Flight Bag

“Flight Bag”, this post, is being written after wrenching myself out—oh:  It’s time to turn on the heater.  Out of bed.  I should counterattack Victor J. Stenger’s attack against ESP, but, I am not worried about Stenger just now.

“I’m not worried about”, the phrase, shows that I am in a pinch.  Half the time I write extraordinarily as if I don’t have the time.  Early in the morning is one such typical time for me.  I am a morning whiner.  “I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date”

————The White Rabbit in Alice Through the Looking Glass

Bob Breckenfeld, the bigamist cop chemist out of Santa Ana, uses the phrase in my latest unjust arrest for manufacturing: “I’m not worried about the apothecary jars.”  You dweeb.  Those are glass carboys.  Think, man!  Carry out the chemical reactions in your head as if you had perfect anonymity.

Which you wool of come in handy rocks on bigamy, angel-fucker.  You took my daughter and broke her heart after making two girls into donut-loving cop’s wives, Sam.

I got to not get bewitched by the pretty times; I already broke the post immediately to honor that stinker Stenger with my initials by posting at 5:58, livid, rigid, mortarboard.  It was a lost cause by then, since my brain loses flavor on the bedpost overnight.  I started and I was ready by 5:50, but I had to ease the clutch in or get spewed into Limbo.  Computer-freezing Hell.

I am not even ready; this isn’t what you call ready. I can’t actually not treat Stenger.  The worst ESP addicts are these skeptics.  I just use “ESP” to cast my beliefs in line with Yogi and Boo-Boo and the rest of my writing.  That’s what I always use.  It’s my signature phrase for psi.  I couldn’t use “psi”, out of respect for Stenger’s disrespect of pseudoscience when he trips.  “Pscience”?

Stenger, although fantastic, is human and I already give him a pass to be alive already this morning.  I had to decide that while the computer was warming up.  It had been twenty years since the book I was reading was written by him, The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds, a whatever-it-was, I think.  But, he is fragile and born in ’35 and sleeps this very moment in Hawai’i.  Betsy the word-counter said 366, and she said 466 yesterday, and she said 305 at a good place to stop and take a reading yesterday (that was the annual troop death toll, Afghanistan (2009)) .

415 (area code Frisco).

I saw a Hawaiian on Wednesday.  I thought so since he had flip-flops on and it has been cold lately.  There’s a Mexican version of the same Samoan on the same checkerboard.  My test was to hit him with a skeptical question, “What’s the area code in Hawaii?”  He gets it right, see?  The last time I am about to write, “see”, I notice that I can leave the “S”.  I am writing “Suicide”, no.  “Stenger”.  If it is  “see” it is always last.  The sentence ends on “see”, see?  See what I did there?  But I am already atheistically and skeptically operating, but I am “Nay”.  I’m in the Navy.  I am a chunk into revelation in a Dixie cup.

The one flight bag is what you think of, and the other thing is what you really use.  It means to be ready to jump out the window to escape the raid on your meth lab.  Never stay and get arrested.  Do I need to emphasize this enough, for I cannot do that.  It is the word “flight” from “flight to avoid prosecution”, not that I am leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again.  It comes from “to flee”, and this backarrow is rubbery (giving it time).

Wl, Steve, that’s the problem.  A shoebox one would fit under your arm like a football, but the box you have is worse than catching the bus carrying a suitcase.  Okay, so you are not doing what I am doing, that’s all.  Get a briefcase.  Somebody’ll steal it.  Briefcases are full of money, right?  You’re a dope dealer, right?  I mean, who are you going to fool, you with your rights you never exercise?  I’ve seen FRAGILE written on the outside, but, we are getting the lab confused with the exit strategy.  It’s just a title.  Doesn’t mean a thing.  I am getting a ladder and that’s final.  You can’t get up in the attic to get your old bong if the regular ladder is a NOT A STEP kind you have to step.  On.

The heater.  It went on.  It sounds like a jet plane taking off.  I had stuff to put in here, good stuff I was thinking when I first wake up.  Jesus.  I hate to leave.  I went into my wife’s room, and my God, the piss just grosses me out.  I tell her “her” cat pissed, and you can’t say that.  Her cats are “the” cats.  My money is “the” money.  Oh.  It wasn’t piss.  Piss is linguistically a separate reality.  A cat that spins when you feignt kicking.  Spins like it’s coming back.

In general how are they going to have a country with free speech out of a religiously won and run place?  I have to check into that.  It isn’t now.  It got into the Constitution.

How am I going to be anti-corporatism when I shoplift?

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