SAFE JOURNAL OF KING NEBNOOSHOO, CHAPTER 179

SAFE JOURNAL, CHAPTER 179
KING GARBAGEMAN
TEOHIV/TMCAM/MORPRO-1995
4TH SUBTITLE OF BLOG:
“TONYWOOD, CHINESE GIRLS,
GOLDSTEIN'S AND GOLDBERG'S”
COPYRIGHTED BLOGS OF MOUNTAINPUKE

BEGINNING TRANSMISSION:

Some huge ass mother fucking bastard is playing a nightmare game of horrors with me, and very soon, MANY FUCKING PEOPLE'S EXPIRATION DATE WILL HIT. You think this is funny do you, well, laugh on, as your blood turns into a small flowing river.

Too much is happening, as well as too much shit that's just too unbelievable, to even try and tell or blog. 97-99% of the time, things are no different than the lives of most peeps. It is the 1-3% that is so mother fucking outlandishly unfathomable, that is being made reference to in these words here. I never said that a lot of my shit could not read like “Beaver Cleaver's famous diary, up to the point of his exaggerations of fakeness. I merely contend that in-between all of the 'went to school', 'fed the stray cat', and 'came back home' stuff, we would insert some major shit, and it would not be one bit phony or fake, BEVE. So while you and good old 'Wolly' crunch and munch down your cold cereal in 1983, let me tell you that I too was eating my cereal along with you guys, only it is what happens after this on many days while my address was 134 Norris Avenue, Atco, New Jersey, USAESMWG, that caused top secret US government agencies to take my telephone offline for an hour or more while I was at my eye doctor out in Narberth, Pennsylvania, USAESMWG, and do a lot more fucking shit than refer to my automobile as the “Blue Nunngan”, whatever secret code word that stands the mother fuck for, YO. Oh well, at least they didn't talk about the Blue Parrot out into negative space by the hexnumer light-year, or about 96.13 trillion fucking miles.

Before we get into a short story today, let me give a few examples of these potential insertions. How about in-between going to work or school, depending on the age difference, our little old dear diary would receive an entry such as, ran into a man who insisted that he did not pull out of his work-jacket, yesterday, three carpet knives, and showed them too me and offered to let me borrow one to cut a carpet that I have, when I see him tomorrow, and this was yesterday, only now, the dude says, “Do you dream in color too?”!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This is a fucking church going religious man who I would legally vouch for under oath as a man who would not tell me a lie or make up a story, unless perhaps under the sufficient deres to make any of us do such a thing as say for an example, his recently kidnapped daughter, who will be slowly killed if he did not lie. Sorry folks, even I'm not paranoid enough to believe some BFA (Black File Agency) is doing this, hay, I could always be wrong and believe it or not, actually be under paranoid. Somehow though folks,. I doubt this quite tremendously, and this should help to verify to my readership, that I am sane and rational, despite a powerful and totally unexplainable story that's seemingly going on around me, and has been since a lovely goddess in 1980, sang as very special song to me, by the name of “Love Is fir Carpenters”, while asleep in as mother fucking dream, and yes in major ass color, with full bigger than life sound!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Then instead of just petting a stray cat, how about permitting me to add that I set up the great Google, in a similar way that I set up the great Arista record Company early in the mother fucking nineteen-eighties, and they ripped off a song from me and the way it was done was also used in the idea and promotion of this song, and the name of this magnetic song, RESORTSD HOTEL, is called, “ROCK THIS TOWBN”, YO, Boston Pops, the MET, and the great Philharmonic's Fred Hinger, all notwithstanding, BRAHH. Oh well, there's some puss and plus out of this day, SPEKLL WRECKER CHECKER doesn't even recognize your mighty record label, Clayton Smith and the Asshole-Gang of morons and cheaters!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! So now, BEVE, I Cleave, to my next insertion. Before writing on my dear-diary life journal, after petting the stray cat, or really what happened pertaining to STRAY CATS, now before we write in, came back home, let me say that I could say quite a few things. Some of these things would fucking include seeing the same chopper that messes with me quite often, some bitch from Workforce giving me her fucking lip and attitude at the time clock, for nothing at all, as she stepped totally out of line, and then gave me shit for jumping her. I told her that she could most gladly have her place back, and that I did not mean to jump in front of her. She is a very fucking evil and nasty person, and also is a good friend of the guy in my ugly recent nightmare, who in this horrendous mother fucking-ass nightmare, was my boss back at Cifaloglio; and his quote to me, after picking me up physically, and threatening violence on me, in the dream; was, “You never really liked me”. In truth, I have bent over backwards to always assist this dude at work. His pal, was the thug from Smithtown, in SCNY, on Nick's marching orders; or so I once thought, but now, and today; a new light has surfaced, causing me to reexamine and totally fucking reevaluate, as the great disco-diva Donna Summer used to put it so eloquently back in 1980, all of this entire fucking mess. Stanley, you have indeed gotten me in to a gigantic horrific mess, dude!!!!!!!!!

Neither Nick Cannon or Mariah Carey are behind any of this, other than being related to the one who is, the one who always has been fascinated with this entire mess from the swing bat, and learned how to master a powerful secret thing that makes the SECRET that was so big and world circulated back around the time circa when this all began happening to me following the games expert coming to my Oaklyn Apartment, and then the 70-day downline time where I was totally off of the fucking computer grid, longer even than when I switched my residences from New Jersey to Florida, YO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh 'Shidaleedee' and purple for us all in the fall, Mister Trump. Well, you have been a thorn in my mother fucking side for a very long time, and have managed to somehow survive all of my counter-strikes so perfectly well, with your quite fabulous and charmed life, rotor blades all notwithstanding. Laugh this one off college boy. I have a man who will swear in a court of law, several things that you have done to me, so if we all live to trial date, the entire world is going to know a lot of shit about all of this, and I cannot promise to let the mighty TAWF out of it, as they most certainly, are in it, as are you Donnie Blackboats. Not all of your friends are as loyal as you might think, you diseased mother fucking jack off. Still, just how does this shit, all fit into the Fascitar, and Paula Multiwoman, and her fascination with me for 50 million years, and how can it all be totally linked up in with the middle nineties and Morianity? Well folks, it all fits like a beautiful smooth lovely glove. The joke of this is that powerful peeps in Washington, DC totally know my entire nightmare story is real, and has been all along. Some who I now list can deny it until fucking doomsday, BUT THEY TOTALLY KNOW IT'S ALL TOTALLY TRUE, so help me Goddess!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! These would be: Congressman Robert Andrews, Admiral Perry, Charles Colson, head of the NASA Space Agency, top brass in the CIA, NSA, and SS, Joseph Berrios, Donald J. Trump, Paula B. King (awake and asleep), Robert McDowell, and the list goes on but is less powerful in NR. Here is a powerful piece of information for peeps that may choose to endlessly doubt my words and accuse me of ranting and insanity.

Take a fan with blades and look through it and you will see only the open space into what is on the other side of the fan. Place it in front of venetian blinds, and watch how many of the blinds disappear. Mind, your brain, your thoughts, whatever you think that you are, is on a carrier wave and a signal that brings this source-mind, to your individuality that's trapped inside of a shell or a physical body that is alive in a so-called space-time continuum, only it goes far beyond this in truth, as the Wesley Crusher's and the Gene Roddenberry's know fully well. Powerful light amplifies many realities, even emotions. Police use their lights in a covert unknown extra ingredient type of way. We all know how when we're stopped in the dead of night in contrast with the darkness, how those blinding flashing colored lights in our rear-view mirror, make our hearts pound like a bass drum with no help whatsoever from Fred Hinger or Hal Blaine. Our human physical world memories are the most susceptible however, to the effect of a strobe-light. Watch the venetian blinds vanish, and then know that memories are very delicate, a lot more delicate than your stupid ass venetian fucking blinds, folks, YO! I could say a lot more, but I knew when I was fucked with by that nasty ass fire alarm yesterday morning, that lots of trouble was looming in my near ass horizon, and Stanley was not gonna be getting me out of this one, only digging me a much deeper hole and fast.

What pisses me off more than spending eternity in hell with a toothache, is that a lady in the US Copyright Office could have spared me about 38 months of super grief, and chose instead to keep her mother fucking mouth shut, and this did far more than get somebody kicked off of some lousy welfare benefits, WOMO.

I owe you a huge apology, mister Cannon, please try and accept it. Thank you in advance. Obviously, this is not going to be buried in the sand, right Mayor Whaelon? Three down, and how many more to go is kind of up to Mister Hose's great special daughter, and her Brand New Whitekey Nurocky, right Estelle Ormund?????????????????

END TRANSMISSION: Forget the WHAAAAAAAAA. I am so not in the fucking mood today, YO!!!!!!!!!!!!