The $296 Billion Defeat
Jews Jaws Zero
Shark America Ten
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 140
Note: Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2007
Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event
Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle--Victory in Four Days
Today's Code is "Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!".
We are running hard before the wind now, sailing toward a resounding victory, crossing the T of psycho-fascist America. The codes are just beginning to unfold, the dead are just beginning to die. The psycho-fascist Americans do not know the scope of the battle; they are content with blind man's bluff and Telepath torture-enslavement; they are wicked and unprepared.
We received a remarkably beautiful code on the death of Lady Bird Johnson in three segments stretching roughly over the 72 hours before she died.
I had meant to tell you about this code in a little piece on the telepathy of birds, which I have now twice deleted from recent reports because the tweet-tweeting of it seemed to be incongruous with the beat-beating of war drums that's been going.
I feel remiss in not having told you about this Lady Bird code, because I deleted it from yesterday's report, and yesterday's report came out concurrently with the announcement of Lady Bird's passing away.
I feel you need all the advance Time Travel notice of events I can give you if you are going to understand the future of Time in time to save yourself from the Hell of Timelessness, to which you march so stupidly and so stupefied; but, now, through my fault, except for the beauty of this code, it is useless in that sense.
Because the code is so beautiful, a piccolo among the trumpets of the music of this work; and because it seems to indicate Lady Bird was, in the Christian sense, saved; and because it seems all we talk about here these days is souls lost, like those of George W. Bush and his Faux-First Lady and his father and mother and brother, for the sins of plotting the overthrow of the Constitution of the United States of America and murder; I feel it is good to write a few happier words.
What I am saying is, God told me some three days in advance about the death of Lady Bird Johnson, and told me in a beautiful way, in a form of poetry of which only God is the Master.
(I call God's poetry Time Poetry, and it is through reading God's poetry and understanding the whirls and eddies of Time that I can tell you about events in God's Space War before they take place.)
I first called this Time Poem "The Laurel", but after better understanding what it was about I came to call it "Lady Bird's Laurel".
So now I will tell you the story I call "Robins", in which is contained God's advance notice to me of Lady Bird's death.
(First I must give you a new code on the Battle of Smallville which came in yesterday, since it seems to be ripening quickly, the dead to die perhaps by tomorrow, and I would again be remiss if I did not record it. This code is "Sanreini Doreimi Shindayo". I will leave it at that for later translating and deciphering, and tell you the story called Robins.)
Robins begins this way:
So, here we are in Smallville, and thousands of miles away people are dying under my two swords, one called Time Travel and the other called God, dying because of the torture of me here; and last night my cowardly neighbors woke me a least three times by banging on my door and other parts of my home; and what do you think my life is like within all this agony America so relentlessly and gleefully inflicts upon me? Do I snort and scream, is steam coming out of my ears? No, Dear Reader, I am the Godfather to two young Robins.
We Space Sailors say "Beauty Heals", and I tell you there is more truth in that than all the preaching of preachers from sea to shining sea.
Beauty Heals, put that on as your life vest as the Titanic of your life goes down; Beauty Heals.
I have learned the Alphabet; I have learned my Times Tables; I have learned Beauty Heals; those are the bed rocks of my education.
Your mother has died? Enjoy a butterfly. Beauty heals, Dear Reader, Beauty heals.
So, a couple of weeks ago I began beautifying my home by refreshing old flower beds and preparing ground for a lawn in front of this 100-year-old house that looks like it has been abandoned for 200 years, and I became acquainted with a bird I will, for the sake of this story, call Mr. Robin.
I must tell you, there are aspects of my telepathy you do not understand. I am your torture slave because I am audibly telepathic; you whip me because I am audibly telepathic; you kill my sweet children because I am audibly telepathic; but animals love my audible mental telepathy, and among animals birds and horses love it the most.
When you imagine the intelligence of a bird you think "bird brain", but I see around each bird a telepathic soul-bubble the size of a basketball.
We are different, you and I.
It is a pity you chose the joy of torture over the joy of knowledge, because there were many beautiful things for you to learn from me, and you needed to know them as much as Cave Man needed to know fire.
So, as all of this abuse and torture of me by my neighbors has been going on, and knowing the police are on their side, and knowing the town of Smallville is on their side, and knowing the whole God-damned (literally) United States of America is on their side, I came to be friends with Mr. Robin.
Mr. Robin would at first hang around as I worked in my front yard, and as I spaded over soil in preparation for planting a lawn, Mr. Robin would move close to me, eating worms my spade exposed.
In the telepathy between us, Mr. Robin repeatedly told me he was not afraid of me. Dig it, not only does Mr. Robin understand my heart and can hear me telepathically worrying about frightening him, Mr. Robin repeatedly telepathically tells me not to be worried about frightening him.
Can you walk upon that water of knowledge? Or do you sink beneath it like a stone?
To make this point more clear to you, I will tell you how Mr. Robin made this point more clear to me.
One day I came out of my home to work in my garden and, seeing Mr. Robin was hunting worms in one part of my garden, and not wanting to frighten or disturb him, I went to another area and began to spade earth over, my back to him.
Suddenly Mr. Robin flew over my right shoulder, his left wing touching my right ear! That was Mr. Robin's way of emphasizing I should not not to worry about frightening him.
In your whole life, Dear Reader, has a free bird ever deliberately touched you? I think not; and until that moment I also had never before been touched by a free bird.
The next day Mr. Robin introduced me to Mrs. Robin, and while doing so showed his wife she need not be afraid of me.
Two days later Mr. Robin gave me a gift; I could be the Godfather of his and his wife's two chicks.
They had fluttered down from the nest, too young to fly but old enough to try, and began hanging around me, unafraid of me, as I worked in my garden. They were then unable to fly more than a few feet at a time
Then a heat wave struck, and I retreated from working in my garden to drinking cold beer in my underwear in front of this exact same computer that is sending you these words; and one of the baby robins with super-robin strength banged against the screen on my window.
I looked out my window and I saw that the chicks were dying, they were hunkered, helpless on the ground, they could not fly, they could not breathe evenly, the heat wave was so great.
So, in the immortal expression of Alfred Einstein, "Duh", when he discovered his Theory of Relativity, I realized I could save the lives of those two Robin chicks by turning my water sprinkler on, and I did so in a particularly shady place where volunteer ivy is coming in.
Sure enough, the two Robin chicks sat under that sprinkler for hours, literally hours, and the next day they could fly from tree to tree; where two days before they could only flutter about; and when I sat in my chair in the shade in the evening, they would fly up into the tree under which I was sitting and say, "Thank You, Uncle Virgil, thank you".
(And no, Dear Reader, they did not poop on me. I am shocked you would think that.)
Two days later, the two young Robins, having quickly become teenagers, flew off to find their way in the world, and Mr. and Mrs. Robin clearly missed them, and Mrs. Robin hung around for hours perched atop the garage, or perched on stumps, with apparently the same worm dangling from her beak, watching for their return, seemingly wishing they were hatchlings again, and begging food from her.
It was about this time the Time Poem I now call Lady Bird's Laurel took place.
While this may sound silly to you, when America first pounced on me and enslaved me, my Old Pal God and I talked about how to protect my spirit and my sense of worth, because the Americans clearly intended to try to destroy my spirit and my sense of worth.
(These days, the favorite torture of me by the cowardly psycho-fascist "men" at 316 Second and 302 Third is while I work in my garden to call out in a cowardly and mocking way that I am "shit", which I think illustrates this point.)
When I was in Singapore Prison (do you know that story?) an Angel entered my cell one night and stood a the foot of my cot and said simply, "Virgil, you are a good man." This was the word from Heaven when my whole nation was telling me I am shit and had cowardly finagled me into a foreign prison for a four-year sentence.
(With some help and advice from my Old Pal God, I got out in about five weeks.)
There were many examples of this protection by God of my spirit and my sense of worth, and some of them had to do with plants. For a long while, for example, plants would move if I looked at them, and American people hated this Little Miracle and would scowl at me and rip leafs from trees to show their power over me and trees--what pitiful shits the Americans are, but that's another story.
Be patient, I am getting Lady Bird's Laurel.
Amidst America's early torture-enslavement of me a light-hearted poem developed between God and myself, and silly as it might sound to American psycho-fascists, it has been a great help to me.
The light-hearted poem was that a falling leaf represented God's love for me coming down on and all around me.
Silly, I know, but God and I are not as sophisticated and worldly as you Americans; and since leafs are always falling they were a good physical representation of the spiritual truth.
So now, Lady Bird's Laurel.
About the time the young Robins left I was working on the seed bed of my lawn when a group of leafs in the actual shape of a laurel fell onto the seedbed near me, and my Old Pal God whispered into my ear, "Leave it there".
The next day, just about 24 hours later, I was working in my garden and there, right atop the laurel, was a dead bird, not a Robin, not one of the birds around here I know personally, but a dead adult bird. I buried it in my seedbed.
The fact that I was told to leave the laurel of leafs where they were, and 24 hours later a dead bird lay on the laurel, is what makes this a poem of God, a Time Poem. You see, Dear Reader, God knew the bird would be lying there dead, in that exact spot, the next day, and God put the laurel there, just as God knew and has always known exactly when Lady Bird would die.
As I said, at first I considered this just another of the thousands of beautiful Time Poems God has sent me during the course of this torture-enslavement, to remind me who I am and what I am, and that I am not the piece of shit America would make of me; but when Lady Bird died, and the three events--the laurel falling, the dead bird being found on the laurel, and Lady Bird's death--all taking place at approximately 24-hour intervals, like poetic lines of equal length, I realized the larger meaning of the Time Poem, and changed its name from The Laurel to Lady Bird's Laurel.
I don't know if I can expect you to understand this story; I know my psycho-fascist neighbors could not understand in a million years (the damned are stupid in that way); but it is a true story and I thought I should tell it to you as we sit here in the calm of the eye of the storm of war; and as I calculate victory will be achieved on Sunday, July 15, 2007.
Contact Virgil Kret at Icnews360@aol.com.
Legal Defense, Survival & Presidential Campaign Fund:
Virgil Kret
I.C. News
P.O. Box 43
Morro Bay, CA 93443
USA
George W. Bush will destroy the world.
George W. Bush will destroy the world.
His cry of misery will be heard around the world; then the chorus will sing "Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!"
George W. Bush is a perfect storm of stupidity, dishonesty and vanity.
George W. Bush will destroy the world.
Shark America Ten
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 140
Note: Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2007
Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event
Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle--Victory in Four Days
Today's Code is "Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!".
We are running hard before the wind now, sailing toward a resounding victory, crossing the T of psycho-fascist America. The codes are just beginning to unfold, the dead are just beginning to die. The psycho-fascist Americans do not know the scope of the battle; they are content with blind man's bluff and Telepath torture-enslavement; they are wicked and unprepared.
We received a remarkably beautiful code on the death of Lady Bird Johnson in three segments stretching roughly over the 72 hours before she died.
I had meant to tell you about this code in a little piece on the telepathy of birds, which I have now twice deleted from recent reports because the tweet-tweeting of it seemed to be incongruous with the beat-beating of war drums that's been going.
I feel remiss in not having told you about this Lady Bird code, because I deleted it from yesterday's report, and yesterday's report came out concurrently with the announcement of Lady Bird's passing away.
I feel you need all the advance Time Travel notice of events I can give you if you are going to understand the future of Time in time to save yourself from the Hell of Timelessness, to which you march so stupidly and so stupefied; but, now, through my fault, except for the beauty of this code, it is useless in that sense.
Because the code is so beautiful, a piccolo among the trumpets of the music of this work; and because it seems to indicate Lady Bird was, in the Christian sense, saved; and because it seems all we talk about here these days is souls lost, like those of George W. Bush and his Faux-First Lady and his father and mother and brother, for the sins of plotting the overthrow of the Constitution of the United States of America and murder; I feel it is good to write a few happier words.
What I am saying is, God told me some three days in advance about the death of Lady Bird Johnson, and told me in a beautiful way, in a form of poetry of which only God is the Master.
(I call God's poetry Time Poetry, and it is through reading God's poetry and understanding the whirls and eddies of Time that I can tell you about events in God's Space War before they take place.)
I first called this Time Poem "The Laurel", but after better understanding what it was about I came to call it "Lady Bird's Laurel".
So now I will tell you the story I call "Robins", in which is contained God's advance notice to me of Lady Bird's death.
(First I must give you a new code on the Battle of Smallville which came in yesterday, since it seems to be ripening quickly, the dead to die perhaps by tomorrow, and I would again be remiss if I did not record it. This code is "Sanreini Doreimi Shindayo". I will leave it at that for later translating and deciphering, and tell you the story called Robins.)
Robins begins this way:
So, here we are in Smallville, and thousands of miles away people are dying under my two swords, one called Time Travel and the other called God, dying because of the torture of me here; and last night my cowardly neighbors woke me a least three times by banging on my door and other parts of my home; and what do you think my life is like within all this agony America so relentlessly and gleefully inflicts upon me? Do I snort and scream, is steam coming out of my ears? No, Dear Reader, I am the Godfather to two young Robins.
We Space Sailors say "Beauty Heals", and I tell you there is more truth in that than all the preaching of preachers from sea to shining sea.
Beauty Heals, put that on as your life vest as the Titanic of your life goes down; Beauty Heals.
I have learned the Alphabet; I have learned my Times Tables; I have learned Beauty Heals; those are the bed rocks of my education.
Your mother has died? Enjoy a butterfly. Beauty heals, Dear Reader, Beauty heals.
So, a couple of weeks ago I began beautifying my home by refreshing old flower beds and preparing ground for a lawn in front of this 100-year-old house that looks like it has been abandoned for 200 years, and I became acquainted with a bird I will, for the sake of this story, call Mr. Robin.
I must tell you, there are aspects of my telepathy you do not understand. I am your torture slave because I am audibly telepathic; you whip me because I am audibly telepathic; you kill my sweet children because I am audibly telepathic; but animals love my audible mental telepathy, and among animals birds and horses love it the most.
When you imagine the intelligence of a bird you think "bird brain", but I see around each bird a telepathic soul-bubble the size of a basketball.
We are different, you and I.
It is a pity you chose the joy of torture over the joy of knowledge, because there were many beautiful things for you to learn from me, and you needed to know them as much as Cave Man needed to know fire.
So, as all of this abuse and torture of me by my neighbors has been going on, and knowing the police are on their side, and knowing the town of Smallville is on their side, and knowing the whole God-damned (literally) United States of America is on their side, I came to be friends with Mr. Robin.
Mr. Robin would at first hang around as I worked in my front yard, and as I spaded over soil in preparation for planting a lawn, Mr. Robin would move close to me, eating worms my spade exposed.
In the telepathy between us, Mr. Robin repeatedly told me he was not afraid of me. Dig it, not only does Mr. Robin understand my heart and can hear me telepathically worrying about frightening him, Mr. Robin repeatedly telepathically tells me not to be worried about frightening him.
Can you walk upon that water of knowledge? Or do you sink beneath it like a stone?
To make this point more clear to you, I will tell you how Mr. Robin made this point more clear to me.
One day I came out of my home to work in my garden and, seeing Mr. Robin was hunting worms in one part of my garden, and not wanting to frighten or disturb him, I went to another area and began to spade earth over, my back to him.
Suddenly Mr. Robin flew over my right shoulder, his left wing touching my right ear! That was Mr. Robin's way of emphasizing I should not not to worry about frightening him.
In your whole life, Dear Reader, has a free bird ever deliberately touched you? I think not; and until that moment I also had never before been touched by a free bird.
The next day Mr. Robin introduced me to Mrs. Robin, and while doing so showed his wife she need not be afraid of me.
Two days later Mr. Robin gave me a gift; I could be the Godfather of his and his wife's two chicks.
They had fluttered down from the nest, too young to fly but old enough to try, and began hanging around me, unafraid of me, as I worked in my garden. They were then unable to fly more than a few feet at a time
Then a heat wave struck, and I retreated from working in my garden to drinking cold beer in my underwear in front of this exact same computer that is sending you these words; and one of the baby robins with super-robin strength banged against the screen on my window.
I looked out my window and I saw that the chicks were dying, they were hunkered, helpless on the ground, they could not fly, they could not breathe evenly, the heat wave was so great.
So, in the immortal expression of Alfred Einstein, "Duh", when he discovered his Theory of Relativity, I realized I could save the lives of those two Robin chicks by turning my water sprinkler on, and I did so in a particularly shady place where volunteer ivy is coming in.
Sure enough, the two Robin chicks sat under that sprinkler for hours, literally hours, and the next day they could fly from tree to tree; where two days before they could only flutter about; and when I sat in my chair in the shade in the evening, they would fly up into the tree under which I was sitting and say, "Thank You, Uncle Virgil, thank you".
(And no, Dear Reader, they did not poop on me. I am shocked you would think that.)
Two days later, the two young Robins, having quickly become teenagers, flew off to find their way in the world, and Mr. and Mrs. Robin clearly missed them, and Mrs. Robin hung around for hours perched atop the garage, or perched on stumps, with apparently the same worm dangling from her beak, watching for their return, seemingly wishing they were hatchlings again, and begging food from her.
It was about this time the Time Poem I now call Lady Bird's Laurel took place.
While this may sound silly to you, when America first pounced on me and enslaved me, my Old Pal God and I talked about how to protect my spirit and my sense of worth, because the Americans clearly intended to try to destroy my spirit and my sense of worth.
(These days, the favorite torture of me by the cowardly psycho-fascist "men" at 316 Second and 302 Third is while I work in my garden to call out in a cowardly and mocking way that I am "shit", which I think illustrates this point.)
When I was in Singapore Prison (do you know that story?) an Angel entered my cell one night and stood a the foot of my cot and said simply, "Virgil, you are a good man." This was the word from Heaven when my whole nation was telling me I am shit and had cowardly finagled me into a foreign prison for a four-year sentence.
(With some help and advice from my Old Pal God, I got out in about five weeks.)
There were many examples of this protection by God of my spirit and my sense of worth, and some of them had to do with plants. For a long while, for example, plants would move if I looked at them, and American people hated this Little Miracle and would scowl at me and rip leafs from trees to show their power over me and trees--what pitiful shits the Americans are, but that's another story.
Be patient, I am getting Lady Bird's Laurel.
Amidst America's early torture-enslavement of me a light-hearted poem developed between God and myself, and silly as it might sound to American psycho-fascists, it has been a great help to me.
The light-hearted poem was that a falling leaf represented God's love for me coming down on and all around me.
Silly, I know, but God and I are not as sophisticated and worldly as you Americans; and since leafs are always falling they were a good physical representation of the spiritual truth.
So now, Lady Bird's Laurel.
About the time the young Robins left I was working on the seed bed of my lawn when a group of leafs in the actual shape of a laurel fell onto the seedbed near me, and my Old Pal God whispered into my ear, "Leave it there".
The next day, just about 24 hours later, I was working in my garden and there, right atop the laurel, was a dead bird, not a Robin, not one of the birds around here I know personally, but a dead adult bird. I buried it in my seedbed.
The fact that I was told to leave the laurel of leafs where they were, and 24 hours later a dead bird lay on the laurel, is what makes this a poem of God, a Time Poem. You see, Dear Reader, God knew the bird would be lying there dead, in that exact spot, the next day, and God put the laurel there, just as God knew and has always known exactly when Lady Bird would die.
As I said, at first I considered this just another of the thousands of beautiful Time Poems God has sent me during the course of this torture-enslavement, to remind me who I am and what I am, and that I am not the piece of shit America would make of me; but when Lady Bird died, and the three events--the laurel falling, the dead bird being found on the laurel, and Lady Bird's death--all taking place at approximately 24-hour intervals, like poetic lines of equal length, I realized the larger meaning of the Time Poem, and changed its name from The Laurel to Lady Bird's Laurel.
I don't know if I can expect you to understand this story; I know my psycho-fascist neighbors could not understand in a million years (the damned are stupid in that way); but it is a true story and I thought I should tell it to you as we sit here in the calm of the eye of the storm of war; and as I calculate victory will be achieved on Sunday, July 15, 2007.
Contact Virgil Kret at Icnews360@aol.com.
Legal Defense, Survival & Presidential Campaign Fund:
Virgil Kret
I.C. News
P.O. Box 43
Morro Bay, CA 93443
USA
George W. Bush will destroy the world.
George W. Bush will destroy the world.
His cry of misery will be heard around the world; then the chorus will sing "Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!"
George W. Bush is a perfect storm of stupidity, dishonesty and vanity.
George W. Bush will destroy the world.
posted by Virgil Kret at 1:51 PM
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