I’ll See You in the Coal

More Direct Evidence of ESP

That’s messed up; sorry.  It should not be ambiguous.  This one assumes that some direct evidence of ESP has been presented already.  I didn’t mean that.  I meant that the quality of ESP evidence should be more direct, and thus less indirect.  Can you dig it?

Evidence of ESP Whose Nature Is

Evidence of ESP of a Nature so Profound as to be of the Most Direct Kind

Anyway, I was just musing; this post is not about rambling.  It is about going back to the last post and explaining what the hell I meant.  It might confuse people.  After all, you are not watching the same movies as I.  This one’s, A Day Without a Mexican.  You pick them up.  They’re free.  They don’t have that many.  Once the stupid white people say something, the movie puts the real facts on the screen in words, like, over their face.

There are 40 Countries South of the United States

Uh huh.  Well, I am in a place where the cat pisses, so, right now it smells like Fabuloso.  The cartoons are on.  Violins.

“There, Pooh.  Now you can take a rest, too.”  End credits.

My son is calling me Oobie.  The pillow is held overhead as he approaches.  It goes crashing down on the keyboard.

“What was that for?”

He said that.  Of course, the computer will not capitalize.  I am going to change-up.  The teaser played.  I am going to write that ‘capling’.  I’ll have to stand the red line.  Capitalizing.  Nobody knows what a dude’ll do.  Saves 5 char.  No, I need ‘char’ for char.  The coke is balled up and clogs the burner.  It’s like dingleberries.  Sodium dichromate hits the news.  It was there before.  This is Saturday.  Jack Black has a part on this show.  I like him.  He goes, “He’s listening.  Don’t—make a mental note, …”  Then he said what not to do.

“Hello, little baby,” says Nicholas, five minutes ago.

“Hi, Little Bear,” says the TV, right now.

I have to go to Thee Banned Me, to learn from trix.  Did I say the blog wasn’t going well?  Yeah, it is not.  It is not enough to cut-and-paste.  This is the internet now.  I feel ill.  I am not allowed to stay on the computer.  My wife’s Colombian.  “I am a Colombiana”, she says, sometimes.  Maybe she can get some




No, she can’t.  Maybe she’s cannon fodder for the trafficantes. Maybe she goes to church.  Maybe she’s sober.  Maybe I had a drink this millenium, but no.  I haven’t.

I said “reality” before. I think that is called, “physical reality”; that is what I meant.  I know it’s called, “physical science”, but stenger < Bohm.  I don’t have “not equal to”.  stenger wants discrete matter, but Bohm did not.  We can start from there to hinge ESP from.

What would happen with the meth is that a new method, just as good or better than HI/P would come out, and be able to be demonstrated on a computer before any law was broken.  Sasha Shulgin was the only chemist with a license to make, the DEA raids him a few years back, and he is about eighty.

Other things would happen, but they are things only I could do, such as to compile the information from this blog.  I could go shopping online.  I could visit a glassblower.  Mainly, well, I can’t finish the sentence.  i tried to use the back arrow and had to wait so long for it to finish, I forgot.  When it does that, the cartoons seem to swell in presence.  If you say, “bring it”, some things bring it, and you can do nothing but complement them, like Vince Vaughn.  “I can’t believe what I just saw.  Do you even know what you just brought?”

I do remember one thing, since I was struggling to recall: A woman shrieks as if her baby is being ripped to shreds before her eyes, in English, but that happens long ago, and you are not fitting her agenda of the proper literary homage.  Maybe you give the cause of death in the obit (but that can turn into butthat, ashat is from TBM.  I have to go there.  Don’t use the back arrow.  Mirikel, mirakell, mirakele, peopel, peepel, cock a doodle do.  I’m Pepper Pig.

My chair is adjusted for someone else.  I almost got licked.  I’m ill.  The smell has made me mentally ill.  The candy had made me physically ill.  Christmas present.


Andy Gibb (March 5, 1958March 10, 1988) was a pop singer popular in the 1970s. He was the younger brother of Barry, Maurice, and Robin Gibb, The Bee Gees. He died of a heart problem in 1988, shortly after his 30th birthday. While his years of alcohol and cocaine abuse were not the direct cause of death, they certainly did not help his condition.


Why if I am already sick and I dong more sickening things?

Too sick to redo the bold, Steve?

I dong?

“doing”, can’t bold it.  I need Freddy Mercury.  I hit an arrow five times.  Wait for the cursor to stop.  Why am I leaving suddenly?  My wife is leaving.  She said I could get on the computer now;  she said I “better” get on it now.  You just can’t blog with it on “Visual” all the time.  I guess I have to type the code.  I prefer the button.  Queering, queening, McQueenan, Departed, and that Mexican is one of my favorite actors.  He is a James Dean.  But they are qu—gay.  See, they start out somebody, …that is, they start out copying somebody, then, they get more desperate to support their habit, so, they shove their balls out onstage …

I have to push the button.  My son and I went as a team to appear for the Mommy.  I could decorate this with stamps if this were paper.  I hate being led online to the gay stuff when I am just posting how some 30-year old loser, boyfriend to Victoria Principal, dies on coke, as a lesson to you all.  Let this be a lesson to me, then.  I even went to las Vegas to try to earn a living working, not gambling or buying into these freaks’ lifestyle.  Donny Osmond has a picture of his dick as well.  Why do I have to lose when I can troll and win so easily?  losing sucks.  And, why are these gays filling up a whole district of their own in San Diego?  I feel them coming after my mind.  They don’t have kids, the only way they can spread their message is by recruiting.

“Steve, Steve, wake up.  Stephen–ie.  wake up.  It’s all right.  They don’t go after old guys with shriveled, …” finish

Sperm must be a magic elixir.  The bigger a pussy is, the more it stinks.  The closer it is, the bigger it looks.  The more hair is shaved off, the more bodacious the lips look.

Donny and I have Social Anxiety Disorder.  I need social anxiety deodorant.  The Fabuloso, mijito, brings back traumatily memories from having to clean Alex Rios’ truck.

Ah.  this computer used to be so trick.  I still have the speakers thrown away, you see?  Let’s just get the blog wired for sound.  I need to find the song, …oh.

I have abetter idea.  I’ll throw a file on here and use the headphones to check it.

Nope.  You cannot upload audio without a space upgrade.  Suggest YouTube.  Going to YouTube.

No.  There’s something going on here, suspect corporate Gulag Archipeligo.  Going to hackers for directions on how to smash through and shave music.  Must defeat smell and turn pervent.  Find flowers for hair.  Locate tight pants.  Dress for Wal-Mart.  Dress like woman until wife gets back, then vacuum.  Smile more.  Make home a cheery place.  Bake cherry pie.  Go to Jack-in-the-Box order Hot Cherry Bendover.  Get in terrible fight with Barb-Tongue Clit Lickers; wake up blowing a dead Licker.


“Dude never gets hit on by queers in his life.”

“He must be ugly as fuck, Steve.”

No, it’s getting through.  You are 23, that’s your twenties; you are going to be exploited.  We aren’t young, so, you have to really work at it not to be a dyke.

“No, I’m not a dyke.  I’m just an old woman.”

“That’s right.”

The thing is, the world changes so much from when you are young that besides your insides, it also looks like the passage of time outside ourselves.

But, trust me, World War Two was so traumatic that you can forget about saying that the world of your youth was difficult compared with today.

Therefore, today cannot be a miracle world of advancement.  All it has is the appearance of change, rather than real change.

All the trauma has been bottled up and stored in Intercontinental Ballistic Missile silos.  This world is as lethal as worlds get for all our kind.  It’s just not “out.”

That was a block of text before I stuck in a few hard returns.

I also consider the—hey.  Just link to an existing Christopher Cross “Sailing” on YouTube—Chinese entry into the ocean in the 1990s dangerous.  That was submarines.

Yeah, we are like a species paralyzed, with a screen put up in front of us showing the illusion of simulated motion.  But, the site, http://www.JJAM, in the extreme vids has some real, thankfully some fake (the same actor can’t get his neck pierced two different times), deaths and dismemberments, and I saw those.  So, I do not have to sleep in order to be haunted.  I see a woman when her child has been maimed by the methamphetamine and myself going psycho and laughing, and her wanting to kill me for it.  See, when you get around those types you better have some kind words.  You better tattoo ’em to your inner arm.  She might come back for more sympathy after twenty years.

my meth pick #1


I am cursing silently right now.  I am back, and not to capitalize the first word in a sentence, but, neither am I going to type in the words I am thinking.  I have never laughed out loud while typing at the computer in my life.  LOL is just a lie.  Are you insane?  Then you can say lol.  You are not going to actually laugh out loud then.  A bottle of scotch and you will laugh out loud less.  Not even once in a lifetime, Jack.  Type it a million times, though, right?


Dynamo Hum
–Frank Zappa

The Mothers

(We join the song in progress)

I got a spot that gets me hot
But you aint been to it
I got a spot that gets me hot
But you aint been to it
cause I cant get into it
Unless I get out of it
An I gotta get out of it
Before I get into it
cause I never get into it
Unless I get out of it
An I gotta be out of it
To get myself into it

(she looked over at me with a glazed eye
And some bovine perspiration on her upper lip area
And she said…)

Just get me wasted
An youre half-way there
cause if my minds tore up
Then my body dont care

I rubbed my chinny-chin-chin
An said my-my-my
What sort of thing
Might this lady get high upon?

I checked out her sister
Who was holdin the bet
An wondered what kind of trip
The young lady was on

The forty dollar bill didnt matter no more
When her sister got nekkid an laid on the floor
She said dinah-moe might win the bet
But she could use a little ——- if I wasnt done yet

I told her…
Just because the sun
Want a place in the sky
No reason to assume
I wouldnt give her a try

So I pulled on her hair
Got her legs in the air
An asked if she had any cooties on there

(whaddya mean cooties! no cooties on me!)

She was buns-up kneelin
Buns up!
I was wheelin an dealin
Wheelin an dealin an ooooh!
She surrendered to the feelin
She sweetly surrendered
An she started in to squealin


You have perspiration on your upper lip if you use “lol”.  There is no bad part to these lyrics; that’s why I put so much of them here.

The reason for my cursing is the discovery that “canvas” and not “candles” was in that Cross song.  He emphasizes it in case you didn’t get it—“Sailing”.  That’s why the meth song anthology requires more in-depth arrangement.  this cosmogony, of meth and ESP, is, I believe, called a “cosmic perspective”, that is, a coordinate system from the center outward.  But, you are at the center.  Polar coordiantes define each point using a radius and an angle or two.  It’s that kind.  And, it has to transform, I think, to another system.  We aren’t always you.  Sometimes we’re crazy and you are sane.

If it was, “The candles can do miracles”, then it would go more along this, but, understand, meth freaks are the consumers, and the creators are more actualized individuals.  they weren’t on meth when they wrote it (or ever); so, when they set up and tell you to relax and get high, that the show’s about to start, something is still wrong.  It should be you up there.  Not really.  All of us are just walking the middle of the road, not in prison, using logic where appropriate.

Loa had these candles, and she had a dope business of some kind, but it was never too many degrees of freedom until you ran into the Red and White.  Then they’d give you a beating you’d never forget, then you’d run in a circle with a ceiling to it.  You did not want to cross paths with them.  But she said, “I use a white candle for this kind of magic, and a black candle for black magic.”  But, it was imaginary.  Everybody has a candle sitting around, so you can always pick it up and say about candles of other colors.  Where are they?  Oh, I am high.  I’m high right now.  I have a rushing feeling in my legs.  I don’t need to shoot it.


That was 1980. this is part of how you get audio into the blog, and I am definitely unhappy with it since the war has left the audio just so horrible you can’t listen to it.  It’s honest audio.  It’s like old people fuck—slow and out of practice.  It’s audio with a bathroom smell.  It has a decency they gave out aboard the Piquod with Captain Bligh.



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