Azzerae's World

[SpaceMeowMaid]

This--below--is another letter I wrote to you, that, whether you read it or not, has never yet received the courtesy of a reply from you. I had almost, but not quite, forgotten about it, and then last night as your miraculous little gang of gentlemanly-ish garden gnomes reminded me of various facts while simultaneously declining my simple challenge of presenting a spoken word performance (seriously this dweeb goes from, "she won't talk to me, I can't talk to her, I need to talk to her, you're stopping me from talking to her," directly to, "no, I can't make a YouTube headshot video, I need to talk to her I need to talk to her privately," omfg what a whiny and loathsome spanktard), I thought to myself... "hey, just how long has it been since this clone of Meryl Streep has made any legitimate additions to the historical record?"

Turns out, all the way back to the beginning of October, which was way before I thought I knew anybody who was actually dumb enough to let themselves get trafficked, or even worse, pretend that was what was happening and then blame me 100% for being fully responsible. I guess there wasn't anything worth writing home about since then, according to some, because what there was last is a forwarded copy of a "work-related email"--so since "work-related," would not have been counted against the two private business related conversations that had been theoretically negotiated at the time.

It turns out that was always a complete fabrication and not representative of any reality whatsoever, which is actually kind of a relief because it sounded really stupid in the first place, but anyway, last time Fruit Salad bothered to include me in any #Official communication was when I got a forwarded copy of some list of domain names.

I won't reproduce it here, because it's pathetic. "Hey Sweetie Muffins, what exactly is it that you're spending your time doing lately (rather than any of the eight or nine relatively rather simple tasks that I've asked you about needing some help with for me that have never even remotely come close to your even engaging in, besides issuing a snort of derision and changing the subject every fucking time I ask something about why shit that I brought up on our first date still is hanging out there), and weren't you supposed to be learning something of a useful nature, and then showing me what you learned and then teaching it to me as well? I seem to remember that was the arrangement."

I knew damn well at the time that had been the arrangement, however at the period of time that I'm describing here, she still appeared to be blissfully unaware that I had been silently observing her dragging ass and digging heels for... a year and a half. I don't know if she clearly suspected that I appeared to be maybe suspicious of something, I really don't think she figured out that she was on Double Secret Probation until... well, now, I suppose, as though I mentioned this fact on a couple of occasions, like many other statements of fact I've made over the years, as if it weren't something that was guaranteed to make a flood of endorphins gamely begin to trickle into her awareness again, she was unlikely to acknowledge, or even remember that I had said it.

One might find this inconceivable upon first reading. Or any reading. One might find it inconceivable to see it happening right in front of your eyes, too, especially with it happening every f****** day for f****** months--denial is a hell of a drug, especially when one is getting needled back and forth about how nothing is happening except your gaslighting, and I'm not gaslighting--You Are, and also I saw you looking at that other woman's ass, you absolute bastard son of a b****. How dare you? How absolutely dare you? Don't tell me: I don't know what you were looking at, I can see you right here: Ignoring your own guilt.

TRANSIENT GLOBAL AMNESIA. The struggle is fucking real. Unless one has got a cognitive disorder that messes with one's perception of reality and one's ability to recall, remember, and represent basic experiential facts, in which case, the struggle is with the wearing down of the willpower of the most likely person whose recollection might somehow interfere with one's struggle to never for a moment contemplate a frame of mind that might include a thought that might perhaps be considered a downer to some. For example, did you kind of gray out in the middle of reading that long paragraph--sentence, really, and isn't it a magnificent example of its type?--and forget what the hell was going on? If so you might be experiencing, with greater frequency than is normal for a well adjusted human, temporary flashes of amnesia that are subconsciously used to allow a person to forget certain unpleasant and/or inconvenient facts, or, you're reading something written by a wordsmith who knows how to use language in a particular way to create a particular effect in order to achieve a particularly desired result, that being... WAKING THE FUCK UP, FRUIT LOOPS.

Yes, Gablings, it has come to this. JediMiller will be making another celebratory video mashup any minute now, if indeed he ever stops, so read this quick before the Internet crashes under the strain of releasing another world premier music video. It's probably only another 8 or 9 hours left before Rubini's accomplice pretends to wake up at an hour after noon again, so unless she's waking up early and engaging in activities that involve reading BellGab--technically possible, but why would she conceal such doings?--there's plenty of time to read through this and make it go viral before she calls up MV's wife and threatens to beat her with her cane--in public, naturally, by now you people must know how we operate--unless she makes her husband delete something that no longer meshes with her chosen narrative.

(No: one does not "make" a husband. One creates wealth by accepting the belief that not everyone might have stuff, but one might run into a wealthier husband at any time, so it's a good idea to pretend to have one just in case, as when one takes their wealth away, then if a suitable decoy is present, a suitable, astute husband will have an overpowering desire to create more, at least until the scopolamine wears off.)

So. Anyway. I digress. and although I said I would not, because it was pathetic, the real reason why I said I would not is because I was aware of the immensely tedious circumstance of possibly breaking some sort of rule about sharing proprietary radio broadcast industry information, but I'm over that now, because the last time some incomprehensible dickbag asshole threatened me with dire consequences for behaving in a way that was deemed verboten, it came out like this: "Don't ever do that again, or will tell everyone about the trouble you have... you know, with the drugs, and the sex with little boys."

Sweet bleeding Jesus mercy merry mother of Christ, I still remember how this came out over the phone. The dude--dandy, really--was clearly disturbed by the idea that I might do whatever the fuck it was he wanted me to be getting all sweaty about something I was not to do, and as has been demonstrated previously, I am in fact the current holder of The Chalice Of I Don't Give A Single Ripe Wet Fuck, and awareness of this particular element of my sometimes grandiose personality has been on display for this particularly loathsome, threatening thug, so much so he could have been so freaking brain dead that he thought that it was going to work but apparently going to threats was the only thing he had going for him, and I could tell his voice was getting tense as he brought up the big threat he felt he was going to have to lay on me, and when he came up with... "Drugs! Sex with little boys!" I actually don't remember if I busted out laughing or if I pretended to be suitably cowed.

I think I laughed later, to tell you the truth. What I do remember is this little uplifting lilt, thus indicating a questioning nature at the end of the last threat... as if there was some question how about whether this was going to pose a convincing threat.

Official announcement, Gablings: Jackstar is no kind of sexual deviant, and while I welcome and on fact relish discussions about the vast array of psychotropic compounds I've managed to safely and legally study and examine in the course of my experiences in life... the notion of underage sex with little boys is truly laughable.

I didn't even like boys when I was a boy. Why the fuck would I bother with males? I'm not even all that fond of my own penis, even when it's the only one in the room, and adding more to the Twister floor mat is certainly not going to improve that feeling. And although this Internet Tough Guy was clearly casting about in an effort to be persuasive, the net result would simply be to make me think about all the times when I've had drugs and "little" girls, to my great satisfaction.

Not underage. But little, oh yeah. there was this one time there was this girl I was seeing that I was deeply in love with (and still am, although the manner in which she chose to go tool around with some drug addict shitbag boxhead who ended up punching her in the stomach, rather than hang out with me really kind of cooled the ardor, go figure), and she was quite fatigued, she had itty bitty A cups, such that she actually did wear a bra stuffed with tissues, which I thought was a cute and humanizing feature, until it's one day when she discovered a bunch of ridiculous and utterly false libelous slander on the internet that implied that I had some kind of problem with--you guessed it, sex with little boys--and she comes at me with, "you don't really like how small my breasts are, are you just like that I look like a little boy!!" A-bloo-bloo-boo-boo-hoo-hoo. Jesus, can you even fucking imagine? I thought she was serious at the time, which was disappointing since the real fact of the matter was that the smaller breasts I preferred because I concluded that they had the same nerve endings as larger breasts, and the upshot for me was more pleasing reactions with less need for any fumbling activity of the fingers.

it was quite a few years after this event that I realized that women f****** lie about this s*** all the f****** time--"You did what? How dare you? A-bloo-bloo-boo-boo-hoo-hoo"--but the time I was hugely taken aback, because I knew damn well that I didn't just love this chick because she has tiny tits I loved her tiny tits because I loved her, and it pleased me that there is a feature of her body that she was insecure about, that I knew deep in my heart that I didn't have any particular problem with.

And I hear this broad is hollering at me and accusing me of things just because some f****** dick bag s*** head on that f****** internet wrote a f****** story about me and then she read it and she didn't know whether to believe it or not. how to convince her of the truth and to defend myself against this ludicrous accusation was on my mind right then--over the years I've come to recognize the obscene and vile violation of one's personal sanctity, to have to defend against some anonymous string of phrases that someone decided to put together and attach to my name--which has a tendency to stick, mind you, as I am literally the only human on the planet with my name, yeah I'm doing fine, thanks for asking--and because someone felt like they needed to diminish their perception of my power, anybody who's of a mind to can just decide to have a mic drop moment and start asking about some f****** b******* story they've heard. It used to be they would just tell me I was fat and laugh at my man boobs and my jelly belly that I started growing when I was 7--thanks fluoride, thanks soy--but let me tell you, as people age, they get sophisticated.

Going on 25 years for this shit, you know. Not really a whole lot I can do about it, besides abandon my name--and you know what? Go fuck your mother--but while I'm sure the great lot of you remember the Art Bell Filipino Hoax Letter, you can imagine my great depth of sympathy when he would get on the air and start crying about it again. I must have heard him going boo hoo hoo three or four times about it. "O woe is me, I'm Art Bell, I have got access to knowledge and toys that most of you people would never even dream of, and no I'm not going to share--fuck you for even asking, Buddy--and don't you dare imply that I have any secret affiliations like a commanding officer or a lodge or a covenant with witches or whatever, fuck you again for even thinking it, Buddy, let me get right to the point, in a nutshell, in other words, this is slanderous libel, it is the most terrible thing
that can happen to a person, let me tell you all about it on my gargantuan huge international global covering radio show where I get to talk about whatever the fuck I want to and laugh at whoever me and my gang of illustrious little buddies feel like laughing at, so now hear this: isn't it terrible how people say bad things about me? Damn! Life's tough. Let's hope they don't kill my wife next, those things are hard to come by without the right kind of attitude already installed. Now here's Tom with the weather, but wouldn't you rather have a C. Crane weather radio? Sure you would, don't you feel sorry for me? No I don't believe in weather control, hey fuck you Buddy, we're already planning on making fun of that later. But don't imply that I'm a racist, because that really hurts my feelings, here now listen to this scary thing that I want you to believe in, me and my friends were laughing at people who were dumb enough to believe in this thing last night so we think it would be good to to decide that 55 million people need to listen to that now. Have you got all that? Okay, I quit."

Speaking of which, what a hero. so anyway, some of you might have been wondering why this board's been blown up with a bunch of tales of... Jesus, I might as well list it all off: I sling chemicals like an exterminator, I use tools like a scientist, I struggle against evil like a monk, I gleefully fuck willing broads like a Conquistador (that is, with Queen Isabella's permission, and one genocide at a time), I write and I say what I want when I want where I want and I'll give two hollow fucks what somebody has to say about it, at least until somebody decides they've had enough and start whipping out the same old f****** slanderous b******* libel crap that I've had follow me around my for my entire adult life and most of the latter half of post-pubescence.

I'll be honest: I don't know how it started. It's a possible I insulted the wrong judge's daughter. she probably called me fat and I told her to f*** off and then I didn't even know that "fat" meant phat, meaning good, since I had no brothers or sisters or friends or parents who weren't shell shocked from their President being murdered, it wasn't until I was in my twenties that I found out that phat could be a good thing.

I mean for one thing it doesn't necessarily mean adipose tissue. For another, some chicks love to fuck a fat guy, as one might well imagine, this is not a fact that is often openly revealed, and is not a preference often openly selected for, when the targeting question says "f*** off b****."

I guess that phrase works for some guys, mostly in locales with lots of ignorant fuckhead yokel bully thugs making up the population like Texas--Central Texas where they kill presidents, and being an abusive foul mouthed ignorant fuckhead yokel bully thugs who can be assertive and procure a ready access of whatever flavor of "Fuck Me!" drugs are required you to assert whatever was asserted is considered a net positive to one's charisma score.

However, that was not my experience, either growing up or having grown up, I am a generally nice guy with never any more than one or two friends at any given time--which really saves me a bundle on Christmas gifts--and a general lack of interest in dealing with the kind of mouth breathing thugs who routinely deal in "Fuck Me!" drugs on demand.

Such reprobate types tend to break as many laws as possible, whereas I have a fetish for not breaking laws at all. It's good fetish I'm not going to lie. So anyway I'm not really concerned about some mouthy little whiny little shit looking to compensate for something by telling me that he's going to do something terrible to me if I don't do something that he wants.

What are you going to do? Murder my parents again? Murder my cat again? Cut off my foreskin again? Try to infect me with a incurable disease again? Oh, oh... you going to do more name calling again and ruin my reputation with all my friends. Oh, bother. What will I do if I lose all my friend again? Oh, all right, I'll just go back to talking to Jesus again. Supposedly, all this is worse than being crucified, actual--what, that was only 3 days, right? Guess it could be true, but I think I'm being humored to cheer me up--but from my boots on the ground viewpoint, since I had no longer have an ego investment in the outcomes to events, especially after some some brilliant tactician informs me that I actually have power by inadvertently transmitting fear while speaking to me... It's all just a big laugh riot at this point.

I don't do well with obeying commands that are backed up by threats. I used to be afraid of my dad spanking me. I used to love playing chess with him too. But because he was fundamentally a big fucking pussy (Pisces), he stopped liking to play Chess bwith me when he couldn't win all the time (age nine, but I didn't realize he was embarrassed of losing to his kid for a few more years), and I don't know when he stopped spanking me, but I knew it was at a point long past the point where he could just do it without having to put up a good reason for it, at a time long before I figured out that I couldn't fucking even breathe right. Thanks for stopping by the doctor's office on the way home from the soccer game and the bar, Hefe. and thanks for leaving me alone in the car when I was 7 with a dog while you went to the bar for at least 2 hours after saying you'd be right back. Okay yeah it wasn't 3 years, and you weren't taking your beer with a hyperdermic and you didn't have any tattoos, so I guess you weren't a needle junkie. Hey, did you like dying alone? Yeah, me neither, thanks for the social skills and telling every single one of your friends and family that you thought your son was worthless cuz he couldn't kick a soccer ball. Honestly, Dude--you could have just named me Sue. Oh wait that was your only friends' wife's name, so I guess that would have been awkward, especially after she divorced your friend for being an incorrigible, profligate drunkard. His trade was carving teeth for dentures with handheld rotary tools--maybe one of them was needle like, and that's why she kick his ass out and married some beta buck and squeezed out three more kids, who weren't really ever friends with me either, along with the two older ones who thought I was really annoying because I didn't know how to explain how much I appreciated any company at all, even from a pair of snotty bigots . Oh, but not you you just mixed alcohol and opiates together while condemning pot smokers, because, "muh legal." hey it was legal to take you from your mother and father and give you a gun to kill people with right? Okay, just checking. Good talk. Fuck my mother.

I don't want to make it sound like I'm criticizing my father too much considering that The Red Army came and conscripted him from his village and and took him from his home between the ages of 14 and 17, during which ttime, his father--my grandfather, Stephen--"died of a heart attack." Dad was pretty hazy on some of the details. after he died I found his rifle that he must have used for those three years, back in the closet--bloodstained sights. I'm not a pacifist by blood--I'm a pacifist out of fear of what I would do to some of you people, were the opportunity presented to me. What good is a 36 year unbroken streak even for? Don't ask me to think about it too long, one might never hear the end of it.

So without getting too far into the weeds here, you can probably get that I don't give two shiny f**** about some kind of f****** threat some f*** head makes. didn't care about this one didn't care about the one before didn't care about the one before that and there was even more than. You scholars and plumbers here at BellGab have surely heard of more than one or two, and let me here you repeat it after me, after I say it here first, first most clearly: If you fucking Punylings knew the truth about my actual life, these little fables you sporadically get to experience alongside of me wouldn't faze you even one bit.

I have traveled through dimensional portals. Oh, what, you're not going to believe that... but you're going to believe the one where I think of an immature boy is an exciting time? Holy fucker muckers, have you fucking met me? Fucking adult men can't read a book... what the fuck do I want a tiny one for? That's right, I don't. They don't have appropriate knowledge or awareness of drugs and if they did they'd fucking use them all long before I finished teaching Chapter One of The Safe Use And Practices Manual. So this bullshit is a non-starter, although I have had to put up with this exact experience four times in my life, and that seems to be exactly four more times than Hunter Biden ever has. Jesus wept.

Nevertheless. It's easy to spam shit that sounds terrible, and it's easy to persuade a liar that a lie is true. Think about it: how is any person who has been lying, flat-out, openly lying to themselves and thereby to the rest of the world for 3 years--O, longer--going to be able to stand the pressures of a coordinated campaign of deceit? Well, in my case it doesn't seem to be too hard--I actually have integrity, I don't just have incessant questions about how everyone else has built their moral character and fiber--but for some people, especially people who are outnumbered 10 to 1 and are deliberately isolated from their best friends and their family and their children and the other best friends that they're too embarrassed to hang around with because... reasons... sometimes, these people just can't handle reality on its own terms anymore, and have to suddenly decide that they're going to believe a whole bunch of stupid fucking bullshit stories told spun by a fucking loser fake-broke-ass medium-rung thug talent bully thug--especially one who is a raging drug addict himself, and who's only claim to real love in life is built like a tiny little Dutch boy.

But enough about MV.

Click Bait!!!! I was told there was a letter here!!! You are losing it Wizard. Please extract your medulla oblongata from inside your gluteus maximus if you truly wish to convene. Last night I dreamt we were traveling to my dear friends' magical cabin to be gifted with potions and maps to portals 💙

[Jackstar]

Click Bait!!!! I was told

It was a possibly unwise move, in terms of strategy, to isolate me from all my friendships, and if you think I'm going to refrain from linking this story to anaL, you're right, because I want to hear from you, who you'd like to have read this story first.

Although I guess your people are deciding that for you. Press your dynamic duo will be able to read this one out loud, if they're not too busy slinging a bunch of slanderous libel In regards to me instead.

[Jackstar]

What is this?

This--below--is another letter I wrote to you, that, whether you read it or not, has never yet received the courtesy of a reply from you. I had almost, but not quite, forgotten about it, and then last night as your miraculous little gang of gentlemanly-ish garden gnomes reminded me of various facts while simultaneously declining my simple challenge of presenting a spoken word performance (seriously this dweeb goes from, "she won't talk to me, I can't talk to her, I need to talk to her, you're stopping me from talking to her," directly to, "no, I can't make a YouTube headshot video, I need to talk to her I need to talk to her privately," omfg what a whiny and loathsome spanktard), I thought to myself... "hey, just how long has it been since this clone of Meryl Streep has made any legitimate additions to the historical record?"


Turns out, all the way back to the beginning of October, which was way before I thought I knew anybody who was actually dumb enough to let themselves get trafficked, or even worse, pretend that was what was happening and then blame me 100% for being fully responsible. I guess there wasn't anything worth writing home about since then, according to some, because what there was last is a forwarded copy of a "work-related email"--so since "work-related," would not have been counted against the two private business related conversations that had been theoretically negotiated at the time.


It turns out that was always a complete fabrication and not representative of any reality whatsoever, which is actually kind of a relief because it sounded really stupid in the first place, but anyway, last time Fruit Salad bothered to include me in any #Official communication was when I got a forwarded copy of some list of domain names.


I won't reproduce it here, because it's pathetic. "Hey Sweetie Muffins, what exactly is it that you're spending your time doing lately (rather than any of the eight or nine relatively rather simple tasks that I've asked you about needing some help with for me that have never even remotely come close to your even engaging in, besides issuing a snort of derision and changing the subject every fucking time I ask something about why shit that I brought up on our first date still is hanging out there), and weren't you supposed to be learning something of a useful nature, and then showing me what you learned and then teaching it to me as well? I seem to remember that was the arrangement."


I knew damn well at the time that had been the arrangement, however at the period of time that I'm describing here, she still appeared to be blissfully unaware that I had been silently observing her dragging ass and digging heels for... a year and a half. I don't know if she clearly suspected that I appeared to be maybe suspicious of something, I really don't think she figured out that she was on Double Secret Probation until... well, now, I suppose, as though I mentioned this fact on a couple of occasions, like many other statements of fact I've made over the years, as if it weren't something that was guaranteed to make a flood of endorphins gamely begin to trickle into her awareness again, she was unlikely to acknowledge, or even remember that I had said it.


One might find this inconceivable upon first reading. Or any reading. One might find it inconceivable to see it happening right in front of your eyes, too, especially with it happening every f****** day for f****** months--denial is a hell of a drug, especially when one is getting needled back and forth about how nothing is happening except your gaslighting, and I'm not gaslighting--You Are, and also I saw you looking at that other woman's ass, you absolute bastard son of a b****. How dare you? How absolutely dare you? Don't tell me: I don't know what you were looking at, I can see you right here: Ignoring your own guilt.


TRANSIENT GLOBAL AMNESIA. The struggle is fucking real. Unless one has got a cognitive disorder that messes with one's perception of reality and one's ability to recall, remember, and represent basic experiential facts, in which case, the struggle is with the wearing down of the willpower of the most likely person whose recollection might somehow interfere with one's struggle to never for a moment contemplate a frame of mind that might include a thought that might perhaps be considered a downer to some. For example, did you kind of gray out in the middle of reading that long paragraph--sentence, really, and isn't it a magnificent example of its type?--and forget what the hell was going on? If so you might be experiencing, with greater frequency than is normal for a well adjusted human, temporary flashes of amnesia that are subconsciously used to allow a person to forget certain unpleasant and/or inconvenient facts, or, you're reading something written by a wordsmith who knows how to use language in a particular way to create a particular effect in order to achieve a particularly desired result, that being... WAKING THE FUCK UP, FRUIT LOOPS.


Yes, Gablings, it has come to this. JediMiller will be making another celebratory video mashup any minute now, if indeed he ever stops, so read this quick before the Internet crashes under the strain of releasing another world premier music video. It's probably only another 8 or 9 hours left before Rubini's accomplice pretends to wake up at an hour after noon again, so unless she's waking up early and engaging in activities that involve reading BellGab--technically possible, but why would she conceal such doings?--there's plenty of time to read through this and make it go viral before she calls up MV's wife and threatens to beat her with her cane--in public, naturally, by now you people must know how we operate--unless she makes her husband delete something that no longer meshes with her chosen narrative.


(No: one does not "make" a husband. One creates wealth by accepting the belief that not everyone might have stuff, but one might run into a wealthier husband at any time, so it's a good idea to pretend to have one just in case, as when one takes their wealth away, then if a suitable decoy is present, a suitable, astute husband will have an overpowering desire to create more, at least until the scopolamine wears off.)


So. Anyway. I digress. and although I said I would not, because it was pathetic, the real reason why I said I would not is because I was aware of the immensely tedious circumstance of possibly breaking some sort of rule about sharing proprietary radio broadcast industry information, but I'm over that now, because the last time some incomprehensible dickbag asshole threatened me with dire consequences for behaving in a way that was deemed verboten, it came out like this: "Don't ever do that again, or will tell everyone about the trouble you have... you know, with the drugs, and the sex with little boys."


Sweet bleeding Jesus mercy merry mother of Christ, I still remember how this came out over the phone. The dude--dandy, really--was clearly disturbed by the idea that I might do whatever the fuck it was he wanted me to be getting all sweaty about something I was not to do, and as has been demonstrated previously, I am in fact the current holder of The Chalice Of I Don't Give A Single Ripe Wet Fuck, and awareness of this particular element of my sometimes grandiose personality has been on display for this particularly loathsome, threatening thug, so much so he could have been so freaking brain dead that he thought that it was going to work but apparently going to threats was the only thing he had going for him, and I could tell his voice was getting tense as he brought up the big threat he felt he was going to have to lay on me, and when he came up with... "Drugs! Sex with little boys!" I actually don't remember if I busted out laughing or if I pretended to be suitably cowed.


I think I laughed later, to tell you the truth. What I do remember is this little uplifting lilt, thus indicating a questioning nature at the end of the last threat... as if there was some question how about whether this was going to pose a convincing threat.


Official announcement, Gablings: Jackstar is no kind of sexual deviant, and while I welcome and in fact relish discussions about the vast array of psychotropic compounds I've managed to safely and legally study and examine in the course of my experiences in life... the notion of underage sex with little boys is truly laughable.


I didn't even like boys when I was a boy. Why the fuck would I bother with males? I'm not even all that fond of my own penis, even when it's the only one in the room, and adding more to the Twister floor mat is certainly not going to improve that feeling. And although this Internet Tough Guy was clearly casting about in an effort to be persuasive, the net result would simply be to make me think about all the times when I've had drugs and "little" girls, to my great satisfaction.


Not underage. But little, oh yeah. There was this one time there was this girl I was seeing that I was deeply in love with (and still am, although the manner in which she chose to go tool around with some drug addict shitbag boxhead who ended up punching her in the stomach, rather than hang out with me really kind of cooled the ardor, go figure), and she was quite fatigued, she had itty bitty A cups, such that she actually did wear a bra stuffed with tissues, which I thought was a cute and humanizing feature, until it's one day when she discovered a bunch of ridiculous and utterly false libelous slander on the internet that implied that I had some kind of problem with--you guessed it, sex with little boys--and she comes at me with, "you don't really like how small my breasts are, are you just like that I look like a little boy!!" A-bloo-bloo-boo-boo-hoo-hoo. Jesus, can you even fucking imagine? I thought she was serious at the time, which was disappointing since the real fact of the matter was that the smaller breasts I preferred because I concluded that they had the same nerve endings as larger breasts, and the upshot for me was more pleasing reactions with less need for any fumbling activity of the fingers.


Also, women with big tits tend to think that they have some sort of extra special status, which tends to cause disruption when they meet me because the first woman I ever met with really big tits was my mother, and the second one accused me of raping her, 24 hours later, on the phone, after seemingly having a lovely time the day before, that she had consented to. (*ring ring* "Hello?" "Hi! You really raped me yesterday!" And scene.)


it was quite a few years after this event that I realized that women f****** lie about this s*** all the f****** time--"You did what? How dare you? A-bloo-bloo-boo-boo-hoo-hoo"--but the time I was hugely taken aback, because I knew damn well that I didn't just love this chick because she has tiny tits I loved her tiny tits because I loved her, and it pleased me that there is a feature of her body that she was insecure about, that I knew deep in my heart that I didn't have any particular problem with.


And I hear this gal is hollering at me and accusing me of things just because some f****** dick bag s*** head on that f****** internet wrote a f****** story about me and then she read it and she didn't know whether to believe it or not. how to convince her of the truth and to defend myself against this ludicrous accusation was on my mind right then--over the years I've come to recognize the obscene and vile violation of one's personal sanctity, to have to defend against some anonymous string of phrases that someone decided to put together and attach to my name--which has a tendency to stick, mind you, as I am literally the only human on the planet with my name, yeah I'm doing fine, thanks for asking--and because someone felt like they needed to diminish their perception of my power, anybody who's of a mind to can just decide to have a mic drop moment and start asking about some f****** b******* story they've heard. It used to be they would just tell me I was fat and laugh at my man boobs and my jelly belly that I started growing when I was 7--thanks fluoride, thanks soy--but let me tell you, as people age, they get sophisticated.


Going on 25 years for this shit, you know. Not really a whole lot I can do about it, besides abandon my name--and you know what? Go fuck your mother--but while I'm sure the great lot of you remember the Art Bell Filipino Hoax Letter, you can imagine my great depth of sympathy when he would get on the air and start crying about it again. I must have heard him going boo hoo hoo three or four times about it. "O woe is me, I'm Art Bell, I have got access to knowledge and toys that most of you people would never even dream of, and no I'm not going to share--fuck you for even asking, Buddy--and don't you dare imply that I have any secret affiliations like a commanding officer or a lodge or a covenant with witches or whatever, fuck you again for even thinking it, Buddy, let me get right to the point, in a nutshell, in other words, this is slanderous libel, it is the most terrible thing
that can happen to a person, let me tell you all about it on my gargantuan huge international global covering radio show where I get to talk about whatever the fuck I want to and laugh at whoever me and my gang of illustrious little buddies feel like laughing at, so now hear this: isn't it terrible how people say bad things about me? Damn! Life's tough. Let's hope they don't kill my wife next, those things are hard to come by without the right kind of attitude already installed. Now here's Tom with the weather, but wouldn't you rather have a C. Crane weather radio? Sure you would, don't you feel sorry for me? No I don't believe in weather control, hey fuck you Buddy, we're already planning on making fun of that later. But don't imply that I'm a racist, because that really hurts my feelings, here now listen to this scary thing that I want you to believe in, me and my friends were laughing at people who were dumb enough to believe in this thing last night so we think it would be good to to decide that 55 million people need to listen to that now. Have you got all that? Okay, I quit."


Speaking of which, what a hero. #LegacyGiveUpNotEvenTryingJustMewlingCowardSwindlingBullies. So anyway, some of you might have been wondering why this board's been blown up with a bunch of tales of... Jesus, I might as well list it all off: I sling chemicals like an exterminator, I use tools like a scientist, I struggle against evil like an arcane monk, I gleefully fuck willing broads like a Conquistador (that is, with Queen Isabella's permission, and one genocide at a time), I think adults who cannot play Chess with even a modicum of skill are sub-human trash, and humans of any age who do not enjoy playing Chess have likely not spent enough time breastfeeding. I write and I say what I want when I want where I want and I'll give two hollow fucks what somebody has to say about it, at least until somebody decides they've had enough and start whipping out the same old f****** slanderous b******* libel crap that I've had follow me around my for my entire adult life and most of the latter half of post-pubescence.


I'll be honest: I don't know how it started. It's a possible I insulted the wrong judge's daughter. she probably called me fat and I told her to f*** off and then I didn't even know that "fat" meant phat, meaning good, since I had no brothers or sisters or friends or parents who weren't shell shocked from their President being murdered, it wasn't until I was in my twenties that I found out that phat could be a good thing.


I mean for one thing it doesn't necessarily mean adipose tissue. For another, some chicks love to fuck a fat guy, as one might well imagine, this is not a fact that is often openly revealed, and is not a preference often openly selected for, when the targeting question says "f*** off b****."


I guess that phrase works for some guys, mostly in locales with lots of ignorant fuckhead yokel bully thugs making up the population like Texas--Central Texas where they kill presidents, and being an abusive foul mouthed ignorant fuckhead yokel bully thugs who can be assertive and procure a ready access of whatever flavor of "Fuck Me!" drugs are required you to assert whatever was asserted is considered a net positive to one's charisma score.


However, that was not my experience, either growing up or having grown up, I am a generally nice guy with never any more than one or two friends at any given time--which really saves me a bundle on Christmas gifts--and a general lack of interest in dealing with the kind of mouth breathing thugs who routinely deal in "Fuck Me!" drugs on demand.


Such reprobate types tend to break as many laws as possible, whereas I have a fetish for not breaking laws at all. It's good fetish I'm not going to lie. So anyway I'm not really concerned about some mouthy little whiny little shit looking to compensate for something by telling me that he's going to do something terrible to me if I don't do something that he wants.


What are you going to do? Murder my parents again? Murder my cat again? Cut off my foreskin again? Try to infect me with a incurable disease again? Oh, oh... you going to do more name calling again and ruin my reputation with all my friends. Oh, bother. What will I do if I lose all of my friend again? Oh, all right, I'll just go back to talking to Jesus and no one else again until another human being that is worth a shit gets assigned to me. Supposedly, all this is worse than being crucified, actual--what, that was only 3 days, right? Guess it could be true, but I think I'm being humored to cheer me up--but from my boots on the ground viewpoint, since I had no longer have an ego investment in the outcomes to events, especially after some some brilliant tactician informs me that I actually have power by inadvertently transmitting fear while speaking to me... It's all just a big laugh riot at this point.


I don't do well with obeying commands that are backed up by threats. I used to be afraid of my dad spanking me. I used to love playing Chess with him too. But because he was fundamentally a big fucking pussy (Pisces), he stopped liking to play Chess with me when he couldn't win all the time (age nine, but I didn't realize he was embarrassed of losing to his kid for a few more years), and I don't know when he stopped spanking me, but I knew it was at a point long past the point where he could just do it without having to put up a good reason for it, at a time long before I figured out that I couldn't fucking even breathe right. Thanks for stopping by the doctor's office on the way home from the soccer game and the bar, Hefe. and thanks for leaving me alone in the car when I was 7 with a dog while you went to the bar for at least 2 hours after saying you'd be right back. Okay yeah it wasn't 3 years, and you weren't taking your beer with a hyperdermic and you didn't have any tattoos, so I guess you weren't a needle junkie. Hey, did you like dying alone? Yeah, me neither, thanks for the social skills and telling every single one of your friends and family that you thought your son was worthless cuz he couldn't kick a soccer ball. Honestly, Dude--you could have just named me Sue. Oh wait that was your only friends' wife's name, so I guess that would have been awkward, especially after she divorced your friend for being an incorrigible, profligate drunkard. His trade was carving teeth for dentures with handheld rotary tools--maybe one of them was needle-like, and that's why she kick his ass out and married some beta half-buck and squeezed out three more kids, who weren't really ever friends with me either, along with the two older ones who thought I was really annoying because I didn't know how to explain how much I appreciated any company at all, even from a pair of snotty bigots, who I later realized were mad at me because I still had my one dad (who largely ignored me in favor of soccer and Budweiser) while they had two. Oh, but not you, you just mixed alcohol and opiates together while condemning pot smokers, because, "muh legal." Hey it was legal to take you from your mother and father and give you a gun to kill people with right? Okay, just checking. Good talk. Fuck my mother.


I don't want to make it sound like I'm criticizing my father too much considering that The Red Army came and conscripted him from his village and and took him from his home between the ages of 14 and 17, during which ttime, his father--my grandfather, Stephen--"died of a heart attack." Dad was pretty hazy on some of the details. after he died I found his rifle that he must have used for those three years, back in the closet--bloodstained sights. I'm not a pacifist by blood--I'm a pacifist out of fear of what I would do to some of you people, were the opportunity presented to me. What good is a 36 year unbroken streak even for? Don't ask me to think about it too long, one might never hear the end of it.


So without getting too far into the weeds here, you can probably get that I don't give two shiny f**** about some kind of f****** threat some f*** head makes. didn't care about this one didn't care about the one before didn't care about the one before that and there was even more than. You scholars and plumbers here at BellGab have surely heard of more than one or two, and let me here you repeat it after me, after I say it here first, first most clearly: If you fucking Punylings knew the truth about my actual life, these little fables you sporadically get to experience alongside of me wouldn't faze you even one bit.


I have traveled through dimensional portals. Oh, what, you're not going to believe that... but you're going to believe the one where I think warping an immature boy is an exciting time? Holy fucker muckers, have you fucking met me? Fucking adult men can't read a book... what the fuck do I want a tiny one for? That's right, I don't. They don't have appropriate knowledge or awareness of drugs and if they did they'd fucking use them all long before I finished teaching even Chapter One out of The Safe Use And Practices Manual. So this bullshit is a non-starter, although I have had to put up with this exact experience four times in my life, and that seems to be exactly four more times than Hunter Biden ever has. Jesus wept.


Nevertheless. It's easy to spam shit that sounds terrible, and it's absurdly easy to persuade a liar that a lie is true. Think about it: how is any person who has been lying, flat-out, openly lying to themselves and thereby to the rest of the world for 3 years--O, longer--going to be able to stand the pressures of a coordinated campaign of deceit? Well, in my case it doesn't seem to be too hard--I actually have integrity, I don't just have incessant questions about how everyone else has built their moral character and fiber... and, by the way, isn't a "judgment" really just a "criticism" without any instructions? How is that better? O, right, if somebody isn't bothering to listen anyway--but for some people, especially people who are outnumbered 10 to 1 and are deliberately isolated from their best friends and their family and their children and the other best friends that they're too embarrassed to hang around with because... reasons... sometimes, these people just can't handle reality on its own terms anymore, and have to suddenly decide that they're going to believe a whole bunch of stupid fucking bullshit stories told spun by a fucking loser fake-broke-ass medium-rung thug talent bully thug--especially one who is a raging drug addict himself, and who's only claim to real love in life is built like a tiny little Dutch boy.


But enough about MV.

Code Select Expand

I entered complete domain names with TLDs.
Choose TLDs to search for
RubiniMagic.com
DavidRubiniAfterMidnight.com
MeowMixChill.com
5MinutesWithJackStar.com
RubiniGab.com
MagicGab.com
SmashGab.com
bellgabsucks.com
azzeraesworld
azzeraesucks
michaelwalker.com
michaelvandeven.com
richardgroyper.com
davemetivier
davidmetivier.com
TLD Pricing
davidrubiniaftermidnight.com
davidrubiniaftermidnightam.com
drama.radio
rubinigab.com
jackgab.com
bellgabsucks.com
mvsucks.com
azzeraesworld.com
azzeraesucks.com
rubinimagic.com
michaelvandeven.com
richardgroyper.com
davemetivier.com
davidmetivier.com
michaelwalker.com


[Jackstar]

So, back to the beginning: "hey this guy who's harassing me now that he's talked you into talking to him without me, what in the name of the living Christ are you doing with this absolute retarded Mongoloid faggot?" is exactly what I didn't ask you, because I didn't want to give you the impression that I was aware that you were not doing anything at all like you said you were going to, instead you were doing some sort of peculiar weird thing with some guy who spends a lot of time telling me that he's going to kidnap you and fuck your vagina, whether either of us liked it or not.


I've got some more emails to post later, but I don't want to hear anyone, or her, again, especially, telling me that I made it up; I'm not telling the truth; it's just a story; that's not real; hahaha that's funny... you know, I heard that enough this year, but in addition to that eight or nine times a week, and then calling up two or three times is only about how he and his friend killed my cat--barehanded, and boy oh boy did it really sound like his arms were tired--but that's not really the point that I'm getting at here.


what I'm getting at is that I wasn't aware that anybody needed any more domain names, nor was I clear on why Grapefruit would have any interest in looking up domain names or how those work or anything. "Show me what you're actually doing? I am in fact interested!"... in the horse dick story you're going to have to tell me, or else suddenly decide to admit, "yeah I'm just getting high and talking about sucking his cock and sending him porn while making fun of you for not having a job and not spending money on me and not having any family to get in the way of you sheltering mine. Because you looooove me."


I really think that was not very likely--at all--but it was a hell of a lot more likely than her sharing her drugs or her porn with me, as in my experience, that will only things that were shared with her special close impressive friends. The first picture she ever showed at me was so beautiful that I was almost too shy to look at it for very long, and then when I went back to go find it I discovered that she had deleted it, allegedly accidentally, and when I asked you the picture again she said, "No, it's gone."


Oh. Well. At least we'll always have Paris. So I remember getting that email and I remember thinking, "what a f****** waste of time. Does she know that he's wasting her time? Is she aware that this is b******* and is she showing it to me to find out if I know that it's b*******?"


Well, Gablings, I still don't know. I do know that is recently as _____ days ago, I have been subjected to more threats of varying natures if my behavior is not compliant in various ways, various ways that I could not recall to relate to you, because I didn't listen and I don't give a shit--bring it, bring it the fuck on, you pathetic mewling, lying coward, and believe me, I'll suck your dick a little bit when we're done, too, you can fucking complain all you fucking want--pull my hair and show me how it's done.


In fact, don't even bother with the instructions. Hold your critical thoughts about critical things, and just lay down judgments, one after the other, because this really strengthens the connection between Jesus and my wizards, because as I was looking through my email and my texts in my cloud and my screenshots and my hand-painted blood sigils--just a hobby, propellerhead, I wouldn't expect you to understand, you didn't even bother to ask me how to read Tarot, you just nodded your head and told her, "yep, that's right!"--see, who needs instructions? Just the judgments.


POSITIVE JUDGMENTS. anyway I forgot till now but I wanted to let you know that when I saw this email of a list of various URLs, this was obviously a foundational document that was led to demonstrate the validity of something for later because on its own it doesn't mean shit, and most importantly... it's not 5 Minutes, it was Five Minutes With Jackstar, The proper spelling of which was clearly delineated in my design document that I'm sure you simply wiped your ass with after you arranged to exclude me from all of your negotiations and dealings. Do you even remember asking me for a design document?


Did you even notice that you were being funneled down a hog chute to the slaughterhouse? I'm sure there wasn't any slaughter involved, that's most likely where the rave was--since I wasn't invited, that would be the most logical place to put it--and I don't know what story you were told, because once you allowed yourself to stop engaging in the construction of any foundational language, you just yelled at me for ridiculous and inane bullshit that wasn't even true and then called me names--ooh, edgy, and so forcefully compelling, yawn--and hung up on me and effectively, fundamentally ignored me from a critical point of time forward.


it was when I saw that one of the things you were teaching was how to send spoofed emails to various industry professionals--the names of whom would not be unknown to the readers of this website, I can assure you--and when I asked her, "what are you doing, and why are you doing it?" The immediate response back I got from the deer in the headlights was virtually akin to the following: "David said it was important to soak these tampons in EverClear, because reasons, and stuff." Eyes wide blinking. Innocent pout. Tense shoulders, ready for further questions, poised as if in a state of ultimate relaxation.


"So, let me guess: You're going to send a whole shitload of emails that are going to end up getting sent somewhere, originating from the IP at my home internet access point, and you have absolutely no idea that once they're sent out they can get bounced around bounced around and then end up pissing off everybody that you're mailing them to and getting my address blocked and therefore putting a forensic indicator that somebody at this address is spamming Heather Wade Keith Rowland George Noory, etc. etc. with a whole bunch of unwanted emails filled with Rubini Spam, and while you may not be aware that the net result of this is to make me unmarketable and make yourself appear the victim, you're really just focused on the EverClear and the tampon, right? You probably would like me to leave the room--by the way this is my bedroom and it has been for the last 20 years, off and on, and the waterbed you're lounging on well being groomed by an actual sexual predator happens to have originally belonged to this guy named Todd whose wife I committed adultery with, so do not be confused on any notion that I don't know exactly what's going on here, I can see it when your eyebrows cringe--so you can work with your business partner in peace and privacy, have I got that right?"


I do not say this. I can tell from her body language that she already doesn't know what the fuck she's doing, not completely, but she's impressed with the way I let this guy holler at me and push me around--I stress trivial matters so he thought I was more retarded than she, and I bring up tangential matters to critical issues THAT I HAVE WAITED FOR HALF MY LIFE TO DISCUSS WITH ANYONE in a low-key way, so he similarly uses low-key tactics to divert the conversation away from stuff he doesn't want to talk about, which in his case is shouting shouting shouting shouting shouting in other words in a nutshell just being a boorish, loudmouth, repetitive asshole, which I seemingly let him get away with, but I am actually using as a martial conversational art in order to generate a procedural map of whatever the fuck it is that this absurd transparent dipshit thinks he doesn't want me to be getting any practical information on--and because she's a survivor of psychosocial and sexual abuse in a wickedly dysfunctional family consisting primarily of men who treat women like property and women who don't even notice becauseevery white man they've ever met reminds them of their great-grandmother's genocide, she doesn't even know that being pushed around and abused is not the way it's supposed to be... and the peculiar way, undoubtedly in her experience, that I've been with this woman for almost 4 years and I've never even hit her once probably just makes her suspicious, because she thinks I'm white. Her racial memory insists that I'm just waiting to place her into bondage in exchange for colored beads, and our shared recent memory tells us both that she's definitely got some colored beads already.


I'm as Native as she is, but I don't really look it and I don't have a tribe, at all, all of my family and friends are dead or think I am or should be... so on the social totem I'm not only at the bottom, I'm also painted over with mud. And in her world, even straight up niggers know how to score and grow weed, and she also can't imagine a world in which someone as pretty as I can't figure out how to score some weed, because it hasn't occurred to her that I'm not an in-bred whore who instinctively knows how to trade on one's physical presence in order to obtain favors.


Seriously, it's completely ridiculous. The closest this woman has ever been to a psychological abuse counselor is either silently riding in an elevator next to someone in a white coat, or perhaps while hiking in the wilderness and getting a fly by from a particularly fancy crow with a few white feathers that recently drank from the right flavor of mushroom pond.


I've seen her children hit her, physically--not a lot, because she's generally an exceptionally good mother, and no doubt these kids know by now that she cries enough as it is without adding to the flow meter--but the point is, it happened, at all, in front of me, and her reaction was one of not really any surprise of unusuality at all. Meanwhile I'm plotting triangulations and I'm wondering how severe an offense needs to be before I can justify disabling blow to a leg--these kids probably could use a bonus lesson what it's like to be disabled without ambulatory mobility, and while I would not relish being tapped for such a duty, I possess a calm confidence that I'm well equipped to do that job correctly. I don't think I'd even enjoy it nearly a tenth as much as I enjoyed writing it, and I enjoyed it a lot, considering who I was thinking of. Magik.


Cultural differences abound. But I seriously don't get it. If Grapefruit were my wife, which she would have been if she had ever: a) indicated that she had a desire to get married; and b) had been marryable, and anyone had even come close to putting their hands on her, I would have beaten the absolutely brilliant daylights out of them, without at all leaving a single mark (public school actually educational for something) until she begged me to stop, at which time, I would turn to her and ask, "Forever? Or just now?" Then no matter the answer, one more markless blow, and then a real long look into the eyes of the transgressor. Followed by words. Maybe good ones too, at that point, you can imagine.


What can I tell you? I am devoted, and discipline is its own reward.


I've been around immature humans before. I have never been married before. Consequently the situation has never had to come up--so far it's just been a choicely placed comment like, "you know, if your legal guardian gives me permission, I can beat you until your bladder guilt empties," which isn't technically legally true, but typically a child will not know that for certain, and typically I won't give a shit about legal, I give a shit about what the Mother says.


As has been stated on numerous cases I am not a violent man. My philosophy of pacifism is that violence is always a last option. However, disciplining a child who is so wildly out of whack that it thinks it is appropriate to raise hands in violence to any female... let alone his own fucking mother, is on deck not just for an attitude adjustment, but an attitude replacement.


Which at this point, in my retelling of my recent experience with my first will helpmate and her actual human trafficker, captor, and groomer, is where I'm at with what these two abject nincompoops think they're doing.


There's no point in challenging either of them. When she's not around he's abusive and insulting, and when she is around you no longer recognizes my presence and if forced to do so is also abusive and insulting except in a way that she seems to find amusing--largely because it is except for different perceived reasons. Whatever it sounds like when they talk alone, I have no idea--after the 8th or 9th time he decides to completely flip out and start screaming at me until he hangs up the phone, which of course never happens when she can hear, I realize that I'd rather be getting an enema from Mengele, and this ham-fisted brutish cad is deliberately making himself revolting when it's just me and charming when it's just her and when it's the two of us... he does everything he can to make me look stupid.


So I let him, and she buys it. Because unbeknownst to me at this time, she has been misinformed and misled into believing that I've been cheating on her multiple times, that I'm bored with her, I think she's fat and ugly, and her children are vile foul little cretins with no concern or care for barely even themselves and certainly not each other or their mother or really anyone else in the family and certainly not me.


Of course none of these are true. This means nothing to a woman who suffers from wildly unmanaged and deeply dysfunctional PTSD, who has never seen a psychological of any kind for any kind of psychotherapy whatsoever, who's early middle late childhood, and all years up until fairly recently have been filled with dozens of examples of abusive violence, exploitation, assault, attempted kidnapping, kidnapping, the whole nine yards--and that's just her father, or maybe some guy who's just pretending to be that. Details unclear.


And of course there's more, at least that's what I've been told--took a couple years for the story to come out, and I'm under no illusions at what I've been told is certainly true, and I further been informed that until about a month before she first met me, she pretty much drank every day, all day, for her old life and that was her "therapy."


So, at this point getting information out of her is a delicate situation. Nearly a year and a half before this, and I do mean like nearly 18 months--long enough to make two babies!--I discovered just how bent out of shape my lady's mind is warped, and I say, "Baby Baby Baby, I love you, I love you, but there ain't no way you're going to have a good time in an adult relationship if you don't get some professional help to look at some of these issues. If you don't get help, I will eventually have to become a person in the role of your therapist, and I would rather not be your therapist. I don't feel effective as a therapist when I'd rather just be spending my days having sex with you and showing you off to people, because I think you're fabulous, but as time goes on you're not going to be all that fabulous when you're weeping and wailing about some kind of ridiculous phantasm that you've just triggered and have no idea what to do with cuz it's the first time you've been with a guy from longer than a minute without tying one on." Of course, she agreed. Of course, I meant she really had to get some serious attention paid to this issue not just Band-Aid not just some shoulder-hugging counselor who gives her a chin up and says she's doing a great job just for making through a day--f*** that noise, I've been through there for myself I know that she doesn't have to live like a miserable chambermaid afraid of her own shadow, and that's exactly what it is and that's exactly what she'll be for the rest of her life until she gets down and has a conversation with the person who knows what's going on for like... a few weeks, at least.


Fast forward to now: she of course has not done shit for psychotherapy besides skip through a succession of counselors--not therapists, she says she doesn't know the difference,and of course she's telling the truth of that moment because her mind goes completely blank from the Transient Global Amnesia--and even though I told her very specifically in the first place that I'd be more than happy to get couples counseling and I'd be thrilled to be hypnotized so that I might be better able to respond in a mature fashion to her behaving like a spoiled panty waist brat for no fucking good reason--in the present time, that is, she's got plenty of good reasons to be suffering from a cognitive disorder, of this I am sure, but after the 39th time in 2 months that she hollers at me--fiercely, violently, cruelly--for who she thinks I'm cheating on her with, or want to, and how she has to look at my phone and my conversations I have with friends that I've known for over 20 years in private "make her uncomfortable" and how I'm lying to her--yah, right--and how I'm so terrible and everything's my fault and I need therapy and I'm doing too many drugs--she says her ancestors don't approve of modern vaping technology, which, I must tell you, is a statement that has left me more nonplussed than any statement ever before heard in my life, right after, "your nose doesn't look so bad, it's up to you if we fix it,"--so this whole thing where some guy shows up on BellGab and starts being a snot... you know, just because, he spams a phone number and screams in all caps about having vivid and violent sexual fantasies about Heather Wade, one would have to be in abysmally shortsighted and dysfunctional person to not recognize that this is fucking bait.


at this point this guy is teaching her how to send spoofed spam to industry professionals, he's stopped explaining to me how to get anything done, he's reportedly teaching her things about how to record a podcast and put it on the web (hey, has she managed to do that yet? Or is she still working on proprietary hashtag technology? Just checking), but she peers completely and cognizant of the way that it used to be the three of us are on the phone and at the same time, and now it's never the three of us at the same time, and whenever he calls, he treats me like an actual nigger and constantly tries to get her attention... so they can talk about "podcasting business."


We actually have microphones at this point. I was quite enthusiastic at first, but when "The Commander" a name he turns up with one morning when I wake up to have found that they've been talking all night, because of course, coffee--Heather Wade's favorite!--discovers that my fancy microphone allows me to turn up the gain and turn up the volume and finally out shout this mouthy shouty rude bitch ass little whore--him, not her, she's still quite pleasant to talk to as long as she's getting what she thinks is her way--he then refuses to ever call my phone number that's plugged into my computer, where my microphone is, and he always calls her first and then begrudgingly adds me as the third call and a conference call, Even though I explained that the original deal was that he's supposed to call me and then we call her. And why aren't the phones working right? Why does your phone allow you to do things that my phone doesn't do? Why is this option grayed out? Hey what's the professional way to record a phone call, like, for broadcast?


F****** nothing. F****** bupkiss. this is how I figure out that I got to create a procedural language map to figure out what is hot zones are, because that's evident that this guy doesn't want to talk to me at all. He's literally making jokes about having me killed. She seems to be giggling. This is f****** Twilight Zone. Do they actually think I'm that stupid? I know I'm a great actor, but I'm no Burt Reynolds. Are both of these people really so stupid that they thi... oh, right, they're both abused victims and they're both taking drugs and they're both not telling me the truth about it and they're both completely delusional about their ability to self-medicate, and they think I'm a problem because I admit to them that I've never squirted _______ into my rectum and I am curious to know what that's like.


Look, I'm a curious guy, okay? It's not like I really want to know, it's not like I live a life where I have opportunity to do that very often, as I like I prefer to do that with just anyone. And for reasons that should be very obvious--I have no desire to do this alone.


I also have no desire to do this with screaming stalker bad attitude barakas, who swears up and down that he's just smoking weed, but there ain't no way that he's just smoking weed, although he is perhaps getting some weed that is laced or cured with extra substances, which is a real problem in parts of the world where weed is illegal for people without special licensing, like me or Grapefruit. (I'm a scientist, she's a shamaness, one of us is a lawyer, one of us is a dragon, and one of us is telling you all: shut the fuck up. We're fine on rules here--although of course because I am not a "real" Native American, she thinks I don't get to do things that she gets to do unless she sneers at me, and she's disappointed that I get to do things that she's not allowed to do, so she constantly diminishes my status as if the life I've led for two decades before we ever met doesn't count any more because ancestors. Who I guess are usually thought of as all cops and narcs, which might impress people from her past, but I can talk to the dead so I am unfazed by either the memories of her spirits or her shocked look of disbelief when I tell her that her snotty, bigoted ancestors can lick on my taint and suck on my pucker. And she can't even do that. (Maybe that was the hook to get her to fly off over interstate lines, ALONE, without barely even telling a soul besides myself and her unbelievably stupid imbecilic friend, who does not like me and is probably an actual demon in the flesh--and if she isn't that, is certainly a royally stupid man-hating former lesbian... and I say "former" only because I don't think actual orca can actually go gay, so while she's currently clearly not wearing a carpet bib, she obviously looks like she wants to and she seems to think that her opinion of how I should treat Grapefruit's children is of a greater value than my own.) I suppose she could if she wanted to ask, but that's not what I had in mind, and while she's failing to recognize that my questions are not being answered well she's being groomed by one "friend" who wants to f*** her and another "friend" who wants to kill me and then f*** her.)


so I know whatever she's doing, she's not completely incognizant, but I also know that asking a whole lot of hard questions is not going to get any answers out of her, because Tex is already saying things like, "is he there? Call me when he leaves, I don't want to talk to you when he's there," and, "your five or six weeks away from getting a high paying job as a radio broadcast producer, so just tell him to shut up," and when I ask her about this... she feigns innocence, and spins a wild story, and when I ask questions about certain areas of knowledge, I begin to get the same kind of run around that this guy's giving me.


So I know there's something going on here that isn't what it appears to be. it doesn't seem plausible to me that she would go through this hootenanny and rigmarole if she actually wanted to be no longer a couple with me... because she could just say so. Obviously there's some minor tension. due to some circumstances beyond our control, and other circumstances completely within one person's control, plans have been continually pushed back, which is no problem for me--Hi, this is the house I grew up in--but represents a bigger problem for her, because she imagines that she's also capable of taking care of children while she's coping with arthritis and ambulatory disability and the collapse of her ability to make a living and the growing awareness that her children are completely lacking in any sort of discipline other than, "Mooooooom can we go to GameStop?" and have become beings with no respect for you whatsoever, because their idiot grandfather has given them the idea that "a man who loves a woman buys her a house." Or some such f****** nonsense. I'm told he also said he wanted to put me in prison and have me killed with two bullets in the back of my head, he also said that he wanted to kill my cat, and he also told me that I was lying to him when I said that I lived in Lake Forest Park, because he believed that I lived in a city differently named and when I pointed this out to him he called me a liar.


Did I mention? Hooked through the bag on opiates benzos and alcohol. apparently I was supposed to ask this guy for permission to marry his daughter at some point. fact the matter is I've been asking permission of the daughter to have an intervention done, but after a year or so I kind of gave up on that because... well, I think they like watching him suffer. Or some other reason. It's a tribe thing. I'm an outsider. They're all xenophobes. which is why I find a plausible that Grapefruit has some sort of scheme in the back of mind that she hasn't gone around telling me yet, which is completely fine and normal to me, because I always have a scheme or two going on the back of my mind forever and ever for all time cuz that's just what kind of guy I am I think about things.


But still, this guy is wasting my time. He's wasting her time. I'd like to actually create some entertaining content and put it on the web. I'd like to do with her. what I really like is for her to do a show with her son, who's the guy who said I want to be on a podcast! He's 10. So obviously there are security issues. I imagine that Grapefruit is talking about these things well I'm not fully attentive to her conversations... I'm not eavesdropping. I'm not a psychotic control freak... Like some people.

[Ciardelo]

Safe Use And Practices

Drugs are bad, mmkay?

[SpaceMeowMaid]

Speaking of libel, you don't know wtf you are talking about and you should definitely stop speaking for me.
1. My kids don't beat me
2. I'm not out to get you
3. I'm not teamed up with anyone against you, especially not the psycho in TX
4. You cannot assign me thoughts and intentions, those are internal and you are WAY OUT TO LUNCH SON

Besides, I love you. You just make it really difficult. You are contrary AF and I based some very important decisions on things you said that were not actually how you felt or even close to your reality. That is my mistake, I take full responsibility and take my cross to bear. I am accountable and have discussed these matters in detail with you up until I realized how much it hurts you to hear them spoken.  Now, for you to say I didn't report things is BS. I reported everything I needed to report, to the FBI.

Yours Truly,
The tormented one in love with the Riddler Jackstar

[whoozit]

Still rooting for you two lovebirds.

[SpaceMeowMaid]

Still rooting for you two lovebirds.

Thank you. We are invincible but this Love stuff is Complicated. GBY

[SpaceMeowMaid]

 [attachment=1]

[whoozit]

... GBY

You overestimate my size and flexibility.  But, even if I could I wouldn’t.  Thanks for the suggestion. 

[SpaceMeowMaid]

You overestimate my size and flexibility.  But, even if I could I wouldn’t.  Thanks for the suggestion. 

LMAO that was a GOD BLESS YOU silly Whozzie ;P

[Jackstar]

LMAO that was a GOD BLESS YOU silly Whozzie ;P

Feel the Love.

[Jackstar]

Bottom line: I have some disappointments related to what you have allowed to happen in the past, what you may be allowing in the current time, and what is currently being a lot of the future time as a result of some of the choices that you and I have made both together and apart.

Who wrote this faggy shit? This is gayer than an entire suitcase full of gay. Someone should have killed that guy and put him out of his misery. Maybe they could stab him in the throat and fuck the hole.

[SpaceMeowMaid]

What kind of an asshole doxxes the woman he says he loves? Oh ya, one that actually doesn't!!! GFY

[SpaceMeowMaid]

Get it together! Clear your head! DETOX! DON'T DOXx!

[SpaceMeowMaid]

I'll send that link to your father now. He really deserves to know what's going on.

And not only am I not to be trifled with, I am also not to be played hardball with either, Allison Frances.

about something that's already out there? You're literally a public figure. I wouldn't worry about it if I were you. The dark web already knows your info: having something on BellGab doesn't take it away from anywhere else--your ass that you sent to David is literally all over qboard--Good job, Patriot!--absolutely EVERYONE on BellGab has known your name for a very long time; and your panicky freak out is doing absolutely nothing for you in any way whatsoever except... well, it lets me know that you don't know what's going on, and I reminded that you were instructed to email Heather Wade, has she announced I think two days ago on her show that anybody with the exact same kind of concerns that you have should email her right away.

I personally don't give a shit if you do or not. It's your life! And you obviously consider me to be not worthy of being a part of it.

Be sure to let your dad know cuz I'm sending that link now. Toodles!

Stop it you fucking coward!

[Dr. MD MD]

I’m pretty sure you two have each others phone numbers so why air your dirty laundry on Bellgab? Is this just more “theatre?”

[SpaceMeowMaid]

Throwing me out to the wolves doesn't fix your crap! Deal with your own fucking problems and stop blaming me for everything wrong with your life! I have taken myself out of your equation multiple times and you still don't fix your life!

[SpaceMeowMaid]

I’m pretty sure you two have each others phone numbers so why air your dirty laundry on Bellgab. Is this just more “theatre?”

Jack is craving attention because he's actually just a caddy little girl!

[Ciardelo]

Yes, that's right: Right in the pooper.

Whoa, there's no need for pooper talk here on BellGab! 

[Ciardelo]

I’m pretty sure you two have each others phone numbers so why air your dirty laundry on Bellgab? Is this just more “theatre?”

Come on Doc, it's not like you haven't posted walls of text lately to Myke's thread. 

Besides, it appears that telephonic communications have been attempted and failed. Much like peace in the Middle East.

[Ciardelo]

Jack is craving attention because he's actually just a caddy little girl!

I think you mean "catty" Mixie, but you be you. I think golf is a great game.

[K_Dubb]

I think you mean "catty" Mixie, but you be you. I think golf is a great game.

He could drive the cart in his cute little skirt!

[Ciardelo]

He could drive the cart in his cute little skirt!

heh heh

[ItsOver]

I’m pretty sure you two have each others phone numbers so why air your dirty laundry on Bellgab? Is this just more “theatre?”

Maybe The Drug Free America Foundation is paying them to post as a public service.  I don’t even want to take aspirin, now.

[Ciardelo]

I'll just leave this here.

https://succubuslove.wordpress.com/2014/10/19/summoning-a-succubus-the-letter-method-revised/

[AZZERAE]

This is gayer than an entire suitcase full of gay.

*TOP FCUKN RIGHT*

[Jackstar]

Jack is craving attention

Awaiting command signals.

because he's actually just a caddy little girl!

River Tam.

[Jackstar]

you still don't fix your life!

It ain't broke.

Awaiting command signals.

[Silphion]

I think you mean "catty" Mixie, but you be you. I think golf is a great game.

[attachment=1]

“When I use a word,” Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, “it means just what I choose it to mean â€" neither more nor less.”