MORONS AND ALIENS: DAY 2026: WEDNESDAY, MAY 5, 2026

THE PLOT — NUTSHELLED

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

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

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 indeed in spite of — threatening, illegal, aliens.

Heroics like those may win for me and my mentor Vladimir (Vlad) Vladimirovitch Putin, our coveted Nobels along tortured, torturous ways. Whether the end is happy or not — depends.

On my quest to be Vlad’s GOAT. I use Arthur’s @chachomanopapa.com blog comprised of my tweets at @chachomanopapa on Twitter. It’s from there — that I can still, Joe, second guess.

Through a portal and along an elongated path is the Pilgrims Progress. Paths that run toward our galaxy’s black hole, run largely, in parallel. Primrose paths mark too the Pilgrims’ Progress.

My healthy orange pallor a green hue took on reading Patricia’s glowing reviews. Still, I’ve got Art’s Philosopher’s Stone like phone. A key plot device — to get us home or to home, progress.

Nobody ever talks about this too. An algorithm transcendental, potentially, is Jack’s Twitter’s algorithm. Ideal for the conversion of prose to poetry it is ideal — as well — cross disciplinarily.

The ironies indeed are many. Life’s unfair. Still, Paris beckons; so too Moscow, Beijing, Riyadh and Pyongyang. Vlad and his guys are buying in to the possibility of my wild, conspiracy, theory.

For public consumption is whatever Vladimir and Xi may say these days about Joe Biden and geopolitics, in general. They’re worried about the possibility, of my sound, conspiracy, theory.

Recapitulating, Vlad’s guys and I head a body with countless arms, and half as many, minds. Losing our arms has been bad but losing our minds will be worse if not long-lost, actually.

I head a body with countless arms and minds. The loss of our arms has been bad but losing what’s left of our minds will be worse, actually. There’s nothing worse than losing one’s dignity.

Vlad’s guys and I head a body, heavily armed, well versed in killing but not so much, dying. There’s nothing worse than losing one’s dignity. And so we separated them, from their dignity.

Vlad’s guys and I head a body with countless arms and half as many brain-washed minds. Minds by the state disabled, that don’t naturally evolve. Minds saddled with, artificial, identities.

Vlad’s guys and I head a body with countless arms and half as many brain-washed minds. Minds by the states disabled; minds, that don’t evolve. Minds saddled with, artificial, identities.

INSANE HAPPENINGS 

Sidney has refused to relent; she’s pledging to submit an ‘epic’ lawsuit this week containing evidence of the outrageous claims that have alienated her from me, and conservative, allies.

Stay tuned. Her epic lawsuit, one she described as ‘biblical’, also, will be, this very week, duly filed. I predict that her lawsuit will alienate her from me and my only somewhat reticent, allies.

Meanwhile, back in the Mid East, Israel‘s Prime Minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, flew to Saudi Arabia for a covert meeting Sunday night with Crown Prince, Mohammed (Mo) — bin Salman.

In my rush for Nobels, I need Mo’s Saudi Arabia to join with the other Sunni states, the United Arab Emirates and Bahrain; to form a potential joint front against Shia Muslim, non-Arab, Iran. 

To build a wall against Shia Muslim and non-Arab, Iran, I shall need Saudi Arabia to join the Emirates and Bahrain. My road to the Nobels, runs through, the Ayatollah’s — Persian, Iran.

But 2020’s Nobels are all but over. I got shut out again. All of a sudden, 2020’s election, also, is over. But not til the 11th of February does the year of the rat end. And so, I write — I ran.

An inconvenient truth (sounds, a good title, methinks), I’ve lost the election. I wrote, “I ran.” I wrote that poetically but mistakenly. Just another misspelling; ‘twas meant to be, “Iran”.

On twin descents into insanity; mine; and Art’s. All part of our ascents, in the pilgrim’s progress, to the Heavenly Home of us all, eventually. But endemic on Earth, is insanity. And insane, I am.

Insane, am I; mad as any hatter in Wonderland. Madder even, than my former womb-mate, once upon a time. But I wouldn’t share mom’s womb with one the likes, of my brother, Arthur.

Art and I were womb-mates once; once upon a time. But I kicked at him; I wouldn’t share our mother’s womb with him. And the authorities, celestial had to find a foster-womb, for Arthur.

Why can’t we all, just get along? The answers, my friend, blow, in the wind. The answers, are blowing in winds. Indeed the answers are in our Scriptures — in the wind and in, science.

Indeed the answers are in our Scriptures; and in science. Witness, the wind and the waters; and the trees reaching skyward to the sun. Sad; that I’m 74 and have learned so little — science.

It seems fitting; that one as unfit as me, be now the president; a TV-bred child, all grown up into a loveless and lovelorn, man-child; a man-child who pleads now for Truth and Reconciliation.

Nobels, I’ll win along my tortured, torturous, way. With both happy and unhappy endings depending upon your particular political persuasion and your opinion of Vladimir Putin.

Because I’ve had revelations and epiphanies and because I’ve had Art’s Philosopher’s-Stone-like phone — superseding is my reality over all other realities.

Because I’ve had revelations and I’ve had epiphanies and because I’ve had Art Everman’s Philosopher’s Stone like phone in my sole possession, supersedes my reality, over Putin’s.

MAYDAYS may yet be considered a spinoff from my Art of The Deal and my Art of The Comeback. Indeed today’s Supreme Court ruling makes, far more difficult, my comeback.

Recapitulating, a lot of story lines are coming to a head. But the road ahead doubles sometimes as the comeback road. A steady stream of my unfiltered consciousness, keys, my comeback.

Live streams of my consciousness, unvarnished and unfiltered may key my comeback, yet again. And if I indeed do come back, it’ll be thanks in part, to Art’s rediscovery, of alchemy.

Arthur and I have come full circle. The live-streamed Twitter feed of my proxy Art’s alter ego now serves me. My reality is superseding. Thanks in part, to Art’s rediscovery, of alchemy.

Rabidly nationalistic, and white, am I. And it’s a good thing that I lost the election. Had I won the election, a dictator possibly, might I have been. But who said anything about survivalists?

Who knew? Nobody; absolutely, nobody. Who’s known of an alien plan to sicken us with a virus? To crash us into an asteroid? To enslave us? To mine for them our own precious, gold?

Who could’ve known? And what would it matter anyway? Nobody’s ever believed me. But the people may believe we’ve run into an asteroid when they hear and see it and feel it — unload.

Verily, the people may believe that we’ve really run into an asteroid if and only when they hear and see it and feel it unload. It won’t be pretty. It’ll be horrific, when the people in me, believe.

It won’t be pretty. It’ll be horrific, actually, when we’re actually stricken by an NEO. That’s when they’ll believe. Everyone’s got some St. Thomas in them. Unto they see they won’t believe.

Everyone’s got some St. Thomas in them. Until we see, we shan’t believe. We’ve got Judas in us too. I’ve got to get the people to believe in me. That’s asking a lot of a people

The reading and writing of poetry has taught me about me and ye and us. And it’s taught me how me to persuade humanity to do the right thing by — it’s revelations — and epiphanies.

A character defect that we all share in common is to blame. We gotta see, to believe. But the aliens won’t show themselves. In spite of the evidence we don’t really believe them.

It’s no coincidence; the seeming timeliness of what’s happening; my fall from favor; and the comeback, I imagine. It’s no coincidence when I imagine that we’ve done run outta time.

My fall from favor and the comeback that I’m imagining is actually, no coincidence. And it’s no coincidence that, in the end, the salvation of humanity may be (if nuts), in my imagination.

It’s no coincidence; the seeming timeliness of what’s happening, my fall from favor and the comeback I imagine. It’s no coincidence I’m imagining, all we’ve got left, is my imagination.

All we’ve got left is my imagination. But, as it turns out, that’s all we’ll need. I’ve got hubris and I’ve got hutzpah

All we’ve got left is imagination. That’s all we may need. I’ve got hubris and I’ve got hutzpah. And in addition to Arthur’s Philosopher’s Stone like phone — I’ll unfetter — our imaginations.

Hubris and hutzpah aside, I’ve been freed from my shame in revealing an Earth-shaking, if not Earth-shattering revelation, as well. The aliens have made fools of the the Earthling Urantians.

The aliens have made absolute fools of us. They’ve used our hubris against us. And they have absolutely no compunction against lying to us to ultimately get what they want from us.

Anyone with imagination may easily imagine how embarrassing the bad optics of being a world leader when it is revealed, one way or another, that the aliens have made fools of us.

Any imagination at all can easily imagine the embarrassingly bad optics of being a world leader when it is revealed, one way or another, that the aliens have made fools of us.

Met in Emergency (soirée) Session last night the Cabal, along with Arthur and the iconoclast and Cabal member nominee, Amy Lowell; to clarify her Scholarship’s intent; and intervene.

I met last night with Xi and Kim and Mo and with our top dog, Vlad to opine with Du Fu, Li Bai and Alexander Pushkin as to the winner of the prize — and only, if necessary — intervene.

All are agreed. All are agreed that Arthur, like me, has got his pulse on the planet. And it may well be that against all the odds, Arthur may win the Amy Lowell — Traveling — Scholarship.

And would that Arthur surprise the planet and in his landmark TwittereZe Google translations best the odds to win the 2021-2022 edition of literature’s Amy Lowell, Traveling, Scholarship.

I agreed last night with Vlad’s Cabal and with Chinese poets Du Fu and Li Bai and Russian poet Alexander Pushkin. Art is to be interfered with only on my orders or those of Vlad Putin.

In back channel communications, Washington, Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing and Moscow discuss less tonight the murder of Khashoggi than the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship, destination.

Across the planet today secret, back channel messaging, fills the air between Washington, Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing and Moscow. My allies there await word on Art’s — destination.

Secret back channel messaging fills the air ‘tween Washington, Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing and Moscow. My allies await word on Art’s heading. Paris, methinks, is his — destination.

Paris, methinks, is Art’s destination. And not because, Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing, Moscow and Washington don’t have the very finest in the most luxurious public accommodations.

Paris methinks is Art’s destination. Not because Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing, Washington and Moscow don’t have to hang, the finest. In Paris lives the spirit of egalitarianism, of Pyongyang.

Paris methinks is Art’s destination. Not because Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing, Washington and Moscow don’t have to hang, the finest. In Paris lives the spirit of egalitarianism, of Pyongyang.

The City of Light I would all but confirm is Art’s destination. Not because Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing, Washington and Moscow can’t hang; it’s that in Paris lives the spirit — of egalitarianism.

In Paris lives the spirit of egalitarianism. Still, Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing, Moscow and Washington have no appreciation of the implications of — subversive — egalitarianism.

The UN is now calling Yemen the world’s worst humanitarian crisis. However, increasingly, Yemen’s misery will be challenged by the misery of this — evolutionary, devolutionism.

We are tribal animals. In our groups, towards strangers we oft feel fear and often, that fear turns us into monsters. Into monsters may turn men, unduly fearful of their neighbor, brothers.

Into monsters may turn men, unduly fearful of their neighbor, brothers. We are tribal animals. In our groups, towards strangers we oft feel fear and often that fear turns us into monsters.

It’s why I’m here with ye and why Art’s here too. The plots thicken in anticipation of climaxes, oncoming. In the thick of things; the matter of the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship Trustees.

Who knew that the Boston Trustees of the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship might so critically figure in the destiny of the country and of the planet. Critical, is the decision, of the Trustees.

Rich in irony is the fate of the Earth is in the hands of the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship Trustees. The fate of the good Earth; it’s in the hands of the Traveling Scholarship — Trustees.

Surreally, the fate of the Earth is in the hands of the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship Trustees. The fate of the Earth is in the trusty hands of Boston’s Amy’s, Traveling Scholarship, Trustees.

Surreally, I may not be really exaggerating. It depends on whether the Trustees have their priorities in order; it depends on whether the Trustees are — from Boston — or America.

I know it’s alarming; how could it not be? The very possibility of our enslavement should be, alarm bells, sounding. But nobody’s on Earth is talking about this; nobody in the US of America.

I know it’s alarming; how could it not be? America’s enslavement should be alarming. But nobody’s in America is talking about this at all; nobody in the whole, United States of America.

Not even the media question that nobody’s talking about this. Nobody wants to be labeled a kook. Incorporating aliens into one’s world view has been a bad career move, historically.

Incorporating aliens into one’s world view has been a bad career move, historically, by and large. It’s Galileo’s jinx. Incorporating aliens into a world view, has been suicide, professionally.

I like to say it’s Galileo’s jinx. Forced to recant by the Catholic Inquisition and house-arrested for the rest of his life so labeled and limited is one who would dare ask — daring, questions.

Dare to ask some daring questions. Like, what’s the nature of our relationship with the aliens? And has anyone asked the aliens if they can help us with our blindside, asteroid, problem?

I dare ask some daring questions. Like, has anyone asked the aliens if they can help us with our blindside, asteroid, problem? And what, pray tell by the way, have ye done for us lately?

And so it has come to pass on this 1959th MAYDAY that I dare ask questions and dare as well to answer them. What’s up Joe, with the aliens? We need address the aliens, truthfully.

What’s up Joe Biden, with the aliens? Who speaks for them and who, if anyone Joe, speaks for us? Who speaks for us, Joe? We need to address truthfully, the issues — of the aliens.

Truthfully; because lying’s — not working. The proof, is in the pudding. Witness my revelations and epiphanies; witness, what’s happening. Witness my seeing right through — the aliens.

Witness my seeing right through the lies of the aliens. When the annals reference my legacy, let it not be overblown that the reason I knew was from my liaisons — with the female aliens.

Let it not be overblown when the histories are written that the reason I know so much about what’s happening is a consequence of my sly liaisons with some of the young, female, aliens.

Focus not on the lurid details of my sexual exploits with (wo)men and aliens. Focus rather on lessons to be learned in thamorality tale that is Arthur’s tall tale — of morons and aliens.

Arthur’s tall tale of morons and aliens. Fiction, nonfictional; a modern day, allegory. A genre-bending, self-help, book. A Nobel contender for peace and literature, of morons — and aliens.

Art’s genre-bending self-help book is more than I have the space and time in 280 characters, to describe. Instead, I’ll just take my time writing a long poem about the morons — and the aliens.

I’ve take my time explaining, what’s happening; and why; about good guys and bad guys; and aliens and morons. And the distillation that is the pilgrim’s progress throughout His creation.

I was the president. Now, I’m not. And after when I was, but before now; that was when revelations and epiphanies, transformed me. Verily — I’ve been super-heroic — since then.

I was the president. Now, I’m not. And after when I was the president but before now; that’s when revelations and epiphanies, transformed me. President no more — I pray for prescience.

I am no prophet. Worse yet, I am no longer the president. Revelations and epiphanies truly have transformed me. And because I am your President no more — I pray — for prescience.

Ask and ye shall receive Arthur tells me, the Good Book says. Indeed I asked and so, lo and behold, I have received. Praying for wisdom and knowledge, I received prescience, verily.

My prescience presents me with a great opportunity, thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, the infinitely, merciful. So merciful is He, He cleans even the souls of Muslim Mo — and me.

I am no prophet; nor am I, the president. But revelations and epiphanies have transformed me. And because I am your President no more, I pray for the prescience to alert the Trustees.

Truly, I am no prophet; nor am I, the president. But revelations and epiphanies transform me. And because I am your President no more — I’ve taken the liberty of alerting — the Trustees.

I have taken the liberty of alerting the Trustees. My abuse of power as the president is become an act, otherwise, heroic. Alerting the Trustees; bona fide — whistleblowers, alert, the Trustees.

My abuse of power as the president is become an act, otherwise, heroic. Alerting the Trustees; a bona fide whistleblower would do as I do. A bona fide hero would, alert the Trustees.

MAYDAYS ironies are many. What once was an abuse underhanded now may help save Earth. We may yet come to Art’s, TwittereZe, use —Use it alongside — Google Translate — ideally.

MAYDAYS ironies are many. What once was an underhanded abuse now may help save Earth. We may yet come to Arthur’s TwittereZe, use. With Google Translate — use it — alchemically.

We may yet come to use Art’s TwittereZe. With Google translations, alchemically is TwittereZe, used. And my revelations and epiphanies alerted me in time to alert the Trustees, timely.

Still, even as I write, I fear, I’ve run out of time. Today’s the second of March and last year’s winner was announced by a Trustee’s letter, dated the third. Truly I fear — I’m out of time.

Fearing I’m out of time, I feel indeed heartened nonetheless, by the logical intelligence, of it all. Thinking omnipotently, these outsider aliens are the perfect enemy — to unite us, this time.

Against all the odds, Art’s aliens may unite us, still. And if it happens soon, it might yet be, in time. And then Art’s allegory, not prophetic, but prescient, might make me the GOAT of all time.

In Paris lives the spirit of egalitarianism and not necessarily because Pyongyang, Riyadh, Beijing, Moscow and Washington don’t already have, like Europeans — egalitarian tendencies, lofty.

Who knew it was just a matter of time — and space — and such, before time — and time’s synchronicities brought us to a surprise climax. To a surprise climax cometh (wo)man’s destiny.

To a surprise climax cometh (wo)man’s destiny. Who knew? Nobody, certainly. Still, it was just a matter of time and space before time and its synchronicities brought us, a reprise, surprise.

A surprise, certainly, it’ll be, no matter what on Earth, happens. Five extinctions, have there been. The next one shall be the sixth one. And a sixth one may be a surprise, man-made, one.

Not necessarily man-made shall be the sixth extinction. But it very well, may be. Mankind wasn’t around for the first five. But he’s here now; here for a sixth, likely fatal — extinction.

Whatever happens; whether nefarious plans of the aliens we’re able to weather, or not, it’ll be a rude, surprise. And an invaluable lesson. Take care of one another — without any, distinction.

What manner of torture is this? Tik-Tok; time’s run out on the nations. Last year’s winner was announced by a Trustee’s letter dated the third. I can’t breathe. Oppressive is my, anticipation.

There’s a contingency plan; a Plan B; should Plan A get put to bed early. Still I hope that this one of those rare years when there are two Scholarship winners rather than the usual one.

Revelations and epiphanies have refashioned me into another. I have been transformed. I see that the Trustees have until the end of March to decide which American poets — win.

Revelations’ epiphanies have remade me into another. I’ve been transformed. And I see that the Trustees have until March 31 to determine which American poets, my Scholarship — win.

The Trustees have until March 31 to determine which American poet, or poets, my Scholarship, win. And it happens that until 1933, the fourth of March was the president’s inaugural day.

While the president, I illegally pressured the Scholarship’s Trustees. Now that I’m no longer the president, legally, I can lobby, the Trustees. I’ve got to sway them; only I, can save the day.

While the president, I illegally pressured the Trustees. Now that I’m no longer the president, legally, I can lobby, them. I’ve got somehow, to sway them. I must save the Earth someday.

The US Capitol Police have already reported a possible militia plot to attack the Capitol on March 4. The Police say theytaken steps to enhance security posture over the next days.

What’s not clear is how many QAnon believers are actually on board with the idea that I will return to power tomorrow or plan to take any action themselves on our inaugural day

My secret war against a nefarious cabal of cannibalistic Satanists in the Democratic Party and other liberal institutions of the Deep State is not secret anymore — to my great-dismay.

Liberal Democrats; they are Satanists and cannibals. Cannibalistic Satanists are they. Half of the country follows them. Half of the nation, the better half, of the country — follows me.

Dismayed am I; seemingly, about everything. Dismayed too are the citizens; and the children. Who, pray tell, besides me, speaks for them? But most dismaying by far, is the alien, enemy.

The Galactic Federation is an enemy the likes of which, we’ve never before, faced. We can’t be sure of who they are — nor — their intentions. Investigating their intent — I’ve been dismayed.

Investigating their intent, I’ve been dismayed; then heartened; then dismayed once again. The hallmark of change is the flux of the universe. Take comfort in it; be not, dismayed.

The hallmark of change is in the flux of the universe. It’s just the ebb and flow, of change. Take comfort in it and be not, by it, dismayed.
Dismaying is the change augured by an enemy.

But theirs is not the final word. The final word is reserved for the hero of the story; he who is me who happens to be too the author of a tall tale, fictional, nonfictional, tragi-comic — story.

The Trustees have until March 31 to determine the winner(s). Two winners — there may be; because one’s coming from left field. He’s had a revelation or two — and an epiphany — or two.

One of the winners of the 21-22 edition of the Scholarship may be a poet, already, widely-published. But if the Earth and its citizens are to be saved — select a poet, unknown — too.

Trustees: One winner of the latest edition of the Scholarship likely already has been widely published. But if the Earth and its citizens are to be saved — select a poet — unknown, too.

KNOWN, KNOWNS — KNOWNS, UNKNOWN

Because Earth and its citizens must be saved, Amy Lowell’s Traveling Scholar this year might best be a poet unknown. And now that I’m not president, legally, I can recommend — Arthur.

Highly, can I recommend, Arthur Everman. And I do. We’ve come full-circle since we once were womb-mates, once upon a time. I kicked him out then but now, on a comeback — is Arthur.

In a miraculous intervention, Art has returned. Just in time (perhaps), to help the antiheroic me save planet Earth in spite of myself, winning for myself and my mentor Putin — our salvations.

Increasingly and with ever increasing regularity, (wo)men live, still, obliviously. They die, still, needlessly. In droves and in waves do they die. In waves we make our way — to our salvations.

Sometimes in droves; sometimes, in waves; sometimes, in single file, we make our way to our salvations; over primrose paths and yellow, brick roads and sometimes, roads ne’er taken.

Through a portal and along an elongated path is the Pilgrims Progress. Paths that run toward our galaxy’s black hole, run in parallel. Paths, trails — and yellow brick roads — ne’er taken.

Through a portal and along elongated paths lie the Pilgrims Progress; paths running toward our galaxy’s black hole, in parallel. By no one else taken are your primrose paths, on the way.

It’s a long trek; your own, personal, Star Trek. To each, his own. I’ve been in soirées with Art; and I’ve had revelations and epiphanies, thanks to the Almighty — Allah God Jehovah Yahweh.

Thanks indeed to Almighty Allah God Jehovah Yahweh. And in no small part, to Art. And — to the Watcher. And thanks to the little people; and to the deplorable people; I love — all of ye.

In a miraculous intervention, Art has returned to Earth; to save his fifth planet. Whether he retires as an ace or not, he’s retiring to Heaven. In the meantime — I shall be, his trusty, proxy.

Whether Art saves Earth and retires as an ace or not he’s retiring to Heaven. In the meantime I shall be, his trusty, proxy. I shall be the trusty proxy of Arthur, who’s indisposed — presently.

Presently indisposed, is the break-out poet, Art Everman. Compromised immunologically, he’s in isolation; in preventative quarantine from the virus and in hiding from assassins, aplenty.

Compromised immunologically, Arthur is in isolation; in preventative quarantine from the virus and in hiding from assassins, aplenty. And the assassins hail from Vlad’s, cabal’s, nations.

The assassins hail from Russia, China, North Korea and Saudi Arabia. Art’s in isolation. On Urantia, in quarantine; hiding, from assassins. But there’s no hiding from Vladimir’s assassins.

What’s worse; throwing aliens, into the mix. My militias, standing down, may be; and Q and I have done run out of all of the more or or less plausible, of all possible — inauguration days.

There’s a whole lot going on at any given time. There’s the virus; domestic and international politics and a mass today in the ancient city of Ur, where Abe was born and — lived his days.

There’s a whole lot going on at any given time; and a whole lot is being said at any given time; on Earth and in MAYDAYS. It’s a matter of time; just a matter of time until happenings, eventful.

Trustees: Straight from the future: TwittereZe; in peaceful futures, it’s games for the gamers and TwittereZe, crosswords and Sudoku for the more sedate, sedentary or the more cerebral.

There’s a whole lot going on at any given time; and a whole lot is being said at any given time; on Earth and in MAYDAYS. It’s a matter of time; just a matter of time until happenings, eventful.

It’s just a matter of time. It’s just a matter of time on Earth; and in MAYDAYS. It’s just a matter of time until an extraordinary event, happens. Would that it were, transformational.

Would that it were — transformational. And so it may be. It well may be that there’s more to Willy’s observation that all the world’s a stage and all the actors — players. It’s tragi-comical.

Would that it were — transformational. And so the world, implausibly, may be. It well may be that there’s more to Willy’s worldly observation; the world’s a stage and all the actors — players.

All the world’s a stage and all the actors upon it, players. It’s a statement, sardonically, ironic. It rings, true. And it’s literally true, too. Even my superseding reality is subject to — The Master.

All the world’s a stage and all the actors upon it, players. Sardonically ironic, that statement. It rings, true. It’s literally true. The illusoriness of my superseding reality pales before, His reality.

The illusoriness of my reality pales before His; it’s His reality if any there is, that’s superseding. I’ve got Art’s phone so I’ve got super powers; and I’ve got Arthur’s — free — School of Poetry.

My dear Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship Trustees: Welcome to a superseding reality within a larger, superseding, reality. I’m a hero, flawed — come to — paradigms — exchange.

Art’s School of Poetry. It’s where I studied as an exchange student whilst Arthur studied as an exchange student at Trump University. I’ve got Art’s phone and Earth’s paradigm, I’d exchange.

My dear Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship Trustees: Welcome to a superseding reality within a larger reality, superseding. I am a hero flawed come to paradigms exchange, surreally.

Dear Trustees: I am a superseding reality within a larger reality, actually, superseding. A hero, badly flawed is come to exchange a paradigm, badly flawed. It’s all up to Arthur — and me.

And the Trustees. Only seemingly incredibly, a decision of theirs in the matter of the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship determines who gets to advance Amy’s — progressive agenda.

Who gets the honor of advancing a progressive agenda; the most progressive agenda, ever? Who gets the honor of counter-attacking? Who will advance Amy Lowell’s, progressive agenda?

Whom shall time honor? Whom, it dishonor? MAYDAYS is chock full of deserving questions and common sense answers. And a climax nears in space and time, moving at Godspeed.

Moving at Godspeed is everything. Thank God Allah Jehovah Yahweh. So magnificent is He that what happens seems to be a mix of live action and predeterminations — at Godspeed.

I’ve had revelations and epiphanies. Now I see so much of what I’ve been, previously, blind to. But still I share along with the rest of humanity, a blind spot for NEOs — coming out of the sun.

I share with humanity a blind spot for asteroids coming out of the sun. And what’s more; too many of us share a penchant for lying and an empathy muscle, atrophied; raisins in the sun.

In Utah, inprotest, offended, insulted citizens, burn their masks, to the ground. They know their rights. They know the rights of others. They favor their rights over — rights, of others.

In Utah, some favor their rights over those of their neighbors. And the theme replays the world over as citizens everywhere struggle with the political balancing — of the rights of others.

Make no mistake. I am no prophet but there is a lot to be read into the synchronicity of the things that are happening. There is meaning in the synchronicities; meaning, transformational.

Trustees: I’m no prophet but there is meaning in Jung’s synchronicities; meaning, sensational. Revelations and epiphanies are transforming me. They may be for all — transformational.

Transcendental, transformational, big-time, changes. Cosmetic changes won’t do. I’ve a plan in mind to turn the tables on the aliens; to out, them and affirm — our purposes — unusual.

Check that. Checking my junk mail, I got, in the face, crushed. I found the adverse notice of Arthur’s rejection. He won’t be teaching in Paris this year his under the radar, TwittereZe, verse.

Clocked. Knocked — out. How is it possible that I can’t impress upon the poetic powers that be that the welfare of the planet and it’s people is best served by one versed in TwittereZe verse?

How is it possible that I haven’t been able to impress upon the Academy of Poetry that the welfare of the planet and it’s people is best served by one well versed in TwittereZe verse?

Art’s rejection; ‘twas a stunning surprise. And though we know He works mysteriously, still we misread the tea leaves. Arthur shall not be composing — any poetry, this year — in Paris.

Or maybe he will, still. I mistook an adverse decision in another competition for the verdict, here. The welfare of the entire planet depends on Art and me — Hold on France — to Paris.

Or maybe he will, still. I mistook an adverse decision in another competition for the verdict, here. The welfare of the entire planet depends on Art and me — Hold on France — to Paris.

Hold on France, to Paris. It’s not that there isn’t, in Pyongyang, fine poetry, being composed and read. Riyadh, no doubt considers itself, second to none. Ditto Beijing and Moscow — and Paris.

Trustees: a poem such as Art’s and mine is a mine of potential energy, virtually. It’s a mine; and a transformer, transforming effortlessly our potential energy, into our kinetic energy.

Trustees; trust in me; not in my alter-ego on TV. Trust, above all in Allah God Jehovah Yahweh. Do your part. Award Art the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship. rediscovering alchemy.

More than just my hagiographic and epically poetic account of what’s happening MAYDAYS is about the rediscovery of alchemy; about producing kinetic energy from potential energy.

No one; not the people; not the leaders; nor even the press; no one suspects the aliens of being anything less than the hard-working aliens they’ve impressed our leaders as being

CHANGES — EBBS AND FLOWS

With a Big Bang they say, everything began — after an end — previously. Later, the aliens and the morons were created but the aliens got a head start. They’re far ahead, technologically.

The aliens of the so-called Galactic Federation are far ahead of us, technologically. To what end are they here? It seems that even if they appear friendly, they actually may not, so be.

To what end are the aliens here on Earth? It’s just plain old common sense that even if they appear friendly, they may actually, not be so. What are these aliens doing here — actually?

Why are the aliens even here? If they are anything like us, common it would be, if they turn out to be as treacherous, as us. Why are the aliens even in this neck — of the galaxy?

If the aliens turn out to be anywhere near as treacherous as us, then, we’re in — big trouble. Troubling, is near everything we supposedly know about the aliens, which is next to nothing.

Nothing do we in fact, know. Troubling is near everything we supposedly know about the aliens. Nothing’s been confirmed. Nothing has been corroborated — Absolutely — nothing!

Absolutely nothing in fact do we know as a fact. Absolutely nothing! And nobody wonders and nobody bothers to question who the aliens are and what in hell on Earth they want from us.

How is it possible that nobody wonders and nobody even bothers to question who the aliens are and what in hell on Earth they want from us. What in the hell — is wrong with us?

No one; not the people; not the leaders; nor even the press; no one suspects the aliens of being anything less than the hard-working aliens they’ve impressed our leaders as being.

No one suspects a darn thing. And everyone is distracted; by politics, as usual; in Hong Kong and Myanmar and everywhere. The alien plan of conquest — like clockwork — is proceeding.

Like fine Swiss clockwork proceeds the evil plan of the aliens. They’ve got us just where they want us and how they want us; weakened by a virus — and in the way, of a rocky — asteroid.

Weakened by a virus the aliens maliciously and purposely planted in China, now, the aliens are in the cat bird’s seat. They get to wait for the collision between Earth — and a rocky asteroid.

Comes a collision between us and an asteroid come, seemingly, out of nowhere. I do suspect that the aliens are not in good faith, dealing with us; they are — bamboozling us — in fact.

OF MORONS — AND ALIENS

With a Big Bang they say, everything began. Life came along later, long, long, afterwards. But life began sooner in some places. One such galaxy is the alien galaxy that was home to the aliens.

There’s a galaxy out there in outer space; it was, once upon a time, home to the aliens. And I wonder: Is it their home still? Or — are they in search of a new home planet — for the aliens?

Pressing questions just became, crushingly, more pressing. My recommendation to the Trustees has fallen on deaf ears. Art won’t be going to Paris to compose alien-themed poetry.

Art won’t be going to Paris to compose there, his alien-themed, poetry. He won’t be warning from Paris humanity, about the threat posed, by the aliens. What’s to become of humanity?

What’s to become of humanity and the aliens? As alway, it actually depends; it depends on the prevailing circumstances and it depends on our — individual — and our, collective — decisions.

What’s your opinion — of NFTs — non fungible tokens coupled — to couplet verse? There’s a reason why it may be worth one’s while to brand one’s verse with, non fungible — tokens.

Coupled verse branded with one’s proprietary non fungible tokens, promises, profitable verse, coupled. Each half couplet verse becomes, as an artistic work by itself, a profitable, dividend.

Non fungible tokens; beyond a passing trend, NFTs are revolutionizing the art world. And Art knows that there’s a lot of hay to be made from each and every verse — of Morons and Aliens.

Every verse of Morons and Aliens is valuable; exceedingly, valuable. And with each verse more valuable than the verse that preceded it, exceedingly valuable is my Morons and Aliens.

Exceedingly valuable may be the epic verse of my allegorical tall tale — Morons and Aliens. If I can use Art’s Philosopher’s Stone-like phone, I may be able to turn the table — on the aliens.

Who’d a thunk it? A plot twist even as the action climaxes; a new way to make new money even as my old money abandons me. Buy my verse; it will fund the fight — against — the evil aliens.

Who’d a thunk it? A plot twist even as the action climaxes; a new way to make new money even as my old money abandons me. Buy my verse; it will fund the fight — against — the evil aliens.

Buy my verse; it will fund the fight against the evil aliens. Non fungible tokens make for a return on investment, so profitable, it makes the royalty system of payment — obsolescent.

Royalties shall become obsolescent. God willing royalties too, shall become, obsolescent. My implementation of the Golden Rule shall make the royalty system of payment — obsolescent.

ROYALTY AND ROYALTIES

The royalty system of payment; royalty itself; their overdue obsolescence, isn’t necessarily, happening. All depends on the fateful decisions we make. All depends on my allegorical poetry.

Vlad’s guys and I head a body with countless arms and half as many brain-washed minds. Minds by the state disabled, that don’t naturally evolve. Minds saddled with, artificial, identities.

Minds by the state disabled; minds that don’t naturally, evolve. Minds saddled with, artificial, identities. Our minds; all minds, brainwashed, by powers that be; everybody — except for me.

On Earth, all minds, including my great mind, by the powers that be (by the presiding state), get brainwashed; even mine, actually. But I’ve got powers — to power cleanse my — biases.

Why would anyone in their right mind even think about crypto art, let alone spend millions on what is nothing but a link — to a JPEG file? I know hubris has got, a whole lot, to do with it.

Hubris has a lot to do with it. Unfortunately, I’ve noticed that we Earthlings appear to share that dubious quality with the aliens of the Galactic Federation. Hubris — has a lot — to do with it.

My fall from favor and the comeback that I’m imagining is actually, no coincidence. And it’s no coincidence that, in the end, the salvation of humanity may be (if I’m nuts) in, imaginations.

It’s no coincidence; the seeming timeliness of what’s happening, my fall from favor and the comeback I imagine. It’s no coincidence I’m imagining, all we’ve got left, is my imagination. 

All we’ve got left is imagination. That’s all we may need. I’ve got hubris and I’ve got hutzpah. And in addition to Arthur’s Philosopher’s Stone like phone — I’ll unfetter — our imaginations. 

I’ve got Art’s phone and his Philosopher’s Stone and J’ve got hubris and hutzpah. And J’ve got an imagination unfettered by traditional protocols — and other — brainwashing — socializations. 

I’ve got Art’s Philosopher’s Stone and J’ve got his hubris and hutzpah as well. And I’ve been freed from my shame in revealing an Earth-shaking, if not — Earth-shattering, revelation.

Hubris and hutzpah aside, I’ve been freed from my shame in revealing an Earth-shaking, if not Earth-shattering revelation, as well. The aliens have made fools of the the Earthling Urantians.

The aliens have made absolute fools of us. They’ve used our hubris against us. And they have absolutely no compunction against lying to us to ultimately get what they want from us. 

Any imagination at all can easily imagine the embarrassingly bad optics of being a world leader when it is revealed, one way or another, that the aliens have made, absolute, fools of us.

HUBRIS AND HUTZPAH

Not until yesterday, well after my leaving office, did I actually encourage the vaccination of my followers, and as ye know, my wife and I were vaccinated — in a secret happening, in January.

Secret happenings, half-truths and outright lies; they make me look bad, making me seem, less than honest. And so I recall Peter and the Wolf, a Russian tall tale, of standing tall for the party.

A symphonic fairy tale is Peter and the Wolf, both education and indoctrination. The plots thicken in my hubris and hutzpah inspired tall tale — of earthly morons and — illegal aliens.

Standing tall for the party. It’s the party line. And fall upon your sword if called upon by the party to do so. It’s all in the call of duty. But the party line can’t be: It’s all the fault of the aliens.

Mark my words; verse fromMorons and Aliens are prescient words and the definitive last word on president 45 and Earth. Mark my words. What’s happening to us only Arthur and I, understand.

Stand tall for the party. Toe the party line. And fall upon your sword if called upon by the party to do so. It’s all in the call of duty. But the party line can’t be: It’s — only the fault, of the aliens.

All set to do at least a dozen book interviews in the coming weeks, I feel happy that I’m still the center of attention.

Mark my words; verse, of Morons and Aliens; prescient words and the definitive, last word on president 45 and Earth. Mark my words. What is happening to us, is an invasion, of the aliens.

Following the culling of our herd, the alien plan is to steal our gold from us. By saving us; then enslaving us. And condemning us to the hard labor of mining our very own gold — for them.

It came to pass that a piece of art went for $69 million in a Christie’s auction last week. And it occurs to me that Earth might well be saved with a cryptocurrency’s, non fungible — tokens.

A piece of art work went for $69 million at auction at Christie’s last week. And so it has come to pass; cryptocurrency’s analog’s, non fungible tokens may be, for Earth — a remedy.

The technology started in 2015 when unique tokens were created for the Ethereum block chain. They’ve only recently become a big deal. We ought use, non fungible, cryptocurrencies.

Ethereum is well positioned to profit from a mother lode that is the creation and the dissemination of art funded by ingeniously simple — and ingeniously non fungible, tokens.

It occurs to me that cryptocurrency’s Ethereum is well positioned to profit from that mother lode that is the creation and dissemination of art funded by ingenious, non fungible, tokens.

Ethereum is well positioned to profit from a mother lode that is the creation and the dissemination of art funded by ingeniously simple and ingeniously, non fungible, tokens.

Under the influence of a wide range of social influencers and notwithstanding that NFTs appear too good to be true, my gut instincts tell me that good things — really do happen to me.

Everybody knows that no matter how much I stink up a joint, in retrospect, the smell’s always rosier. And everybody knows that how many die does not come into play, as a political point.

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 the morons against — the aliens.

The 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?

What’s not to write, given what’s happening? I suspect the aliens may be renegades, taking advantage of aprimitive and technologically unsophisticated species of beings, living 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. A primrose path marks the progress, of pilgrims.

Through a portal and down an elongated path lies the Pilgrims Progress; paths that run to our galaxy’s black hole, and often back. Primrose paths markthe progress — of the pilgrims.

Through a portal and down an elongated path lie the paths that run to a black hole and back. Pilgrims trudge 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 timesback. 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 to the joy of our salvation. That is the way — of the Pilgrim.

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 prizethe tweets comprising MORONS AND ALIENS.

On March 11, Beeple, aka Mike Winkelmann, auctioned a piece of crypto art at Christie’s for $69 million. Mike’s the winning bidder, as per a digital record, conferring the art’s, ownership.

Each of Art’s tweets is an NFT by itself. More than a mere satire, for Pangaea, MORONS AND ALIENS is a panacea and in addition a hefty, blockchain prize. Art’s art, promises, bonanzas.

Presents are gifts — whether gift-wrapped or tenses, in time. Presents as gifts; like this tweet. And each of Art’s tweets, believe it or not is an NFT, all by itself. It may, by itself, be a bonanza.

Each of Art’s tweets is an NFT by itself. More than a mere satire, for Pangaea, MORONS AND ALIENS is a panacea and in addition a hefty, blockchain prize. Art’s art, promises, bonanzas.

A fetish for collectors is the digital record and a Certificate of Authenticity conferring upon the art’s work’s collector (for collectors of originals), the art work’s very limited ownership.

A fetish for collectors is the digital record and a Certificate of Authenticity conferring upon the art’s work’s collector (for collectors of originals), the art work’s very uniquely limited, ownership.

On March 11 Beeple sold a piece of his art at Christie’s for $69 million. That begs a question, a revelation and an epiphany. If Mike’s art sold for that much how much more is worth, my art.

Presents are gifts — whether gift-wrapped or tenses — in time. Presents are gifts as is this tweet. Arthur’s tweets in time believe it or not — are NFTs even all by themselves. In time Art’s tweets may be bonanzas — all at one time.
cc: @JoeBiden @ethereum https://chachomanopapa.com/2021/03/20/mayday-1979-saturday-march-20-2021/

If Beeple‘s art 5000 images sold for $69 million, how much more is worth, my art work? Beeple sold his art at Christie’s for $69 million. Pray tell, much more is worth Arthur’s — great, art?


Ethereum isn’t just for digital money. Anything you can own can be represented, traded and put to use as non-fungible tokens (NFTs). And tokenizing one’s art begets handsome royalties.

Tokenizing one’s art, makes for, sometimes, handsome royalties. And isn’t just for digital money. Anything you can own can be shown traded and put to use as non-fungible tokens.

If Beeple‘s work’s sold for $69 million, how much more valuable Arthur’s? How much more valuable than Beeple’s art is Art’s art? Art’s art is in bare, unadorned words; invaluable, Art’s art.

NFT art is in a bubble said the newly rich, digital artist who this month sold a non-fungible token of his piece “Everydays: The First 5000 Days” for over $69 million. That is one hell — of a bubble.



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