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Jobs are so plentiful, I decided to come out of retirement. I'm now working 53 jobs from home. Rakin' it in.
Meanwhile, Washington State had it's first 118 degree day back in late June. Haven't hadly seen a lick of rain all summer. The climate has certainly gone haywire and I suspect we'll see the other side of it this winter.
As the US is now experiencing mass hysteria, I've had to eliminate my exposure to all mass media and most of social media. It's all gotten too fucking toxic and depressing. Still hoping to eek out a natural death as opposed to an apocolyptic one. On my optimistic days I figure humanity has about 20 years left so i feel hopeful.
Need a copywriter before the sky explodes? Winter is coming...
highs all
xdbx
Hello RBC. What I wanna know is- what about this space shit? Is it the BIG false flag- like Greer says... are they ETs? Both?
Gnarly stuff on the Ning account. Hope it's back online. What about them "lights" in the sky eh. The tic-tacs. The vehicles. Why do the Others need vehicles? The other clusterfuck stuff ( climate 911 etc. ) is predictable sorta. Are They here? Are YOU here?
Sending as much good energy for Patrick to heal and to Hannah as I possibly can. And reminding everyone to get their booster jab and supplement with D.
Hey kids! What time is it? It's Reactionary Payback time!
Weird John Brown. Meteor of the war.
–Herman Melville
Had less than 100 hours on my ticket. Got young Dwight flight instructor invite to fly right seat in a Beech 18 on some commercial run and I could learn more about complex aircraft multi retractable instruments and whatnot. Nearly two miles up and isolated thunderstorms are sprouting like mushrooms. The one in front of us is a classic. Intercom Dwight quite right needles bouncing all over…take an average. Fuel consumption weight marker call out numbers with lightning forking at the base and making flash balls inside the thunderhead. You aint gonna fly into that fucker are you. We on the glideslope now. Batcha fifty bucks we crash.
Inside black cloud fire dripping strobe wingtip shews dead grandmother sitting… knitting on the nose. Your asshole is plucking buttons off the seat while fingers spurt out forehead spike Medusa like tendrils touching at glass block fishbowl windshield bottoms out gear down dropping decision height horizon: forty five degrees. Dwight cranks it right again and his wheels splash down puddle runway. Dwight looks like a pilot. We look like a dripping Picasso drawing. Your copilot don’t look so good man. Oh that. We just come down outta the Big Nasty.
And the scabs shall heal no more. Back in Tac Zone Clusterfuck in 68 … in the fun Republic of Chuckles. Dilger Hobart was an E5 by then… because he learned about how a corn-fed wheat boy could get his plump young poppin fresh ass stuffed in a rubber bag by a falling domino theory. Dinky made off with the M60 and it was starting to get dark. Like Dracula movie dark. Not hard to find Dink and his ammo punk in the dark. Nice position Dink. See yawl built yourselves a nice little dope house to hide the gun. Good job kids. Dope? Yeah. Whole hilltop full. You’re sitting in the middle of some gook’s cash crop. War is a business, girls. Don’t be showing your ass in front of Charlie.
Chesapeake Bay, July 1863
Von Hot cutter Elizabeth Anne
The whole army hates you. You will never live it down. Goddam yankee cavalry my best customers too. Now they shoot me on sight. Flying my ass. First they give you to goddam popinjay Siegel… who gives you to jackass Howard. Brown nose Carl gotta be a real general now- because what comes against you? Jubal’s screaming hellhounds… with the best they got in the goddam shop. With pot metal cannons they buy from Emperor Nignog and such. My poor poor bakers and brewers and clerks and tradesmen. My beautiful young carpenters and plowboys and tailors and cooks.
You come to count elephant. Step on adder.
Uh... you know,... the rake. Snake. shit...
Fungible Greetings, meine RBC volk. May we all become magic mushrooms. pstt. picture of grandson. cool huh.
Very cool.
Only the young ones will let me speak, and laugh at my jokes. The weight of their parents' disdain and disapproval threatens our innocent gatherings, and my obedient silence is demanded. Riddles are required, and the occasional brief scream tearing at my throat, when there is no-one close enough to tell where it came from.
One more semester left in Jo’s sabbatical. Keep changing plans as the virus’s mutates and the idiots continue to pretend that it is really a gut parasite or the flu or a sore throat. One more year after that till she can get vested in the retirement plan to pay for the costs of Medicare that we have been paying into all these years. Got some cheap, foldable kayaks - waiting for delivery of a life vest - so we can glide on smooth water and hopefully get away from people for awhile.
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