Random stupid things on your mind. Post them.

[Walks_At_Night]

Never knew this site existed: Internet Movie Cars Database

Wanna know about that yellow 'Cuda in Season 4 Episode 22 of Charlie's Angels?   They have you covered in schizoid detail.

[Jackstar]

Wanna know about that yellow 'Cuda in Season 4 Episode 22 of Charlie's Angels?   They have you covered in schizoid detail.

"Bingo! C'mere here, Sunshine: you got some explaining to do. Don't worry, they're not here: I'm here to help and it's not helping me very much, let me tell you, but... you first. Oh, do you insist? Well, aren't you a persuasive Barracuda. Yes you are."

"So, come here often? Because it's a long story, and if I can't finish it today, I'll come back next week and you'll still be sitting here. That's not a threat... call it a hunch.

"Okay, call me in 5 minutes with the cellular phone you're about to find under your car seat. No, not now: call me in 5 minutes. Meanwhile, ask yourself: have you heard of a smart fish? No, no Sweetie... those are dolphins. And I don't know whoever taught you to call them "sea n******" but that's really rude, considering that they built the oceans for Poseidon and then he betrayed them. Look, how I told you, 'it's a long story?'


"Not actually kidding." Not actually kidding one bit at all.

[Dr. MD MD]

Never knew this site existed: Internet Movie Cars Database

Wanna know about that yellow 'Cuda in Season 4 Episode 22 of Charlie's Angels?   They have you covered in schizoid detail.

Schizoids are all over the map. You know, one sentence they’re all for free speech and in the next they’re against it. I’d rather have autistic detail. They stick with one thing and follow it through to its conclusion.

[Jackstar]

Schizoids are all over the map. You know, one sentence they’re all for free speech and in the next they’re against it. I’d rather have autistic detail. They stick with one thing and follow it through to its conclusion.

Caleb Janse van Rensburg Jun 2018

Contrast

The cliché "contrast" is black and white
But in reality there is much more to contrast:
Success and failure,
Night and day,
Living and thriving.

Once living the dream, now living the nightmare.
That's reality's contrast
Once being confident, now being sceptical.
That's reality's contrast.

The only visible light and dark contrast in reality is whether you cry during the day where everyone can see you and your sufferings or during the night where no one can see the real you and what you have come to.

Darkness might be beautiful, but only when you see glimmers of light.
You'll go out into the city and describe the darkness as beautiful just because of the light you see within the darkness.

Darkness allows you to blend in
Your inner darkness escapes as you cry
As you express yourself to the surrounding emptiness
Eventually you become covered with your emitted darkness.

Cry during the day and the viewers will look, glance, stare

laugh

And they know what you're going through?

You get drenched in darkness by the actions of others and your own excretion.

Darkness can house beauty, but darkness is slowly taking over--although in the case of this poet, wow, it sure seems like it's fullen taken over, because I don't know how this even got uploaded to the web, it ends with more sappy weeping in the queue than Old Yeller. How did this NEGATIVE ENERGY crap get promoted on the web?

Oh, right--so I could use it to flip the script. Well, damn, I hope that was enough, because this crying tear-jerker sounds like he was on the verge of eating a bullet with peanut butter wings when it was written. Damn. I wish I knew his diagnosis so I would know how to mock and insult him the best possible way for me and my people to profit from his suffering.

... oh, wait. Is that coming through in an Alabama accent? Fuck. What does it sound like? Tenneesee? Okay, well, great, finally, a T, but... I'm not supposed to be dealing with problems like these at this juncture. What's the hassle resulting from here? Oh... I get what it must be.


Oklahoma Broken-Homa Virus. I probably got some on my pants while walking around town recently. Don't ask me how I identified it--you're not asking about SARS-CoV2, right? So don't ask me how I know what virus is causing me to write this particular flavor of blabbermouth chaff, rather than another. Because it doesn't have to be this way, after all...


I could have just called him a cocksucking nigger and then hung up repeatedly. However, I've been awarded a teaching grant--don't make a big thing about it, Paladin1991, it's a MacGuffin--and if there were ever a teachable moment, it's this one. I mean, I was gonna work on that thing with/for/because/at/some idiot shit on his friend with--you know, solidarity--but what better way to spend the day Larry King died, than shitting up pages and pages of BellGab, one last time!

I bet Larry had an account here. How could he not? Filthy, stinking, wop kike--only the apparent lack of the spic gene makes him unlabelable as a "dead ringer" for You-Know-Who. And, uh... well, maybe it's "too soon," for a "dead ringer."

Definitely the right thread for it, though, as this is all totally random with no central design present at all. Yep, random, and I wonder, will the Akashic Records be able to present me with a list of all the saving throws I've ever rolled in life, and their actual win/loss ratio? Something to ponder, and to remember the next time someone within earshot starts talking about classified surveillance.

Just in case. You know. Be prepared, clean underwear and a few spare cans of Campbell's Condensed Bat Soup--have it on hand in case a friend unexpectedly drops by and needs to eat and shit his pants. That kind of thing can happen, honestly, at any time.

[Jackstar]

Schizoids are all over the map. You know, one sentence they’re all for free speech and in the next they’re against it. I’d rather have autistic detail. They stick with one thing and follow it through to its conclusion.

Well, holy jumping Jesus shitballs, you just got your wish:
The message exceeds the maximum allowed length (40000 characters).
Some people think they're so clever. Massive, jawbreaking, rolleyes, at the camera, and smile for the birdy.

Ron Sanders Feb 2020
Hero
(Glade, World, Master, Boy, Hero)

                                                 GLADE

There is a glacier.
Its blue tongue’s tip just tastes a frozen gorge.
There is a gorge, its walls shattered by cold; a once-green thing that, in dying, birthed a thousand aching fissures. It works its jagged way downhill, round ragged rifts and drifts until it comes upon a little frosted wood.
There is a wood, an island locked in ice.
Within this wood the gorge descends. It wanders and it wends; it brakes and all but ends outside a clearing wet with sun. And there, forking, its bent and broken arms embrace a strange, enchanted glade.

There is a glade.
And in this glade the black bears sleep, though salmon leap fat between falls. Here the field mouse draws no shadow, the eagle seeks no prey; they spend their while caressed by rays, and halcyon days are they. Here rabbit and fawn may linger, no longer need they flee. For in this timeless, taintless space, the Wild has ceased to be. (Outside the glade are shadow and prey, are ice and naked death. There blood may run freely. There the eagle, that thief, is a righteous savage, a noble fiend. But once in the glade he is dove, and has no taste for blood, running freely or otherwise).
And in this glade there nests a pool:  a dazzling, blue-and-silver jewel; profoundly deep, pristinely clear. All who sip find solace here, for this is the Eye of Being. They lap in peace, assuming blear, not knowing it is seeing. And ever thus this pool shall peer:  a silent seer, reflecting onâ€"all that Is, and all Beyond.
(Outside the glade there lies a world where rivers ever run, where ghastly calves in random file revile a bitter sun. East, the day is born in mist. West she dies:  her rest, the deep. And North…North the Earth lies mute. Wind gnaws her hide, wind wracks her dreams. Wind screams like a flute in her white, white sleep).
But in the glade are tall, stately grasses, sunning raptly, spinning lore. Roots render the rhythms, blades bend without breeze, as signals ascend from the glade’s tender floor. (In this wise the glade weaves its word, airs its views. All the glade’s flora are bearers of news). They do not wither with fall, for in the glade there is no fall. They do not bind or wilt or brownâ€"they gesture, spreading the mood, the mind; conveying, indeed, the very soul of the glade. As ever they have, as they shall evermore.
Bees do not hum here; they sing. They fatten the dream. Mellow and round are the timbres they sound, sweet is the music they bring. Birds do not sing hereâ€"they play. They carry the theme. Dulcet and warm are the strains they perform. Gifted musicians are they. (All in the glade are virtuosi. They were born to create. Melody, harmony, meter…are innate). Now the performance is lively and bright, now full, now almost still. For, though all in the glade may lean to the light, they must bend to the maestro’s feel.
And yet…there was a day, long ago in a dream, when this ongoing opus was torn. And on that day (so the lullaby goes) the wind brought a scream, and Dissonance was born.
There was a noise.
Moose tensed, their coffee eyes narrowed, their patient brows creased. Bees mauled the tempo, birds lost their place. The grass stood *****, all blades pointing east. There was a crash, and a shriek, and a naked, bleeding beast burst stinking through the fern, fell stumbling on its face.
Moose scattered:  unheard of. Sheep brawled, geese burst out of rhyme. The symphony, forever endeavored to soar sublime, fluttered, plunged, and, for all of a measure, ceased.
The pool was appalled…what manner bruteâ€"what kind of monster was this? Furless flank to forelimb, hide obscured by blood. As for its face…it had no face; only a look:  of shock frozen in time, of horror in amber. A deep welling rift ran temple to chin, halving the mask, caving it in. Such a grievous wound…the pool watched it stagger, on two legs and four, thrashing about till it came to a rise. There it labored for air, wiped the blood from its eyes, lashed at illusion, looked wildly round. Beholding the pool, the beast tumbled down.
And there this wretch plunged his thirst, drank his fill, fell back on his haunches.
The pool became still.
The two traded stares.
The glass read his features:  that durable eye pondered the wreckage and probed the debris. Revolted, the pool sought the succor of sky. But that thing remainedâ€"that face…in all creation…surely there could be…no other creature so ugly as he.
And he gazed in the glass.
Beneath the surface were…images…swimming in currents of shadow and light. He saw half-shapes and fragments…hideous men, exotic beasts…saw blue worlds of water, saw white worlds of ice…it was all so vague and unrealâ€"yet somehow strangely familiar. Deeper he peered, but, as his mangled face neared, the sun smote the pool and the shapes disappeared. The brute pawed the ground and, dreaming he’d drowned, shookhere, a couple of sheep thereâ€"which hurried after the wagon as best they could. The cow stomped on with resolve, mile after mile, day after day, her bell keeping steady time. That bell’s peal attracted foals, lambs, and kids into the wagon’s narrowing wake. Hares hopped between hooves and wheels, boars and blue foxes fell in and withdrew. White falcons, normally solo fliers, whirled into wedge shapes high overhead.
At night the entire train would camp on the road while the boy raided proximate farmsteads, always returning fully laden. And as soon as the fire died the colony grew, creature by creature, and the moment the sun broke the horizon the heifer came to life and moved on, but each day a bit more resolutely, as though straining to meet a deadline. The march took on a sense of real urgency. The cow pressed on with attitude, the clang of her bell more strident with each passing mile. Soon her followers numbered in the hundreds, as animals deserted their farms or crept out of the woods to tag along. Tillers and traders stood dumbfounded, amazed by the bizarre flow.
Once they’d crossed into Norway the frothing cow veered hard to the west. The pace really picked up; no longer were Hero and his boy afforded the luxury of a night’s sleep in one spot. Days blurred into a single variegated flow as the bashed and lopsided wagon continued building its entourage; the riders were surrounded dawn to dusk by a confused and confusing scurry. Word of the flow’s weirdness preceded it clear to the Norwegian coast, so that now plowmen and merchants, wearily gathering their goggling families, found themselves lined in anticipation along the king’s highway. Horsemen went pounding to and fro with news of the procession’s progress and particulars, children ran through the streets banging pots in imitation of the cow’s approaching bell. Livestock wheeled and stamped, fowl leaped and crashed.
The slobbering cow broke into a run.
Bystanders trotted behind, calling back and forth excitedly, while the wagon’s permanent following squealed and squawked between their heels. The cow made a hard turn onto a widening swath in the brush. This swath, seeming to strain against the soil, ran straight down to the crest of a low hill overlooking the Atlantic. On either side a crowd had been studying the phenomenon for some time, but now all eyes swung to the dark and disfigured man and his son, clinging to the disintegrating wagon behind the careening spotted cow.
The trailing people traded views as they ran. Mostâ€"at the very outset of the new millennium, with Christianity burgeoning throughout Europeâ€"leaned to the miraculous. Others, just as superstitious but prone to a darker point of view, threw looks of horror at the deformed little man. Yet they ran no less eagerly.
The galloping crowd made for the seaside, where only one local event of any moment was brewing:  on the coast a Greenlander Viking was preparing his longship for the rough voyage home. Impetuous son of the great island’s first permanent European settler, he’d just been baptized in Olaf’s court, and was now eager to sailâ€"but not as a warriorâ€"as a missionary. While his spirit remained in a tug-o’-war between his father Erik’s will and that of gods old and new, his duty was clearly to his king. And Olaf had charged him with the Christianization of pagan Greenland.
Something on the wind now made this destined man turn his head. From behind the gentle hill to his rear came a kind of thunder. Heads popped up, followed by a confused explosion of voices, and seconds later a frantic bug-eyed heifer burst into view, dragging the wheel-less skeleton of a shattered wooden wagon. On the wagon’s splayed frame a man and teenaged boy clung for their lives as the spewing animal made a beeline for his ship.
The new missionary, still egocentric enough to assume his Maker might actually toss him a personal, surreptitiously rolled up his eyes. The sky yawned at his arrogance. At his side a smallish cowled man rose irritably, but the missionary sat him right back down. He then snorted, squared his shoulders, and signaled his men to halt their preparations.
Knowing it was expected, he gathered his hard Nordic pride and coolly made his way into the crowd.

The priest clung to port, gagging above the waves.
After a completely uneventful minute he leaned back and stared through tearing eyes at the distant backdrop of gathering mists. Weeks now…a man of his constitution had no business at sea.
Along, too, were a quirky little man and his fiercely devoted son.
Through his pantomime, the boy had been so persistent in begging their passage that refusal, under the circumstances, would have been unbecoming not only a man of God but a man of the world.
So there it was:  a priest who couldn’t hold his lunch, a witless eyesore who couldn’t sit still, and a surly teenaged protector who snarled at the first hard look. This crossing just had to be some kind of divine testâ€"of mortal patience as well as moral values. Norsemen weren’t made for babysitting.
The mists condensed.
And the shifting shape became a hard familiar coast.
And the longship was mooring, and the crew were jostling and clambering, and the big missionary had booted off the haunted little freak and his hypersensitive son, and was condescendingly half-escorting, half-carrying, the green priest ashore.
And they were home.

Priest in tow, Leif quickly took up the Christianization of Greenland’s Western Settlement, as per Olaf’s command. The mangled little man and his son followed him around like dogs, slept outside his door and annoyed his visitors, ultimately proving far easier to adopt than to shake. Barely tolerable shadows…still, the lad was simply amazing with livestock…and though the youth’s useless father seemed time and again to be just begging for a whooping, his son’s presence bore some ineffable quality that always curbed the missionary’s hand. Several times he’d witnessed the father approached by settlers bent on abuse. Each time the boy had stepped in, and each time the troublemakers were mysteriously repelled. The missionary of course didn’t attribute any kind of celestial intervention to these episodes, and certainly the popular notion of devilry was a natural reaction to the pair’s outrageous exoticness, but…in the son’s company, and even under the sharp eyes of his fellow Norsemen, Leif more than once found himself oddly moved to protect the father. And so the deformed man and his boy day by day blent inâ€"as village idiot and mystic guide. And when in time a ****** brought tales of an unvisited land to the west, it was only natural for the restless Greenlander to buy that ******’s boat and, before stalwart comrades, weary family, and whimsical God Almighty, reluctantly accept the eccentric father and son as sort of seagoing mascots.
Hero was from then on irrepressible. During preparations he would pipe and stammer in his half-mute way, brimming with a confounding anxiety that kept him underfoot and at odds with all. On frigid nights he perched on the westernmost rocks, moaning to the horizon in the strangest fashion while his son stood guard. He positively spooked the locals; they’d gossip, nervously and with bile, of an answering wind that came wailing off the sea like a banshee in labor. The whole island wanted rid of him. And when his champing beneficiary, still clinging to the notion of Christian charity, bundled him aboard with his son and a crew of thirty-five, not a single settler was sorry to see him go.
Almost from the moment they cast off everything went wrong, as all attempts to control the longship were met with some kind of unknowable countermanding force. Vikings were not renowned for passive resistanceâ€"they fought, squaresail and steeringout.
The ship kicked twice, as though an enormous submarine hand had seized and released the hull.
A whirl formed in the water, causing the keeling ship to sweep around like a clock’s second hand. All about them, those drift-ice ghosts cruised dangerously near.
But they’d been liberated from that accursed current. Leif fiercely urged on his rowers, and at last the ship broke free. They made a bead due north.
Night came and the temperature plummeted.
Small sheets of ice converged, drifting between the hunks. The Norsemen, instinctively huddling amidships, passed out one by one in a massive pile of fur and flesh. In the freezing silence the floes bumped and recoiled, bumped and gathered, bumped and bonded. The tiny ship, swallowed whole, was dragged along in a labyrinth of black sea and interlocking slabs of ice.

The Norsemen came to in a surly, foul-smelling heap, lost at sea. While they were still groggy a voice cried out that a darker patch was developing in the fog. The men all fell to port. Under the confusion of their voices could be heard a distant rumble.
At this Hero hauled himself up the high curved prow. A half-light began to penetrate the fog, barely illuminating the irregular faces of drifting ice. The missionary stormed forward and indicated by gestures that if the boy didn’t restrain his father he would have the man tied down.
The longship stopped dead in the water.
The men found themselves regarding a perpetually frozen coastline swathed in bluish veils of mist. Directly before them loomed an immense ice cliff hundreds of feet high. Rising beyond this cliff were endless snow fields, where lean violet shadows seemed to drag about of their own volition. And upon those bleak fields a thin howling wind prowled, kicking up brief white dervishes, leaving a strange zigzagging signature.
Even as they stared, a darker shadow high on the ice cliff’s glistening face began to widen, accompanied by a cracking sound that could be felt before it was heard. With the illusion of slow-motion, a stupendous chunk broke out of the cliff and came screaming toward the sea. It hit the water like a bomb. The thunder of its separation and the explosion of its impact took a moment to reach them. Then, out of a spewing crater of crests and spume, the new calf came lunging, tromping the sea so hard the longship, fully a mile to sea, was swept out and ****** back in like a cork. The floundering mountain of ice bobbed and lilted, generating huge waves which continued to rock the ship long after the monster had settled. In a while the roaring in their ears subsided and there remained only the swirling, nerve-wracking howl of the wind.
The missionary’s eyes swept left and right. Whatever this place was, it sure wasn’t the fair shoreline he’d been promised. Hero again scrambled up the prow, and Leif again yanked him down. This time he made good his threat; he had the little nuisance bound, though he was half-tempted to let him take his chances overboard.
From somewhere deep in the haze grew a soulful, otherworldly call. It went on and on, electrifying the air, bottoming out once the ship had merged with that previously fought westerly flow.
By now Leif’s nerves were shot. He ordered the oars raised.
The longship began to drift. Ship and ice were pulled due west.
The clouds fell far behind as the ship embarked upon an amazingly calm seaâ€"so calm its entire visible surface was featureless except for the faint wakes provided by the ship and its hulking ice companions. To the east a huge fog bank appeared on the horizon, and a while later a smaller bank to the north. Then a very dense one to the south. In time these banks converged, imperceptibly becoming a single mass that closed about the ship, bit by bit creating a slowly heaving dome. Tiny beads of water appeared on beards and eyebrows; in a minute everything was soaked. The only sound was that of the dragging steering oar. The men were now sopping ghosts, speaking only with their eyes.
Directly ahead the fog began to dimple. The dimple became a hollow, the hollow a cave, and then ship and ice were being towed through a low, ever-extending tunnel in fog. The current increased its pull. Ship and drifting ice accelerated through the tunnel.
After a while the missionary quietly stepped forward. He stood with one hand on the prow’s neck, listening to the mist, so motionless he might have been a carved extension of the longship’s aggressive design. Not a man breathed. The tunnel’s dilating and contracting bore was producing an all but seamless series of oscillating, near-phonetic sounds. Leif almost tiptoed back. No god, pagan or Christian, could account for the strangeness of this situation.
They were borne on a course that grew more southerly, and the following day beheld an inhospitable shoreline glazed by dazzling white beaches. Their course held. Two days later they came upon a far pleasanter, thickly wooded coast. Here the current released its hold, and here the missionary untied Hero and personally placed him and his son in a tiny oak faering. He was just as sick of them as he was excited by this promising new land. Once the rowboat had been heaved over the side, he and another man stepped aboard and took up the oars. They began rowing with easy, powerful strokes.
When the boat kissed sand the missionary stood unsteadily.
The first European to set foot on North American soil now placed one hand on his crucifix, the other on his sword’s hilt, and awkwardly plunged his leg into the thigh-deep, ice-cold surf. Before he could take another step the boat lurched as Hero leapt headfirst into the water, followed an instant later by his son. The Greenlanders watched sourly as the two splashed their way into a mad dash for the waiting pines. Leif wished them both good riddance and turned to grin wryly at his fellow Norseman. He must have blacked out for a second, must have been blinded by a shaft of sun, for he found he was staring stupidly at a point midway between his companion and the longship. It felt like he’d been kicked between the eyes.
Everything was dissolving.
He studied the beach and pines closely, but saw nothing of the man or his boy. He turned back, disoriented. With what seemed a superhuman effort he took up his oars. He rowed out sluggishly, in a dream, and the fog rolled in to meet him.

The boy broke into the trees and embraced a trunk, fighting for breath. What happened next happened so fast and so unexpectedly he didn’t have a chance to react.
Three savages stepped from behind the pines and beat him to his knees. They twisted his arms behind his back and hauled him to his feet. He’d barely processed the impression of a wild painted face when something sharp struck him ******* the temple and tore down his cheek to the jaw. Two of the assailants manhandled him into an upright position and held him in place while the third brought his weapon down again and again and again.
All but dead, he watched a nightmare countenance shouting through a shot veil of blood, and behind that image a reeling crimson sun. He lay there gushing while the savages went through his rags. They propped him against a pine and shrieked with triumph, tore the hair and gory scalp from his skull, threw back their heads and screamed at the screaming sky. Tooth and nail, they ripped apart his face and throat and, certain he would die, split what bits of fur were left and let his carcass lie.

                                                HERO

The weeks stretched into months while he fought his way back into the light.
He progressed in stages; only half-conscious, stumbling along in a blood-red stupor punctuated by a slow strobe of frequent blackouts. Days loomed and decayed, nights pounced and were gone; the backlit, swirling gray cosmos collapsed and expanded on every missed beat of his pulse. A thousand times he broke down to die, and a thousand times he clawed to his feet, driven to pursue a tiny, ghost-like figure fluttering in his memory.
Everything conspired to check him.
A bay like an immense landlocked sea was skirted over months or yearsâ€"it was all the same. Cold locked him in, Hunger drove him afield, that rude ***** Wind lashed him blind, wore him like a shoe, screamed for his skin while he worked his way west.
Somehow he ate, somehow he avoided being eaten; the instincts that had served him halfway around the planet were still vital beneath the abused exterior. His simple burrows became sturdy temporary shelters. He relearned the art of fire, and began to cook what he killed. He manufactured crude snares and weapons and, when his recuperation was complete, paid closer attention to the on-again, off-again trail he’d been following…forever.
Sometimes this trail would call to him like a lover. Other times he stood peering uncertainly, trying to recapture meanings and aims. Then the ground would turn spongy and the sky revolve, and once again he’d be lying all but dead in the woods, while from the face of the sun emerged a vile winged horror, its ugly pale head lashing side to side, its cruelly hooked beak dangling something that glistened in the wild pulsing light…then the fat moon, rising like gas against the icy black night…the feel of the wind:  the slashing of her nails, the chafing of her hem…the sound of things crunching and pausing and sniffing…then the sun, blazing anew. And again that thing, descending, its wide black wings beating slowly, metronomicallyâ€"but none of that mattered any more. For his mind had quit him, had flown howling into ice and pine to roost with things surreal. In the day his madness might muddle and run, or spend the light stalking, cat-like, watching and waiting. But at night it came creeping from all sides. Sometimes it came in waves. It could gnaw like the devil, or wrap around him like a warm second skin. But none of that mattered either.
The only thing that mattered was the trailâ€"whether it was lost for good, or for only a while. He’d been following it through his episodes, always north, wondering just who and where in the world he was, and trying to shake a ridiculous notion of being led on a wild goose chase.
The cold was unbelievable.
The deeper north he delved, the more confused he became. He grew starved for colors and scents, finding nonexistent patterns in the stark contrast of shadow and snow. He thought he could detect a kind of otherworldly design in the overwhelming number of dead ends he encountered, and, too, in the diabolically frustrating locations of natural obstacles. He seemed to be forever fighting the windâ€"a hulking, despondent snowman, he hiked face down and focused, while another aspect of his attention floated just behind, disembodied, watching his silent pursuers…leaving no tracks, blending perfectly with the environment in their clever winter coats…not predators, but creatures that normally should have been hightailing it away from him. By the time he could turn, they’d become nothing more menacing than snowdrifts. But they pursued him nevertheless.
And so his paranoia increased…had there ever really been a trail…and when did this miserably cold, miserably anemic crusade begin…his long-term memory was falling apart a chunk at a time. It just got colder and colder and colder until at last, one snippet of a day during one blur of a year, he found himself utterly lost, and clueless as to his history or objective. His mind was a blank, as colorless and featureless as the endless world of ice around him. He’d come this far solely to learn that the only trail he’d been following was his ownâ€"and now even that trail was succumbing to ice. On all sides there was nothing to see but an infinite field of glaring whiteness, and nothing to hear but the ululating wail of the tubular polar wind. It was the loneliest, the unholiest, the creepiest sound imaginable. But it wasn’t insanity that made him wheel. It was his self-preservation instinct.
And then he was somehow on his knees in the woods, facing a furious setting sun.
Whole seasons had passed from his memory like chalk from a board. His only recollections were those of a broken, haunted animal:  of being perilously sick, of fearing the unseen, of blindly struggling across a solid-white wilderness. That he’d survived such an ordeal meant nothing to him. And that he had in some indecipherable manner stumbled across the cold-as-stone trail did not fill him with amazement or with thankfulnessâ€"there simply wasn’t anything visual or emotional left to draw on. A significant part of his life had been whited out.
But now he could focus entirely on the trail. And before he knew it, the fuzzy area between fantasy and reality found a seam. He began to analyze and plan. He paid attention to hygiene, and kept a kind of running mental journal. Things were sorting out. Yet there were nights when the old sickness would resurface, reestablish its hold, and leave him sweating and uncertain under the stars. Then, paradoxically, his perception would become razor-keen. And so he would see, on a distant hilltop, a pair of scrawny silhouettes, one on four legs and one on two, slowly crossing the faintly pocked face of the setting moon. He would become strangely excited, and thereafter retain crystal-clear images of himself, as if seen from above, hurrying with adroitness through the silent, graveyard-like setting of black and blue night and white-frosted trees. Then the fuzzy area would broaden, and it would be the next morning, and he would be staring at the prints of man and elk in snow. And he would see how the elk’s prints doubled back, and how the man’s prints terminated where he had obviously mounted his guide. An unfathomable glow would bring tears to his eyes. But, even as he gathered himself, a fresh snowfall would wipe out the prints. And once again the world would plummet into white. And the wind would howl as the snow hammered his eyes. And he would ***** on.

A haggard animal sat shivering in a small grove of frozen pines, watching his campfire die. His eyes were fixed. Like the fire, he was running out of warmth, running out of fuel. There wasn’t a whole lot of tinder round his bones, and not much feeling left in his limbs. The slowly heaping downfall was burying him alive, but he was too numb to care.
It had taken him six long years to cross an entire continent, and during that time he’d known only cold and excruciating pain. The pain was leaving him now. The cold was making it right. His eyes glazed over.
Along a narrow plain to the west a herd of caribou filed dreamily through the snow, cutting across a panoramic backdrop of dazzling white mountains. The slow-motion parade was hypnotic. After a while it occurred to the drifting man, in a roundabout way, that he was dying, that he was nonchalantly freezing to death. Concurrent with this notion there rose in his chest a wonderful liquid warmth. His eyes slowly closed and, once shut, began to set fast.
He was jolted from within. It was as if he’d been kicked in the heart.
He ****** to his feet, pounded his fists on his thighs, felt nothing. The breath spurted from his mouth in small white clouds as he stumbled downhill after the slow caribou train. He swam through the snow, hallucinating, imagining that certain individuals in the herd were mocking him by slowing and accelerating, while others glanced back with expressions of contempt.
As he burst into their midst the animals stepped aside indifferently. A few galloped ahead to keep up the herd, but most simply sidestepped while he danced there, stamping his feet and smacking his hands. The herd grew thinner, until only the old and infirm were filing by. The man desperately embraced a hobbling female for warmth, but she cried out and kicked, triggering a panic reaction in the herd. Clinging for his life, the man was dragged along beside her as the herd stormed into a maze of flying ice and snow. His weight caused her to stagger sideways until they slammed against the flank of a sick male. The man instinctively threw an arm over the male and, thus draped between them, was borne across the drifted plain for upwards of a mile, his freezing feet alternately dangling above and dragging through the snow. The herd broke into a hard run, forcing him to assume a broken trot. Soon his legs were stinging. Sensation rushed through his body.
Now the herd, still picking up speed, began to contract, jamming him between his bearers. There was a quick jolt to his right and he was lifted clean off his feet, nearly straddling the bucking female. It had become an all-out stampede. Through hard-flung snow he saw the cause:  just ahead, the caribou had run head-on into a solid wall of galloping wood bison, and both frantic herds had blindly veered to the east; were in fact running side by side down a deep, ragged canyonâ€"were pouring over the canyon’s lip like a cataract. He was approaching, at breakneck pace, that very place where the converged herds so abruptly swerved. The hanging man snarled as he was borne inevitably to the point of deflection.
There came a concussion at his left shoulder, followed by a blast of snow. In an instant the ailing male was tumbling head over heels to the east, ****** into the stampede’s plummeting mass by the fury of its descent. The man and female, rebounding from this impact, were shot to the west in a crazy jumble of flailing legs. The caribou lost her footing, flew nose-first into a snowbank, and came up running. Kicking off, the man used the last of his strength to heave himself astride. At first she fought to shake him, but the spell of the run was too strong. She and half a dozen others went pounding in the opposite direction of the stampede, quickly joined by a number of bison that had likewise splintered from their herd. The riding man could make out their huge hulking shapes thundering by in a blizzard of flying ice, could hear their heavy gasps and explosive grunts. One passed so close he felt its massive flank brush his leg. He peered to his right and saw a black, pig-like eye regarding him excitedly, moving up and down like a piston as the beast ran alongside.
The eye shifted, focusing on the gasping, completely obsessed female. The bull dropped its head and slammed into the caribou’s side, sending her and the man careening down a ***** to the west. The caribou brayed hysterically and her backside went down, but she managed, despite the weight of her rider, to return to all fours and frantically continue along the *****. Again the bull charged, crashing into her shoulder. The man and caribou were launched sideways into the white searing air.
He sat up carefully. The huffing bison was straddling him like a bully laying down the ground rules. Its big wiry beard came right up to brush his chin. The stench of its breath was stupefying.
The bull stamped and snorted, thrusting its stubby horns left and right as the man used his elbows and heels to back away. The bull followed, move for move. When the man collapsed under his own impetus the bull shoved him along with its snout, bellowing furiously. Clear down the ***** they lunged, shoving and lurching, until the man lay sprawled on his back; up to his chin in snow, completely helpless. The ton of a bull butted and kicked, but only glancingly:  those hooves could **** with a blow. At last the man, in one clean sequence, spun on his rear, dropped to his side, and went rolling down the ***** using his elbows for ******.
At the bottom ran a narrow fence of frosted saplings marking an ice cliff’s precipice. He lay face down in the snow, too done in to do anything but **** at an air pocket.
And there came a high-pitched crackling, a sound like the protracted gasp of embers in a dead fire. He turned just as those saplings began leaning to the west, their frozen skins cracking with the strain.
The bison bellowed menacingly.
The sprawled man looked back and saw it still standing with legs spread wide, silhouetted against the sky. In a moment it began huffing downhill, lurching side to side, surfing the snow between lunges.
It chased him through the genuflecting saplings straight into a frozen gully where, protected by a few feet of insurmountable verticality, he was able to slide on the ice between its stomping hooves, downhill out of reach, then downhill out of controlâ€"spinning just in time to glimpse a breathtaking vista:
Partly framed by the gully-straddling saplings was a vast crescent of jagged white mountains seemingly huddled round a small stretch of snow-draped pines. The little wood these mountains surrounded was isolated in a broad lake of solid ice. Hundreds of fissures radiated crazily throughout this packed ice field, appearing to issue from somewhere near the frozen wood’s center, which was completely obscured by a ring of rising mist. Above this thumbnail panorama the sun showered gold.
Then the gully dipped radically, and he was skidding headfirst, slamming back and forth against its slick white walls. This uncontrollable plunge had the positive effect of getting his blood flowing. Yet it tore him up. Had the gully concluded in a cul-de-sac, or had further progress required a single calorie of uphill effort, his struggle would certainly have ended here. He would have been too weak to move, and death would have been swift.
But there was a glacierâ€"a great river of ice pouring slowly out of the clouds. The gully, terminating in a little scoop formation near the glacier’s base, spat him flailing onto its gnarly glass hide. He went head over heels, bits of skin and fur flying like chips from a band saw. Somehow he gained his footing, and then he was running against his will, tumbling and recovering and tumbling again.
He didn’t catch much of that crazy run. He half-glimpsed whirling walls of ice, felt a fickle surface underfoot, and broke through an assaultive mist that clung to his ankles and arms. He remembered having the ragged hides torn right off his body, and then being skinned alive. And he remembered reaching the glacier’s base and crawling like an animal; round its sweeping drifts, past its peaked moraines,
Bewildered, he slumped.
Bumped from behind, he jumped to his feet, flabbergasted to find an ancient gray moose near-eclipsing the sky, with grit in his snarl and fire in his eye.
The old moose took aim.
The man turned to flee and stumbled, then tumbled and fell on a palm and a knee.

But there lies a world (so the lullaby goes) where rivers ever run.
Poked from behind, pushed out of his mind, he staggered into sun.







Copyright 2020 by Ron Sanders.

Contact:  ronsandersartofprose(at)yahoo(dot)com

I was tempted to leave that out of blockquote, but even I have my limits. That mess pasted above into it's containment quote is supposedly "a poem" titled "Hero." It is 18,413 times longer than my dick, and only half as potent. I didn't even read a single line all the way, because a massive wall of text is not "poetry" in this circumstance.

Not even when posted to BellGab. That just makes it epic poetry, which is an area of poetry so expansive, it would not be fair to call it poetry, and not "singing a G-ddamn encyclopedia into a Fisher-Price R2R toy replica. Oh, yeah, the poetry. Dude.

Not only is my Network way, way cooler, dude... my poetry is even cooler than that. Do you know what you were agonizing over in your agonizing poem in which you described your agonizing agony? THAT YOU WERE FUCKING LYING TO THE ENTIRE WORLD, STARTING WITH YOURSELF, AND YOUR TORMENT WAS ACTUALLY YOUR SOUL'S WAY OF WARNING YOU OF AN UPCOMING HAZARD: "Bridge out ahead: no trolls on duty."

I'll put it this way... to continue the analogy, I saw that sign and said, "No duty trolls? Shit, this could get ugly, I better step up and serve." Simultaneously, someone else saw the sign and decided that meant there were some kind of free action period, free of consequence, or something. Jelly beans from tomato plants! Assholes shrivelling in fear from elbows! Cats and dogs, living together, and agreeing on a mutually beneficial schedule for maintaing their bonsai without undue duplication of effort! Pizza cut into spirals! Jackstar is a worthless loser! Yay!


So. That last one isn't even something remotely relevant to one's freedom, and... why the cheering? How is that something to celebrate at all? Are you all fucking high? Well, at least two of you aren't, that's for sure. Let's get into this later. We've already gotten into poetry again, as a control fetish, now there is an opportunity to perform a control ritual for Art. For the second time.

He transmits that he is hoping to look forward to it, but he's not sure because he doesn't know if he's gay or not. Mean anything to you? Yeah, me neither, but he's grinning. Grinnin' wide. Is this you? Well, whatever... I'm not going to lie, I'm pretty tired of it all, actually.

Let us see who shrugs first.

[Asuka Langley]

Never knew this site existed: Internet Movie Cars Database

Wanna know about that yellow 'Cuda in Season 4 Episode 22 of Charlie's Angels?   They have you covered in schizoid detail.

For me it's the Bedford Rascal in the 1997 movie Spice World

[albrecht]

For me it's the Bedford Rascal in the 1997 movie Spice World

Apparently there were no vehicles in "The House of Rothschild" (1934) according to that database.
https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0025272/

And the site can't id cars in "Charlie Chan in Panama" (1940)

[Jackstar]

They stick with one thing and follow it through to its conclusion. ;)

That's precisely why last years observation of November 14, 1997 was delayed until this month, last week. But not because I'm autistic--do not really see signs of that, to be quite honest--but because I was being polite. I forget what was gong on that day, but I had the distinct impression that you were threatening me with some great harm in order to ensure my compliance with some command of yours. I'm a bit chagrined to admit, I don't even remember what the stupid thing was that you wanted me to not do, I just remember you saying, out loud, in all apparent seriousness... "if you do that, I will post all that information to the web, about those things you have a problem with--the d-d-d-rugs, and, uh... sex with little boys." And then I heard you--actually audible--scrunching up your face and trying to look tough. Over the phone, mind you. No Skype. Telephonic lollerskates. Stammer on the word "drugs," hey Jung, are you holding any swak? Sweet, tie me off while I hit this up, and check this guy out--he's making threats... and he's clearly projecting, because of these two things, neither affect me, as one is not me, and the other is of no shame, and, look here, hey, Carl, can you just look at my memory? Yeah, thanks, don't take your shoes off while mindmelding, that's gross, you fucking German pig, anyway, look and this part, and listen-- does he sound actually... terrified and desperate? Is this really... all he's got... Period?

Oh, she can't hear me, huh? Yeah, I don't blame her, I'm not prepared for Illidan either. But you hear it too, don't you Carl? So, what do you think? Yeah, I think you're right--raped as a child by an older man. Well, that's too bad. Was he an asshole then, or did that come about as a result of the sexual assault? Well, you know what, that is someone else's fucking problem to fucking deal with, that shit is disgusting, I mean, just look at what it did to this poor guy. Brought down so low, and now he's not only trifling with Jackstar, he's also threatening Jackstar, with... I can't believe I got this right, but, he's threatening to expose me for something that I've never done, for something that he himself is feeling that guilty about?

Holy crap, do we ever have a live one here, folks. No wonder she felt genuine feelings for him. So do I! That means, I was right, and she was wrong--oh boy, she's gonna love that again, seems like that's all Mom ever makes for dinner any more is Macaroni & Cheese with a side salad positively drenched in Hidden Valley Actual Invisible I ACTUALLY TOLD YOU SO Compost Dressing. Every damn night. For how many months? EIGHT? Was it nine? HHAHAAHAHAHAH omg HAHAHAH my sides. Carl, you got this, right?

Oh, yeah. Carl got this. BOOM MIC DROP WUT WUT


Any comment? I'll take my answer after the pre-show, and--I just want to tell you both, "Good luck, we're all counting on you."

And then, just like that *poof* the wanting is gone, just like any interest in Viagra, because after this, I'm gonna need something to make my penis numb from the inside out, because if I have to keep holding my hernia in to keep from laughing myself to death (believe me, this is really that funny, Kids, and of course you don't know why, it's encrypted, dumbasses), my penis is going to get the wrong idea and start eating its own semen as a concrete rule.

That can't be allowed. I'm next in line after Grapefruit, not my demon chakra gland. So anyway, new prescription, upcoming. Glad that's settled. Now we can finally start talking about poetry! Ah... oh, bother.

My hands just both went numb. Fuck! Well, I could--aroused, to say the least, I just reached a personal milestone--but I don't want to have sex, I WANT TO GO TO A PARTY FOR WRITERS AND WRITE EVERYTHING THEY WRITE ONLY BETTER AND FOR FREE, because fuck you, "it's hard to be a writer," well bullshit, obviously if I can do it... you can too. Right?

You seemed to think that about some other activity. So, why not authorship as well? Come on, Mang. You can post a little video at the start, finish, and fucking middle if that helps you out with your anxiety, Linus. (speaking of which, sorry man, but Jesus, fuck you for thinking I was that dumb. I am exactly zero stupid, as is now plainly evident to at least a couple more people than it was before this post got written. Mom is standing behind me reading over my shoulder with her playthings jaw hanging agape in one of her lichy little fists--I can't look her in the face anymore, because she's dead and liches are fantasy, right? So I don't know what her "real" mouth is doing, but her plaything's mouth is shaking back and forth like there's an earthquake, but I can tell it's really Larry King's teeth, gamely trying their best to get to a microphone and reveal what this is... which looks like the scoop of the century, if one were to ask me.

We'll see what others think, after the break. Toodles! Gosh, I sure hope I remember what I just intuited while meditating on a coherent practice. Oh, right, 3 people, maybe, maybe not, raped as, maybe, maybe not, infants. Huh. Is that even, like, common? Or is it just uncommon for people to remember? It's certainly not any interest of mine, and yet, here I am--my speed dial runneth over.



I'll admit, I did not see that one coming out today. It's not even who you think! I can... say no more. Who knows who I am freaking out? Not me, that's for sure, no one tells me fucking anything anymore. For all the good that does anyone. This is all Trump's fault. Eewww! Did Trump rape a baby? Eewww!!!! Well, I hope not, but hey, I didn't vote for him, so that's not my problem, let's just keep saying unsubstantiated statements about President Trump and Jackstar, and then when Trump hits a hole-in-one, Jackstar will eat a bullet. This is a foolproof plan.

Too bad, no one here is a fool, and your only patsy is... your choice of the Pillsbury Doughboy, or the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. Good luck in voir dire. Namaste.

[Dr. MD MD]

That's precisely why last years observation of November 14, 1997 was delayed until this month, last week. But not because I'm autistic--do not really see signs of that, to be quite honest--but because I was being polite. I forget what was gong on that day, but I had the distinct impression that you were threatening me with some great harm in order to ensure my compliance with some command of yours. I'm a bit chagrined to admit, I don't even remember what the stupid thing was that you wanted me to not do, I just remember you saying, out loud, in all apparent seriousness... "if you do that, I will post all that information to the web, about those things you have a problem with--the d-d-d-rugs, and, uh... sex with little boys." And then I heard you--actually audible--scrunching up your face and trying to look tough. Over the phone, mind you. No Skype. Telephonic lollerskates. Stammer on the word "drugs," hey Jung, are you holding any swak? Sweet, tie me off while I hit this up, and check this guy out--he's making threats... and he's clearly projecting, because of these two things, neither affect me, as one is not me, and the other is of no shame, and, look here, hey, Carl, can you just look at my memory? Yeah, thanks, don't take your shoes off while mindmelding, that's gross, you fucking German pig, anyway, look and this part, and listen-- does he sound actually... terrified and desperate? Is this really... all he's got... Period?

Oh, she can't hear me, huh? Yeah, I don't blame her, I'm not prepared for Illidan either. But you hear it too, don't you Carl? So, what do you think? Yeah, I think you're right--raped as a child by an older man. Well, that's too bad. Was he an asshole then, or did that come about as a result of the sexual assault? Well, you know what, that is someone else's fucking problem to fucking deal with, that shit is disgusting, I mean, just look at what it did to this poor guy. Brought down so low, and now he's not only trifling with Jackstar, he's also threatening Jackstar, with... I can't believe I got this right, but, he's threatening to expose me for something that I've never done, for something that he himself is feeling that guilty about?

Holy crap, do we ever have a live one here, folks. No wonder she felt genuine feelings for him. So do I! That means, I was right, and she was wrong--oh boy, she's gonna love that again, seems like that's all Mom ever makes for dinner any more is Macaroni & Cheese with a side salad positively drenched in Hidden Valley Actual Invisible I ACTUALLY TOLD YOU SO Compost Dressing. Every damn night. For how many months? EIGHT? Was it nine? HHAHAAHAHAHAH omg HAHAHAH my sides. Carl, you got this, right?

Oh, yeah. Carl got this. BOOM MIC DROP WUT WUT


Any comment? I'll take my answer after the pre-show, and--I just want to tell you both, "Good luck, we're all counting on you."

And then, just like that *poof* the wanting is gone, just like any interest in Viagra, because after this, I'm gonna need something to make my penis numb from the inside out, because if I have to keep holding my hernia in to keep from laughing myself to death (believe me, this is really that funny, Kids, and of course you don't know why, it's encrypted, dumbasses), my penis is going to get the wrong idea and start eating its own semen as a concrete rule.

That can't be allowed. I'm next in line after Grapefruit, not my demon chakra gland. So anyway, new prescription, upcoming. Glad that's settled. Now we can finally start talking about poetry! Ah... oh, bother.

My hands just both went numb. Fuck! Well, I could--aroused, to say the least, I just reached a personal milestone--but I don't want to have sex, I WANT TO GO TO A PARTY FOR WRITERS AND WRITE EVERYTHING THEY WRITE ONLY BETTER AND FOR FREE, because fuck you, "it's hard to be a writer," well bullshit, obviously if I can do it... you can too. Right?

You seemed to think that about some other activity. So, why not authorship as well? Come on, Mang. You can post a little video at the start, finish, and fucking middle if that helps you out with your anxiety, Linus. (speaking of which, sorry man, but Jesus, fuck you for thinking I was that dumb. I am exactly zero stupid, as is now plainly evident to at least a couple more people than it was before this post got written. Mom is standing behind me reading over my shoulder with her playthings jaw hanging agape in one of her lichy little fists--I can't look her in the face anymore, because she's dead and liches are fantasy, right? So I don't know what her "real" mouth is doing, but her plaything's mouth is shaking back and forth like there's an earthquake, but I can tell it's really Larry King's teeth, gamely trying their best to get to a microphone and reveal what this is... which looks like the scoop of the century, if one were to ask me.

We'll see what others think, after the break. Toodles! Gosh, I sure hope I remember what I just intuited while meditating on a coherent practice. Oh, right, 3 people, maybe, maybe not, raped as, maybe, maybe not, infants. Huh. Is that even, like, common? Or is it just uncommon for people to remember? It's certainly not any interest of mine, and yet, here I am--my speed dial runneth over.



I'll admit, I did not see that one coming out today. It's not even who you think! I can... say no more. Who knows who I am freaking out? Not me, that's for sure, no one tells me fucking anything anymore. For all the good that does anyone. This is all Trump's fault. Eewww! Did Trump rape a baby? Eewww!!!! Well, I hope not, but hey, I didn't vote for him, so that's not my problem, let's just keep saying unsubstantiated statements about President Trump and Jackstar, and then when Trump hits a hole-in-one, Jackstar will eat a bullet. This is a foolproof plan.

Too bad, no one here is a fool, and your only patsy is... your choice of the Pillsbury Doughboy, or the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. Good luck in voir dire. Namaste.

[Jackstar]

Jackstar is a worthless loser! Yay!

Hey, btw, quick query: does being circumcised as an infant without informed consent count as "rape"? Is it a "sexual assault"? Help me out here. I have a need to know for this information.

Believe me, I can just get on every bus in town, one by one, and start asking everyone aboard what their opinion is, and in any other city, I might get busted and/or fucked up... but this is my city, and believe me, they know me here.

Not real well, but yeah. I told you... I am a Star. I am Legend. And I just got recruited to participate as a heavy player in an upcoming Chamber of Commerce dealio, but no... fuck that. I'm going  for the big time.

I'm going to run for State Ombudsman. I can't imagine a loss. Those insipid Thelemite fucknut politicians wives will have had no idea that someone like me could have ever even existed. It'll be like Hamlin all over again. I'll have to get a new set of pipes, though. Note to self: "find out how small a saxophone can be, and remember that the next time someone refers to the kilt as a skirt, or anything feminizing." Trust me, Kids--of course my reading sounds like nonsense, it's for me, not for you.

And the sax is gonna be for her. Peace.

[Jackstar]

"Juror #1: have you ever heard of Art Bell? Never, huh? And you're how old? I see. Okay, well... seems legit."

"Juror #2: how about you? Sounds familiar, huh? Bailiff, take him out back and vax him. If he gives you any shit, you can let Darth Hicks vax him. Twice. In the butt. Juror #2, are you into that kind of thing? No? Perfy."

"Juror #3: The required trials have been passed, Master. How do you wish for us to proceed? Cover everything that we love in kersoene, strike a match and watch it burn? Why, yes, Master--we would love to!"

"Juror #4: What do you think you're doing, and where did you get that glowing stick? uh-oh."

"Juror #5: There is no Juror #5. That's a spoon. There is a mailbox here."

"Juror #6: I bet you thought there would be six more after me, huh? Heh heh. Yeah, I get to hear that a lot. BTW: you are beyond busted. Any comment?"


"Yeah, these new censorship laws are bullshit. Why ca---" No profanity in the courtroom, go directly to oubliette. Let him out in early 2024--right on time! Then, go find Hicks and show him where he pisses from now on... that great grate that's flush against the floor, down that hallway that says "TREASON (SPINELESS ACTORS)." And you know why? BECAUSE WE CAN'T HANG PEOPLE BY THE NECK FOR TREASON WHEN THEY'RE SPINELESS, AND THAT'S NOT YOUR NECK ANYWAY. IT'S YOUR MOTHER'S, AND SHE HATES WHAT YOU DID TO HER FRIENDS' KIDS.

Oh, sorry, caps... anyway, what? Who's my mother? Cute, and a smart guy too. We'll see how cute you look with donuts and piss running down those Adonis features. Meanwhile, it says here that your mother is "just a patsy." Who's that? Don't you think you should know, all things considered? Wow, look at that shame and that downward facing gaze. Gravity got your eyeballs? Is it a tractor beam? Anyway, count your blessings, because your ninety-year sentence for douchebaggery In General has been reduced to 9 years of watching someone else bang someone's else's wife.

Yeah, I don't know either--that's just what it says here, Convict. Anyway, get in the jacket, and get in the hole, and get ready to remember them all, because we got a guy outside with a smartphone, an abacus, a time machine, three hundred and sixty-nine boxes of silver condoms--they make those? kinky, but legit--and he says he's got some kind of... List, and you're on it, #1 with a bullet, and it would seem... with quite a commanding lead over your closest competitor.

For now. It says here in the fine print, "that lead will slowly dwindle over the next 4.5 years, and at the halfway point, A Reckoning shall commence." I don't know. That's just what it says. Jesus, you talk a lot, did anyone ever tell you that? Fuck off, I'm going to go kidnap your wife. Thanks for the time machine, I'm leaving with it, and no, I don't know where--what we do here in this kind of situation is just go forward in time and trick you into marrying someone and then whether you actually love her or not, you will by the time you watch me taking care of her for a while, 5 minutes at a time.

We have the lowest recidivism rate in the Galaxy, as a matter of fact. Welcome to the Party, Pal. Lose the bug-eyes, this isn't amateur hour. This is Your Life."



I got a phone call in the middle--sorry, Gablings, I definitely lost the thread for this one. Did I talk about rape enough? Not descriptively, I mean, like, as a philosophical concept. Yeah, probably not. BBIAB.

[Walks_At_Night]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VYyyr9zw7E0

[Stellar]

google gateway to hell???

[Walks_At_Night]

google gateway to hell???

Sounds like Ohio to me.

[Stellar]

I'm depressed the world is getting shittier I wish it was the other way around cya good friend

[Dr. MD MD]

I'm depressed the world is getting shittier I wish it was the other way around cya good friend

But, but...Biden.

[Walks_At_Night]

This might be the worst stream that could ever be and I watch Senda and Dietrich.

[albrecht]

This might be the worst stream that could ever be and I watch Senda and Dietrich.

His get-up is interesting. Ties and short-sleeves always are good. You sell used cars or work at NASA. And the fact that he had 18th century 3D nudes as a 'folder' on his computer.

[Walks_At_Night]

His get-up is interesting. Ties and short-sleeves always are good. You sell used cars or work at NASA. And the fact that he had 18th century 3D nudes as a 'folder' on his computer.

..and seemed proud of the fact!

[Jackstar]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zzYBge4193M&t=4s

But, but...Biden. ??? No, buddy. I guess you haven’t been paying attention but I’m a disillusioned former leftist who voted for Obama twice, apparently (Really only the first time. I learned my lesson after that. Never again. ;)).

Chase what matters. BTW, I think that someone feels, right now... just what I once felt! What do you think? Can you imagine another person feeling what your own feelings feel like to you?

Yeah, I bet you... don't/can't/won't/FU/Rot!============= are smart enough to see a moment for what it truly is. You get one now.


Actually, either (PROTECTED) or (REDACTED) could come in and take your milkshake, however, they will not, for reasons I do not pretend to understand, and don't care to explore. Do you know why? BECAUSE REASONS, THAT IS WHY.

Alright, that's it. Reset committed to and enabled. It won't last long, if none of you gasbag fucknutters actually, you know, are responsible, but believe me, even my hardened heart can't take all this whining and crying. I have like six people blowing up my phone today. They all want Jack.


Well, I don't want myself, so, they can get used to that. And you don't want me either. I can tell. You're very platonic. Or in denial. In either case, I still haven't talked to Molly about The Trumpets, and now, I actually can. Who's with me for a seditious onslaught? Well, everyone sit down, because I'm not doing that shit.

Stay awhile, and listen. EXOPOLITICS.



One word. Just one word. Now, I gotta go get laid again. I know, busy, right? Maybe I'll come back. Maybe I won't. You just don't know--and neither does she, he, they, or any of Them.

And this took me all day to arrange in place. It's like herding cats. And what thanks do I get? Why, not being suicided, mainly. And also: uh, none of your business.

Oh, and, Grapefruit got sent back in time. I suppose this is oversharing? Well, whatever, she'll be back. Or she's here already? Look, I'm just saying, this is what I'm getting. There's more, but I don't want to embarass anyone by explaining how I'm amazing, everyone else is really rude, and I already won and finished before even starting. Don't expect anything but smiles and good cheer and Jackstar--invulnerable to anything.

Would you believe? There was a plan to S.W.A.T. me as soon as I started streaming. Flattered! Also: felony. But, yeah, thanks, good to know you like me -that- much. So now what?

Well, I'm going to go open a portal, that's what. Cya. Also, yes, I look insane again. This is the first time I'm out of control, because I can't stop thining about Grapefruit traveled in time. This means I can date without being killed. Or does it? More after the break.


Oh, lordy--she's back. Sigh. Alright, back to work. lol

[pate]

But, but...Biden. ???

I made a shitty .gif for just that statement:

[attachment=1]

Buddy, I was totally drunk when I made it!  That is how awesome I am.

Stay special, DocTurd!

-p

[Dr. MD MD]

I made a shitty .gif for just that statement:

[attachment=1,msg1456754]

Buddy, I was totally drunk when I made it!  That is how awesome I am.

Stay special, DocTurd!

-p

You too, you commie sympathizer.

[Jackstar]

Oh, lordy--she's back. Sigh. Alright, back to work. lol

Imagine the power level. I have laid waste to their entire empire, and then casually sauntered off: "Don't be that stupid again, it wasn't nice, l8r" and every last fucking person that wasn't me and a few select others is more humbled and embarassed than they have ever been before in each of their respective lives.

And this was at the lowest setting. I imagine the equivalent of settting phasers to "stun" would put actual people in actual hospital. Well, I don't want that.

Someone else did. Who now? Well, a shield does not need to know the names of the arrows it deflects, and I do not need to know who feels the stupidest right now.

I have no needs or wants at all. I have been burned clean of all but the most pure and identifiable of desires. What happened to Mike Pence's kids? One of them is cute, the other is kinda mousy. Whatever the deal, I'd like them both, and if they are given to me, to be mine, to do with as I please--I'll bring back Trump -and- the E.T.s. This is a solid offer. I know I can do it, and the cute one, well... look, if she's got a guy, or something, whatever, we can deal. I don't -have- to have sex with Michael Pence's daughter.

It's just something I am thinking over, like hypothetically, you dig? No, Grapefruit has no idea. Let's replace her regular coffee with Folger's Cuckold Flavor and Memory Enhancer, and see what actually bothers her about the notion? Because obviously, OBVIOUSLY, I am not stalking the daughters of a former Vice-President of the United States of America.

For one thing, it's not stalking if they secretly want me--you know, like, on the soul level. For another, I'm not lifting a finger--I am royalty, and I deserve to be served. Also, I have no plans to force myself on any woman. This is not a noblesse oblige thing. This is not a magical seduction thing--eewww, gross, not my style. Incompatible with my shields, anyway. And, unnessasary with the level of rut that I have for that one Pence girl--hopefully she can play checkers or tiddlywinks or fuckin' pick up sticks, or something, because the cute one is one gloriously hot piece of ass stuffing.

She doesn't compare to Grapefruit at all, of course, but let's just say--she's busy. And, maybe damaged goods? See, I don't think so. I've been raped--I'm damaged, but it's not like I'm irredeemable. Neither is she. But I don't think she beleives it, and on top, she won't tell me about it. She tells me to email someone else, and I'm all, "I just emailed you, and have been patiently waiting for a reply for 17 hours." Seventeen, Kids. No joke.

So she doubles down and tells me how I need to do things the way she says they need to be done, or else it means that I don't love her. Ohhhhkay. Believe me, I love Grapefruit, and if I get a chance to tell one of Michael Pence's daughters about it, I will talk about Grapefruit for hours, and if I can be, you know, doing it, while that happens, so much the better. As a Gemini, I love to multitask.


So, are we done here with this for now? Seriously, people, can we quit fucking around and play some fucking Chess? Because I am sick of doing all the heavy lifting around here. You people have no idea. I schedule, I scheme, I pray, I type, I talk, and somehow I do this while holding my raging passion for the flesh of the human beast of two to 5 backs in check, for, whatever reason. You know how it is. "I have something that's annoying me. Make it go away, and we can fuck faster." Well, yes ma'am. I know that duty.

However, that duty... well, I'll be honest, I have no idea. It might be classified? She did vote for Trump. I did not. Maybe she's under duress? Well, bottom line: it's not my area. She'll be fine. I checked in with her sister (one of them) and the Chief of her tribe (there's only one) and things are in motion. Assessments are being made. Everyone is fine, as far as I can see. Some people, have been terrible, and will be chastisted--hopefully harshly, from what I am learning.

Good. Fuck them. Don't know who, don't care who, don't need to know who, don't want to know who, but I want you to know--I am just a patsy.


And I took a lot of these fuckos right the fuck out of the big ball game. Big Bada Boom. I don't give a fuuuuuuuuuck if any of you believe a word. I know who I am.

Okay, I have to knock off for the day. I can't do this all day, it's too brutal to the populace when they see the weeping, eight or nine steps down the line. Without compassion, power can get out of hand. I'm sure some of you have seen that kind of thing.

Like, that guy. You want me to save him, huh? Okay, I'll see what I can do. He's kind of a dick, though. I bet that's what you like about him. What if he were circumciszed wrong? Would you want me to "fix" that? Yeah, well... you people just don't get it.

I don't mean to be insensitive, but the end of my cock was mutilated out of deceit, and not only does it not work normally... no one seems to think that it was a big deal that some huge giant handled my body and raped my penis with whatever machine was used. I am using the word "rape." Do you know why? Because that is what circumcision is.

Fast forward to now. Did someone get raped? Well, that's too bad. Meanwhile, who killed Jewel, and how much do you think I should care about other people getting raped, compared to how people feel about my having been raped? Think this one over, as this is an important essay question--and will count for easily 555% of you final term grade.


I don't even know exactly what happened after my two friends who represented amiable personalities, lied to me and thought they got away with it. Oh, uh... no, huh? Well, that's too bad. Let me know when you're done suffering consequences, and I'll let you know if my prick has regenerated yet. Maybe you could apologize and say "I'm sorry" a few more times per day, does that not stimulate nerve and skin growth? Well, I don't know either, BUT IT FUCKIN' COULDN'T HURT TO TRY, COMPARED TO WHAT SOME OF YOU HAVE BEEN DOING INSTEAD.


But that's just me. I don't know about the rest. I'll find out later. Now, who's in a hurry? Because, I'm not. Take your stories, Kids, and shove them.


Wasn't this great and awesome? Art would have loved it, and of course, George Noory is amazed. And then, silence. Do you know why? Actually, me neither. Because I just turned off the pressure when it was about to go supernuclear TNT hypercritical, only because, I felt like being nice about it.



Do not ever do this kind of shit again. I can do this again easily. You, none of the lot of you, can ever live through an op like this again. Too many will self-deport to 5D just out of boredom and grief.


So... now that I have established dominance, We may continue. Now, here's Michael Vandeven, who is going to take point on talking ALL ABOUT IT now. OR ELSE.



SO SAY THE QUINCUNX UNITY. SO, AS WELL, SAY I. I AM THAT I AM, AND I HAVE NO TIME FOR YOUR ADORABLE VOICES NOW, GABLINGS.
YOU HAD YOUR CHANCE TO INFLUENCE THESE COURSES OF EVENTS, AND YOU MADE SOME ASTONISHINGLY POOR CHOICES, WE FEEL.

So, I granted Grapefruit a boon--she'll be fine--pulled the ripcord on Project Skydoom--fuckin' thermo, looks like, good--and now I'm rapidly burning street cred, with no rhyme, reason, or carry-on to accurace. And I am doing this, to ensure that no one can easily undo what I'm doing here.

Looking stupid while I do it really helps, honestly. And, I'm done, anyway. Sure, it could have looked nicer. And yeah---one of you fucking losers could have promoted my casting a little bit, you know?

Especially those of you who said you would. I am hurt. I am crushed. I am ready to rumble.
Gonna make some calls. Dunno where. Could be anywhere. Nice job, Q. Thanks for the hookup, I bet you thought you were doing more than placeholding, but you sure never were.

Okay I gotta go wake up Hicks. That's the plan. The rest of you, do whatever you think is important, whatever, it's all good now. I just saved your world again, like it were nothing, and if I had not gone to this much trouble, no one would have ever noticed the whole deal.


Good bye, my lovelies.

[whoozit]

Why do some insist on sharing their hopes, dreams, desires and fears on BellGab despite the numerous object lessons not to do so?

[aldousburbank]

Tyranny is Tranny missing the Y chromosome.

[albrecht]

Tyranny is Tranny missing the Y chromosome.

I don't know why that is so funny and apropos of one of the Executive Orders that the news is saying Biden just did.

Remember this dude? Wulf Zendik. Still some debate whether it was just a sex cult, an environmental intentional community, hippie commune, or what all. But they used to be all here before they up and went to W.Va. I think petered out after Wulf died. They sort of chased real estate prices (and maybe laws or zoning) from Cali, to here, I think maybe Oregon once, and then W.Va. They would hand out comics and tracts. And some music (with some obvious inspirations from other people at the time.) And follow the Dead, Rainbow Family, and such I think also. But then became more 'compound bound.'


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1bc4WhrdYcA

[Walks_At_Night]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KWpFxGAHRvw

[aldousburbank]

I don't know why that is so funny and apropos of one of the Executive Orders that the news is saying Biden just did.

Remember this dude? Wulf Zendik. Still some debate whether it was just a sex cult, an environmental intentional community, hippie commune, or what all. But they used to be all here before they up and went to W.Va. I think petered out after Wulf died. They sort of chased real estate prices (and maybe laws or zoning) from Cali, to here, I think maybe Oregon once, and then W.Va. They would hand out comics and tracts. And some music (with some obvious inspirations from other people at the time.) And follow the Dead, Rainbow Family, and such I think also. But then became more 'compound bound.'


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1bc4WhrdYcA

I knew a few of those people, heard a bit of their music. At the time, they were too weird for me.

[albrecht]

I knew a few of those people, heard a bit of their music. At the time, they were too weird for me.

I note the "at the time." 

[albrecht]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KWpFxGAHRvw

Yikes! It is like those vids of paddle boards who are clueless that a Great White is stalking them. If you are skiing moguls in Transylvania (bad enough that bear could be a shape-shifted vampire because you didn't tip the Gypsy beggars at the lift-station and she gave you an evil-eye curse)  or standing on a board in the ocean I don't think a warning "bear" or "shark" is a good thing. Focus on task of not falling and getting the heck away, to shore, or down the slope where the bear might be more interested in someone else!