28 September 2017

Football Follies

29 September 2017, GREEN BAY - A request by Green Bay Packers players for fans to join them in a show of unity during the national anthem before their game Thursday apparently did little to calm the debate.

Packers fans on Wednesday continued to blast the NFL, the team and players for what they perceive as showing disrespect for the nation, the flag, the military or the national anthem by sitting, kneeling, remaining in the locker room or locking arms during the national anthem. Supporters say players are peacefully exercising their free speech rights on the best stage available. 

"I am so ashamed of and appalled by the ignorance of any NFL player who would dare disgrace our Stars and Stripes or the memory of hundreds of thousands of fallen U.S. heroes who paid with their lives so that we may live free," said Steven Tiefenthaler, a native of Brookfield who now lives in San Antonio. Tiefenthaler is a Packers shareholder and 20-year U.S. Air Force veteran.

What is this football/anthem nonsense really all about?

Why are some of the masses rebelling against one of the great opiates of the masses?

Isn't it strange that the sheeple snap from their trance when a handful of footballers refuse the ritual hymn?

Why are they so troubled they can no longer enjoy their favorite pastime?

Why do they take it so personally?

Quite simply, those who are troubled by the disturbance to the anthem ritual are human zeroes.  Their souls long ago dissolved by materialism and narcotics, they accepted the Mark of the Beast.

Their God told them to take no thought for what they should eat or drink, or how they should clothe themselves.  Their God told them not to store treasure on earth.  

But they told God to go to Hell, and listened to the lying wonders of the Beast, and sought paradise on earth, through crude materialism.  

Their right hands and foreheads are occupied continually with worship of the Beast, seeking continually to live as the Beast demands, buying and selling, buying and selling, all their life energy devoted to building personal storehouses on earth. 

Their God promised a mansion in eternity, but the human zeroes could not see past six hundred threescore and six. . . 

Empty and Godless, they shed their true identity. . .

Now these zeroes must identify themselves. . .

In the land of the football scandal, some miliions and millions identify themselves as Americans.  

Can you imagine that?  A creature of wonder, a biological miracle in an incomprehensibly vast universe, crowned with consciousness, yet it limits itself to a name on a street sign. 

An American.

A creature designed out of time abstracts itself to some pretense that has barely existed for two hundred years. . .

In the football land, America is the power which allows the human zero to buy and sell, America is the power which animates the human zero, and if some being refuses to worship any image of the American Beast, then an anger to death will be provoked.  

The Great Image Of The Beast has commanded:

Get that son of a bitch off the field right now. Out! He’s fired!

Quite simply, a fair percentage of the sheeple are so far gone, so *American,* their identity so wholly given over to the Beast, their lives so spiritually cut off from true man and True God, they see the inconsequence of not participating in the ritual hymn as blasphemy. . .

Blasphemy, a sin worthy of death. . .

And some dumb American will no doubt believe he is serving his god when he kills. . .some other dumb human zero. . .some other human zero worshiping his own Beast. . .some human zero who identifies himself as a Black. . .or a Faggot. . .or whatever else they choose to deny their Father in Heaven.

28 July 2017


The birds of the air chirping.  Landing to pull worms from the wet earth.  The rain moved on, the clouds passed.  Now a clear, warm spring day.  The birds of the air devouring their spineless prey.  After the long dark winter, once again we see the world can be a light, comfortable place. . .

Walking, walking to the park.  Passing an old woman with a little dog.  The old woman, an old bag, in all honesty, coated as if it were still winter.  How many more springs remain for this old bag?  The little dog will surely outlive the old bag.  And then what?  The dog pound?  Or the kicks of some resentful relative of the old bag?  What was it the Preacher said?

For what befalls the sons of men befalls the beasts, even one thing befalls them, as the one dies, so does the other. So a man has no preeminence over a beast.  All is vanity. . .

All is vanity. . .

Therefore, we must use the measure of discernment granted us by the Lord of All to apprehend as much Truth as possible from the world's lying vanities. . .

But today the sky is the pale blue of the Kingdom of Heaven, and the air is scented with fresh creation. . .

Walking, walking to the park.  Cars drive past, imprisoning the lost on their way through their misguided lives. . .but that is their problem.  I shake their exhaust from my feet. . .

Here come two joggers. . .middle-aged women in tights and sweatshirts. . .friends/neighbors encouraging each other in rejuvenating their clunky bodies?  Perhaps they seek to find their lives in their flesh, but as the Apostle said:

Bodily exercise has some value, but it is small compared to godliness. . .

But let the dead bury their dead. . .today the reborn earth recalls the Temple of Eden, in which the Creator placed His image.

Walking, walking to the park.  Oops!  I stop.  There, at the side of the road: a squirrel.  The remains of a squirrel.  Near its mouth a pool of raspberry-colored muck.  A bright red death on a spring day.  The muck of the squirrel, and the birds of the air chirping.

As I continue walking, walking to the park, I recall a saying of Jesus:

Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. . .

I've wondered on this many, many, many times over the years.  No saying of our Lord is more incredible, or requires more faith, considering the way life is dispatched so easily, carelessly, thoughtlessly, and in such bulk.

Our so-called *science* would tell us in the history of man 100 billion have died and returned to dust.  Imagine how many billions were aborted, or miscarried, or died in infancy. . .

Mere blips.  Blips of existence.

Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.

The mass of the dead, those mere blips of existence, and yet the very hairs of their heads all numbered. . .

When speaking of sparrows and hairs, was the Lord of All offering only a general benediction to the twelve whom He sent to the lost sheep of the House of Israel?  Or is the Heavenly Father truly there, in the raspberry-colored muck of the world? 

One answer or another only leads to more questions. . .

We see through a glass, darkly. . .

Walking, walking to the park.  I breathe the newly minted air of spring as its gentle breeze whispers in my ear, but as I near the park entrance, I hear the cries of a child.  A girl.  I see now it's a little girl.  Crying.  Crying in the parking lot.  I look around.  Nobody.  No adults.  No one.  The girl is all alone.  A little girl crying all alone in the parking lot.  No shoes.  Wearing a yellow raincoat.  Too big for her.  The coat hangs well past her knees and the sleeves extend well past her hands.

There's a path in the park that loops around a pond.  There's a bench three-quarters of the way that gives a nice, quiet view of the pond.  I go there and sit in serenity.  That's where I was headed.  But this crying little girl, all alone.

All alone, except for me, now.  I don't like this little girl, and her fate means nothing to me.  But I know I am supposed to like this little girl, and am supposed to care about her fate, so if I just keep walking to the serenity bench, I will not experience serenity as my disregard for her will trouble my thoughts.  So I will have to do something.  I will have to do something so my thoughts are not troubled.

The little girl has stopped crying.  She is staring at me.  Most people don't notice me.  I move unobserved through the world, my presence long since meaningless.  I'd forgotten what a burden it is to be looked at, and this child's stare is heavy.  Weary of it already, I sigh.  But there's no other choice, so I begin.

"Are you here by yourself?"

The little girl nods.

"Did someone bring you here?"

Another nod.

"Was it your mother?  Did your mother bring you?"


"Do you know where she is?"

"Bitch goed!"

And she starts crying, again.

A car enters the parking lot.  A Jeep, really.  Wrangler, I believe they are called.  Two smiling young men get out.  One of them wears a red t-shirt with "Mmmm" printed in big black letters on the front.  Neither pay any heed to the crying girl or me as they make their way into the park.

"Your mother just left you here?" I ask the girl.

She nods as she wipes sadness snot from her nose.

"What a cunt," I gripe, more from the trouble the mother has caused me than for the little girl.

I pull out my cellular phone.  I really don't like talking on the phone, but there's not much else I can do.  I tap the numbers.  Almost instantly, there's an answer.

"County 911, what's your emergency?"

"Well, uh, it's not really my emergency.  I'm at Lillie Park and there's this little girl here, she's been left here alone, there's no one with her.  She's crying fairly loudly."

"How old is the child, sir?"

"How old are you?" I ask the kid.  She immediately stops crying.


"She said 'free,' but I think she means three."

"And you're positive there's no caretaker with her?"

I sigh heavily.  

"The kid says nobody's here.  I been here 5 minutes, she's crying, nobody's come around."

"Does the child know her address?"

"Do you know where you live?" I ask the kid.

She shakes her head.

"She doesn't know."

"Ask the child her name."

"What's your name?" I ask the kid.

She says something, but I can't understand.

"What?" I ask.

She says something.  

"I can't understand what she's saying," I tell the 911 operator.  "It sounds like she said 'Tylenol,' but I doubt that's her name."  "Is your name Tylenol?" I ask the kid.  She shakes her head.  "No, her name's not Tylenol."

"I'm going to dispatch an officer to the scene. Where in the park are you located, sir?"

"In the parking lot, at the main entrance.  Off of Platt Road."

"An officer should be there shortly."

"Do I need to stay?"

"It would be helpful if you could remain with the child until the officer arrives."

"All right," I sigh.

Now I have to wait.  Stand here and wait.

The sun shines bright.  It dries the earth.  You can hardly tell it rained earlier.  There's a worm on the sidewalk.  If it doesn't make it back to the earth, it will desiccate.  Spring.  The rebirth.  But death is never far.

The little girl is staring at me.  I look at her.  I look.  Oh, no.  Now that I am really looking at her, it appears she's not wearing anything underneath the raincoat.  Maybe, hopefully, some underwear, but I can tell from the open buttons at the top, there's nothing covering her chest.

What a ridiculous situation to be in.  Where are the cops, already?  I feel a headache coming on.

"What cunt is?"

"Huh?  Oh.  Oh.  A cunt?"

The little girl nods.  She heard me.  She heard me mutter that her mother was a cunt.  I'm not used to people paying attention to me.  Of course, she's just a kid, doesn't know I should be overlooked, doesn't know not all adults are noteworthy.

"Well, you know you have a hole between your legs, right?  All girls have that hole, did you know that?"  She nods.  "Well," I sigh, "as some girls grow up. . .as they age. . .everything around that hole, everything from the toes to the hair on the head, all the bones, the muscle, the blood, the guts, even the heart and the brain, the engines of our thoughts, of our. . .being. . .everything becomes corrupt.  Do you know what corrupt means?"  She shakes her head.

I notice a man on foot entering the park.  A bum.  He's carrying a fishing pole and an old coffee can.  Ha!  Maybe he's trying to get a free dinner out of the pond!  Fry up some tiny smallmouth bass under the overpass, wash 'em down with a forty ouncer.  Anyway, I wait until he's out of earshot, then I continue.

"So, corrupt means rotten.  Some girls grow up and turn rotten."  The little girl doesn't seem to understand.  "Like a banana," I explain.  "Have you ever seen a rotten banana?  It's bruised brown and black and it's brown and mushy inside.  Have you seen a banana like that?  A rotten banana?"  She nods.  "Well, some girls get that way.  They become bruised.  Their insides, their spirit and soul, become brown and mushy.  They're rotten.  And so one of the words grown-ups use to describe rotten girls is 'cunt.'  Does that make sense?  Do you get it?"  She nods.

I've always believed I could have been a fine teacher.

This little girl looks like she's about to cry, again.  Best to tell her the lie that keeps everyone going.  Things will be better.

"The police will be here soon.  They'll get you home and everything will be all right.  I'm sure your mother just got confused or something."

"Po-lice is cunt," the little girl says.


Well, she's a quick learner, that's for sure.

I hear one of the porta-john doors squeak open, up where the trail begins.  Out steps the fishing bum.  He looks at me looking at him. They say in Paris, France there are some charming bums.  They call them clochards.  Our bums are not charming.  Piss-stained liars, that's what our bums are.  The bum looks at the little girl.  Looks at me.  A gutter look.  Bums are like children, taking note of everything.  But their minds are diseased.  Everything processed in the trough.  The poor fish that has to swim in his belly.

But here's the squad car, finally.  Two officers get out.  One approaches me while the other gets down on one knee to talk to the little girl.  I tell my cop the story, he asks for my name, address, phone number. . .and that's it.  I can go.  I look at the little girl.  And now what for her?  Returned to her. . .returned to where she lives?  To start it all over again?  The circle.  The millstone of life.

I look at the little girl.  I wouldn't want to go back and start all over.  Growing up is a losing proposition.  The best you can do is survive, then get a job and labor for someone else's benefit. And yet, our Lord said that's exactly what we have to do, go back and start all over, again:

Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. . .

I look at the little girl.  Should I say goodbye?  But I never even said hello.  I turn around and head for the serenity bench.

15 June 2017

The 12th Dimension: Faith

The above Newsweek article contends:

"It is as if the brain reacts to a stimulus by building then razing a tower of multi-dimensional blocks, starting with rods (1D), then planks (2D), then cubes (3D), and then more complex geometries with 4D, 5D, etc. The progression of activity through the brain resembles a multi-dimensional sandcastle that materializes out of the sand and then disintegrates," he said. Henry Markram, director of Blue Brain Project, said the findings could help explain why the brain is so hard to understand. "The mathematics usually applied to study networks cannot detect the high-dimensional structures and spaces that we now see clearly,” he said. "We found a world that we had never imagined. There are tens of millions of these objects even in a small speck of the brain, up through seven dimensions. In some networks, we even found structures with up to eleven dimensions."

If true, we can thus speculate on the enigma: why one man hears the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ, and another does not.

Jesus, speaking of Himself and His followers, said:

The sheep hear His voice: and He calleth His own sheep by name, and leadeth them out. And when He putteth forth His own sheep, He goeth before them, and the sheep follow Him: for they know His voice.

Speaking to the unbelievers, Jesus said:

But ye believe not, because ye are not of My sheep, as I said unto you. My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me: and I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any pluck them out of My hand.

The Apostle Paul said:

Faith cometh by hearing, and hearing by the word of God. . .


For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God. . .

So if we wish to be contemporarily scientific, we can therefore speculate the followers of the Lord Jesus Christ have been gifted  by God with brains capable of an extra dimension, a 12th dimension not built upon sand which quickly disintegrates upon hearing the gospel, but a Faith Dimension, in which the gospel takes root, forever. . .

09 June 2017

Media *Shock* Is Fake News

Predictably, Media report *shock* at the election results in Britain. Jeremy Corbyn, who Media mercilessly mocked and slandered for the last two years, managed an almost-draw with establishment figurehead/ugly cunt Theresa May in May's stupidly called for *snap elections.*

Here's Corbyn's platform:

Investing half a trillion pounds in rebuilding Britain's industrial infrastructure, building millions of homes, making universities free, and re-nationalizing the country's railways, utilities and postal service. He proposed to pay for all that by hiking corporate tax rates from 17 to 26 percent and imposing taxes on real estate and incomes over $100,000 a year.

The Western Media, hardly free, controlled by fewer people than make up a National Football League team, and a propaganda distributor for the ultra-rich, always mock even these most modest economic proposals to just slightly lessen the burden of the poor. Older whites always fall for it, for they're still under the illusion/delusion they're *middle-class,* but, increasingly, Western white youth see through the propaganda and realize they are no better off than most niggers. . .hence they gravitate to *populists* like Corbyn and Sanders, even though Jez and Bern are old enough to be their grandpa.

Media claims *shock* at these election results. . .of course, Media aren't really shocked, Media's just grateful Western medicine can keep enough old fart diabetics, heart patients and alcoholics alive long enough to let *conservative capitalists* squeak through a couple more elections and squeeze the last few drops of blood money from the turnip poor.

19 May 2017

The Atomic Age

ABC, 19 May 2017: A century-old document found inside a box of unarchived records in a southern New Mexico county is shedding a little more light on the shooting death of the Old West lawman who gained fame for killing Billy the Kid.

Dated July 9, 1908, the nearly illegible handwritten coroner's jury report refers to the investigation of the death of Pat Garrett, who served as sheriff in Lincoln and Dona Ana counties before being appointed as a customs collector along the U.S.-Mexico border. Garrett died Feb. 29, 1908.

Historians have searched for years for additional official documents beyond court records and newspaper articles from the time that assigned blame for Garrett's shooting death since some have their own theories about who pulled the trigger.

Signed by several justices of the peace and coroners, the document states that Garrett was reported dead in Dona Ana County in the territory of New Mexico about five miles northeast of Las Cruces.

They found that "the deceased came to his death by gunshot wounds inflicted by one Wayne Brazel."

The document was found in November by Angelica Valenzuela, the records and filing supervisor with the county clerk's office, as part of a preservation effort that involved records spanning the last half of the 1800s through the mid-1960s.

"She knew as soon as she saw it that it was worth gold," county spokesman Jess Williams said of the signed jury report.

The guy who shot Pat Garrett was some yokel named Wayne Brazel. . .his nephew was Mac Brazel, the joker who found the *UFO* wreckage on his ranch in Roswell. That's the America one can love: Billy the Kid and Flying Saucers. What we live in today is not America. We live in AmericaLand, an electronic version. Today's Americans are like the little figures in electric football who move aimlessly in mass seizure. It must be that the wreckage ol' Mac Brazel found in 1947 was just a Predator drone from America's grim future, it found its way into the past, to Trinity, to haunt an atomic age people who used to be human enough to do their own killing.

16 May 2017

The Blacklist

Been awake for 30+ hours. . .looking through Netflix to kill time. . .came across a show called The Blacklist, a preposterous *thriller* about a super criminal who turns himself into the FBI and rats out all his former associates just so he can work with an annoying cunt of an FBI profiler. There's supposed to be some mysterious connection between the super criminal/rat and the cunt profiler, but it's probably just that she's his daughter. Of course, the show so obviously wants you to think that she's his daughter, there may be some lame *twist*--such as she's not his daughter, but the daughter of some cunt he loved or killed or killed and loved or something similarly stupid. Anyways, each episode has the super criminal/rat and the cunt catching some global terrorist or nutcase in plots that are more ludicrous than The Three Stooges You Nazty Spy! American Garbage TV at its worst.

04 May 2017

The Parable Of The Wheat And The Tare-orists

2 May 2017: Accounts from witnesses and survivors cast doubt on American suggestions that the Islamic State group was to blame for the deaths of more than 100 people taking refuge in a house hit by a U.S. airstrike earlier this year in Mosul, the deadliest single incident of the months-long campaign to retake the Iraqi city. U.S. officials said soon after the March 17 strike that investigations could find that militants forced people into the building, booby-trapped it with explosives, then lured in the strike.

None of that happened, according to seven witnesses and survivors who spoke to The Associated Press. Instead, they described a horrifying battlefield where airstrikes and artillery pound neighborhoods relentlessly, trying to root out IS militants, leveling hundreds of buildings, many with civilians inside, despite the constant flight of surveillance drones overhead. 

Under the principle no man can serve two masters, no follower of the Lord Jesus Christ can also support US military policy that tolerates *collateral damage.*

The Lord taught in His parable of the wheat and the tares when man tries to root out the children of the devil, he will invariably fail, and in the process also root out the children of God.  

Plain and simple, it's not man's job to sort out the tares from the wheat. . .both are to be left to grow until the End, and then the Lord will send His Reapers. . .no mistakes will be made.  There will be no *collateral damage.*

In the parable, the servants come to the Master and ask if they can sort out the tares. . .the Master says 'no.'

No means no. . .

Man does not have the ability, nor the right, to execute such judgment.  

Isn't is sad Americans who claim to follow Jesus utter nary a peep against the anti-Christ tactics of the US military?

But if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? it is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men. . .