Blarbbles

I literally fear I will go momentarily insane when people read me the internet. And stuff?

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Does anyone else feel this? Yes. I surmise without consulting the internoid.

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Ugh.

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Literarily Vs Leary

I literally fear I will go momentarily insane when people read me the internet. And stuff?

image

Does anyone else feel this? Yes. I surmise without consulting the internoid.

A Rare Action

    My thought-style or writing style is unique I suppose…

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   The title of this posting of my syntaxsinner blog here is “A Rare Action”. I am going to say the rarest of rare things is a “zero possibility”. I am not saying that to be funny.

    Let’s say there was a hurricane that covered 56% of the surface of the Earth. Less large than the Red Storm of Jupiter. Following me here? Without an accumulation of thrust- and that kind of hurricane would need thrust, it is technically impossible to have a Zeus-sized hurricane buffing all the 7+ billion folks to death on the planet.

     Depending on a person’s MOOD, destruction is unwanted or… desired. A new mother wants her baby to drink milk and sleep. An inmate scheduled to die for heinous crimes who reminisces in his dank cell with blue walls looks forward to die. He does not look at the metal penitary spoon as neat-o like he did when he was a boy eating KFC and his Klansman dad taught him wrong from from. His dad was the devil’s tribesman. Somehow in his cell he thinks something different exists even though everything points to him as Hellboy.

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     Would you believe that as they were about to kill him by electro-juicing his warped brain to a boil that the uttered words,  “I killed ’em and I never cared!”, were a wild, true, MERCIFUL, statement to the family that watched his head blown up? He confessed the nature of his wicked sickness of the night of man.

Earth Redux

     This ball of hot magnatized goo and dirt truely does appear to be created. Earth. Its just a bunch of rock and atoms. Really just atoms. Really, if you peer into an atom visually or conceptually it is elusive. It has been said it turns into light, or energy, that light can express itself as SLOW.

      Slow light would be matter. And light moving at light speed would be shining on the slow shit. I am no physicist. But observation of material is what we are designed for. Making it personal, I have already calculated, and I am not alone on this, that every 7 years I am made up 99.99% of new atoms.

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      So what is being sustained? Well dang, my tattoo of course! The ink is the same and when I eat, digest and take a big “d” I get closer and closer to warping and fading the ink. A tattoo is the greatest gift you can give yourself… not for the image but for the damn ink. You would have to nearly kill me to get it.

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             ( technically
               speaking this
               ink is older
               than me. I am
               a 7-year old
               fleshwrap with
               a 10-year old
               tattoo… guided
               by a sparker
               that started on
               July 4, 1973-
               my most likely
               date of concep-
               tion. On the
               week of All
               Hallow’s Eve
               1998, I saw a
               vision of a
               circle of fire
               that began to
               soothe my war
               with God. That
               is a very special
               week. I was
               alone. John
               Glenn was
               looking at the
               stars and
               The Obsidia-
               the hell of
               darkness of
               space… am
               I creeping you
               out? I worship
               both hells of
               heat and ice
               intensity
               forever. I call
               it pure. Life.)

Zango

    Jimminy thimble buckets- who has the authority to shoot the asshat liars from Liarton (short for Liar Town) & restore justice to the galaxy?
Heck, I do not want galactic justice. I want the whole universe rolled up and shredded.

     Oh shit! What would happen if we did that? All our precious memories. To tell you the truth, I’m not doing anything of much importance. I go grocery shopping. I hate tv. I take a walk. Things are expensive. I am poor.

   Yay! Religion is perfect for the poor! Those dummies can imagine elephants with human bodies and give away their money for catharsis. No. The Dalai Lama’s advice may work in your kitchen, but doctors and lawyers don’t get rich listening to old fuzzy heads in red robes who should be on a milk carton that says “abducted”. Yes the Buddhist religion abducted a boy. That is more criminal than a passing sexual molestation and he has no family except his captors who worship him. I guess you just gotta roll with it.

     I feel ridiculous because my belly swells from a condition and I get asked about once a year if I am prego. I say I am BUDDHA.
I am back. Booga booga boo!
Shit luck. I have ONE life. I don’t want one with everything. That is what cable is for.

So…

    This post is about how people are expected to do shit and be somebody. Let’s start with infants who made it no farther than age 1. Some of you say… no no 12 months. I say 1. Well those kiddos who lived 1 year but died before 2… they did not do much. Right?
That could be seen as mean to say, but I am honorably mentioning.

     What about kids that only make it to 5? Are they enough? Say, the celebrity Keith Green and his 5 year old son died in the same plane crash. In the scope of existential wizardry and scientific wonder, who can say what comprises a “worthwhile time” for a five year old boy or girl?

     How many things do they need to do? As much as possible? If a child is dying at age 5, should we make them go to Disneyland? They would probably smile or not. Moms and dads… do your kids do what you want because they want to make you happy? Kids- do your parents love you? Would they spend all the time in the world with you if you needed that?

    Kids- what do you need? If you tell your parents, do they listen? How do they know what you need? Is it a science, parents, to raise a kid? A project? A family? A trial? Life? All of that?

image

It comes and…

image

…its gone. Forever. No do over.

Somewhere, though, some crazy ladybug from Tootlanya, Tennessee is flying along, barely making it and he says:

image

” I’m gonna ride
  This here day
  All the way-
  And eventually
  Down to Dixie
  Don’t no Winn. “

A Rare Action

    My thought-style or writing style is unique I suppose..

image

   The title of this posting of my syntaxsinner blog here is “A Rare Action”. I am going to say the rarest of rare things is a “zero possibility”. I am not saying that to be funny.

    Let’s say there was a hurricane that covered 56% of the surface of the Earth. Less large than the Red Storm of Jupiter. Following me here? Without an accumulation of thrust- and that kind of hurricane would need thrust, it is technically impossible to have a Zeus-sized hurricane buffing all the 7+ billion folks to death on the planet.

     Depending on a person’s MOOD, destruction is unwanted or… desired. A new mother wants her baby to drink milk and sleep. An inmate scheduled to die for heinous crimes who reminisces in his dank cell with blue walls looks forward to die. He does not look at the metal penitary spoon as neat-o like he did when he was a boy eating KFC with a plastic spork and his Klansman dad taught him wrong from wrong-er. His dad was the devil’s tribesman. Somehow in his cell he thinks something different exists even though everything points to him as Hellboy.

     Would you believe that as they were about to kill him by electro-juicing his warped brain to a boil that the uttered words,  “I killed ’em and I never cared!”, were a wild, true, MERCIFUL, statement to the family that watched his head blown up? He confessed the nature of his wicked sickness of the night of man.

Earth Redux

     This ball of hot magnatized goo and dirt truely does appear to be created. Earth. Its just a bunch of rock and atoms. Really just atoms. Really, if you peer into an atom visually or conceptually it is elusive. It has been said it turns into light, or energy, that light can express itself as SLOW.

      Slow light would be matter. And light moving at light speed would be shining on the slow shit. I am no physicist. But observation of material is what we are designed for. Making it personal, I have already calculated, and I am not alone on this, that every 7 years I am made up 99.99% of new atoms.

      So what is being sustained? Well dang, my tattoo of course! The ink is the same and when I eat, digest and take a big “d” I get closer and closer to warping and fading the ink. A tattoo is the greatest gift you can give yourself… not for the image but for the damn ink. You would have to nearly kill me to get it.

image

             ( technically
               speaking this
               ink is older
               than me. I am
               a 7-year old
               fleshwrap with
               a 10-year old
               tattoo… guided
               by a sparker
               that started on
               July 4, 1973-
               my most likely
               date of concep-
               tion. On the
               week of All
               Hallow’s Eve
               1998, I saw a
               vision of a
               circle of fire
               that began to
               soothe my war
               with God. That
               is a very special
               week. I was
               alone. John
               Glenn was
               looking at the
               stars and
               The Obsidia-
               the hell of
               darkness of
               space… am
               I creeping you
               out? I worship
               both hells of
               heat and ice
               intensity
               forever. I call
               it pure. Life.)

Zango

    Jimminy thimble buckets- who has the authority to shoot the asshat liars from Liarton (short for Liar Town) & restore justice to the galaxy?
Heck, I do not want galactic justice. I want the whole universe rolled up and shredded.

     Oh shit! What would happen if we did that? All our precious memories. To tell you the truth, I’m not doing anything of much importance. I go grocery shopping. I hate tv. I take a walk. Things are expensive. I am poor.

   Yay! Religion is perfect for the poor! Those dummies can imagine elephants with human bodies and give away their money for catharsis. No. The Dalai Lama’s advice may work in your kitchen, but doctors and lawyers don’t get rich listening to old fuzzy heads in red robes who should be on a milk carton that says “abducted”. Yes the Buddhist religion abducted a boy. That is more criminal than a passing sexual molestation and he has no family except his captors who worship him. I guess you just gotta roll with it.

     I feel ridiculous because my belly swells from a condition and I get asked about once a year if I am prego. I say I am BUDDHA.
I am back. Booga booga boo!
Shit luck. I have ONE life. I don’t want one with everything. That is what cable is for.

So…

    This post is about how people are expected to do shit and be somebody. Let’s start with infants who made it no farther than age 1. Some of you say… no no 12 months. I say 1. Well those kiddos who lived 1 year but died before 2… they did not do much. Right?
That could be seen as mean to say, but I am honorably mentioning.

     What about kids that only make it to 5? Are they enough? Say, the celebrity Keith Green and his 5 year old son died in the same plane crash. In the scope of existential wizardry and scientific wonder, who can say what comprises a “worthwhile time” for a five year old boy or girl?

     How many things do they need to do? As much as possible? If a child is dying at age 5, should we make them go to Disneyland? They would probably smile or not. Moms and dads… do your kids do what you want because they want to make you happy? Kids- do your parents love you? Would they spend all the time in the world with you if you needed that?

    Kids- what do you need? If you tell your parents, do they listen? How do they know what you need? Is it a science, parents, to raise a kid? A project? A family? A trial? Life? All of that?

image

It comes and…

image

…its gone. Forever. No do over.

Somewhere, though, some crazy ladybug from Tootlanya, Tennessee is flying along, barely making it and he says:

image

” I’m gonna ride
  This here day
  All the way-
  And eventually
  Down to Dixie
  Don’t no Winn. “

Upper Hand Of Pain

   If you feel pain consider my theory… I will not slow down and cite sources…

image

Pain Thirim Ziro

   You feel pain? Good. Certainly it is good. Your body is telling you that something is not right. Its not like you are stupid… or maybe you are, because the first thing you should do, you slow ox.. is drink a glass of water and eat some cheese.

image

     Then shut up and feel your feet and hands and legs and arms. Think about the housing of your organs. By the way, if you do not like reading, “shut up”, try “shut the hell up” because obviously you need help AND you are too picky.

image

     Try saying in a room alone,
“My life suuuuhhhhcks!!”. Then say it to your family. If they do not like it, say, “I am miserable… JOIN ME I INSIST BLEAH LAL LALL LAHHH!!”

      If you are miserable and you think you may drink a lot, don’t drink a ton of wine. You will relive kindergarten. If you isolate yourself, at least show up on Oct 31 because you may win a prize for how scary you are. No. Do not isolate. You are old enough now. Buy a cane. Talk to dogs that are not there. Make eye contact that is 3° OFF. That drives keen people nuts and your demons will transfer to them maybe. The lesser ones.

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    If you have bigger demons, we will need a copy of the Necronomicon bound in human bones and flesh, written with the ink of infected polyp goo gone dark and obsidian like molasses from TORTURE… and having NO ICE CREAM… for YEARS!! Turn to page VII nevermind its in Latin…

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Eat the sword…
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Drink the slain blood…
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Cough up the sword and hold it. Its your buddy now. Holy steel toothpick of the Tigris.

       Pain is a rainbow. Taste it you son of a bitch. You WILL like it. Stop whinning.

     “Ohhhhhh… I want percocet!”. Well buy a black mask and steal it in broad daylight you lazy SHIT!!

     “Ohhh… I want morphine…”
Oh go light a ciggy and stick it up your candy white ASS I AM SO TIRED OF THE WHINNING. Breathe, Kujo. Breathe your butt cigarette. Its where you always talk from… oh… I’m sorry- I’m -sorry… that IS your face. Its hard to tell either end apart. Y’know… they say when two people kiss on the lips its like eighty feet of tube with an asshole on each end…

Man. I am just a filthy puppy dog. Not playing in the poo… but if I don’t watch it… talk about it… I WILL be in it. Deep shit. Screw that. I hate the rainbow in the dark. Specrum of pain.

“On a scale of 1 to 10, Mr. Harrison?”

  Silently I get up. Look at the nurses shirt. Guesstimate. Zip pow! fast!!! Grab her nipple and yell “My pain is a 15!!!”. No. That WOULD be very clear communication. Hahaha. This lying sack of shit human race goes around saying “3” everywhere. Like we all a Jamaican Jerk planet. Whee!!!

    I’m driving at 9mph over (never stopped) rev, stop at red. If I smile… its my facetious “13”… 10 for me… 3 more of pain to look at YOU you son of a bitch.

    Son of a… comes from son of a gun. Stupid story about giving birth by a canon. C’mon. Augh. That story cause ME PAAAAAINNNNN!!!!!!!!!#!!#!!!!!#

Using The Force That Is Imposed On Ya

 

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       I do remember I was looking for work during thd Recession. I found an AD for farm helper 15 miles away. I liked the sound of that. My father in law did not. He said farm work is very dangerous. Then my wife went 110% against me.

     With out support, I waved goodbye to the idea of knowing my employer personally, caring for horses which really is a dream and just working as directed. My FIL then suggested the painter’s union, the IUPAT. I became a union painter.

     I fell thru a platform my first gig. They asked me, whispering, ” do you smoke weed?” to cover me. Thanks. No. Then at Costco put me on a ricketty ladder 6″ from the ledge 2 nites in a row. It made my FIL nervous. OSHA showed up.

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         (Blasting suit covers
                this much)

      I switched to blasting. 1st time in a suit they snapped it together on the outside. I ran out of air and literally used the remaining air in my BRAIN to THINK CALMLY… where was that coupling they showed once. In a blast tent… ” run run grab grab NDE NDE NDE … GOT IT! You lil shit! “.
Connect!!! pssssSsSSSSS!!!! Suit fulla air. Did not die. Started to asphyxiate. No time for fear. Thank you, 900 seraphim of Elohim!

       Okay, so then while a painter, I was hit by my boss in a shuttle bus high on meth.
He was canned. I ended up with a blood clot that almost killed me a year later. SAME spot. My calf. Where the meth head at the blasting job hiy me. He is from Coos Bay, Oregon. Watch out for Coos Bay. To me is smells like SHUTTLEBUS and BLOOD CLOTS.

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Moral of the story

In life, if you are bound to be SCREWED… you are not a screwball. You are a screw, which I believe is slang for policeman. I got the meth head fired. And later I was still on fire… I reported the tram crew at the massive OHSU hospital for working without harnesses. They were fined 300 billion dollars- no, shit, I am just kidding. They did get spanked.

     So my FIL still has ideas. I am afraid. Very afraid he will screw us up. No, wait. He already has! I am not kidding. And his drama messes with my wife. He married a scary version of Anna Nicole Smith.

    Oh Lordy do I pay. He has a son and daughter. The new wife took like half a $M. Do you know how upset people CAN get over money? Bernie Madoff is in prison. His son killed himself. I am a super jedi apostle christian and ME… good ol’ ME… I bought a rope and PRAYED.

     Who in the heck prays about suicide? I am all alone!!! No. Samson asked and was given the GO STRENGTH. I asked and my BIG thought said remove the rope from the trunk. Immediately I did. I am now thankful to KNOW… that I cannot. Judas did. How. Well he did. Jesus came closer.

    What??? What the Heaven? Yes, psychedelic not-eating-anything Yeshua Hamashia stood on a high point after climbing up the temple and Satan spoke to him- “If you are… the son… of God…

J           U            M          P.”

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      He did not. No. He died more painfully. So I am not ashamed to be a loser. Jesus made whacko cool. He made “loser” cool. He made “hated” cool”.

    He went hot and cooled it.
Sometimes I wish he’d go hotter than hot and finish all this shizzat in a worldwide bbq… but do you know his spirit can heat you just so?
Oh yes. Frick-a-zee… fry, boil… spiritually… not in yor meat suit.

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     Screw this blog. Sorry. I am sick of me. Pleah!