stress Disorder when the one suffering from this ailment is not a parrot. Hey, the elephant man wasn't a pachyderm either, in case you hadn't noticed. Two of the defining features of my condition are taking fruits and vegetables that don't belong to me; and obsessively repeating or describing any thing anyone ever says or does in front of me.
Only a few psychotherapists in the country have been trained or would dare to handle this disorder, for most people in this profession have a palpable fear of large beaks. Although I am a very good jumper, those with more advanced symptoms will often commit Parracide by leaping off a mountain while frantically flapping their arms, remaining in denial about their inability to fly even while free falling at 75 m.p.h. These victims have been so traumatized by these birds of prey, that they refuse to consider what the general population takes for granted, which is, that commercial jets are the preferred mode of transport when desiring to be airborne. And that is still the preference of the majority despite TSA's mission to promote disgust and nausea every time you embark on a flight.
I am left crestfallen as I realize that I am destined to live alone, and that no one will ever ask me to be their confidante again. To me, there are few hardships more burdensome to carry than this. Pray for me.
In spite of all this, I still have a genuine desire to escort you into the inner sanctum of the deer head to witness its true, magical allure. Behold the LOWER lip of the female deer head, as it is this anatomical structure, situated directly above the chin bone, that’s reputed to be the finest gustatory pleasure ever to have been discovered.
I have not the linguistic or descriptive skill to convey my appreciation for this fine delectation. But imagine if you will, a fragrance more alluring than anything created in the history of perfumery, with an herbaceous and tangy flavor teasing the receptors on the tip of the tongue, shades of cherry-pink to deep garnet seducing the visual pathway to your brain, all melding together to create a taste of ambrosia so intoxicating that Bacchus himself would fall to his knees in abject surrender. This is the mythical power and forbidden pleasure of the labia inferius from the dear, deer head in light barbeque sauce.
When any commodity is this much in demand, there's bound to be violence and corruption. Male deers, also known as the bucks, are the one's responsible for the popularity of the labia and are abusing their access by allowing an over harvesting of lips. As a result, many female deers are stressed to the extreme as they now seem to have lost their ability to nibble. I think this is blatant ritual abuse and am calling for an immediate moratorium on this practice.
But the misogynistic bucks are remaining hush about the abuse because it's clear they are profiting from trafficking in deer lips. What is upsetting to many is that the males are being regarded as stars and celebrities in their own right, and it appears they are being protected as well. About 4 decades ago, most of the wealthy male deers met in a secret location in Upstate New York. The FBI (a.k.a "the Bureau") got wind of the reunion and filmed the entire gang. Information slowly leaked out about nature of their sit-down, and what we now know is that this crew wanted to go legit by investing in some type of business. They started a little hole-in-the-wall coffee lounge franchise. Today, StarBucks is more popular than ever, and it seems no one can stop these lip-obsessed egomaniacs as they hide behind a veneer of social and environmental responsibility. Still, the Bureau stepped in and took corrective action, thus ensuring this abuse would never get the public's attention, as long as they get a 10% cut of the profits, pre-tax, of course, and all the free labia inferius and grande latte they can handle. The FBI guys were rolling in it, if you know what I mean, and had so much money they threw extravagant gala affairs in honor of the male deers. As a result of these celebratIons, there was an uptick in the number of complaints about stag parties in local neighborhoods. There were sightings of people screaming, laughing and drinking with no clothes on, not all that different from the dereliction of duty by 12 Secret Service Agents who brought prostitutes to a Columbian hotel when they were supposed to be protecting President Obama.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2183317/Revealed-TWELVE-secret-service-agents-brought-prostitutes-Colombian-hotel-Obama-arrived.html
But with the stag parties, police were hesitant to arrest the Bucks, possibly because they did not want to go up against the Bureau, or because they saw no gross illegalities taking place. In fact, as one police officer noted, "there were handfuls of very attractive legalities in the buck naked partygoers."
The reputed leader of these "stag" soirees was none other than the infamous Seymour Bucks, the "Don", the leader of the herd, the Capo di tutti Capi, (or what the French refer to as the boss of all bosses, or to be more precise, the head of all heads, an Honorarium, I believe, once bestowed on King Louis XVI). The French, who are known sticklers for details, will take umbrage at the Franco-Capo linkage. But history bears me out. Joe Guillotine, was the French physician who developed the guillotine for beheading people accused by the state of "Not Being Nice." The execution of average citizens just because they did not live in this one particular city in the South of France is purported to be the actual cause of the French Revolution, but historians were instructed not to record these events in any volume that would later become a history book. This was another extremely sly and clever directive from those far-sighted French magistrates, who knew that one day everyone would be able to afford eyeglasses to read and finally learn about the difference between truth and French truth. Even today, French women still have not come to terms with beheadings promulgated by their own people. You'll often overhear them say they know someone who was "decapoed" but that usually pertains to the many ex-girlfriends of Leonardo Dicaprio, if not, in fact, speaking about their failed relationship with him.
All the same, these policies by the French elite outraged the working classes and the petite bourgeoise, (a social class in France composed of extremely short artists and white-collar workers,) who organized and formed the radical left. To frustrate the Perps of zee French government, independent-minded men and women of zee radical left will often take their cars to the Left Bank and only make left turns, causing gridlock, chaos and confusion at this major tourist attraction and hub of commerce. The dynamic leader of the radical left told reporters on the scene that this triple left strategy, otherwise known as the German trois stratégie gauche "is a tactic we will employ throughout the streets of Paris until our demands are met." Understandably, merchants in the area as well as residents are extremely worried about this random, senseless appropriation of the germanic language, not to mention the loss of sales. Taken in the aggregate, these are the reasons why the French never seem to actually get anywhere, despite the fact of always being in motion.
However, with so many beautiful French people having added immeasurably to the cultural enrichment of this world-class city, it can be difficult to feel hatred towards them. They too, are tuned in to the talismanic power of language, which is why they steal words from other countries without shame or scruple. But let us not be too severe in our criticism of the French. We must give credit where credit is due and the French deserve the highest recognition and honor for possessing the aesthetic sensibility to create the magnificent phrase Brigitte Bardot. Nothing more need ever be said, ever. If she were a beautifuI book, in a foreign language, I would make it my sworn duty to know the meaning of every letter, every word, every sentence, paragraph, page, chapter, prologue and epilogue in that book. She seemed not woman, but a chiseled goddess. And if beauty were to be described in terms of mythology, she would be Aphrodite, the goddess of love. Brig-itte Bar-dot, each syllable of that exquisite name rolls off the tongue as if it were a luscious dessert, like the watermelon red of her lips. Oh, those fabulous lips, just the thought of them sends electric impulses throughout my body. Brigitte knew that lips are meant for kissing, and the mere utterance of her name, readies one's lips and positions one's mouth for that sensual act. Every kiss, if done properly, exchanges breath, for breath is life, so that whenever lips meet, you become more alive. A breathless kiss may have its place, but to feel enlivened means that your passions are awakened, and Brigitte knew well how to awaken primal energies through the poetry of her kisses. I repeat this phrase, Brigitte Bardot, while gazing at her photos many times throughout the day when I need a pick me up, instead of reaching for a strong cup of café. And I feel no embarrassment whatsoever by this admission. I'm frankly nuts over this woman, and exposing my naked feelings to you like this is, au contraire, quite therapeutic.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S5dcKIMBY7Q
But by far the most alluring quality of Brigitte Bardot was not her smoldering sensuality or her incomparable beauty, it was something else entirely. Beauty comes in many shapes, sizes and colors, and, as has been said, is very much in the eye of the beholder. And beauty does fade. But Brigitte transcended beauty when, at a relatively early age, retired from her career in film, modeling and singing to dedicate her life to the protection of helpless, baby seals clubbed to death days and weeks after being born, all because of the quality and beauty of its fur. The expansiveness of her love and advocacy for animals stretches across the globe through her Foundation Brigitte Bardot, whose mission is to protect and ensure the rights for these beautiful co-inhabitants of earth.
http://www.dancingstaranimalrights.org/brigitte-bardot-foundation/
She performed this selfless act because she knew better than anyone else of her time, how one can be exploited, defiled, and destroyed by profiteers solely for their beauty. It is this interior quality of Brigitte that is most beautific, which is also a marker of her celestial humanity, a seeming oxymoron, but not for the angels. This is her single, greatest endowment to the planet: to love, protect and sacrifice for the welfare of the beautiful and vulnerable among us, and all in the natural world. Targeted Individuals, beautiful and vulnerable too, possess elevated qualities of spirit that impart passions both genuine and divine, like Brigitte. Know that well and use that knowledge to remodel the peace, confidence and love already within, allowing you to reside on the highest plane of existence, the one preordained by our Creator.
This has particular relevance in relation to the Capo, Seymour Bucks, alluded to earlier. He was so nasty, he was alleged to have savagely beheaded and then butchered the body of his girlfriend, Patti, an intelligent, vulnerable and voluptuous doe. It is believed that the FBI knew about the murder as well as other unsolved beheadings. Agents can be seen cavorting with Bucks at the pool-side barbeque parties he threw. Does anyone really expect the public to believe agents had no prior knowledge or that they were not aiding and abetting the commission of multiple crimes?
As of this publication, not one Federal agent has agreed to take a polygraph to answer the simple question "did you or did you not know that you were eating a venison pattie? And if so, did you at any time think that it could be the beloved Patti the venison?
Look, I'm the first one to give these "Feds" the benefit of the doubt, but a few troubling questions persist. How do you explain their newly acquired ability to jump over a 7-foot fence without a trampoline? And what about the spouses or love interests of these agents, how come none of them have a lower lip worth speaking of? If these oddities don't raise suspicions, I don't know what will.
But when unimaginable sums of money are involved, as it was with Seymour and his crew, law enforcement can be corrupted. Money lubricates the wheels of commerce and social intercourse. To put it as bluntly as possible, the more "dough" you have, the more you get laid, or so the FBI believes. And if you don't have much dough but have an active love life, the FBI wants to know how you're doing it and how they can interfere with it. This can be fun for them. Maybe they'll make you lose your job. Or send you for an operation that costs tens of thousands of dollars. Or maybe just microwave you and turn your ass into an all-beef burger on a sesame seed bun.
In our society, the Buck is the coin of the realm. You've heard the phrase, money is dear, but you've been misled all these years. The reality is Money is Deer. I finally understand that deer are big Bucks and big business. Now you know the hidden truth behind the myth that investing your doe, will bring in the bucks.
http://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/jul/21/government-agents-directly-involved-us-terror-plots-report
This report makes the case that the FBI is creatIng terrorIsts out of Its own cItIzens
http://www.amazon.com/The-Terror-Factory-Manufactured-Terrorism/dp/1935439618
The Terror Factory: InsIde the FBI's Manufactured War on TerrorIsm - by Trevor Aaronson
http://www.truthandaction.org/judge-napolitano-fbi-creates-fake-terrorist-plots-justify-war-terror/
FBI creates fake terrorists plots to justify war on terror - Judge Napolitano
http://www.informationclearinghouse.info/article28933.htm
FBI Organizes Almost All Terror Plots In the US
As I key in these words, I am jarred by the sudden realization that I, in fact, may be in error about my interpretations of events.
As if by an epiphany, I now see that Katie, the female friend I alluded to at the
start of this credo, might have been trying to tell me about her desires,
but I was too obtuse, too inexperienced, to fully comprehend the subtlety of
her expression.
What follows is not intended to shock or surprise, as I have just come to this realization moments ago. While it is true she was asking me for more “dough,” it was not money that she longed for. We all know that money does not buy happiness, although it does make being miserable a little more fun. You see, as I tried to clarify, dough can easily be a doe and vice versa. Doe is a dear, a female dear. Was this her indirect way of saying she wanted to have a ménage à trois, (popularIzed by the Swedish) with another another female and myself? I surmise this was her intention as she frequently dropped hints about the best hunting season at nightclubs. How dense I must have been! How could I not see that out of all the paradisiacal vacations spots in the world, she wanted to summer on the isle of Lesbos? How blind I must have been when she broached this topic, inquiring if I was “up” to the challenge. While I refrained from exposing her to the full depth of my penetralia, I did admit that I wasn’t totally opposed to the idea of a threesome, but privately felt that since I had only recently achieved a level of comfort and semi-competence with a ménage à deux, that the addition of another warm-blooded, living being would cause me excessive, undue performance anxiety. I'm not asking for sympathy because, like many, I am plagued by everyday, normal type anxieties, nothing too outré. But if you are in anyway like me, then you probably have had first hand experience with the dentata and know that this is no myth. For a peek into this phenomenon…
What follows is not intended to shock or surprise, as I have just come to this realization moments ago. While it is true she was asking me for more “dough,” it was not money that she longed for. We all know that money does not buy happiness, although it does make being miserable a little more fun. You see, as I tried to clarify, dough can easily be a doe and vice versa. Doe is a dear, a female dear. Was this her indirect way of saying she wanted to have a ménage à trois, (popularIzed by the Swedish) with another another female and myself? I surmise this was her intention as she frequently dropped hints about the best hunting season at nightclubs. How dense I must have been! How could I not see that out of all the paradisiacal vacations spots in the world, she wanted to summer on the isle of Lesbos? How blind I must have been when she broached this topic, inquiring if I was “up” to the challenge. While I refrained from exposing her to the full depth of my penetralia, I did admit that I wasn’t totally opposed to the idea of a threesome, but privately felt that since I had only recently achieved a level of comfort and semi-competence with a ménage à deux, that the addition of another warm-blooded, living being would cause me excessive, undue performance anxiety. I'm not asking for sympathy because, like many, I am plagued by everyday, normal type anxieties, nothing too outré. But if you are in anyway like me, then you probably have had first hand experience with the dentata and know that this is no myth. For a peek into this phenomenon…
Teeth – Movie trailer
Teeth – movie clip – A Bet Goes Bad
But being one who refuses to succumb to fears, I sensed I
could satisfy these females, especially if blinding speed was a highly rated
performance category. The fact that my
angst was most pronounced in my dreams is of minor import because the
illuminated movie marquee in my head shows that I have top billing, and not
Brad Pitt, who had to accept second billing if he wanted the part. But, what if
these females wanted to perform unspeakable acts on me? What if they spike my drink with the “extended” formulation of Viagra? What
if they shackle my hands and feet, strip me naked and place Disney Toy
Story figurines on my belly and start yelling commands to Sheriff Woody to
police the quality of my wood.
With Buzz Lightyear, Rocky Gilbraltar, Hamm, and
Sergeant surrounding the perimeter of my body and Slinky Dog keeping guard at
the door, I would be in a hole too deep to get out of. When Sheriff Woody
reported that I had a dishonorable discharge, I considered contesting his
ruling but thought about how silly I would look on You Tube, so was forced to
back down. I know you can empathize with me, as this is a situation any
thinking male would dread. The fact that I am sui generis in some ways is one
thing, but I believe that you and I have more in common than not. And by now,
you may instinctively feel that I was in way over my head, not the
least of which was due to her imposing, preposterously tall six-foot two-inch
frame. Yes, she was a leggy dame, and I admit, I have a special fondness for
legs, as I find them to be exceedingly helpful when wanting to walk across the big lawn with female earth dwellers in Central Park.
You will not hear about this truth from any of the new “entities” in my life, as every time I am near, they holler “ass.” And even though you may have already heard some of the ne’er do wells in these chat rooms call me this, I can assure you that I have always preferred the leg to the rump, unless the female is blessed with that unimaginable degree of flexibility on par with performers at the Cirque du Soleil. If you have doubts about the veracity of my personal truth, ask the butcher I go to.
With Buzz Lightyear, Rocky Gilbraltar, Hamm, and
Sergeant surrounding the perimeter of my body and Slinky Dog keeping guard at
the door, I would be in a hole too deep to get out of. When Sheriff Woody
reported that I had a dishonorable discharge, I considered contesting his
ruling but thought about how silly I would look on You Tube, so was forced to
back down. I know you can empathize with me, as this is a situation any
thinking male would dread. The fact that I am sui generis in some ways is one
thing, but I believe that you and I have more in common than not. And by now,
you may instinctively feel that I was in way over my head, not the
least of which was due to her imposing, preposterously tall six-foot two-inch
frame. Yes, she was a leggy dame, and I admit, I have a special fondness for
legs, as I find them to be exceedingly helpful when wanting to walk across the big lawn with female earth dwellers in Central Park. You will not hear about this truth from any of the new “entities” in my life, as every time I am near, they holler “ass.” And even though you may have already heard some of the ne’er do wells in these chat rooms call me this, I can assure you that I have always preferred the leg to the rump, unless the female is blessed with that unimaginable degree of flexibility on par with performers at the Cirque du Soleil. If you have doubts about the veracity of my personal truth, ask the butcher I go to.
But, in the end, I refused to participate on the grounds
that I felt a threesome would unfairly restrict me to one-third of the playing
field, so to speak, because now I had to allow others their share of the pie.
My logic, which you may find flawed, seemed perfectly sound to me at the time.
I used rudimentary math to support my thinking. Sex, I reasoned, is really just
like a piece of cream pie. If you have six horny bodies all having a go at it,
each body gets a smaller piece of the sex pie, right? In addition to this, I
really didn’t want to share her. The callipygian gradient silhouetted in her
favorite pair of jeans once caused a five-car pile up. When three of the
drivers exited their vehicles, they began flirting with her right in front of
me. I immediately came to her defense by sweating profusely, a skill that I’m
proud to say that I have honed to perfection. Let’s say, for example, that my
combatants were to bite my head off, as could happen to me with some species of
spiders and nearly all of the Bantu people in the Upper Congo. They would then suffer
the most severe and humiliating consequences, including a rapid rise in blood pressure from the
high sodium content of my extraordinary perspiration, then hemorrhage, stroke
and die.
These are tactics I gleaned from residents near the area that I live in, maneuvers I hoped would increase my chances for survival. I was dedicated to studying with my Sensei, the Praying Mantis, who is responsible not only for many of the quick, lethal movements used in the martial arts, but also for my conversion to Christianity. He explained that he was a Praying Man and a TI, hence his species name, Praying Mantis.
I told the Sensei what had happened with my beloved and also informed him that my sweetheart never spoke of this near altercation again in front of another living human being. How could I believe anything other than that I was her hero. She became my muse, my inspiration and I worshipped at her alter of desire every night by the soft glow of blinking neon lights. Ironically, I found these lights after it fell off of the back of a truck. Are you thinking that I’m an egotistical bore?
While our devotion may offend or disgust you, it shouldn’t. The alter that I built was constructed of thin plywood, red velvet, and frilly lace, and piping through the bedroom speakers were the lush baritones of Barry White singing “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe." Sadly, it wasn’t long before my sweetness and I started to see much less of each other, that is, if I could find her, as she inexplicably appeared
incognito in public, often with a mustache. Or quite possibly, she may have decided to stop shaving. But that would've become obvious fairly quickly, as hirsutism is a condition that's not only unsightly, but also extremely unpleasant for some. At minimum, it is a tangible reminder of the high genetic similarity with our primate brethren. While her enigmatic smile was reminiscent of da Vinci’s masterpiece, her body was transformed into an undecipherable mystery that neither the Director of the Human Genome Project nor Jane Goodall could assist me with, saying her condition far exceeded even the bounds of their expertise. It appears my main squeeze was even wilder than I could have imagined, or could have ever hoped for.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FlM52fUrNz4
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LKyrLFyOi04
Friends listen to each other non-judgmentally, as my Sensei did with me. Taking some time off to fill our bellies on the exoskeletons of smaller insects, I shared how guilty I felt because of breaking the diet my doctor had laid out for me. In order to get my blood chemistry numbers in the normal range, I was to restrict my diet to no more than one Triscuit, one peanut and a cup of steam per day. I can't tell you at exactly what point I lost faith in my health management team, but I think it was around the time they insisted I become an organ donor while one of them brandished a scalpel the size of a Japanese machete. He keeps sending me reminders to come in for a check up, but my instincts tell me I'll never check out.
My Sensei calls me Kathmandu, and I reverently call him Grandmaster because I'm tryIng to dissuade him from having me as an afternoon snack. He already correctly noted that my behavioral repertoire bears a strong resemblance to the Katydid, one of his favorite pickings. Had my Sensei been female, well, let’s just say things could have gotten pretty sticky for me. I wanted to avoid a repeat of what nearly happened a while back when I deflowered this female, who then refused to give me back my favorite attached appendage. I have learned that you never want to get in a contest with a larger female when she is determined to keep a certain appliance or tool. I had an easier time unsticking myself from a Bug-B-Gone glue trap then this adhesive, aristocratic, Queen of Sheeba. If that’s not horrific enough, once, when outside practicing the karate katas that my Sense had taught me, I was unaware I was being spied upon. Soon, loud sirens pierced the meditative calm within me and before I knew it police were standing eyeball-to-eyeball, demanding to know who I was fighting with. I did my best to explain that katas are a series of choreographed movements used in the martial arts for training. The officer had keen instincts and zeroed in on what he thought crucial, sarcastically asking how long I had been into choreography? I danced around the question and countered by motioning "does your pistol shoot blanks?” He quipped “would you like to find out?” He then stared menacingly at the cold blue steel holstered at his hip. Fortunately, he agreed to let me go with just a warning and the pair of complimentary tickets I kept in my pad for just such emergencies, which entitles the holder to a free deep-tissue message at any one of the cozy and discreet outlets in the chain of China Doll Spas. This is a perfect case in point why staying abreast of current events is a prudent habit to develop because, as you can see, I was completely unaware of the recent Presidential Executive Order designating the practice of karate katas in a forested area, as a potentially terrorist activity.
These are tactics I gleaned from residents near the area that I live in, maneuvers I hoped would increase my chances for survival. I was dedicated to studying with my Sensei, the Praying Mantis, who is responsible not only for many of the quick, lethal movements used in the martial arts, but also for my conversion to Christianity. He explained that he was a Praying Man and a TI, hence his species name, Praying Mantis.
I told the Sensei what had happened with my beloved and also informed him that my sweetheart never spoke of this near altercation again in front of another living human being. How could I believe anything other than that I was her hero. She became my muse, my inspiration and I worshipped at her alter of desire every night by the soft glow of blinking neon lights. Ironically, I found these lights after it fell off of the back of a truck. Are you thinking that I’m an egotistical bore?
While our devotion may offend or disgust you, it shouldn’t. The alter that I built was constructed of thin plywood, red velvet, and frilly lace, and piping through the bedroom speakers were the lush baritones of Barry White singing “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe." Sadly, it wasn’t long before my sweetness and I started to see much less of each other, that is, if I could find her, as she inexplicably appeared
incognito in public, often with a mustache. Or quite possibly, she may have decided to stop shaving. But that would've become obvious fairly quickly, as hirsutism is a condition that's not only unsightly, but also extremely unpleasant for some. At minimum, it is a tangible reminder of the high genetic similarity with our primate brethren. While her enigmatic smile was reminiscent of da Vinci’s masterpiece, her body was transformed into an undecipherable mystery that neither the Director of the Human Genome Project nor Jane Goodall could assist me with, saying her condition far exceeded even the bounds of their expertise. It appears my main squeeze was even wilder than I could have imagined, or could have ever hoped for.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FlM52fUrNz4
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LKyrLFyOi04
Friends listen to each other non-judgmentally, as my Sensei did with me. Taking some time off to fill our bellies on the exoskeletons of smaller insects, I shared how guilty I felt because of breaking the diet my doctor had laid out for me. In order to get my blood chemistry numbers in the normal range, I was to restrict my diet to no more than one Triscuit, one peanut and a cup of steam per day. I can't tell you at exactly what point I lost faith in my health management team, but I think it was around the time they insisted I become an organ donor while one of them brandished a scalpel the size of a Japanese machete. He keeps sending me reminders to come in for a check up, but my instincts tell me I'll never check out.
My Sensei calls me Kathmandu, and I reverently call him Grandmaster because I'm tryIng to dissuade him from having me as an afternoon snack. He already correctly noted that my behavioral repertoire bears a strong resemblance to the Katydid, one of his favorite pickings. Had my Sensei been female, well, let’s just say things could have gotten pretty sticky for me. I wanted to avoid a repeat of what nearly happened a while back when I deflowered this female, who then refused to give me back my favorite attached appendage. I have learned that you never want to get in a contest with a larger female when she is determined to keep a certain appliance or tool. I had an easier time unsticking myself from a Bug-B-Gone glue trap then this adhesive, aristocratic, Queen of Sheeba. If that’s not horrific enough, once, when outside practicing the karate katas that my Sense had taught me, I was unaware I was being spied upon. Soon, loud sirens pierced the meditative calm within me and before I knew it police were standing eyeball-to-eyeball, demanding to know who I was fighting with. I did my best to explain that katas are a series of choreographed movements used in the martial arts for training. The officer had keen instincts and zeroed in on what he thought crucial, sarcastically asking how long I had been into choreography? I danced around the question and countered by motioning "does your pistol shoot blanks?” He quipped “would you like to find out?” He then stared menacingly at the cold blue steel holstered at his hip. Fortunately, he agreed to let me go with just a warning and the pair of complimentary tickets I kept in my pad for just such emergencies, which entitles the holder to a free deep-tissue message at any one of the cozy and discreet outlets in the chain of China Doll Spas. This is a perfect case in point why staying abreast of current events is a prudent habit to develop because, as you can see, I was completely unaware of the recent Presidential Executive Order designating the practice of karate katas in a forested area, as a potentially terrorist activity.
I don't beat around the bush, so I will let you know that if my sensei and
I had fought, he could’ve had me for lunch at any time. I am thankful that
at least I have this one friend. Many of you have told me that you have no
friends, which saddens me terribly. I would have no one close to me if it weren't for my Sensei. I’ve accepted the fact I've changed a lot over the years as a result of all the harassment and torture. But here I am, still surviving and sunning myself after a hard day's work in the fields. I'm in my natural habitat now, so I feel very relaxed and comfortable.***
It would pain me terribly if I caused you hurt in any way. But if you are
a TI, you need to know that they consider you a bug too. When was the last time you truly tasted the honey of freedom? I know, for some of us, it's much too agonizing to recall, isn't it? Let me put that another way, we are not
guinea pigs, as some have written about. We are less than that. We are BUGS. If I were to distill down to its essence why we became Targeted Individuals, it would be this: we bugged somebody. To rid themselves of their unjustified hatred towards you, they need to bug you, incessantly. They will "bug" your premises, bug your vehicles, bug your phone, bug your computer, bug your food, bug everything, including pets. If every place you go and everythIng you touch is "bugged", then you are, by extension, a bug.
However, you must not despair. There's cause for great optimism, too. We know Perps are animals. We also know that this is a prison planet. What that means is we live in a zoo. But, as a Bug, you have an excellent chance of escape. Also, I have personally tested the escapability factor at these zoos and have concluded with great confidence that they will never be able to keep me or you in these prisons. For one, the guards are lazy and constantly dozing off. And then there's that one, small, overlooked detail: they placed the bars too wide apart to ever hope of keeping a slimy critter like me in. The guards are constantly making mistakes and you can take advantage of them too. You just have to stay alert.
Also, there's another weapon I have at my disposal. Associates over at Armageddon News sent me footage of what distant relatives of mine, who, I might add, I don't really get along with, will be doing in the near future to help our cause. This you tube footage is called Trumpet 5 - Stinging Locust Attack
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NZLWsDXzeVw
So, do not believe those purveyors of gloom and doom for they seek to profit from your fear. They will tell you there are no written laws that protect bugs. I can live with that because the last tIme I checked, there are no actIve laws to protect certain groups of people either, contrary to govspeak from officialdom.
Spending a lot of time on the TS chats should only be a problem to those that haven't learned how to separate the wheat from the chaff. And as a bug, you must learn how to perform that task. Ever notice all the talk about grounding yourself, or spending time near trees and getting lots of chlorophyll from green leafy vegetation, all of which are very important. But that’s because we’re bugs. And let’s face it, as TI’s we have lost count of the number of times we've been targeted with pesticides, gassed, cooked, spat on, stepped on, swatted, nearly crushed, and lured into traps, just to hasten our demise.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UBMNP6x3PA4
In a classic counterintelligence maneuver, they've even made a film denigrating our entire class and, the nerve of them, it's called BUGS, staring Ashley Judd. They mock us, in a manner not dissimilar to that seen in Sony's movie "The Interview" about Kim Jong-un. In the movie, what they did to the president of North Korea, is, in a manner of speaking, what they do to us in real life. You will also notice the film is a chilling foreshadowing of Morgellons disease, labeling those who feel bugs under their skin as paranoid, delusional and conspiracy nuts.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vs1ubiodlNI
However, you must not despair. There's cause for great optimism, too. We know Perps are animals. We also know that this is a prison planet. What that means is we live in a zoo. But, as a Bug, you have an excellent chance of escape. Also, I have personally tested the escapability factor at these zoos and have concluded with great confidence that they will never be able to keep me or you in these prisons. For one, the guards are lazy and constantly dozing off. And then there's that one, small, overlooked detail: they placed the bars too wide apart to ever hope of keeping a slimy critter like me in. The guards are constantly making mistakes and you can take advantage of them too. You just have to stay alert.
Also, there's another weapon I have at my disposal. Associates over at Armageddon News sent me footage of what distant relatives of mine, who, I might add, I don't really get along with, will be doing in the near future to help our cause. This you tube footage is called Trumpet 5 - Stinging Locust Attack
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NZLWsDXzeVw
So, do not believe those purveyors of gloom and doom for they seek to profit from your fear. They will tell you there are no written laws that protect bugs. I can live with that because the last tIme I checked, there are no actIve laws to protect certain groups of people either, contrary to govspeak from officialdom.
Spending a lot of time on the TS chats should only be a problem to those that haven't learned how to separate the wheat from the chaff. And as a bug, you must learn how to perform that task. Ever notice all the talk about grounding yourself, or spending time near trees and getting lots of chlorophyll from green leafy vegetation, all of which are very important. But that’s because we’re bugs. And let’s face it, as TI’s we have lost count of the number of times we've been targeted with pesticides, gassed, cooked, spat on, stepped on, swatted, nearly crushed, and lured into traps, just to hasten our demise.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UBMNP6x3PA4
In a classic counterintelligence maneuver, they've even made a film denigrating our entire class and, the nerve of them, it's called BUGS, staring Ashley Judd. They mock us, in a manner not dissimilar to that seen in Sony's movie "The Interview" about Kim Jong-un. In the movie, what they did to the president of North Korea, is, in a manner of speaking, what they do to us in real life. You will also notice the film is a chilling foreshadowing of Morgellons disease, labeling those who feel bugs under their skin as paranoid, delusional and conspiracy nuts.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vs1ubiodlNI
The insect kingdom has its Queens
and drones, its leaders and workers. So the next time you venture out, look at
all the drones, not in the sky, but crawling near you or buzzing around. That’s
because we're bugs and they need to get us into the hive-mind to feed the almighty A.I supercomputer tracking our every thought and move.
I hear the groundswell of traffic outside like never before. A spider web of connected streets near my place make up the grid that facilitates the movement of foot soldiers and cars. I feel threatened. That's why I stay camouflaged most of the day. It’s natural for me to perch on treetops, but one day I hope
to land in Costa Rica. I anticipate starting a grass roots movement over there and striking at the roots of the criminal program against Targeted Individuals and victims of state-sponsored harassment and torture. Maybe recruiting my distant relatives, the locusts, who have a reputation for reeking havoc on roots of any kind. I especially look forward to rubbing antennas and chirping together with you all, especially into
the wee hours of the night.
I am thoughtful, quiet and kind, hard-workIng and friendly, unless accosted by aggressive females during breeding season. That can really turn my stomach, literally, and I have a very hard time turning right side up again without help. Plus, this aggravation will chafe my skin and cramp my hind legs. I try to stay calm and out of harms way, which is best seeing that I am not a particularly big, strong or aggressive creature.
But modesty precludes me from boasting about my derring-do. And if truth were told, I have that certain je ne sais quoi (just like the Afrikaners say), that’s really quite evident in some of my other photos. I could be considered a lethal weapon and maybe that’s the real reason why they are barring me from owning my own rock climbing rope and slingshot. I am currently fighting for my rights in the courts, as they want to declare me legally insane, and use that as justification for extracting all of my sweat glands, which, as you now know, would leave me almost completely defenseless. You might suspect that this is not the only skill I have in my bag of tricks, and you’d be right. But for personal security reasons, I am not at liberty to divulge any of the particularities at this time, other than to say that one of my more interesting techniques involves whistling. And although I am not Jewish or Slavic, I will dance the Hora, in a similar fashion to the often seen Fiddler on the Roof. As it turns out, the contrast between my bizarre facial expressions and outlandish bodily movements are so frightening, and create such massive cognitive dissonance, those aggressive perps either run away in hysteria or collapse from overwhelming trauma.
Performing the Hora should not be disturbing to anyone, but I’m freaking out about the bearded Hasidic man dressed in black and white on the terra cotta dome outside my home at this very moment, while stroking his damn violin. My friend has contacted the authorities previously regarding Mr. Psychstein, but the Police swear no one is dancing on the roof. However, to add to my paranoia, they said they found the violin. They also told me something to the effect that “if I persist, I will get acted as a Baker.****
This caught me off guard, and while I love Broadway and have a background in the Theater of the Absurd, which ironically is also serving as the template for my adult life, I’m still unsure what “acted as a Baker” means, although, if I get the part, I already posses advanced knowledge of spices and pans. That being said, I am acutely aware what happens when the Police “swear” anything, especially under oath.
On a side note, while critics in my community have accused me of having ”sticky fingers,” I still maintain to this day that the expensive neon lights fell off the back of a Luca Brasi transport vehicle, whose specialty is delivering freshly killed carcasses to rendering plants. The stickiness of my fingers merely helps me climb and eat, and that's all there is to it.
A big advertising budget, in addition to guerilla cyber-marketing tactics has added to Luca's success. I’ve even heard total strangers repeat their catchy slogan - “if you want my meat, call me.” This is a well-respected business enterprise with political clout, and expanding rapidly all across the country. So why would Luca Brasi risk involvement in the sinister, cutthroat, neon light industry? According to the release of recently declassified documents, the FBI now believes that many of Luca’s current employees are ex- law enforcement and, after gleaning this information, quickly moved in to complete their own applications for the remaining jobs. To improve their chances for hire, these agents will let Luca know about ElectroStimulation™ technology, which they have near monopolistic control over. They surmise that this technology will cause exponential growth in the industry because of its effect on the quality of big game meat. Pulsing electrical currents to freshly killed animals prevents rigor mortis from setting in and, by all accounts, enhances the flavor and tenderness. I know the capabilities of this weapon, as they used the Bug Zapper™ on me, a forerunner to the ElectroStim system. The Zapper shocks, burns and kiIls, and I'm anxious and defensive anytime I'm near it. Incredibly, these rogue agents have illegally experimented with this technology on humans†, and found out that, not only is it very profitable, but apparently also increases the happiness quotient of the large and growing Zombie population. It is no surprise that Zombies too appreciate the docility, improved flavor and tenderness of the non-dead cohorts. To learn more about Zombification through Electro Stimulation – Shockingly Better Meat, see
http://www.brokenarrowranch.com/Articles/Electrostimulation.htm
What I sense is that these renegades from the Bureau are trying to cash in on the growing interest in the Paleo diet, as they foresee a time when the zombification of the entire planet, a.k.a. the living dead, will need to consume rotting flesh multiple times throughout the day. They predict that the traditional fast-food chains will go the way of the Edsel, Betamax, and neighborliness, with their “pathetic offering of salads and other so-called health foods.” But I personally feel that they are wrong and will not succeed in convincing Luca to be a distributor of, or user of, this technology. Luca believes the dominance of the cave man diet will create an over population of primitive people, and this he sees as a direct threat to his business model and to the beauty of his unique Neanderthal genotype. Furthermore, lower consumption of carbohydrates, which is promoted by the Paleo diet, is upsetting to Luca, as he has had profitable, long-standing ties to the Rutabaga, Melanzana (eggplant) and Zucchini families, not to mention the media hoopla surrounding his scandalous affair on a secluded island with a well-endowed baked potato.
I am thoughtful, quiet and kind, hard-workIng and friendly, unless accosted by aggressive females during breeding season. That can really turn my stomach, literally, and I have a very hard time turning right side up again without help. Plus, this aggravation will chafe my skin and cramp my hind legs. I try to stay calm and out of harms way, which is best seeing that I am not a particularly big, strong or aggressive creature.
But modesty precludes me from boasting about my derring-do. And if truth were told, I have that certain je ne sais quoi (just like the Afrikaners say), that’s really quite evident in some of my other photos. I could be considered a lethal weapon and maybe that’s the real reason why they are barring me from owning my own rock climbing rope and slingshot. I am currently fighting for my rights in the courts, as they want to declare me legally insane, and use that as justification for extracting all of my sweat glands, which, as you now know, would leave me almost completely defenseless. You might suspect that this is not the only skill I have in my bag of tricks, and you’d be right. But for personal security reasons, I am not at liberty to divulge any of the particularities at this time, other than to say that one of my more interesting techniques involves whistling. And although I am not Jewish or Slavic, I will dance the Hora, in a similar fashion to the often seen Fiddler on the Roof. As it turns out, the contrast between my bizarre facial expressions and outlandish bodily movements are so frightening, and create such massive cognitive dissonance, those aggressive perps either run away in hysteria or collapse from overwhelming trauma.
Performing the Hora should not be disturbing to anyone, but I’m freaking out about the bearded Hasidic man dressed in black and white on the terra cotta dome outside my home at this very moment, while stroking his damn violin. My friend has contacted the authorities previously regarding Mr. Psychstein, but the Police swear no one is dancing on the roof. However, to add to my paranoia, they said they found the violin. They also told me something to the effect that “if I persist, I will get acted as a Baker.****
This caught me off guard, and while I love Broadway and have a background in the Theater of the Absurd, which ironically is also serving as the template for my adult life, I’m still unsure what “acted as a Baker” means, although, if I get the part, I already posses advanced knowledge of spices and pans. That being said, I am acutely aware what happens when the Police “swear” anything, especially under oath.
On a side note, while critics in my community have accused me of having ”sticky fingers,” I still maintain to this day that the expensive neon lights fell off the back of a Luca Brasi transport vehicle, whose specialty is delivering freshly killed carcasses to rendering plants. The stickiness of my fingers merely helps me climb and eat, and that's all there is to it.
A big advertising budget, in addition to guerilla cyber-marketing tactics has added to Luca's success. I’ve even heard total strangers repeat their catchy slogan - “if you want my meat, call me.” This is a well-respected business enterprise with political clout, and expanding rapidly all across the country. So why would Luca Brasi risk involvement in the sinister, cutthroat, neon light industry? According to the release of recently declassified documents, the FBI now believes that many of Luca’s current employees are ex- law enforcement and, after gleaning this information, quickly moved in to complete their own applications for the remaining jobs. To improve their chances for hire, these agents will let Luca know about ElectroStimulation™ technology, which they have near monopolistic control over. They surmise that this technology will cause exponential growth in the industry because of its effect on the quality of big game meat. Pulsing electrical currents to freshly killed animals prevents rigor mortis from setting in and, by all accounts, enhances the flavor and tenderness. I know the capabilities of this weapon, as they used the Bug Zapper™ on me, a forerunner to the ElectroStim system. The Zapper shocks, burns and kiIls, and I'm anxious and defensive anytime I'm near it. Incredibly, these rogue agents have illegally experimented with this technology on humans†, and found out that, not only is it very profitable, but apparently also increases the happiness quotient of the large and growing Zombie population. It is no surprise that Zombies too appreciate the docility, improved flavor and tenderness of the non-dead cohorts. To learn more about Zombification through Electro Stimulation – Shockingly Better Meat, see
http://www.brokenarrowranch.com/Articles/Electrostimulation.htm
What I sense is that these renegades from the Bureau are trying to cash in on the growing interest in the Paleo diet, as they foresee a time when the zombification of the entire planet, a.k.a. the living dead, will need to consume rotting flesh multiple times throughout the day. They predict that the traditional fast-food chains will go the way of the Edsel, Betamax, and neighborliness, with their “pathetic offering of salads and other so-called health foods.” But I personally feel that they are wrong and will not succeed in convincing Luca to be a distributor of, or user of, this technology. Luca believes the dominance of the cave man diet will create an over population of primitive people, and this he sees as a direct threat to his business model and to the beauty of his unique Neanderthal genotype. Furthermore, lower consumption of carbohydrates, which is promoted by the Paleo diet, is upsetting to Luca, as he has had profitable, long-standing ties to the Rutabaga, Melanzana (eggplant) and Zucchini families, not to mention the media hoopla surrounding his scandalous affair on a secluded island with a well-endowed baked potato.
Lest I be charged with besmirching the good name of the FBI,
allow me to say on their behalf that thousands of agents will not associate in
any way with Luca and his ilk. When they retire, many will go on to become
private eyes, where they have found the fringe benefits of using advanced surveillance technology and mobile tracking devices to eye our privates from remote locations, just too darn tempting to
resist.
Tonight, my hunger seems to be growing for reasons that I
cannot seem to fathom. I'm almost ravenous now. Hey, I’m musing out loud here,
but has deerinheadlights met Seymour Bucks yet? Just askin'. Doe she know Luca Brasi?
*Originally entitled FLOWERS, PASTRIES, FURNITURE, BEAUTY, KAMA SUTRA, CONGRESSIONAL WHORES, BUGS, MÉNAGE À TROIS, CHOCOLATE, MASTURBATION, BIRDS, FBI, LIPS, MONEY, ANIMALS, AND ASSORTED MEANDERINGS
**Because I have an inordinate amount of time on my hands, I put together this short story so as not to feel overwhelmed by a stultifying emptiness that, at times, threatens to engulf me. A certain amount of optImIsm gives me hope that the sound of laughter wIll dry up the tears residing in my heart. Also, with so much beauty around us, I think it will serve us well to observe all of nature's bounty. I am reminded of what Emerson once wrote, that the "Earth laughs in flowers." It is my fervent wish then, that you find the botanicals featured herein absolutely hilarious, as Ralph Waldo would have wanted it that way. If I may add to Emerson's thought, and apropos of this tale, is that the spirit flowers in laughter. What does this tell us then about ourselves and the planet is that the earth cannot heal without spirit, the spirit cannot heal without beauty and that both laughter and flowers are some of the most prized medicines from nature's armamentarium. May we laugh often...together...under the stars...and with the flowers.
***This piece is a satirical look at some of the issues that confront Targeted Individuals, merely touching upon the substantial horrors we go through on a daily basis. But I find myself restored and rejuvenated when viewing my circumstances through the lens of the absurd. Astute readers may notice a slight resemblance to the novel, The Metamorphosis, by Franz Kafka. In his novel, the main character, Gregor Samsa, awakens one morning to find that he has metamorphosized into a giant insect. All targeted individuals know this feeling. The sense that the fullness and beauty of your former life has metamorphosized into a life as brutal, mundane and insignificant as that of a bug. However, if you believe there's anything more than this conspicuous connection, you'd be dead wrong. The most notable difference between myself and Franz is that he has this uncanny ability to write in a style called Kafkaesque and, no matter how hard I try to emulate him, I fail miserably. Second, but no less important, is that my hearing apparatus was substantially smaller than Franz's, as his ears were the approximate size of the satellite dish sitting on my neighbor's roof from Time Warner. There is a school of thought, however, that correlates the size of one's ears with intelligence. I'd like to say this is pure poppycock. I'd also lIke to add that if you should ever see poppies on anyone's you know what, you should run for the hills. To be completely candid, grotesquely large ears correlates to abstinence, loneliness and infection. It is hoped that this piece will lift your spirit and unburden your heart, even if just for a little while, unless you are too Kafkaesque to be helped.
****My hearing infirmity caused great confusion and consternation for me as I learned that to get Baker Acted is to be held against your will. This is done in order to receive a mental health evaluation, wIth follow up treatment, either on a voluntary or involuntary basis.
†For a good primer on electromagnetic radiation and non-lethal weapons used to experiment on and harass Targeted Individuals, see the excellent websIte mindjustice.org
†For a good primer on electromagnetic radiation and non-lethal weapons used to experiment on and harass Targeted Individuals, see the excellent websIte mindjustice.org
