The $122 Billion Defeat
Jews' Jaws Nine
Shark America One
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 183
I thought I might tell you a nice story relating France today, and in the process bury some codes describing God's Space War attack on the United States Navy; but first I have been asked to openly lay out another code leading to many, many American Navy deaths.
The code is "Seamen", and it comes from America's intentional murder of my semen a number of years ago, an evil action joked about on air by NBC's affiliate in San Luis Obispo, California.
Now, back to my small tribute to France; France who is so deeply hated by Republican American Fascism because she refused to kiss George W. Bush's ass.
Some of you guys may be hoping I tell the story about the "place in France where the women wear no pants", or so the song went when I was a little boy in Bremerton, Washington, climbing trees with my pals and playing war, but that is not the story I have for you today.
Of all the countries I have visited since God gave me the gift of audible mental telepathy, France was the most kind and gracious to me. Italy came in a close second, but all the rest were, well, rather ratty, having entered into the service of American psycho-fascism.
I was wandering around Paris one day; as was my custom in the foreign cities I visited, to just wander around.
I didn't have much money and in order to travel to Jerusalem, which was my plan, I had to opt out of eating for six weeks in order to afford the trip.
To that end I had begun a fast of milk and sugar cubes in England (England was as nasty to me as a bucket full of broken glass) and I broke the fast exactly six weeks later on Thanksgiving Day, in a Palestinian joint called The Peace Cafe located in the old walled city of Jerusalem; but that's another story.
I was still in my Hippie period, and as I wandered around Paris I wore a blue, broad brimmed leather hat to which I had attached a few pigeon feathers; and over my clothes I wore a long, dark, light-weight overcoat; I carried all my spare clothing in a camera bag hung over my shoulder; and I carried a very ornate walking stick.
(That stick was later to be stolen from me by a Marine guard at the American Embassy in Singapore while the State Department was railroading me into prison in Singapore.
(The Marine danced around holding my walking stick above his head like it was a captured samurai sword, celebrating as if he had a pair of balls; but that, too, is another story; and fact that shameful act of cowardice led to the deaths of hundreds of Marines in God's Space War; those deaths God's response to that insult.)
So, dressed as I was, with my hair long (as it still is today, though perhaps noticeably thinner) I looked a little like a man in a Toulouse Lautrec painting, and also a little like a Hassadic Jew, and as I strolled around Paris, thinking about my situation and how I might deal with it, I came upon a department store window with a display which included a bigger-than-life photo of Charlie Chaplin in his role of The Tramp.
I looked at The Tramp and I looked at myself reflected in the window, and I understood my survival might depend on my being pliable and of good humor in the face of the wicked and snares of the USA--in the Tramp's charming way.
That is, while I knew I would face great cruelty while in the grip of the United States of America, I felt would be better off emulating The Tramp than getting my dander up.
Flash forward to Christmas Eve, 1977. I was living in a little hole of a studio apartment in San Francisco, my neighbors constantly abusing me through the walls, and being constantly abused by most people on the streets, and being constantly abused on the job; when I planned an exceptionally nice Christmas Eve dinner.
While the major part of America's torture of me has always been noise abuse and sleep deprivation, another aspect of that torture was, and still is, the keeping me away from women, and abusing us through the walls when I was intimately with a woman.
The chemical castration of me some decades after that Christmas Eve was the natural evolution of that sex-based torture; and the approaching deaths of so many American US Navy personnel encoded as Seamen will be a natural result of that wicked American act.
(How Americans love sex-based torture, torture of me and torture of captured Muslims; but that, too, is another story.)
So, against the objections of the psycho-fascist citizens of San Francisco I had met a particularly nice woman and invited her to dinner on Christmas Eve; I being rather a good cook when the Americans allow me to have a home and a kitchen; and I made one of my specialties of the time, roast duck from my French cookbook, and of course I had a most excellent bottle of wine to go with it.
Alas, the meal prepared and the table set and candles lit, the scene turning my torture chamber into a pleasant room, the woman called and said she could not make it; and in fact I never saw her again; so there I sat with that beautiful meal and no one to share it with; and I thought of my role-model, The Tramp, and how he coped in the Gold Rush when the lady did not show up.
No, I did not do a dance of two potatoes on forks, but I did stop and meditate for a moment and decided to dedicate that lovely dinner to Charlie Chaplin; and with my best table manners enjoyed my roast duck and wine with Chaplin in mind.
The next morning, Christmas morning, the news on the radio told me Chaplin had died in France about the time I was dedicating my dinner to him. I have always felt God lifted up his soul up that night.
While this is the end to this story, there is something in the middle yet to tell.
During those early days of America's torture-enslavement of me I did something I called Action Poetry, in which I, knowing I was being observed, would say things through actions, send messages in pantomime and telepathy.
One of those Action Poems in Paris was a tribute to the military dead of France, and in the course of this long, poetic tribute I ended up the burial place of France's Unknown Soldier under the arc of the Arc de triomphe, where an eternal flame burns.
Much to the obvious pleasure of the French people who were following this Action Poem, I walked a large figure eight, the sign for Infinity, around the flame; and then took one of the pigeon feathers from my hat and placed it by the flame. It was understood this was my equivalent of a wreath of flowers.
All this is to say: God Bless France.
Shark America One
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 183
I thought I might tell you a nice story relating France today, and in the process bury some codes describing God's Space War attack on the United States Navy; but first I have been asked to openly lay out another code leading to many, many American Navy deaths.
The code is "Seamen", and it comes from America's intentional murder of my semen a number of years ago, an evil action joked about on air by NBC's affiliate in San Luis Obispo, California.
Now, back to my small tribute to France; France who is so deeply hated by Republican American Fascism because she refused to kiss George W. Bush's ass.
Some of you guys may be hoping I tell the story about the "place in France where the women wear no pants", or so the song went when I was a little boy in Bremerton, Washington, climbing trees with my pals and playing war, but that is not the story I have for you today.
Of all the countries I have visited since God gave me the gift of audible mental telepathy, France was the most kind and gracious to me. Italy came in a close second, but all the rest were, well, rather ratty, having entered into the service of American psycho-fascism.
I was wandering around Paris one day; as was my custom in the foreign cities I visited, to just wander around.
I didn't have much money and in order to travel to Jerusalem, which was my plan, I had to opt out of eating for six weeks in order to afford the trip.
To that end I had begun a fast of milk and sugar cubes in England (England was as nasty to me as a bucket full of broken glass) and I broke the fast exactly six weeks later on Thanksgiving Day, in a Palestinian joint called The Peace Cafe located in the old walled city of Jerusalem; but that's another story.
I was still in my Hippie period, and as I wandered around Paris I wore a blue, broad brimmed leather hat to which I had attached a few pigeon feathers; and over my clothes I wore a long, dark, light-weight overcoat; I carried all my spare clothing in a camera bag hung over my shoulder; and I carried a very ornate walking stick.
(That stick was later to be stolen from me by a Marine guard at the American Embassy in Singapore while the State Department was railroading me into prison in Singapore.
(The Marine danced around holding my walking stick above his head like it was a captured samurai sword, celebrating as if he had a pair of balls; but that, too, is another story; and fact that shameful act of cowardice led to the deaths of hundreds of Marines in God's Space War; those deaths God's response to that insult.)
So, dressed as I was, with my hair long (as it still is today, though perhaps noticeably thinner) I looked a little like a man in a Toulouse Lautrec painting, and also a little like a Hassadic Jew, and as I strolled around Paris, thinking about my situation and how I might deal with it, I came upon a department store window with a display which included a bigger-than-life photo of Charlie Chaplin in his role of The Tramp.
I looked at The Tramp and I looked at myself reflected in the window, and I understood my survival might depend on my being pliable and of good humor in the face of the wicked and snares of the USA--in the Tramp's charming way.
That is, while I knew I would face great cruelty while in the grip of the United States of America, I felt would be better off emulating The Tramp than getting my dander up.
Flash forward to Christmas Eve, 1977. I was living in a little hole of a studio apartment in San Francisco, my neighbors constantly abusing me through the walls, and being constantly abused by most people on the streets, and being constantly abused on the job; when I planned an exceptionally nice Christmas Eve dinner.
While the major part of America's torture of me has always been noise abuse and sleep deprivation, another aspect of that torture was, and still is, the keeping me away from women, and abusing us through the walls when I was intimately with a woman.
The chemical castration of me some decades after that Christmas Eve was the natural evolution of that sex-based torture; and the approaching deaths of so many American US Navy personnel encoded as Seamen will be a natural result of that wicked American act.
(How Americans love sex-based torture, torture of me and torture of captured Muslims; but that, too, is another story.)
So, against the objections of the psycho-fascist citizens of San Francisco I had met a particularly nice woman and invited her to dinner on Christmas Eve; I being rather a good cook when the Americans allow me to have a home and a kitchen; and I made one of my specialties of the time, roast duck from my French cookbook, and of course I had a most excellent bottle of wine to go with it.
Alas, the meal prepared and the table set and candles lit, the scene turning my torture chamber into a pleasant room, the woman called and said she could not make it; and in fact I never saw her again; so there I sat with that beautiful meal and no one to share it with; and I thought of my role-model, The Tramp, and how he coped in the Gold Rush when the lady did not show up.
No, I did not do a dance of two potatoes on forks, but I did stop and meditate for a moment and decided to dedicate that lovely dinner to Charlie Chaplin; and with my best table manners enjoyed my roast duck and wine with Chaplin in mind.
The next morning, Christmas morning, the news on the radio told me Chaplin had died in France about the time I was dedicating my dinner to him. I have always felt God lifted up his soul up that night.
While this is the end to this story, there is something in the middle yet to tell.
During those early days of America's torture-enslavement of me I did something I called Action Poetry, in which I, knowing I was being observed, would say things through actions, send messages in pantomime and telepathy.
One of those Action Poems in Paris was a tribute to the military dead of France, and in the course of this long, poetic tribute I ended up the burial place of France's Unknown Soldier under the arc of the Arc de triomphe, where an eternal flame burns.
Much to the obvious pleasure of the French people who were following this Action Poem, I walked a large figure eight, the sign for Infinity, around the flame; and then took one of the pigeon feathers from my hat and placed it by the flame. It was understood this was my equivalent of a wreath of flowers.
All this is to say: God Bless France.
posted by Virgil Kret at 6:46 PM
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