Reflections in a Petri Dish – July 11, 2010
Dog Poet Transmitting…….
I suppose I have to open every post now (for awhile) with this mantra, “BP is Rothschild and the Queen of England and they killed The Gulf of Mexico”. If you want an informative excursion through the veil of the conceal of the real, you would be either profited or much dismayed by the discovery of what Rothschild owns and does around the world, besides controlling the flow of money and the bestowing of poverty and the conditions of war upon selected environments.
About 40 or more years ago, Nelson Rockefeller made a good will tour of South America. The response from the public was so negative that he couldn’t exit his limousine or other means of conveyance anywhere near any collection of locals. Stones and all manner of items were hurled in his direction along with various suitable epitaphs. Was this just the result of commie inspired, workers unions or was it a direct recognition by the people of what a monstrous vampire bat had been at work among the livestock and populace? Somehow they knew.
Well, Nelson’s gone, long dead between the legs of Meagan Marshalk. Nelson had one of those early penile implants which gave the impression of a hardon pointing south, due to it being a metal rod. A later innovation was the vacuum pump that was surgically inserted and involved a certain specific squeezing in the area of the perineum, to inflate the Hindenbergs, that had become as dead as the present day Gulf of Mexico; accomplished by Rothschild, the Queen of England and sundry players. Commiserate with these indefatigable men, who knew the necessity of the perfunctory performance of a natural imperative to put the rutting imprimatur upon their unnatural affairs.
Yes, I could tell you many tales of these movers and shakers in the Court of the Submissive ‘Booteah’ and that would include Supreme Court justices and the like but what do we need of such unattractive digressions when we have this?
“You ain’t nothing but a hound dog” with a lifetime membership at “Paddles”, conveniently located in the heart of New York City (if it’s still there). What tales some private dungeons could tell of the private torments of those who met their master in his less attractive forms?
We find ourselves in “The Year of the Exceedingly Strange, Living Dangerously”, midway through the long preface and but a mere turning of a page away from Chapter One. It’s a short book, a Cliff Notes speed read of time, collapsing like dominos, inverted at ninety degrees away from everything else for a dimensional shift. “Damn! I could have sworn this was solid ground a few moments ago. Hector! What is the fucking ocean doing on my putting green? Well, I don’t care whose fault it is do I? Fix it or start packing your bags for Zihuatanejo! I’ve got Chuckie Schumer coming in for Bloody Maria’s in half an hour! Carlotta, put that six pack of middle school girls and boys on ice… next to the cold, shell fish buffet.”
The minute hand of the cosmic clock moves in short, uniform jerks as each increment is finished and another begins. It’s business as usual most places. Wharf rats in tailored suits move through color coordinated cubicles over at Goldman Sachs. They’ll be off to the Four Seasons for a two hour lunch shortly, where Corexit is picking up the tab. Should they change the name to Noexit? Will there be problems with the French office of Copyrights? It’s not really existential, if it’s not making you money, whether you’re paying attention or not.
Word has it that the Pentagon has 10,000 targets picked out in Iran, hard locked for aerial assault in the ‘sooner rather than later’ category. 10,000 targets! Imagine that. There’s no word on whether Odigo is slated to text message those hundreds of thousands of beleaguered, green scarfed revolutionaries to bend over and kiss their ass goodbye. One month later we’ll all know, without knowing how, that the Revolutionary Guard murdered those 25,000 Iranian Jews, moments before the attack; now martyrs all.
Last night I went to a party hosted by a dear friend who, for reasons of her own, insists on making all of her events a costumed, theme party event. This time it was jungle themed. This does annoy me a tad. So last night I dressed in black sneakers, black pants and black silk shirt with a black head wrap. I put the ‘coffee’s ready’ red dot in my forehead and some crimson lip stick on my kisser. When I was asked what my costume was, I said, “Hello, I’m Johnny Cash (easier now that I blew my voice out… recovering) and last night I was in an ashram outside of Delhi. I had this massive Kundalini event and I’ve been lost in the jungle all night thinking I’m a woman.” A lady in a leopard skin body dress that had to come out of a spray can asked me, “Shouldn’t your name be ‘Sue’? “Maybe”, I said, “Can you do anything about these burning rings of fire?”
This precipitated one of those androgynous boys, that seem so ubiquitous these days, to sit down next to me with a “Hello, Sailor” vibe. Invariably, with me, the conversation came around to 9/11 and whodunit; “Mossad and rogue elements of American intelligence and the administrative branch”, I said. The reaction was shock. I thought. Man, is this kid brainwashed
. He even asked me what they payoff was for Israel. I explained that but it didn’t do much good. They’ve upped the programming between the generations. The older people around me knew very well the truth of what I had just said. At least the kid moved away from me.
Sometimes I let them explain to me what happened about six decades ago. I can hold off for about 2 or 3 minutes before I start flapping my elbows and going, “Bwak! Bwak!” I’ll admit to a whole lot of hard won converts over time, not that they feel better about knowing. Usually I feel like Socrates after (well, I don’t know how he felt do I?) he did that complicated physics thing with the illiterate 16 year old boy (some of you people have polluted imaginations, or else you don’t know what I’m talking about). You just keep asking the right questions in the right sequence and before they even know it and… even after they are unaware that they know it, they know it and you don’t get into trouble, which is an art in this world where one’s personal outrage makes it so hard to keep one’s mouth shut.
Let’s face it, I don’t know the actual truth of anything except for what the real facts conclusively prove and I freely admit that I don’t know because I wasn’t there. So how can I deny anything if I haven’t stuck my hand in the hole in his side?
A reader is at pains to explain to me about the ‘red tar’ situation in The Gulf. I like the guy and I’m open to anything, so long as it’s the truth but… until I know what I don’t know, I don’t know. Here’s what I do know, this is “The Year of the Exceedingly Strange, Living Dangerously” and it’s only strange and dangerous if you don’t know who the author is. People seem to think the author has to be the obvious- and sometimes hidden- protagonists because they are operating according to a perceivable schematic. Well, I could say something about the location of the cheese and the rats in the maze. Just because the rats are moving convincingly according to routes and motives does not mean they built the maze or put the cheese there. It might mean a whole lot of other things you ought to be able to put together from this simple illustration.
I like you people, I really do. I’m even going to be temporarily inconvenienced on your behalf once or twice on this highway, to the gateway, to the hallway that leads to a near unbearable and transformative light. Do me and yourself a favor, just take it on spec that all is not what it appears to be, no matter what it appears to be and… recognize that when you are in a situation where all earthly means fail, you have the supreme opportunity to grasp a heretofore, unseen, floatation device. I used to put myself in extremis, just to prove this to myself. I even convinced myself that it was me doing it… heh heh.
Sex and death have a very close and oft mysterious connection to each other. What isn’t so commonly known, or presented, is that so does sex and immortality. This could mean that certain forms of mutual frottage are more dangerous than they seem or… more beneficial than one can imagine, depending on who is stroking who (might be a whom in there but I’ve still got to do the radio show).
No more than a few years from now, I and some of the very people reading these words will be sitting by an outdoor fire (not of necessity but of choice) and someone is going to say… “You know what makes this all so incredible? Even though it happened, it’s still hard to imagine it.”
End Transmission……. (By popular demand we will stay with this persona until such time as we find that dog won’t hunt, which may never happen.)
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Last updated 13/07/2010