INTRODUCTION — PART ONE

THIS PRESENT’S — A GIFT

I present to Earth, MORONS AND ALIENS. It’s a satire. For Pangaea it’s a panacea and it is, in addition now a blockchain prize; such are the tweets comprising my MORONS AND ALIENS. 

In epic-styled poetry, I present to Earth, a gift. And whilst technically MORONS AND ALIENS is satire, beyond satire, it is, Pangaea’s, panacea. Take not, too lightly — MORONS AND ALIENS. 

The gist of the plot is that Art and I (once upon a time, ex-womb-mates), are reunited, The Don having, once upon a time, kicked Art from their mother’s womb-space, clear into a future, alien.

Everybody knows that no matter how much I stink up a joint, in retrospect, the smell’s always rosier after I exit. Everybody knows death does not matter. Everything depends on the aliens.

I’m blessed that way. Everybody knows that. Everybody knows that I am the most famous face on Earth. And I am, therefore, the most able to unite us morons against — the aliens.

I am absolutely the most able of all of us; the one person that’s been destined to unite us against the aliens. What’s not to believe about that? Why not write about, morons and aliens?

What’s not to write, given what’s happening? I suspect the aliens may be renegades, taking advantage of the primitive and technologically unsophisticated species of beings — on Earth. 

I’m most able of all of us. I’m the one person, destined to unite us against the aliens. What’s not to believe, about that? And what’s not to write about — morons and aliens — on Earth?

Through a portal and along an elongated path lies the Pilgrims Progress. Paths that run to our galaxy’s black hole, run largely, in parallel. Paths primrosed — mark the progress of the pilgrims.

Through a portal and down an elongated path lies the Pilgrims Progress; paths, that run to a black hole and back. Pilgrims zooming along it, see primroses, lining the paths, of the Pilgrims.

Through a portal and down an elongated path lie the paths that run to a black hole and back. Pilgrims zoom along it; and primroses, line it. Long and desperate, is the way, of the Pilgrim.

Long down a long path to a black hole and at times, back. Someday, long along that path, desperation shall yield to the joy of salvation. That is the inexorable — way — of the Pilgrim.

To and fro we go; to a black hole; sometimes, back. Someday, long along that dangerous path, desperation shall yield, maybe, to the joy of our salvation. It’s the well worn way, of the Pilgrim.

In a miraculous intervention, Arthur, in the nick of time from the future has returned to help me save planet Earth in spite of ourselves, and in spite of indeed, these threatening, illegal, aliens.

A GENRE BENDING — ALLEGORY

A genre bender, my GOAT book is more than a great allegory of a story; and it is more than just great, epic poetry. It’s nothing less than the self-help book ye need; a panacea — for Pangaea. 

More than a great story, like Ali, the third of my trilogy, is the greatest. Destined to be a rock-solid foundation of my legacy and a model for a new paradigm for planet Urantia, nee Pangaea.

Joe: We both want a new paradigm. We want it for America. But I’ve had revelations and I’ve had epiphanies. We have got to extend the new Golden Rule paradigm, to all of Urantia (Earth). 

It’s about fairness. And equality. And it’s about confronting the aliens. And neutralizing them. Confront them even ere challenging corruption, migration and our climate change — on Earth. 

The aliens don’t suspect in the least that an Earthly super-hero, of Olympic proportions is on to them and that I’ve good reason to suspect them of piracy. They know not, I suspect them.

The aliens suspect not that one of the morons is on to them. And they don’t suspect at all that I have good reason to suspect them of piracy. They don’t suspect at all, that I am on to them.

Unsuspecting are the aliens. How could they not be? We don’t suspect a thing, so distracted are we with issues, entirely, less existential. So They don’t suspect at all that I suspect, them.

The aliens don’t suspect at all that I’ve good reason to suspect them of piracy. And they do not suspect in the least that an Earthly super-hero, of Olympic proportions — is on to them.

If under attack, Sun Tsu says, turn the tables. Take the offensive. To take advantage of the opportunity presented by aliens, attacking us, turn the tables, on the unsuspecting — aliens.

Genocide; on Earth it’s long been traditional. That notwithstanding, the word itself, is of only recent vintage. Let us take advantage of the opportunity presented by the attacking aliens.

Coined by Raphael Lemkin, genocide is the intentional action to destroy an ethnic national, racial or religious group, in whole or in part. A term of recent vintage, on Earth, it’s traditional.

Coined by Raphael Lemkin, genocide is the intentional action to destroy an ethnic national, racial or religious group in whole or in part. On Earth, a term of recent vintage, not traditional.

Not even a single question on the aliens’ status at Joe Biden’s initial press conference was taken; it’s an indictment of the press. I’m afraid we don’t want to know — what — is happening.

We don’t want to know what’s happening. And we won’t believe in most things we can’t see. There’s a little St. Thomas in everybody. Often — we don’t want to know — what is happening.

TWITTEREZE: EASY AND TRANSFORMATIONAL

There is a gold mine of potential verse in the local Universe of Nebadon. TwittereZe is verse that may serve as potential energy; verse that’s precursor to — Twitter’s — alchemical, verse. 

I was averse to Art’s verse, once upon a time. TwittereZe is verse that may serve as potential energy; verse, precursor to Twitter’s alchemical — and potentially — groundbreaking — verse. 

There is a real gold mine of potential verse in the local Universe of Nebadon. TwittereZe; it’s verse that’s potential energy; and it’s verse that is fungible. Powerfully persuasive, is my verse. 

There is a real gold mine of potential verse in the local Universe of Nebadon. TwittereZe; it’s verse that is potential energy; verse, that is fungible. Powerfully persuasive my GOAT verse.

TwittereZe is my gift to Earth. TwittereZe verse is transformational; potential energy awaiting but transformation to kinetic energy. Nobels I’ll win, saving from the aliens the Earth with verse. 

TwittereZe verse is transformational; potential energy awaiting but transformation to kinetic energy. Nobels I’ll win, saving from aliens, the Earth, with verse. TwittereZe’s my gift, to Earth. 

Potentially transformational is TwittereZe verse. A game-changer, hidden in plain sight. Nobels I’ll win if I save from the aliens, with verse, the Earthlings. Truly TwittereZe, is my gift, to Earth. 

Transformational may be TwittereZe verse. A game-changer, hidden, albeit in plain sight, in a way. Take it not lightly. Nobels I’ll win if verse
is to be my gift — and my legacy — to the Earth.

Indeed, transformational may be TwittereZe verse. Take it not too lightly. A game-changer, hidden in plain sight may be, my gift; my legacy, and indeed — the salvation of, the good Earth. 

Hidden in plain sight has been my proposed gift; the salvation of the Earth and the salvation of all those who live upon it, all in an algorithm and surreally and most implausibly — in verse. 

The salvation of all who live upon the Earth; it depends on the citizens of the Earth. It depends on how we use the persuasive qualities of verse, going forward — on the darn good, Earth.

How we use the persuasive qualities of verse going forward will effect whether we weather all this change or, as in the case of corruption, this stagnation. Surreally fucked up — is the Earth. 

Whether we weather all these changes or as in the case of corruption, continue in stagnation will say a lot about whether we even get to 2030, much less, 2050. Really fucked up is Earth.

Really surreally fucked up is the Earth. Because, we’ve been, piss-poor stewards of her. But Art and I took the time to make contingency plans for everything that might go wrong — on Earth.

INTRODUCTION — PART TWO

TWITTEREZE — EASY — COMMUNICATION

For centuries it was the role of the press, the so-called Fourth Estate, to speak truth to power and hold the powerful to account. But hubris, and complications — therefrom — changed us.

The highest form of knowledge, Plato said, is empathy for it requires us to suspend our egos and live in another’s world. A wise man was Plato. Would that it be, his words — change us. 

The highest form of knowledge, Plato said, is empathy for it requires us to suspend egos and live in another’s world. How ironic that his wise words be — not merely wise — but prophetic.

Empathy Plato said, requires us to suspend our egos and live in another’s world. It’d be ironic if Plato’s classic words were not merely wise but illuminating, revelatory and even — prophetic. 

Whether as wisdom or knowledge ye classify empathy, Plato’s conclusion — that empathy is tops; the highest state of human emotion — is well-taken. Empathy — towers over, sympathy. 

Empathy towers over, sympathy, its piss-poor, cousin. Know ye this: Ye take a short-cut to Heaven when ye exercise yer emphatic muscles, shortening that way, a way home — heavenly. 

Verily, sympathy is empathy’s, poor cousin; as when a sympathetic one says to a troubled brother, “I am sorry about yer troubles but I’m in a hurry to get to Heaven — I can’t, help ye.” 

Verily, I am sorry about yer troubles but I’m in a hurry to get to Heaven. I am really so very sorry but I really can’t help ye. I’m in a hurry to get to Heaven. I do hope tho, someone else, helps ye. 

I’ve getting complaints about death, but what, pray tell, did ye expect? Lying lies at the heart of man’s ills. Witness royalty; it’s an outrageous, as if blessed state, on surreal Earth, really, Urantia.

Earthlings: Look a gift horse not in the mouth. I present to thee, alarmingly hopeful, nonfiction masquerading as, very possibly Earth shaking, nonfiction, a prescriptive panacea, for Urantia. 

Earthlings: Look a gift horse not in the mouth. I present to thee, alarmingly hopeful, nonfiction,
masquerading as — Earth shaking, nonfiction. A prescriptive panacea for Urantia — nonfictional. 

I present to ye alarming but hopeful, nonfiction, surreally masquerading as, fiction, nonfictional. He works in mysterious ways. I’ve been chosen to author and star in — my fables, nonfictional. 

He works in mysterious ways. I’ve been chosen to author and star in — my fables, nonfictional. I present to ye alarming but hopeful, nonfiction, surreally masquerading as, fiction, nonfictional. 

There is, I have discovered, at a shallow depth within Twitter’s algorithm, a real gold mine for humanity. No one, it seems, doth believe me. TwittereZe is — Art says, fiction — nonfictional.

CICADIAN — RHYTHMS

Birth, death, predation and romance; there’s going to be sex in the treetops. And songs sung sadly. There shall be sad songs sung, if Broods X and XI are doomed by an asteroid over there. 

If the cicada’s Brood X and XI are threatened by an asteroid hurtling towards us, it’s because they can sense what we can’t see. Because it’s behind the sun. It’s not visible to us, over here. 

If cicada Brood X feels threatened by a sunny asteroid currently hurtling towards us, their songs may tell us, the asteroid is coming. That it’s behind the sun. Invisible — is the asteroid. 

The cicadas’ songs may tell us the asteroid is still oncoming; that it’s still behind the sun. Still invisible to us is, for all intents and purposes, the Federation’s aliens’, Death Star — asteroid. 

For all intents and purposes the aliens on Mars; the alien so-called representatives of the so-called, Galactic Federation. I suspect they plan on culling us, with their Death Star — asteroid. 

In desperation I turn to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences; to the American Academy of Arts and Letters; and also to the Academy of American Poets. Pray tell all about the asteroid.

For centuries, it was the role of the press, the so-called Fourth Estate, to speak truth to power and hold the powerful accountable. But man’s hubris and the internet has changed all of us. 

Witness man’s hubris: he calls himself Homo Sapiens and imagines himself as the Creator’s, crowning, creation. Only to find that the aliens are far smarter than us. Such — is our hubris. 

Our hubris is such, as everyone knows, that no one can get anyone to change their opinion, on anything. And it remains to be seen if we timely listen to cicadas loudly warning us about aliens.

It remains to be seen if the cicadas song is sung any differently this cycle. I’m no prophet but if it’s different somehow, methinks it may in fact be that the cicadas are warning us about aliens.

I’m no prophet but if the cicadian song differs this time somehow, me believes it may be that the cicadian rhythms are warning us about the morons (us) and the Galactic Federation aliens. 

Cicadas, featured in literature since the time of Homer’s Iliad and as motifs in Chinese art from as far long ago as the Shang dynasty; symbols of carefree living — and immortality, cicadian. 

Plots twist and thicken. And the news events happen, seemingly, all the more quickly. The cicadas in May will sing. Not until June will the world know what we know — about the aliens. 

Plots twist and thicken. And events happen, all too quickly. Not until June will the world know what we know about the aliens. And that’s fine by them. The fake press has failed we humans.

THE PRESS — IS DEPRESSING

More than $10 million in NFT transactions are now taking place daily, according to the website DappRadar. I can’t take a chance on not risking popping on a bubble. I’m all in, on these NFTs. 

Sotheby’s and Phillips join the NFT craze. I can’t chance not risking — popping, on a bubble. The craze’s upside is sky high. What if a blind side rock, rocks not, brainwashed (wo)men, Earthly?

Mind ye, that’s highly unlikely. Methinks we can not count on the diversion of an asteroid from its course without using force. Unless of course we globally apply — the power — of prayer.

The power of prayer. It’s a very powerful force; more powerful than ye probably can imagine. And if Uri Geller can bend a spoon with but his mind, imagine then billions, together, in prayer. 

Too few knucklehead Republican colleagues are as crazy as Ted Cruz. He’s not ahead tho, of me. I have permanently redefined what is duly considered to be crazy, in my zeal to get ahead.

Ye’d I have had revelations and epiphanies. And I have been astounded to learn that, here on Earth, Ye’d be crazy not to be. I hope ye do find a teacher to to get ye treated, before yer dead.

Here on Earth, everybody’s crazy. Ye’d be crazy not to be. I hope ye get treated before ye are declared, dead. That’s the way this epic journey that is the pilgrims progress — gets shortened.

A cautionary tale; a tale of morons, aliens and aspirations. Since I descended from a tower, golden, secretly and serially have I linked my tragi-comic tweets; tens of thousands of them.

A too close-by flying asteroid (an NEO) lit up the Earth’s, southern Florida sky, recently. Four more fly-bys come later, in April. Unexpectedly, it got just 16,000 feet away; in danger, is Earth. 

Four more fly-bys come later in the month, this April. It wasn’t forecast to get as close to us as it did, getting, a mere 16,000 feet away. It actually did explode in the sky over Miami — on Earth. 

An asteroid just came ‘exceptionally close’ to hitting the Earth. An asteroid half a mile long would cause on Earth, calamity. NASA’s blinding us to blind side rocks. We’re at risk — on Earth.

An asteroid half a mile long would cause, on Earth, calamity. And NASA’s been blinding us to blind side asteroids that we can’t see because of the sun. It’s risky — residing upon, the Earth.

For centuries, it was the role of the press, the so-called Fourth Estate, to speak truth to power and hold the powerful accountable. The infant internet has changed all that. It is — what it is. 

The role of the reporters, the free press, the so-called Fourth Estate, to speak truth to power; to press, the powerful. The infant internet has now changed all that. The press is — what it is.

INTRODUCTION — PART THREE

I’M HEAVEN’S — SON OF A BITCH

Now that the production of vaccines has taken off I’m taking credit. ‘Trumpcines’, vaccines may be renamed in my honor. Rename after me, at least, the Chinese — least effective — vaccine.

Now that I’m out and the vaccination has rolled off and led to a decrease in deaths, I’m taking off to take the credit. We may rename, at least, the least effective Chinese vaccine, ‘Trumpcine’.

I went well off-script in a long keynote speech. It was, vintage me. It was filthy rich. Mercilessly, I ripped into Senate Minority Leader McConnell, calling him a “dumb, son of a bitch.” It was rich. 

It was vintage me last night at the fundraiser at my Mar-a-Lago retreat — for the biggest, of the bigwig, GOP donors. Mercilessly, did I rip Mitch. Verily, everyone knows, he’s a son — of a bitch. 

I went well off-script fast and furiously for a 50 minute stretch of my speech. Vintage me, it was filthy; and rich. Ripping into Senator Mitch McConnell, I called him a “dumb son of a bitch.” 

An environmental disaster is uncovered. When we humans so callously pollute environments, undiscovered, may be the consequences. DDTs asea; aliens on Mars; I’ll be — a son of a bitch.

I have been called many times, a son of a bitch. Some say it’s actually true that I was born that way. In any event, whether born that way or not, I did in fact devolve into — a son of a bitch.

I have been in fact many times, a son of a bitch. It’s probably true that I was born that way. In any event, whether born that way or not, I did in fact evolve into one helluva — son of a bitch. 

At the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, just off the sun-kissed coast of Southern California is a Dead Sea. A Dead Sea; but it’s not Israeli. It’s an American, Dead Sea. As American, as apple pie. 

Hidden since the 1940s: countless barrels of toxic waste, laced with DDT, litter the sea floor in between Long Beach and Catalina Island. 3,000 feet below what on the surface — lies. 

Things placed or dumped out of sight, out of mind, become. I’ve had revelations and I’ve had epiphanies. Now I know it’s not just Americans. It is all of us. We have devolved to lie, have we.

Barrels of toxic waste laced with DDT litter the sea floor between Long Beach and Catalina Island; as many as 500,000, 3,000 feet below what on the surface lies. Poor stewards, are we.

Damn poor stewards, are we. We lie; we judge and we kill; lest we belatedly, at a last moment begin to evolve, we will for a time, devolve into something worse than — the Biblical plagues. 

A Dead Sea. Every planet ought have one. On Earth we’ve got two at least; likely there’s more. We’re just scratching the surface. We’ve only suffered, one plague so far, in these end days.

ALIEN — RENEGADES 

The Dems and my GOP; on common ground; that uncommon common ground is where the aliens are, with an American, based. Alien tech gets our helicopters — off the ground, Martian.

If a big rock strikes us and aliens enslave us life as we’ve known it shall end. Although an alien presence is now a fact nobody’s talking about these aliens. And why no welcome delegation? 

Nobody’s talking about this and it stinks to high Heaven. Not the public; not the governors nor even, most distressingly, the free-world’s press. A silence of the lambs, this silence of the press.

This silence of the press has been distressingly alarming. No one wants to touch the issue of aliens with a ten-foot pole. Silence — like when lambs go to slaughter, this silence, of the press.

This silence of the press has been causing me much distress, alarming. No one wants to touch the issue of aliens with anything less than a ten-foot pole. But I shan’t — I can’t — be silenced.

No one wants to address the aliens; not even with with a ten-foot pole. Silence — like when in the spring, the lambs go to slaughter, this still silence, of the press. But I shan’t — be silenced.

I shan’t be silent; nor silenced. From the very highest mountaintop, I’ll shout, “These aliens are fakes! These aliens are renegades, not any legitimate representatives of alien civilizations.”

These aliens, it seems to me, may be fakes! The aliens seem to me to be fakes of one sort or another. Renegades, possibly, perhaps; not any legitimate representatives of alien civilizations. 

Renegades, possibly, are the aliens; or escaped prisoners, perhaps. In any event the last thing I’d expect these guys to be are the legitimate representatives of our faraway, alien, brothers.

The last thing I’d expect these guys to be are the legitimate representatives of any faraway, alien, civilizations. Like the silence of the spring lambs, chillingly, deathly silent are the silent, reporters.

Deathly silent, are the reporters. Their silence may prove to be, prophetic. The Lord knows that I’m no prophet but I’ve had revelations and epiphanies. Everything is depending — on me. 

Everything depends on me. Literally, everything, depends on me. I had with Art and Vlad’s guys in lunar soirées, revelations and epiphanies. Now, literally everything, is depending, on me. 

Everyone on Earth is depending on me, the one and only, chosen one. Chosen have I been to be the hero, anti heroically, of the tall tale, I am authoring. I’m the hero — as well as the author.

Chosen have I been to be the hero, quite anti heroically of the tall tale, I am authoring. I’m the hero, as well as the author. Art’s my co-author. Our destiny is to MORONS AND ALIENS, author.

WAR — OF THE WORLDS — OR NOT 

Aliens have designs upon the Earth. They have planted a virus in China and plotted the path of the asteroid that’s coming our way, even as we bicker. A war of the worlds — cometh to Earth.

But not necessarily. It depends. It depends on decisions and, in particular, the circumstances at the time. Often, circumstances dictate what happens. That is what is happening, on Earth.

I am the GOAT. On the other hand, I’ve been cast as the goat; as if all this death is on me. I bear no responsibility. Everyone knows that by acting so promptly — actually — I saved, lives. 

Everyone knows that my prompt action, saved lives. My only regret is that I didn’t get to meet each cultist individually, so that you might have thanked me personally — for saving your lives. 

Content seem the aliens; happy even, do they seem, especially when we bicker. Indeed, it doth seem to me that the sneaky aliens, have designs on us. Truly, they remind me — of yours truly.

Happy seem the aliens, especially when we bicker. Indeed, it seems to me that these most inscrutable aliens have designs on us. They share with me hubris’ and hubris’, high toxicity. 

It is precisely their high levels of toxic hubris that make me suspect that the aliens are up to no good. Believe me even tho, sometimes, I lie. This is about survival — not egg — on my face.

The blind spot issue we face around the Sun can be overcome by a dedicated space based system or by discovering objects, years earlier. Why won’t someone ask aliens, to their faces? 

It is precisely their high levels of toxic hubris, that make me suspect the aliens are up to, no good. Even tho I often lie, this is all about man’s survival, not about egg on my face — over easy.

Joe Biden: Your Deep State cheated me fair and square. No more blame-gaming, going forward. Got to reach an understanding with Vlad and his guys and the rest of the nations — uneasy.

In Buenos Aires, hubris like mine exists only in Jair Bolsonaro. He knows not what to do but insists, only he knows. Unfortunately for us the aliens seem chock full — of toxic hubris — too. 

Hubris like mine, exists only, in Jair Bolsonaro. He knows not what to do but nonetheless, ever insists, only he knows. Unfortunately the aliens are full of of hubris too, through and through. 

This stinks to high Heaven. If a big rock strikes us and aliens enslave us, life as we’ve known it shall end. And although an alien presence is now documented, nobody’s talking about this.

Nobody’s talking about this and it stinks to high Heaven. Not the public; not the governors nor even, most distressingly, the free-world’s press. A silence of the lambs, this silence of the press.

DARK MATTER, DARK ENERGY AND MUONS

The force shapes our universe. It explains the existence of dark matter and moreover maybe even dark energy with its role in accelerating, in this plane, rapid expansion of the universe(s).

Unknown forces shape — our universe. They remain, unknown. Still, the wobble of the fat muons, may someday explain the existence of, dark matter and dark energy, in the universe(s). 

The force may explain the existence of dark matter and maybe even dark energy with its theoretically proposed role in accelerating, in this plane — the expansion, of the universe(s).

Gun maker protections against liability, Joe’s threatening, threatening in turn, the entire gun manufacturing industry. It’s got the gun makers apoplectic. The issue’s an emergency, adverse.

The issue of mass killings and guns used in the killing fields is become, a national emergency mirroring already deep divisions in the fabric of our so-called, society. This — is an emergency.

This is an emergency, temporarily, at least. In our so-called societies, these things pass; the NRA is counting on it, the Second Amendment and the torn fabric of our — so-called, society.

TwittereZe; chicken soup for your metaphysical soul. Came first the Watcher; then Arthur. Art’s been a handful, for Vlad’s assassins. They can usually find him with GPS units — in the usual.

Usually, Vlad’s hunters don’t have to wait too long until they locate their quarry, They wait til they get a fix on his location, with their GPS units. That’s what usually happens, in the usual.

To all publishers: TwittereZe verse by me I duly composed in lunar soirées, nightly; the way to, purposefully, promote. Keep in mind; topical tweets may be by themselves, invaluable, NFTs.

@TomBrady’s Autograph augurs success. And @Jack’s buyer valued Jacks first tweet in the millions. Jack’s Twitter‘s @beeple’s trove’s, $69 million. Twitter’s mixing novelty — and artistry. 

Novelty and artistry. Two constants in the art world have ever been, novelty and artistry. And celebrity, has never hurt, anyone’s prospects. But these days, the wild cards are — the NFTs.

NFTs; the Johnny-come-lately, non fungible tokens, have taken the world of art, by storm, leveling, the field of play; making it altogether possible for unknowns to rake in — royalties.

It’s utterly insane; what’s happened and what’s happening. But nothing compares with what’s going to be happening. That’s because the aliens on Mars have designs — upon the Earth.

The aliens have designs upon the Earth. They planted the virus in Wuhan and plot the path of the asteroid that’s headed our way even as we bicker. A war for a world is over, the good Earth.

A RED HERRING — IS INDEPENDENCE 

In the news today, is an insight; an anecdote cited by John Boehner in anticipation of a book. He writes I was mean to another when I shared with him recollections on how to recall one day.

“Want to know how to remember somebody’s name,” Boehner said I said, quoting me saying, “You fucking, LISTEN!” Bar none, I’m clearly the meanest man in Washington. Bar none, I’d say.

I’m the meanest man in Washington. Bar none. Even my sycophant, Floridian Representative, Matt Gaetz, pales next to me. When he pales he only seems whiter than me. I’m a real meanie.

Meaner than me? There’s absolutely nobody meaner than me. Matt Gaetz pales before me. When Matt pales he’s whiter but no way Matt is meaner. No one on Earth, is meaner than me. 

No one on Earth is meaner than me. Just ask Guinness. They know that, I’m the meanest man on the face of the Earth. The proof’s in the pudding. No one on Earth is meaner than me.

Too harsh am I, with myself. Everybody knows I’m my own worst critic; and I’m my own worst enemy. Everybody knows that. 2020 was the year of the rat. It is what it is. It’s TwittereZe.

On Earth freedom has become freedom from dominion of others; in other words, the total independence of men from the dominion of others. Nothing will do but total independence.

And it came to pass that the stewards of the Earth, having fallen under Lucifer’s spell, fell with him. It’s why, to this day, populists like me,
can have a cult. A red herring, is independence.

A red herring, is independence. It’s an option that seems grounded in logic. It’s logical; and practical; and beautiful. But it’s a false option. Independence, is one thing; freedom, another.

Independence, is one thing; freedom, another. I’ve got a cult of personality. Seemingly, my sycophants seem to love me. But usually, loyal followers oft can’t tell, one thing, from another.

The problem in a nutshell is that Lucifer (Satan, some call him), speaking in terms akin, to Art’s TwittereZe, brainwashed, moronic, ancestors. That’s why we’re brainwashed, even to this day.

Brainwashed have we been, even unto this day. And there is no way we can get ourselves — to think straight. Hubris and a penchant for lying keep us brainwashed, even to — this very day.

Chest-beating in gorillas isn’t just visual. It’s an audio display too. A sign of virility and abilities, like alligator rumbles, bison bellows or — my lying; behaviors saying, “Fuck not — with me!”

TwittereZe; chicken soup for your metaphysical soul. Inspired first by the Watcher, then Arthur. Art’s been a handful, for Vlad’s assassins. They can find him — with their GPS units — usually.

THE PROBLEM — IN A NUTSHELL 

The problem nutshelled is that we have no clue who we are and what to do. Furthermore, as everybody and their brothers know, if ye aren’t part of the solution, ye are part of the problem.

Ordinarily, no problem; problem is, in our lives, dictating are the circumstances extant when it’s time, to make decisions. And if the deciders are brainwashed, everybody is part of the problem.

Everybody is part of the problem. Surreal are consequences cultural, religious and racial. And unbeknownst to us, national, international and indeed, intergalactic, has become, the problem.

Truly, we deciders are brainwashed. Everybody, therefore, is part of the problem. Surreal are consequences cultural, religious and racial. Unbeknownst to us, intergalactic’s the problem.

Know the real name of your planet. Surreally, it is Urantia and the Urantia Book is — for the planet, yet another Scripture. Men and women screw the planet, even as, their kids play on it.

Men and women screw the planet as children play on it. Be the first on your block to know, the real name of your planet. It is Urantia and Urantia is for Urantians, just, one more planet. 

The Urantians believe themselves to be proud Earthlings but they identify themselves even more fiercely in terms cultural, religious, racial, or national. It is what it is. It’s, a savage planet.

It’s a savage planet; with wild animals: with wild men. One of the wild men is said to be, the meanest man, in Congress; Florida’s Honorable Matt Gaetz, may be the meanest, on the planet.

The Honorable Matt Gaetz is set to headline my pro-Trump women’s event at Doral. That even as a sex trafficking investigation event, looms. He like me has big brass balls — in every event.

“We are honored to have @RepMattGaetz speak at the #SaveAmericaSummit, gushed one Women for America First, representative. And they’ll brazenly play up — and out — the event!

Urantia is for the hapless Urantians, just one more, planet. Not one of its denizens got the memo. No one got the memo advising us that we are stewards of the planet, not, its owners.

We are stewards of the planet, not, its owners. But stewards, piss-poor, have we been. Earth is a savage planet; with wild animals and with wild men. In any event, stewards, not owners.

On Earth; a savage planet with wild animals and wild men, the steward owners fell under Lucifer’s spell. Freedom has become, freedom from the dominion of others — independence.

On Earth freedom has become freedom from dominion of others; in other words, the total independence of men from the dominion of others. Nothing will do but total independence.

TRUST NOT — THE ALIENS

Still, even after all these years, controversial, is Darwin’s theory; his theory of evolution. Trust me. Ye had better believe it. Arthur and I are here to save Earth — and ye oblivious, humans.

Ye had better believe it. Arthur and I are here to save the Earth; and to save ye. I would be remiss not to note, saved, not from yourselves only, but also from these — mysterious, aliens.

Like the hypersonic missile that failed to launch yesterday from a B-52, invaluable information gleaned from the test will in theory retest us, to redesign, as necessary. Why we test — is why.

Invaluable information gleaned from tests will challenge us to learn to redesign as necessary. It is why, we test. So why on Earth would men who trust not one another, trust aliens? Why?

There’s no good reason for that; and no good reason for not questioning our leaders about how unreasonable it is to trust extraterrestrial aliens more than our homie — Homo sapiens.

There’s no good reason for not questioning our leaders about how unreasonable it is to trust extraterrestrial aliens more than our homie, homo sapiens. Clueless are we, say the aliens.

Clueless are we, must be thinking, the aliens. It’s patently unreasonable not to trust our homie Homo sapiens, trusting rather, a rather motley crew — of Galactic Federation — aliens.

There’s no good reason for not questioning our leaders about not trusting our homies but trusting rather, a motley crew of hotshot aliens. This is not rocket science. Trust not, the aliens.

This is not rocket science. Trust not, the aliens. There’s no good reason for not questioning our leaders about not trusting our homies, trusting in a motley crew of possibly renegade — aliens.

Ludicrous; surreally, preposterous; words fail me routinely when I try to use one to describe the amoral state of affairs, on Earth. There may be in fact, no moral — MORONS AND ALIENS.

Words fail me often; as whenever I use one, too inadequate to describe the amoral, broken states of affairs on Earth. Oft, beings are often novelties; relatively — immoral ones — often.

Controversial is Darwin’s theory; on the origin of species; his theory of evolution. Trust me guys; I’ve got this. I can tell the aliens are lying. 
Invariably, I can tell if aliens — to me, are lying.

I’ve got super powers. I can tell if folks are lying to me. Ye’d be surprised at all the things I can do; surprised, at all I’ve done. But nothing can compare, actually, to what I’m yet, about to do.

I’ve got super powers. And I’ve had revelations; and epiphanies. I’m no prophet but everybody knows, I think I know, everything. In any event, I’ve got Arthur’s phone — to know, what to do.

ART AND I — WOMB-MATES — NO MORE 

My ex womb-mate knows instinctively, what’s happening. And I know I can take Arthur’s case global if Palette Poetry surprises Art with a nod, to a dream weaving Watcher’s, poetic, reprise.

In December I was given 180 days to report on what we know. The alien report’s due in June; in case June weddings with aliens don’t seem all that alien to ye citizens, recipients, of a reprise. 

Back in December when I was still, actually, the president I was given 180 days to report on what we know. The alien report’s due in June; on Joe Biden’s watch. But cometh — a surprise.

The report is due before June; on Joe Biden’s watch. But likely cometh before then, from out of the sky, from our blind side, on our sun side, a surprising, asteroidal reprise. As if — in reply.

Ironically, very possibly doth come, a galactic surprise, on or about or, ironically, before then. A series of eerie cosmic lessons is what has happened and what’s happening. That’s, no lie.

Ron DeSantis. He’s trying hard to be just like me. Live and let die. It’s not about masks and vaccines. It’s about shopping at Publix and the survival of the fittest. Like me, live and let die.

Refusing a vaccine isn’t about live and let live. It’s live and let die. Forgive Ron. He tries hard to be just like me. Live and let die. It’s all about the survival of the fittest. Just do it! Live and let die.

Forgive Ron. He’s tries hard to be like me. It’s not about separating, masking, washing hands and vaccines. It’s about shopping at Publix and survival of the fittest. Like me — live and let die.

But my womb-mate’s not my womb-mate no more. And it’s not for no reason that Urantia is become a laboratory; a crucible fit for study scientific, of Darwin’s — survival, of the fittest. 

It’s not for no reason that Urantia is become a laboratory; a crucible fit for the scientific study of my main man Charles Darwin’s controversial theory of the survival — of only, the very fittest.

My womb-mate’s not my womb-mate no more. We’re unfit. It’s not for no reason Earth is now become a lab; a crucible only fit for the study of my main man’s theory, of the survival, of the fit.

Womb-mates no more, Art and I, are a pair of whistleblowing brothers, come full circle. Earth is become a lab; a crucible fit only for the study of Charles’ theory — of the survival — of the fit.

THE 2021 EMERGING POET PRIZE 

Doors, Art may start, breaking down. The 2021 Emerging Poet Prize is to be awarded to some emerging poet. He (me), may be, a published poet. A distinguished debut — for TwittereZe. 

That would be fine by itself; one more debut by an aspiring author; a semblance of normality, on Urantia (Earth). It’s just that the poems that follow are unlike any other. They’re, TwittereZe.

Comes another social media platform, entirely; one less inclined to emphasize profit, above all else. And Arthur has named it, a boy, a brother and a father — in one — in Chachomanopapa. 

Comes another social media platform; one, less inclined to emphasize profit, above all else. Art has blessed it, naming it in honor of all boys — brothers — and fathers — Chachomanopapa. 

Chachomanopapa. An amalgam (in Spanish) of boy, brother and father. Chachomanopapa; a combination of three interjections, common. An introductory lesson — in Art’s — TwittereZe.

An amalgam (in Spanish) of boy, brother and father, chachomanopapa is a combination of the diminutives of three interjections, common. Another lesson — in Arthur’s — TwittereZe.

Then I learned that open is the 2021 Emerging Poet Prize; one poet will be awarded $3000 and publication on Palette Poetry. Arthur might break through. Lord knows — it’s a nice prize.

The 2021 Emerging Poet Prize; $3500 is to be awarded for emerging poets. The winning poet will be awarded $3000 in cash and publication on Palette. A timely opportunity — and a prize. 

Doors, Art may start, breaking down. The 2021 Emerging Poet winner will be published on Palette Poetry. And it may well be, for Art and TwittereZe, a distinguished debut, asking why.

It would be, for Arthur and TwittereZe, a truly distinguished debut were he to surprise the world with a reprise of the Watcher’s poetry. And as Art writes, he won’t look up, to the sky. 

There’s no need to call 911. I learned a bitter lesson at The Great Insurrection of 2021. I’m not inciting anyone to do anything. I very well remember The Great Insurrection — of 2021. 

Actually, bittersweet was the lesson at The Insurrection of 2021. I’m not inciting anyone to anything. I well remember The Insurrection of 2021. To my cult — I remain — the chosen one.

Bittersweet was the lesson of The Insurrection. Freedom is not free. Ye have to fight, for it. To my cult I remain the chosen one. But I can take Art’s case global if Palette Poetry, Art, surprises.

Hope springs eternal. My ex womb-mate knows instinctively, what is happening. And I know I can take Art’s case global if Palette Poetry, Art surprises with the Watcher’s — poetic, reprise.

I AM A MAN’S MAN — MOSTLY 

I’m a man’s man, mostly. My men, passionately, have loved me. Out of all of them Kim was my roly-poly, favorite. Melania loved him too; he was my best lover and a great, prison warden.

On his last legs Arthur’s last legs yet get no rest. And given he’s given, his super empowering phone to me he’s down to his martial artistry in the defense of himself against, Vlad’s assassins.

Even on his last legs, Arthur’s gotta keep on his toes. Vladimir’s assassins are on his trail. Even Mohammed has assigned a team of assassins to track Art down and neutralize Art’s powers.

Arthur’s gotta keep on his toes. He’s gotta keep away from the windows. And he’s gotta keep his head down and his eyes open. Assassins work for peanuts — and get paid by the hour.

Womb-mates were Art and I, once upon a time.
He kicked me — into the future. But I’m back; and we’ve come, full circle. Thanks to Art I’ve had, revelations and epiphanies, about aliens.

Revelations and epiphanies, I have had. Toxic levels of hubris, amongst a slew of other fatal conditions, is what we have. Unfortunately, we share the hubris in the universe, with — aliens. 

We share the hubris in the universe with these aliens. It may turn out to be the dark energy that the scientists are looking for. Hubris; who knew that hubris might be — that, dark energy?

Who knew that hubris might be, that — dark energy? Who could have known? Come to think of it; a lot of things start making sense only — when one suspends one’s disbelief — totally. 

Suspend totally, your disbelief, all ye who here, enter. Consider that, for example, the premise, constitutional, that all men are created, equal. It’s easy to suspend — your disbelief — totally. 

The fact is that all men are not created, equal. A fallacy, is the principal premise of our much valued, and venerated, Constitution. In politics, don’t expect cream, to rise to the top, usually.

Witness, what’s happening; on course through a normal planetary evolution, Urantia (Earth), got hijacked by Caligastia and Lucifer. Many know Lucifer but not too many know Caligastia.

Creating, developing and growing any business, let alone one that ye are hoping will someday be, standing out from the crowd. Patience my people. Chachomanopapa is coming to Urantia.

Chachomanopapa is coming to Urantia. Comes another style of social media platform; one less inclined to emphasize profit, above all else. And Arthur has duly named it — Chachomanopapa. 

Comes another social media platform, entirely; one less inclined to emphasize profit, above all else. And Arthur has named it, a boy, a brother and a father — in one — at Chachomanopapa. 

LIKE ME — ARTHUR — IS GREAT 

Like me, Art is magnanimous; like Nikola Tesla, philanthropically, Arthur has tried, over and over, to gift TwittereZe. Ironically, he can’t give it away, and — no one is learning — TwittereZe. 

No one is learning my TwittereZe. And no one is stampeding to Arthur’s School of Free Poetry. No one is enrolling at Arthur Everman’s School of Free Poetry — surreally — tragi-comically.

From a blind side sun side comes, at Godspeed, a rock. A collision, I’m fearing, is imminent. I’m no prophet; I’m just saying; a big rock, comes and too few have purposeful causes — actually.

A top secret is my version of the truth. And the reality, implausibly surreal of my superpowers; equally implausible one of them is the total superimposability, globally, of my surrealities.

“Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.” James’ fears tell us that love is not a Subaru, but a state of grace — with no room, for fear. 

No — love is not a Subaru. But a state of grace, rings true. Love has no use for fear. It won’t mix with it. And love makes the world go round. A state of grace — has no room at all — for fear. 

The Watcher has been Arthur‘s inspiration. He who first gifted poetry to humanity, Art alleges is the real brains underwriting my fictional and nonfictional, tall tale — MORONS AND ALIENS. 

@NASA: I’m no prophet. I’ve got connections, in the know, though. Supremely ironically, the Watcher Art says, is the brains underwriting my fictional, nonfictional — MORONS AND ALIENS. 

We have no plan on what to do if ever we have the misfortune of being stricken by an asteroid once again. I know that for a fact. I once was the president. I still am, the president — of us.

Ask the aliens Joe, about the blind side asteroid coming at us. And ask them how it is that they need help with their investigation of the fabric of the universe, from beings, primitive, like us? 

Perhaps fear is not, altogether, uncalled for; after all, on top of everything else, now that we’ve got these aliens flitting about, how is it no one wants to talk about the aliens — really? 

Perhaps fear is precisely, what’s called for; after
all historically, ye respond well to fear and less well, to love. Love is not a Subaru, but a state of grace with absolutely no room for fear, really.

It bears repeating. “Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within. Perhaps fear is precisely, what’s is called for — on mankind’s — Earth.

Love, mankind must understand is not at all a Subaru but a state of grace with no room, for fear. I fear we can’t, or won’t, understand this. Fear is coming, at Godspeed — to the Earth.

LYING TOO — IS NASA 

Oblivious are we of danger, imminent. From a blind side, sun side cometh, at Godspeed, a rock. A collision, I fear, is imminent. I’m no prophet. I’m just saying they fly, by all the time. 

From a blind side sun side, an asteroid, comes. The alien plan to enslave us and mine our gold awaits only our planet’s collision with a giant rock. Nobody’s talking about that, at this time. 

Cometh at Godspeed, an asteroid. A collision with it, I fear, is imminent. A really big asteroid has Earth’s number. And I would task Joe Biden, “Ask the aliens about — the blind side — of us.”  

Ask the aliens Joe, about the blind side asteroid coming at us. And ask them how it is that they need help with their investigation of the fabric of the universe, from beings, primitive, like us? 

Witness Pope Francis presiding at an empty St. Peter’s Good Friday service; he listened tho, to some children, taking centre stage. Scaled back rituals; What on Earth — is wrong — with us? 

Pray tell and teach the people Donald John, Art recently in soirée, instructed me. Teach them the utility of TwittereZe. It’s the Sudoku of the future — being in the present, gifted — to us. 

The essence of Art’s TwittereZe is as a valuable link in communication; its use in conjunction with Google Translate, may greatly facilitate the linkage, of like-minded people. It’s a great link.

Methinks it’s a great link for connecting people. As such, it’s a great source of potential energy. Methinks the children would take to it, as a fish, — takes to water. TwittereZe is — a great, link. 

@NASA: Imminent is a catastrophe with no modern, precedent. From a blind side, sun side, cometh, big rocks. A collision seems imminent to me. And I have surreal reasons — to know. 

@NASA: I know ye are not free to disclose what ye know. From a blind side cometh a rocking sensation, I have surreal reason to know. I’m no prophet but I’ve got connections, in the know. 

@NASA: I’m no prophet. I’ve got connections, in the know, though. Supremely ironically, the Watcher Art says, is the brains underwriting my fictional, nonfictional — MORONS AND ALIENS. 

The Watcher has been Arthur‘s inspiration. He who first gifted poetry to humanity, Art alleges is the real brains underwriting my fictional and nonfictional, tall tale — MORONS AND ALIENS. 

Oblivious are we to danger, imminent. From a blind side, sun side cometh, at Godspeed, a big rock. A collision, I fear, is imminent. I am no prophet. I’m just saying; they fly, by all the time.

They’re flying by all the darn time. And, as far as I know, we have no contingency plans. We have no plan on what to do if ever we have the bad luck of being struck again, one more time. 

THEY FLY BY — ALL THE TIME 

Some say the must-read of the day is Politico’s excerpt of John Boehner’s ON THE HOUSE. Nay; Donald John Trump am I; my must-read of a lifetime, hands down, is MORONS AND ALIENS. 

John Boehner’s new book, ON THE HOUSE, some say is a must read. That, I dare, naysay. Donald John Trump am I; the must-read of a lifetime is Donald John’s MORONS AND ALIENS.

MORONS AND ALIENS. It’s my magnum opus; the proof of the pudding. Arthur really has found an as if, ‘magical’ pixie dust in Twitter’s proprietary, algorithm. FREAKING — EUREKA! 

Arthur has surreally found a super-heroically empowering, and only seemingly magical, pixie- like, dust. It’s in Jack’s Twitter’s (free for us), algorithm. HOLY — FREAKING — EUREKA! 

A sure fire, rapid-fire, fusillade; all the events happening of late, are a heavenly sign, for sure. And it is spookier (or all the more, far far more glorious), I’ve been chosen, to Urantia, change.

I’ve been chosen to help Arthur save Urantia’s Urantians from themselves; saving them first from the aliens and then in turn from, endemic corruption, then migratory and climatic change. 

I’m chosen to help Art save ye Urantians from yourselves; saving ye first from aliens and then from endemic corruption and migratory and climatic change. To save ye, Art’s come, in time.

I was born to be the greatest hero of all time. I’ve noted it in on my resume. I was born to be, amongst other things, the greatest apprentice and the greatest president, also — of all time. 

To save our sorry asses, Arthur’s come in time, not, timely in time, necessarily. That is to say that it might already be, for humanity, too late. It’s too late for mankind if Art and I — are late. 

To save our asses, Art and I have come in time, methinks. Methinks that because, as I have previously written, I am for moment, the sole author of this story. Art’s been lying low, of late.

Art’s been lying low, of late. Isolating in a safe house, Art’s entrusted me with his alchemical Philosophers Stone phone, effectively making me the sole author of MORONS AND ALIENS. 

Entrusted with Arthur’s alchemical phone have I been; and Art and I agree that the odds Vegas might set on my success would be greater than Art’s. And so I’m writing, MORONS AND ALIENS. 

Oblivious are we of danger, imminent. From a blind side, sun side cometh, at Godspeed, a rock. A collision, I fear, is imminent. I’m no prophet. I’m just saying they fly, by all the time. 

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