Tatoo, Part 30
The $684 Billion Defeat
Jews Jaws Seven Down
Shark America Three Up
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: ??? (The USGS Earthquake Hazards site had become too politically corrupted to be a valid source in I.C. News' earthquake study at this time.)
Virgil's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923
Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008.
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World.
The battle codes of God's attack on Israel and its drone ally, the USA, are: "Two Birds, One Stone", "Double Down", "Home", "Sirhan Sirhan", "Admiral Moorer", "Fadel Shana", "Topsy-Turvy", "Dead Soul Family", "Admiral Moorer 2", "Nipple", "Blood of Mars", "Wait", "Cowards", "That Settles It", "Stop Right There!", "Blackout", "Turnaround", "The Pig-Weasel Axis", "Bat Out of Hell", "Tell Me Something Good" & "FIN".
Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event.
Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: The Secret Story, Tatoo (30)
Today's code is "178th Day, Last Year".
Something good has happened. If I knew for sure what it is I would tell you; but I will tell you what my speculation is;
I think the Americans and the Israeli's are aware--or on the verge of becoming aware that Tim Russert's death and the Israeli Border Guard's "suicide" (discussed here yesterday) were both Acts of God in God's Space War against them.
I will understand this more clearly tomorrow.
Meanwhile, I am killing time today while Time is killing you, and I thought I might tell you about the time my Old Pal God gave me some beer.
I suppose this story might fit into the "Little Miracle" category, like God fulfilling God's promise to buy me a bowl of rice if I were hungry by materializing a dollar bill out of thin air; but I tend to think of it more as plain Old Friendship rather than a Little Miracle.
I was reminded of this story by seeing in the news that the area this Little Miracle-Act of Friendship took place in over 30 years ago was burned out in one of the 800 forest fires that have been burning in California.
Those who know me know I love backpacking and staying out in the wilderness for a month or more without resupply.
My longest such hike was six weeks, passing through the now just-burned out area for a month, finally following for two weeks a stream to the Pacific Ocean through wilderness so remote it had likely not been visited since Native Americans lived there.
The animals, Dear Reader, had never seen a human being.
This gift of beer from my Old Pal God took place, however about a decade before that wonderful six-week adventure, on my first backtracking trip.
That first hike was only about two weeks long, and my only equipment were my small Vietnamese Army pack which I had worn during my combat days, and my Vietnam combat boots, and some government surplus powdered eggs, and five pounds of brown rice, and 50 tea bags.
Oh, yes, and a drug store sleeping bag, the kind people buy for their kids when their kids want to sleep on the floor or in the back yard.
The area that burned this week is always very hot and dry in the summer and experiences major fires every ten years or so.
At the start of my first hike I hated this backpacking stuff as I trucked up and down those hot hills, huffing and puffing and my legs aching; when suddenly I was stopped dead in my tracks by the realization it was I who was setting the pace, that I didn't have to truck if I didn't want to, that I could stroll through the beauty that surrounded me.
It was after I had come to know that I set my own pace, and had begun to develop my deep love for backing, that God gave me a few beers.
I had learned my first backpacking lesson that would serve me well on later hikes, that lesson being never to cause myself pain. and I would stop and rest often, sometimes napping right there on the trail, always before my body entered pain.
Beauty Heals, Painless Beauty is a Miracle.
On one such stop I was sitting by a little stream enjoying the singing of the water, and certainly enjoying drinking the water, too, when I decided to take a bath.
The stream was only a few feet wide and a few inches deep, and the bottom was sandy, so I could sit there in the cool water, or lie on my back looking up at the white clouds passing by--and be just be what America does not want me to be, happy.
As I sat there in the stream, a living bee floated by, struggling to escape the drowning death that surely awaited it.
I have always had a deep feeling that the chance to save a life--any life--is a gift from God; so I took my towel and put in under the bee and lifted the bee out of the stream and set it on a warm rock, and after a few minutes it recovered and flew off.
Just about that time I heard a beautiful female voice which said (and I remember exactly), "You are going to be rewarded for that."
Well, I know you poor Americans--even you poor American Christians--have minds which have been captured, molded and polluted by America's state religion, psychiatry, and have had it drummed into you that to hear a voice is a sign of insanity.
Psychiatry holds this view because psychiatry is fundamentally atheistic and non-spiritual and does not believe in the existence of he Human Soul, and within psychiatry's view Jesus and all the saints and all the biblical persons who heard the voice of God or Angels would be clinically insane.
"That crazy Moses went up on the mountain and carved ten of the meanest commandments you ever heard of on two stone tablets and expects them to stop us from worshiping our golden idol. Screw Crazy Moses!" (And thereafter followed the tragic history of the Jews.)
If you consider yourself a Christian and find yourself calling people crazy, you are mouthing the words of atheist Freud.
Psychiatry is anti-Christian; do not fall into its trap. Psychiatry is only suitable for modern Jews who have lost contact with God.
So, the beautiful female voice had said, "You are going to be rewarded for that".
I had been talking to my Old Pal God in this life since I was my mother's womb, so I naturally took note of the beautiful female voice's message.
For the next two days as I hiked along in the summer heat, every time I stopped to rest--about every 15 minutes--that beautiful female voice would playfully say, "Wouldn't you like a nice, cold beer right now?"
Then I came to a beautiful little valley with a broad stream meandering through it, with green grass on its flat floor and pine trees scattered sparsely around; and I knew right then and there it was here that I would find beer.
Crossing the stream I came upon a well-worn trail heading straight through a grassy area back toward the same stream.
Picture the stream as a bow and the trail as a bowstring and you get the idea of the geography.
At the end of the trail, on the other side of the stream, was a campsite obviously frequently used by people packing in on horseback. There was a place where horses were tethered, sweet smelling horse apples all around, and an old fashioned galvanized wash tub turned upside down.
Fully expecting to find beer under the washtub I turned it over and instead found some canned tomato sauce and a jar of honey.
Well, I thought to myself, a jar of honey is a good reward for saving a bee.
"But it's not beer, is it?", the beautiful female voice asked.
Hmmm? So it's a game, is it?
Hanging from a nail on a tree was a gunny sack full of trash, including many crushed beer cans, and I began looking through the trash to see if the horse packers might have stashed a few full beers there.
"But that would not be nice, cold beer, would it?", teased the beautiful female voice.
Having a mind like a rusty steel trap, it finally dawned on me. Where would I find nice, cold beer? In the stream, of course.
Knowing it would be there before I found it, a short search led me to a gunny sack that had been in the stream so long it was beginning to come apart.
In the gunny sack were perhaps 20 cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer.
I stayed in that valley for about a day, putting the tomato sauce on my brown rice, spooning the honey out of the jar and into my mouth like candy, drinking just three of the beers and leaving the rest for other lucky backpackers to find.
Anyway, that's the story of how my Old Pal God gave me some beer.
Turning to Sweet Muse's telling of her story about Tatoo, who was to become the Sun Goddess Amaterasu of the Japanese race in about 660 BC, and we know she has traveled from 700 BC to be here for this battle in This Time, but we heard no more of what Tatoo would do in 2008 to have spurred her on to the amazing feat of traveling that far into Time.
Let's listen to what Sweet Muse is saying.
Tatoo, Part 30
I am sorry for my taciturnity of late, but we God's Space Sailors, likely called God's Angels by you, are in a fixed bayonet situation.
I mean the True Armageddon is going on, and we God's Space Sailors are God's Soldiers in that battle.
To appreciate the style of God's Space War, going on night and day now for a considerable number of years, think of Olden Day Battlefields where everything was battle-hard there, and there was war, and there was war, and there was war All The Time.
Think of yourselves as soldiers in the American Revolutionary War, when armies lined up facing each other and exchanging musket round and bayonet.
See yourselves as your great, great, great grandparents, and take that bayonet and that ball.
Suddenly when the mist gets thin enough, you will see God's Army aligned against you in that Revolutionary War way.
Except, your line is horizontal and ours is vertical.
You stay in This Time, you are horizontal to This Time you live in. You do not travel in Time, you drift with.
We God's Space Sailors travel in Time.
Our line is vertical in Time. Your line goes around the world; our line goes back to 700 BC and ahead to 2020 AD.
Our two lines form a cross The arms of the crucified man are in This Time. The head of the crucified man is in Future Time. The body of the crucified man is in Past Time.
We can attack you, say, in 1644, 1967 and 2008, on an easy day; and throw in 2010, too.
This creates a rather interesting This Time, as you shall see. It makes the human race into a nuclear explosion. I don't mean world wide madness, which is sure to be the case after 2020; I mean spontaneous nuclear combustion.
Ignorance and Evil collide like atoms and trigger a nuclear reaction within the Nuclear Souls of all human beings.
To Be Continued
Meanwhile, the United States of America, unaware it was about to eat the fire Israel will serve up, passed through the 178th day of its last year.
Jews Jaws Seven Down
Shark America Three Up
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: ??? (The USGS Earthquake Hazards site had become too politically corrupted to be a valid source in I.C. News' earthquake study at this time.)
Virgil's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923
Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008.
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World.
The battle codes of God's attack on Israel and its drone ally, the USA, are: "Two Birds, One Stone", "Double Down", "Home", "Sirhan Sirhan", "Admiral Moorer", "Fadel Shana", "Topsy-Turvy", "Dead Soul Family", "Admiral Moorer 2", "Nipple", "Blood of Mars", "Wait", "Cowards", "That Settles It", "Stop Right There!", "Blackout", "Turnaround", "The Pig-Weasel Axis", "Bat Out of Hell", "Tell Me Something Good" & "FIN".
Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event.
Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: The Secret Story, Tatoo (30)
Today's code is "178th Day, Last Year".
Something good has happened. If I knew for sure what it is I would tell you; but I will tell you what my speculation is;
I think the Americans and the Israeli's are aware--or on the verge of becoming aware that Tim Russert's death and the Israeli Border Guard's "suicide" (discussed here yesterday) were both Acts of God in God's Space War against them.
I will understand this more clearly tomorrow.
Meanwhile, I am killing time today while Time is killing you, and I thought I might tell you about the time my Old Pal God gave me some beer.
I suppose this story might fit into the "Little Miracle" category, like God fulfilling God's promise to buy me a bowl of rice if I were hungry by materializing a dollar bill out of thin air; but I tend to think of it more as plain Old Friendship rather than a Little Miracle.
I was reminded of this story by seeing in the news that the area this Little Miracle-Act of Friendship took place in over 30 years ago was burned out in one of the 800 forest fires that have been burning in California.
Those who know me know I love backpacking and staying out in the wilderness for a month or more without resupply.
My longest such hike was six weeks, passing through the now just-burned out area for a month, finally following for two weeks a stream to the Pacific Ocean through wilderness so remote it had likely not been visited since Native Americans lived there.
The animals, Dear Reader, had never seen a human being.
This gift of beer from my Old Pal God took place, however about a decade before that wonderful six-week adventure, on my first backtracking trip.
That first hike was only about two weeks long, and my only equipment were my small Vietnamese Army pack which I had worn during my combat days, and my Vietnam combat boots, and some government surplus powdered eggs, and five pounds of brown rice, and 50 tea bags.
Oh, yes, and a drug store sleeping bag, the kind people buy for their kids when their kids want to sleep on the floor or in the back yard.
The area that burned this week is always very hot and dry in the summer and experiences major fires every ten years or so.
At the start of my first hike I hated this backpacking stuff as I trucked up and down those hot hills, huffing and puffing and my legs aching; when suddenly I was stopped dead in my tracks by the realization it was I who was setting the pace, that I didn't have to truck if I didn't want to, that I could stroll through the beauty that surrounded me.
It was after I had come to know that I set my own pace, and had begun to develop my deep love for backing, that God gave me a few beers.
I had learned my first backpacking lesson that would serve me well on later hikes, that lesson being never to cause myself pain. and I would stop and rest often, sometimes napping right there on the trail, always before my body entered pain.
Beauty Heals, Painless Beauty is a Miracle.
On one such stop I was sitting by a little stream enjoying the singing of the water, and certainly enjoying drinking the water, too, when I decided to take a bath.
The stream was only a few feet wide and a few inches deep, and the bottom was sandy, so I could sit there in the cool water, or lie on my back looking up at the white clouds passing by--and be just be what America does not want me to be, happy.
As I sat there in the stream, a living bee floated by, struggling to escape the drowning death that surely awaited it.
I have always had a deep feeling that the chance to save a life--any life--is a gift from God; so I took my towel and put in under the bee and lifted the bee out of the stream and set it on a warm rock, and after a few minutes it recovered and flew off.
Just about that time I heard a beautiful female voice which said (and I remember exactly), "You are going to be rewarded for that."
Well, I know you poor Americans--even you poor American Christians--have minds which have been captured, molded and polluted by America's state religion, psychiatry, and have had it drummed into you that to hear a voice is a sign of insanity.
Psychiatry holds this view because psychiatry is fundamentally atheistic and non-spiritual and does not believe in the existence of he Human Soul, and within psychiatry's view Jesus and all the saints and all the biblical persons who heard the voice of God or Angels would be clinically insane.
"That crazy Moses went up on the mountain and carved ten of the meanest commandments you ever heard of on two stone tablets and expects them to stop us from worshiping our golden idol. Screw Crazy Moses!" (And thereafter followed the tragic history of the Jews.)
If you consider yourself a Christian and find yourself calling people crazy, you are mouthing the words of atheist Freud.
Psychiatry is anti-Christian; do not fall into its trap. Psychiatry is only suitable for modern Jews who have lost contact with God.
So, the beautiful female voice had said, "You are going to be rewarded for that".
I had been talking to my Old Pal God in this life since I was my mother's womb, so I naturally took note of the beautiful female voice's message.
For the next two days as I hiked along in the summer heat, every time I stopped to rest--about every 15 minutes--that beautiful female voice would playfully say, "Wouldn't you like a nice, cold beer right now?"
Then I came to a beautiful little valley with a broad stream meandering through it, with green grass on its flat floor and pine trees scattered sparsely around; and I knew right then and there it was here that I would find beer.
Crossing the stream I came upon a well-worn trail heading straight through a grassy area back toward the same stream.
Picture the stream as a bow and the trail as a bowstring and you get the idea of the geography.
At the end of the trail, on the other side of the stream, was a campsite obviously frequently used by people packing in on horseback. There was a place where horses were tethered, sweet smelling horse apples all around, and an old fashioned galvanized wash tub turned upside down.
Fully expecting to find beer under the washtub I turned it over and instead found some canned tomato sauce and a jar of honey.
Well, I thought to myself, a jar of honey is a good reward for saving a bee.
"But it's not beer, is it?", the beautiful female voice asked.
Hmmm? So it's a game, is it?
Hanging from a nail on a tree was a gunny sack full of trash, including many crushed beer cans, and I began looking through the trash to see if the horse packers might have stashed a few full beers there.
"But that would not be nice, cold beer, would it?", teased the beautiful female voice.
Having a mind like a rusty steel trap, it finally dawned on me. Where would I find nice, cold beer? In the stream, of course.
Knowing it would be there before I found it, a short search led me to a gunny sack that had been in the stream so long it was beginning to come apart.
In the gunny sack were perhaps 20 cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer.
I stayed in that valley for about a day, putting the tomato sauce on my brown rice, spooning the honey out of the jar and into my mouth like candy, drinking just three of the beers and leaving the rest for other lucky backpackers to find.
Anyway, that's the story of how my Old Pal God gave me some beer.
Turning to Sweet Muse's telling of her story about Tatoo, who was to become the Sun Goddess Amaterasu of the Japanese race in about 660 BC, and we know she has traveled from 700 BC to be here for this battle in This Time, but we heard no more of what Tatoo would do in 2008 to have spurred her on to the amazing feat of traveling that far into Time.
Let's listen to what Sweet Muse is saying.
Tatoo, Part 30
I am sorry for my taciturnity of late, but we God's Space Sailors, likely called God's Angels by you, are in a fixed bayonet situation.
I mean the True Armageddon is going on, and we God's Space Sailors are God's Soldiers in that battle.
To appreciate the style of God's Space War, going on night and day now for a considerable number of years, think of Olden Day Battlefields where everything was battle-hard there, and there was war, and there was war, and there was war All The Time.
Think of yourselves as soldiers in the American Revolutionary War, when armies lined up facing each other and exchanging musket round and bayonet.
See yourselves as your great, great, great grandparents, and take that bayonet and that ball.
Suddenly when the mist gets thin enough, you will see God's Army aligned against you in that Revolutionary War way.
Except, your line is horizontal and ours is vertical.
You stay in This Time, you are horizontal to This Time you live in. You do not travel in Time, you drift with.
We God's Space Sailors travel in Time.
Our line is vertical in Time. Your line goes around the world; our line goes back to 700 BC and ahead to 2020 AD.
Our two lines form a cross The arms of the crucified man are in This Time. The head of the crucified man is in Future Time. The body of the crucified man is in Past Time.
We can attack you, say, in 1644, 1967 and 2008, on an easy day; and throw in 2010, too.
This creates a rather interesting This Time, as you shall see. It makes the human race into a nuclear explosion. I don't mean world wide madness, which is sure to be the case after 2020; I mean spontaneous nuclear combustion.
Ignorance and Evil collide like atoms and trigger a nuclear reaction within the Nuclear Souls of all human beings.
To Be Continued
Meanwhile, the United States of America, unaware it was about to eat the fire Israel will serve up, passed through the 178th day of its last year.
posted by Virgil Kret at 8:43 PM
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