Kingdom of Nye With Heather Wade

[aldousburbank]

alice was my 1st concert.. 1970 or 71 santa monica I think it was..

Hey ‘twas my first too. 1976 (maybe ‘77), Welcome To My Nightmare tour, Phoenix Coliseum.

[ItsOver]

How is Heart so based? When new Heart songs were first released way back in the day were people pumped? It must have been like when 2NE1 dropped new songs and everyone lost their shit.

Mid-70's were most excellent.  Cool as hell FM rock stations, like WEBN "The Frog," filling the airwaves with Kansas, Boston with the incredible voice of Brad Delp and talent of Scholz, The hot Wilson sisters, before Ann blimped-out, Blue Öyster Cult, Aerosmith before they sold out for more mainstream and commercial, Alice, hell even the Eagles were decent.

[Pizzapunch]

 [attachment=1]

[ItsOver]

[attachment=1,msg1392178]

Poor baby.  All that planning for October of 2019, last November, must have finally caught up with her.

[timebandit]

this prick.. soon the studio will be in his name.. mark my words

[Dr. MD MD]

Hey, HEATH - ERRR!!!

[Corona Kitty]

Poor baby.  All that planning for October of 2019, last November, must have finally caught up with her.

She's in deep meditation & painting rocks  later.

[albrecht]

Hey ‘twas my first too. 1976 (maybe ‘77), Welcome To My Nightmare tour, Phoenix Coliseum.

Immediate Gabcast needed again for this story. I sadly never saw him.

[Hog]

Immediate Gabcast needed again for this story. I sadly never saw him.

Agreed, emergency Gabcast needed.  It IS Saturday.  Live from Pahrump, it's Saturday night!

peace
Hog

[Dr. MD MD]

The Cast of Gab is Nigh! Ye were warned!



Ye were all warned!!

[VC]

Jackstar aka

You don't know the half of it.

So, here's the action, and for once, I'm giving it straight. I've been gearing up for a couple weeks now. Pull the trigger, pluck the hens, hoist the flag, dust off the rings. Publish. I had this whole plan set up, and by that I mean Plan, because the truth of Me, dear Gabbers, is that I've been tending to a truly bombshell, untold story from my own experience for the last 23 years. It's been percolating in the deep sauce, and has been fully ripe for about three years now. After Bell retired at the hands of a lone, deranged gunman--heh heh--I thought that I would wait a while, to ensure no one might paint me as simply hoaxing to ride the death coattail, and then I'd set it in motion. Whitley Strieber was gonna be my prime target. All I needed with him was five minutes, I swear. It was gonna be a gasser. You have no idea. Hell, I have no idea--the one time I got Whitley on the phone just as a simple weather balloon, I accidently scared the -l-y right out of his first name. I felt sad, as I meant him no harm whatsoever, but clearly the dude was panicked by just a few phrases from lil' ol' me. Perhaps at that point, I was already fearsome legend. I was working my hardest at being friendly, too, which in retrospect is likely a real red flag to anyone sensitive to being punked millions of times for multiple decades. Oops, my bad too much, I can really never tell until after. I wasn't there to spook him at all, just to find out if he would be willing to admit to remembering the event date.

23, that's a good number. Years, yeah? Actual yes. I've alluded to this fact before--careful, astute readers of what must pathetically termed "my work" on this site will know instantly to what I refer. (((Hi guys!))) And a few rare gems of lurkers, you know who you are, but I do not--there's a few stone cold bawlers around this place, they know me. Oh yes. They do. Oh, the event date? Sorry, I smoked it with the blockchain. Don't wonder about it right now. It'll come out later.

I do so wish that this was paranoid fantasy, just me talking mad, mad shit while mechanically refilling one coffee enema right after another. You've no idea. The reality of my life is that for exactly half of it, I've been holding on to my tongue and just shitposting "fuck you dawg" over and over at all those whinging imbeciles putting the poo-poo on all the U.F.O. speculation, while always only a brief daydream and a few keystrokes away from sparking a fest of crazy wild speculation for at least one or two hundred posts. Or maybe pages. Yet after 23 years, I'm not going to lie, it's a thrill to be finally over the line. I thought I would never feel like doing it to actual completion, as I am truly one of the most ardent fans of leisure my species has ever produced. And over this is, because the publishing plan that I mentioned before, is now toasted. Sorry. No special episode of Jack's Ancient Aliens. No box set release of Project Fap Book. No opportunity for the slavering hordes of shill-lackeys to at last rend their gaze on my pale, vulnerable, Author Form, and unleash their scenthounds upon my unique trail. 23 years of dreaming, meditative visions and the occasional sketch in Crayon, all that anticipation building solely, only in my mind, and after today... well, fuck it. Fuck it all and fucking no regrets. I'm changing horses right at the riverbank, everyone is completely fucking fired, S Corp docs shredded, coke and hookers on speed dial and the last of the credit line straight into an I.V. I'll be honest, I never really liked the idea of being some famous disco-closer with the book deals and the regular appearances on "radio" to drone on and on about non-falsifiable truths. I know me, see. I wouldn't last ten days of tame tapdance before whipping out the most obnoxious red pill stink bomb in the most odious way possible--I don't know what, but I do know me. Balls to the wall, and some Cabal lieutenant would just finally pulverize the fed up glass. I'd be marked for death blossom, and that'd be it, I've had plenty of warnings and my entire family has been murdered already, so it's not like I'd get any second chances. But that's not why I'm not going that route either. Gotta die sometime, and I think it would be a rare chance to field test some sigil magick for bulletproofing, just for the street cred. No, there's one single solitary reason that I've decided to cap off my 23 year pre-show-show-prep with a wall of text manifesto on an obscure backlot clapboard mech, and that is this: I am just fucking disgusted with the whole sorry fucking lot of you. I don't like to be so crass, without any avatars, but seriously, fuck all you people. I look around, and you what? This? This? Shit, I thought my house was bad, but to here it's a palace.

Part of it is the sudden realization that, if I were going to do this--and I have--the cultural landscape of today and my place within it basically mandates that I would have to actually break down my gorge and nausea and actually call in to MITD again. Or, Kingdom of Lies. Or whatever this lumbering monstrosity of #Legacy zombie cruft is calling itself now. And it's not stagefright or lack of confidence or even nervous nausea that has been the deciding factor, it's simply straight up vile revulsion at the merest glimpse of what this audio vomitorium has prolapsed itself into. Y'all come here for drive-bys, but have you actually looked at it lately? It's bile upon sputum upon toejam, from top to bottom. It's not even plumb.

I can't do it. I just can't do it. It's not even that I don't like Heather--finally, I can announce that I am wildly infatuated with her and have always been since before the test show, betcha couldn't tell tho--it's that I am profoundly embarrassed by what this shiteshow has let itself become, and by extension, the entirety of all the tuned in public. I in fact blame my self for this. 23 years, I could have opened up at any time before now. But, you know how it is, reserve guard status, optional project, so many other things to do, no one even knows that the release is coming, absolutely no pressure, just let it slide. And I honestly did think that someone with far more panache and style than I would show up to start the ball rolling long before now.

As we all of us know, the pickin's have been slimmin'. Alex Jones down, Joe Rogan up, are you actually shitting me? They may as well just slip the Soma right into the eyeball curve. It's gotten so bad, people are actually considering going back to books. To smash themselves in the face with. And what would there be to follow a drop on #Legacy with? Jesus, I'd have to end up on Twitch. Fuck that. Just strangle me below the ribcage and call it an epilogue. I'm getting the nightsweats just thinking about it. Nope, nope, nope. Fuck radio, fuck streaming, and fuck the entire machine that hoovers everything up and posts emoticons and spyware. I was sincere, I was eager, I was engaged--then I took a step back and looked at I was doing and recognized that no result could ever come of my contribution to history that wouldn't make me cringe deep down inside for the entirety of my life. Now that I've lost everything in my life that matters, my enhanced freedoms

I often thought that I was going to let Bell have the first swing at it, given that he was on it during the day of the event, but let's face it, the dude was weaksauce in a black and white shadow box. He excelled in his time, but that time was filled with nipshits who actually had to wonder if OK City was unusual or not. Savage intellects back then, word. And no social media network to burn the gags. But that world is gone.

Today's world is one in which any unusual story can be instantly cross-indexed and verified by robots. Long before you've read this post, the thinking cloud has already cataloged and linked the whole she-bang. The robotic information sphere contains all of my posts from all of my identities from all of the fringe-cringe forums that I've used. This, I say with equal parts of pride and deep, enduring shame, is frankly a lot of absolute balderdash, and sprinkled here and there, little bits of text that reference the outlandish, but true fact, that on November 14, 1997, I had a close contact experience with sphere-shaped interdimensional beings.

Go ahead, say it's bullshit. I want you to. The longer this stays buried, the more robots will frenetically search for any and all related details. And, no, I don't care if it finds them. The robots aren't going to get the full story out of me any more than any of you are going to. One quick peek, and that's the end of it. I'm finally free of my duty, and free of all you lying dispshit asshats forever, thank God. No proof posted here: go on, dismiss this. Do it. I want you to. The elimination of any desire for any fame or any fortune has dramatically sped up my exit strategy. Totally worth it, you thugs can shove your hush money flat.

Case closed. Fuck off. You had your chance. You all had your chances. Go find someone else carrying an alien implant to be your dance monkey. Pack a lunch, Fuckos.

Jackstar is getting Married and Fucking Gone...

I am getting married. Suffer.

[Dr. MD MD]

Gabcast Hurrah!

[timebandit]

Yeahh Come on monday!
Move it sunday!

#Legacy

[timebandit]

Come on!  Yeahh!

#MamaPapaMondayMonday

[Nyewalker]

Come on monday!

It's Manic Monday !!!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0WMnHPSdHQY

[timebandit]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h81Ojd3d2rY

#Legacy

[Lilith]

Sixty seconds  MARK!

Standing by to GO!

[timebandit]

#Legacy

[Lilith]

Is it live, or is it memorex?

[Lilith]

A full service shop?... 

[Lilith]

Oh sure, blame Poor Producer Tony.

[Corona Kitty]

Heather needs to stop barking.

[Lilith]

...SO much more stuff to do living out in the middle of the desert.

[Lilith]

"aftalife" - Heatha Wade

[Asuka Langley]

>heater complaining about her weekend

Try checking valves and changing bucket shims on a 5VZ-FE and 3RZ-FE

[Corona Kitty]

[Lilith]

Well, if Heatha believes it, what else could we possibly need to know?

[timebandit]

[Lilith]

Heatha even has to write down, and read us her own commentary.

[Lilith]

Reading isn't talking.  It isn't a talk show if you have to read it.