The $261 Billion Defeat
Jews Jaws Six
Shark America Four
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 137
Note: Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2007
Looking for the Peru-Chile Event
Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle--Waiting For The Dogs
I have described for you the metaphorical and topographical scene of the Battle of Smallville now in progress, but I review it again today because that scene becomes more important now.
Those of you who understand that I deal in Time Travel will understand Time Travel is an important part of this battle.
Those of you who understand that God is my Old Pal will understand God is the central factor in this battle. Remember God's code for this battle, "Killing Two Birds With One Stone".
This battle (small and petty as it may seem) will offer a strong indicator to the United States of America that it will suffer greatly if it does not end its torture-enslavement of me and pay the fines and fees to me which I have established.
Jesus said, "What you do to the least of mine you do to me", and truly I am the least of all Americans and the least of all Christians from sea to shining sea and from Canada to Mexico.
In the spirit of that statement by Jesus, I suggest you consider the two cowards who torture me in Smallville, California, to be the least of all Americans, and understand that what God is about to do to them God can do to all America and all Americans.
So, to review the Battle of Smallville up to this point, and to get an idea of where it is going:
The opening area of this battle is approximately five square acres, in the approximate middle of which stands my home, surrounded on all sides by about 40 yards of private property belonging to the home, belonging to my landlord.
So when the cowards attack me they trespass on private property to do so.
(The landlord had problems with these neighbors before I moved in, including threats of violence against him; about which he spoke to a deputy sheriff and about which the deputy sheriff did nothing. I have spoken to a deputy sheriff about this, and the deputy sheriff has done nothing. Further, these two cowards are broadly disliked in Smallville. So it is just not me they have been wicked to.)
If you see my home as a big square at the center of the battle map and draw a straight slightly diagonal line through it, the line will hit the homes of the two psycho-fascist American cowards who have been torturing me since I moved into this home about three months ago.
That is, one coward's home is about 40 yards in front of my home, at 316 Second Street, and the other coward's home is about 40 yards behind my home, at 302 Third Street.
Two "men" in their thirties attacking one man in his late sixties. That is cowardice.
On the most part, the torture of me by these two cowardly psycho-fascist Americans consists of a pattern of banging on the walls of my home to awaken me in the dark of night. This has been done up to six times a night, but generally one, two or three times a night is the norm.
Within this torture of awakening me from sleep have been a few implied threats on my life, the most important of which was a threat to burn my home down with me in it.
This threat to burn down my home with me in it becomes an important part of this story, as you shall see.
You will see how one should not put chips on the poker table one is not prepared to lose; and how this also applies to the United Stated of America as a whole, its torture-enslavement of me being a huge pile of chips on the poker table..
In the metaphor of the Battle of Smallville I have pictured myself as a samurai, one sword in each hand, arms outstretched to each side and hands at shoulder level, one sword pointing to 316 Second and the other pointing to 302 Third; one sword called God and the other called Time Travel.
You should see these swords as also pointed at the United States of America, which surrounds me and tortures me endlessly, and has since 1967.
Micro-Macro, that is the play that is playing here. The battle for Smallville; the battle for Great Earth.
I am saying this Battle of Smallville will eventually become the Battle of Armageddon which will envelop the world and vanquish the forces of evil and slavery on this Earth; but for now...but for now...it is me, my two swords, and God, facing these two cowardly psycho-fascist American "men",.their allies, and their weaponry.
In a broad sense their allies include all Americans, because they are committing a crime of torture all Americans either approve of or stand silently by as it goes on, and their weaponry includes the national system of torture, and added to that their own hidden intent to shoot me dead and claim self-defense.
I have described to you how the vicious pack of dogs owned by the cowardly American psycho-fascist at 316 Second has entered into the battle; and how I have twice defended myself against the dogs with a pitchfork.
It is the already agreed upon intention of these two psycho-fascists Americans to shoot me dead in some near-future confrontation with the pack of dogs and claim, with their allies as witnesses, that I was brandishing the pitchfork at them.
How do I know this? Despite America's national denial of this truth, I am the most telepathic person in the history of the world, and I can hear their wormy, plotting little minds; just as I could hear the minds plotting to assassinate Ford and Reagan; just as I could hear the minds planning to crash planes into Manhattan on 9/11; just as I can hear George W. Bush's mousy little brain as it bargains with Satan; both he and Satan calling Satan God.
But back from the macro to the micro.
What I have not told you about the pack of dogs, but which you may already know, is that dogs intuitively, telepathically, pick up on their owner's goings-on, and these dogs are hip to the fact their owner is tormenting me; and that is why they, too, have entered into the torment. It is as if they had been telepathically sicced on me, the owner likely not knowing he was doing it.
I think I should begin to explain to you just how telepathic animals are. The average horse or dog speaks telepathically at least as well as the average American high school graduate speaks verbally.
To sum up the very important evolution of the minds of these two cowardly men, they have gone from threatening murder me to planning murder me.
I have found that my pitchfork self-defense has become a matter of great anger and importance to the psycho-fascists and their allies, and if I continue to defend myself against the dogs with the pitchfork this defense will put these cowards and their allies into rapid response, a planned element of which is shooting me down on the street.
They feel their right to torture me is so well established that they can get away with murdering me for defending myself.
This anger at the slightest self-defense on my part had been a constant American attitude throughout America's torture-enslavement of me; as if my defending myself is somehow an affront, that defending myself makes me somewhat the same as an Uppity Nigger.
And, Dear Reader, I want the rapid response they have planned, but if I can help it I don't want to fight the dogs. The dogs are victims of the owner's vicious telepthy, his vicious mind, his vicious soul.
I want the rapid response because it moves the battle from the night, when I am asleep and they creep up to my home to awaken and threaten me, to the day, when I am awake and ready.
So in my writing yesterday I attempted to establish a rapid response situation that bypassed the dogs, took them out of the equation of this battle.
You may have noticed I referred to the cowardly psycho-fascist's "mommy" as a "white trash bitch". I did not verbally say that to her, I just wrote that here in this blog. Had I said that to her the battle would have been on, and it was too soon to attack, attack, attack.
The cowardly psycho-fascist American "man" who lives at 316 Second Street is very angry at me today, incensed that I wrote that, even though in theory he has no access to this blog; but we know he does either directly or through relay; and we know it was my intent to irk him by calling his mommy a white trash bitch.
(Oddly, by strange coincidence, she has a reputation in Smallville of being a white trash bitch. Go figure.)
We shall see if the white trash psycho-fascist son will defend his white trash bitch mommy as eagerly as he defends his pack of out-of-control dogs.
So, I am waiting for the dogs, but hoping I have established another way to bring the battle into daylight. If that other way doesn't work I will try something else. We Space Sailors say, "In War, the Fighting Is the Bang". Loosely interpreted in English, that means the fighting is the fun.
Alas, this is such a bitter battle it is beginning to leave a bitter taste in my mouth.
Don't get me wrong, I like bayonet warfare just as much as the next guy, but it is rare in my life--no, unique in my life--to be in a fighting stance with dogs. A bear once, yes, but never dogs.
Sure, they attack me because their owner attacks me; but one of the dogs, a tall redhead with long fur, is telling me she is out of the pack and wants to make a separate peace with me; and indeed when the pack attacked me on Monday she did not join in, and she blows me a kiss with her eyes when I pass by; and also the first dog of the pack who attacked me looks shamefaced at me. I could make peace with that dog in a minute, but not when it has the pack-attack intoxication running.
Being the most advanced telepth in human history, I have very good telepathic contact with animals, particularly dogs, horses and birds and bears (Oh My!); and in closing today I want to tell you of a lovely talk I had with a dog about 11:15 a.m. Wednesday, to cleanse our palates of the bitterness of this battle.
I had heard about a small ranch about 15 miles away which has a large number of horses and might hire people to help with them, and since I love working with horses and have something of a genius for it, I drove to the ranch and turned into its circular driveway; and got out of my car, expecting someone working in the area to ask me what I wanted.
It is a delicate thing, a stranger approaching an isolated home.
On the porch blocking the walkway to the porch was a very nice black and white sheep dog, like a big cocker spaniel, and it said to me, "Please don't come to the door. Just call out."
So, I did that, and a young woman came to the door; and in answer to my question about work she said they only had a few horses and did not hire help.
I thanked her, and as I got into my car to leave the dog came from the porch and sat down in front of my car; close, but far enough away that I could see it.
The dog said, "I want to be sure you understood me when I spoke to you. If you do hear me, please drive around me so I will know."
So I said, "Sure, I will drive around you", and I backed up my car about five feet and drove around the dog. Almost no one else would have done that, they would have inched the car forward and compelled the dog to move.
That was a good, clear conversation with the dog, and it was good for the dog because that was probably the first intelligent telepathic conversation it had ever had with a human being.
Well, on that score it is one up on me.
Shark America Four
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 137
Note: Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2007
Looking for the Peru-Chile Event
Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle--Waiting For The Dogs
I have described for you the metaphorical and topographical scene of the Battle of Smallville now in progress, but I review it again today because that scene becomes more important now.
Those of you who understand that I deal in Time Travel will understand Time Travel is an important part of this battle.
Those of you who understand that God is my Old Pal will understand God is the central factor in this battle. Remember God's code for this battle, "Killing Two Birds With One Stone".
This battle (small and petty as it may seem) will offer a strong indicator to the United States of America that it will suffer greatly if it does not end its torture-enslavement of me and pay the fines and fees to me which I have established.
Jesus said, "What you do to the least of mine you do to me", and truly I am the least of all Americans and the least of all Christians from sea to shining sea and from Canada to Mexico.
In the spirit of that statement by Jesus, I suggest you consider the two cowards who torture me in Smallville, California, to be the least of all Americans, and understand that what God is about to do to them God can do to all America and all Americans.
So, to review the Battle of Smallville up to this point, and to get an idea of where it is going:
The opening area of this battle is approximately five square acres, in the approximate middle of which stands my home, surrounded on all sides by about 40 yards of private property belonging to the home, belonging to my landlord.
So when the cowards attack me they trespass on private property to do so.
(The landlord had problems with these neighbors before I moved in, including threats of violence against him; about which he spoke to a deputy sheriff and about which the deputy sheriff did nothing. I have spoken to a deputy sheriff about this, and the deputy sheriff has done nothing. Further, these two cowards are broadly disliked in Smallville. So it is just not me they have been wicked to.)
If you see my home as a big square at the center of the battle map and draw a straight slightly diagonal line through it, the line will hit the homes of the two psycho-fascist American cowards who have been torturing me since I moved into this home about three months ago.
That is, one coward's home is about 40 yards in front of my home, at 316 Second Street, and the other coward's home is about 40 yards behind my home, at 302 Third Street.
Two "men" in their thirties attacking one man in his late sixties. That is cowardice.
On the most part, the torture of me by these two cowardly psycho-fascist Americans consists of a pattern of banging on the walls of my home to awaken me in the dark of night. This has been done up to six times a night, but generally one, two or three times a night is the norm.
Within this torture of awakening me from sleep have been a few implied threats on my life, the most important of which was a threat to burn my home down with me in it.
This threat to burn down my home with me in it becomes an important part of this story, as you shall see.
You will see how one should not put chips on the poker table one is not prepared to lose; and how this also applies to the United Stated of America as a whole, its torture-enslavement of me being a huge pile of chips on the poker table..
In the metaphor of the Battle of Smallville I have pictured myself as a samurai, one sword in each hand, arms outstretched to each side and hands at shoulder level, one sword pointing to 316 Second and the other pointing to 302 Third; one sword called God and the other called Time Travel.
You should see these swords as also pointed at the United States of America, which surrounds me and tortures me endlessly, and has since 1967.
Micro-Macro, that is the play that is playing here. The battle for Smallville; the battle for Great Earth.
I am saying this Battle of Smallville will eventually become the Battle of Armageddon which will envelop the world and vanquish the forces of evil and slavery on this Earth; but for now...but for now...it is me, my two swords, and God, facing these two cowardly psycho-fascist American "men",.their allies, and their weaponry.
In a broad sense their allies include all Americans, because they are committing a crime of torture all Americans either approve of or stand silently by as it goes on, and their weaponry includes the national system of torture, and added to that their own hidden intent to shoot me dead and claim self-defense.
I have described to you how the vicious pack of dogs owned by the cowardly American psycho-fascist at 316 Second has entered into the battle; and how I have twice defended myself against the dogs with a pitchfork.
It is the already agreed upon intention of these two psycho-fascists Americans to shoot me dead in some near-future confrontation with the pack of dogs and claim, with their allies as witnesses, that I was brandishing the pitchfork at them.
How do I know this? Despite America's national denial of this truth, I am the most telepathic person in the history of the world, and I can hear their wormy, plotting little minds; just as I could hear the minds plotting to assassinate Ford and Reagan; just as I could hear the minds planning to crash planes into Manhattan on 9/11; just as I can hear George W. Bush's mousy little brain as it bargains with Satan; both he and Satan calling Satan God.
But back from the macro to the micro.
What I have not told you about the pack of dogs, but which you may already know, is that dogs intuitively, telepathically, pick up on their owner's goings-on, and these dogs are hip to the fact their owner is tormenting me; and that is why they, too, have entered into the torment. It is as if they had been telepathically sicced on me, the owner likely not knowing he was doing it.
I think I should begin to explain to you just how telepathic animals are. The average horse or dog speaks telepathically at least as well as the average American high school graduate speaks verbally.
To sum up the very important evolution of the minds of these two cowardly men, they have gone from threatening murder me to planning murder me.
I have found that my pitchfork self-defense has become a matter of great anger and importance to the psycho-fascists and their allies, and if I continue to defend myself against the dogs with the pitchfork this defense will put these cowards and their allies into rapid response, a planned element of which is shooting me down on the street.
They feel their right to torture me is so well established that they can get away with murdering me for defending myself.
This anger at the slightest self-defense on my part had been a constant American attitude throughout America's torture-enslavement of me; as if my defending myself is somehow an affront, that defending myself makes me somewhat the same as an Uppity Nigger.
And, Dear Reader, I want the rapid response they have planned, but if I can help it I don't want to fight the dogs. The dogs are victims of the owner's vicious telepthy, his vicious mind, his vicious soul.
I want the rapid response because it moves the battle from the night, when I am asleep and they creep up to my home to awaken and threaten me, to the day, when I am awake and ready.
So in my writing yesterday I attempted to establish a rapid response situation that bypassed the dogs, took them out of the equation of this battle.
You may have noticed I referred to the cowardly psycho-fascist's "mommy" as a "white trash bitch". I did not verbally say that to her, I just wrote that here in this blog. Had I said that to her the battle would have been on, and it was too soon to attack, attack, attack.
The cowardly psycho-fascist American "man" who lives at 316 Second Street is very angry at me today, incensed that I wrote that, even though in theory he has no access to this blog; but we know he does either directly or through relay; and we know it was my intent to irk him by calling his mommy a white trash bitch.
(Oddly, by strange coincidence, she has a reputation in Smallville of being a white trash bitch. Go figure.)
We shall see if the white trash psycho-fascist son will defend his white trash bitch mommy as eagerly as he defends his pack of out-of-control dogs.
So, I am waiting for the dogs, but hoping I have established another way to bring the battle into daylight. If that other way doesn't work I will try something else. We Space Sailors say, "In War, the Fighting Is the Bang". Loosely interpreted in English, that means the fighting is the fun.
Alas, this is such a bitter battle it is beginning to leave a bitter taste in my mouth.
Don't get me wrong, I like bayonet warfare just as much as the next guy, but it is rare in my life--no, unique in my life--to be in a fighting stance with dogs. A bear once, yes, but never dogs.
Sure, they attack me because their owner attacks me; but one of the dogs, a tall redhead with long fur, is telling me she is out of the pack and wants to make a separate peace with me; and indeed when the pack attacked me on Monday she did not join in, and she blows me a kiss with her eyes when I pass by; and also the first dog of the pack who attacked me looks shamefaced at me. I could make peace with that dog in a minute, but not when it has the pack-attack intoxication running.
Being the most advanced telepth in human history, I have very good telepathic contact with animals, particularly dogs, horses and birds and bears (Oh My!); and in closing today I want to tell you of a lovely talk I had with a dog about 11:15 a.m. Wednesday, to cleanse our palates of the bitterness of this battle.
I had heard about a small ranch about 15 miles away which has a large number of horses and might hire people to help with them, and since I love working with horses and have something of a genius for it, I drove to the ranch and turned into its circular driveway; and got out of my car, expecting someone working in the area to ask me what I wanted.
It is a delicate thing, a stranger approaching an isolated home.
On the porch blocking the walkway to the porch was a very nice black and white sheep dog, like a big cocker spaniel, and it said to me, "Please don't come to the door. Just call out."
So, I did that, and a young woman came to the door; and in answer to my question about work she said they only had a few horses and did not hire help.
I thanked her, and as I got into my car to leave the dog came from the porch and sat down in front of my car; close, but far enough away that I could see it.
The dog said, "I want to be sure you understood me when I spoke to you. If you do hear me, please drive around me so I will know."
So I said, "Sure, I will drive around you", and I backed up my car about five feet and drove around the dog. Almost no one else would have done that, they would have inched the car forward and compelled the dog to move.
That was a good, clear conversation with the dog, and it was good for the dog because that was probably the first intelligent telepathic conversation it had ever had with a human being.
Well, on that score it is one up on me.
posted by Virgil Kret at 7:36 PM
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