SAFE JOURNAL OF KING NEBNOOSHOO, CHAPTER 148

SAFE JOURNAL, CHAPTER 148
DATFILE: 051511.568
WORLD LABS SBT FROM 2298
TEOHIV/TMCAM/MORPRO-1995
BLOG SUBTITLE NUMBER 4:
“MCDOWELL, OLD PAL, I REALLY NEED
YOUR SWAN-STUFF”
COPYRIGHTED BLOGS OF MOUNTAINPEN
and MARK WAYNE MOHR 2006-2011

BEGINNING TRANSMISSION:

I fell under a super Lattisaw Jack-Hack siege last night and into early this morning. I said how much I despise everything and everyone on a previously written blog, and NO, I DO NOT mean the kind and good and nice peeps who would not dream of hurting me all the time, but I do mean that this despicable's-list, definitely includes all of the diseased jerk off nasty bastards, such as MISTER Paul Pedersen of STUDIO PARK RECORDS, and all of his evil friends from Countrybumkinville, like Shaniah Twain, who ripped off my song called, “DREAMIN' DREAM CITY”, made millionths of dollars, and laughed at me like I'm a dog or something. Why shouldn't I hate whores like this, and trash like Paul, and fuck heads who think it's cool to mess with my stuff and hack out my internet? I called Comcast Cable Company, and there are dozens of my official complaints mow on my account record that can all; be documented by the freaking FEDERAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMISSION. However, that scum bag teen controlling traveler who thinks he owns and controls Comcast, is the one doing this shit to me, and he is egotistical enough to believe he owns that entire company. He does not even own TEENICK, grow up and get a life. You have the greatest goddess on the planet, leave me alone and concentrate on making your wife happy, you miserable pile of biological junk. Her knocked out my entire internet when I went to post up blog number 147 around 1 or 2 this morning, and then I noticed the clock had been reset again, back off of EASTERN time, where it should be, again; for about the fucking 20th time or more now since I bought this mother fucking ass computer, and hooked it all up together, YO!!!!!!!!!!!!

Some one has hated me even as a teenager, taking me back to my high school, and stranding me there, with his pal, as they went off laughing. This has forced me to relive my looping life over and over, and not being able to do one thing to stop this nightmare. He has total control over electronic stuff, and has managed to pull off getting in with the largest entertainment world system in two huge ways that are beyond obvious to a slow mind. One is a person, and one is a powerful entertainment organization. This dude has been breaking hubcaps on my car, entering into my sleep and fucking with me, and much more. There is no stopping this animal. If things cannot get all straightened out on Friday around 4:30 PMEDT, then they never will. I'll be calling on that number, Curly. I do NOT want to speak with him! Many peeps simply will not archive blogs from other years that I wrote yet they wanna' know the events of 1996 when I had returned from a trip that the Camden County Prosecutor's Office encouraged me to take, to Carlisle, Pennsylvania. It was June, and it was right around the time I wrote the song 'SARAH'. It was right around 15 fucking years ago from right cock sucking now, up here in this illusion of 2011, in the SPACE-TIME-MIND or the (STM). I dad driven to a small psychic shop to speak to the great chatty Kathy who told me to go into a back room where some dude did a tarot card reading of me. All the while this was happening, I heard banging nearby. This arrogant fucking teenager, Nick, with a hammer, had banged up my entire Saturn automobile hubcap, and made it appear more like the lunar surface, than a hubcap. When I drove about 8 miles east down the Black Horse Pike towards Will-I-AM-stown, in New Jersey, and the Highview Cheers Apartments of Kirshty Alley Ripoffs, I decided to stop at a phone booth to telephone my mother and let her know that I would be home in twenty more minutes so she could prepare dinner and know that I was running late but would be home soon, this dush bag just came up to me at the booth, out of nowehere, and kept telling me to look at my hubcap, all the whuile grinning at me like the silly school punk kid that he was then. There would be no fucking way this would just happen. No one else ever did this in all of the weeks following my driving around with this messed up looking hubcap until I eventually replaced it. I am dealing with a situation, world, that none of you would want to be in, and my life absolutely is living fucking proof whether Pope B-16 or anyone else likes it or not, that the entire bible is lying, as if any part of it is wrong, for any one person, then it all is a fucking rotten ass HOAX. This is the scripture referring to nothing being able to ever happen to anyone, that is so far out of the normal circumstances, so as to be considered in biblical language, “uncommon to man”, and this just is not able, supposedly, to happen to anyone, and yet IT IS happening to me. So MI, please don't play this game with me any longer. You simply have to answer on that number, and tell me what is going on, because this has to stop. Otherwise, I must leave the proof to the world, and the evidence that I'll be presenting, proving that all of Christianity, is the hugest and most monstrous hoax, that's ever been perpetrated on a planetary civilization, in the history of the known MWG. I'll be jingling up that number. I know the OTHER PAULA was a message last night. Look for my call Friday, brown eyes. BYE-BYE Curly.

Mister McDowell, you know the story. Now you also know why I made those calendars, and tried to escape all of this. Would you have believed me if I had told you that just a few years ago in 1968, I had come back from m1996, or would it have made a tremendous difference if it was 1997? This is the bi-year of my second transitional period out of the mysterious HIGHVIEW SYNDROME, as was 1986-1987, Mister Star Trek Lockner Flint. What a curious cast name? Mister Flint, the immortal who died because he too, departed his great HIGHVIEW, in his case, being the Planet Earth; only to have everything he ever tried to do just blow up in his damn face. Can I fucking relate to you Doctor Lockner, 900 trillion ways back from Sunday, Squire Shaniah Trilane. Well Henry P. Dowd of the D-6 Cement Business, this is not such an elevating time and situation poor poor whittle me, is it sir? Maybe you should let me borrow your Pookah Wabbit, whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

My father would say, “An other meal ruined”, if I had acted up at the table. And I did it without singing, MI. Anyway, it looks like now I can say regarding this wonderful weekend, oh well dad, “Another weekend ruined”, but have you seen any good future Star Trek shows lately? At least I am not hiding anyone in the house and trying to keep him from seeing me show that person any strobing flashlights. Let us be real here lads and lassies, if McGuire did not have access to this moon flashlight made by the Mike and Maria Kelly secret dimension other-world of farms outside of Dave Smithy's Haddonfield back in the seventy year, then how could he pull off the greatest kidnapping string in the history of Planet Earth. Sarah detained me illegally, along with a famous 60's rock star, at her great water company back in the summer time of the year of 2000, and 8 years after this, the mighty Dawn-Marie King kidnapped me until I ran away here to Florida on the night of the eleventh of December in 2009, so kidnapping runs in this wild incredible TAWF-70, or is there a flaw in my theory MOMMY????????????????????????

END TWANSMISSION WABBIT, WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.