MORONS AND ALIENS: SATURDAY, MAY 29, 2021: MAYDAY 2050

Behind every man Joe, there is a woman. And behind every looker like Jill, Joe, there are likely, about ten men. We men; all too oft, we’re pigs; and wolves. But I know, we could be, love birds.

NO BLACK BANSHEES — IN IRELAND

But what if, at LinkedIn, black lives don’t matter? What if they matter, but not as much as white lives? Worrisome to the Irish is the increasingly alarming, glass-breaking, wailing, of banshees.

Worrisome to the Irish is increasingly alarming, high-pitched, wailing, of banshees. Dublin’s far more racist, than London. Everybody, knows that. Fearful are the Irish, of wailing banshees.

Dublin is way, way, more racist, than London. Who doesn’t know that? Fearful are the Irish, of their banshees. Worrisome to the Irish is the terrifying, high-pitched wailing, of the banshees.

Dublin is far, far, more racist, than London. Who doesn’t know that? Fearful are the Irish, of their wailing banshees. Terrifying is the screeching, high-pitched wailing of much feared, banshees.

It seems the Irish themselves may be the last to realize their minority status despite the fact that they face all the same disadvantages of racism and intolerance, as always, where racism, is rife.

Less prevalent in Antarctica but aside from that icy white continent, racism, is endemic to Earth; from white Russian Caucasian whites in Europe and America to the Han in China, racism, is rife.

Kafkaesque; where the real and the fantastic features isolated protagonists facing bizarre or surrealistic predicaments and illogical, bizarrely, incomprehensible, socio-bureaucratic, powers.

What’s happening is classically, Kafkaesque; it’s where both the real and the fantastic challenge isolated protagonists like me face bizarrely, surreal predicaments and unnatural — powers.

Nothing if not Kafkaesque is what’s happening here on Earth; between me, and the aliens, and the near eight billion living here in a state of war, relative. But we’re in the dark about, aliens.

We’re in the dark about the aliens; just as we’ve been all along. But one of my last acts as the President was to order my security agencies to report on vulnerabilities — earthly — and alien.

One of my last acts as the President of US was to order my security agencies to report on our vulnerabilities — earthly, and alien. I’m hoping Jill helps Joe not be, bamboozled, by the aliens.

There are known unknowns on Mars and in the NEOs (near Earth objects). We know there are known unknowns on Mars and in the NEOS. What’s up Joe with the NEOs — and the aliens?

They say, Joe, that behind every good man, there’s a good woman; like yer Jill; she’s pretty; and pretty smart, too; if she were any prettier, she’d be with me. Melania, would welcome her.

Behind every man Joe, there is a woman. And behind every looker like Jill, Joe, there are likely, about ten men. We men; all too oft, we’re pigs; and wolves. But I know, we could be, love birds.

FROM THE DESK OF DJT

The latest plot twist offers hope. Subscribe to “From the desk of DJT” — Newsletter. Remain at all times, updated. Subscribe, for the sake of yer family, for access to, my newsletter — website.

Because everybody knows that nobody knows anywhere near everything that’s happening, an innocent one writes, in lieu of his prodigal, ex womb-mate brother, Art — at his new website.

At my new website, soon to be near and dear to everybody, I write in lieu of my prodigal dear ex womb-mate brother. I know that nobody knows anywhere near — everything, that’s happening.

The latest plot twist offers hope. Subscribe to “From the desk of DJT” — Newsletter. Remain at all times, updated. Subscribe, for the sake of yer family, to know — everything, that’s happening.

At a new website, soon to be near and dear to everybody, I write in lieu of my prodigal dear ex womb-mate brother. I write knowing, nobody knows what’s happening ‘cept me, and the right.

I write in Art’s stead knowing nobody knows what’s happening except for Him, in Heaven, and the right with the mighty arms on Earth. I write on behalf of white knights — on the right.

Because everybody knows that nobody knows hardly anything about what’s happening, this latest plot twist offers hope to the dwindling millions, harboring hope, for white men, super.

The latest plot twist offers high hopes to the dwindling millions of cultists yet harboring hope for the dominance of the white man. Everybody knows that we white men — we jump — higher.

White men do jump higher. And in other news elsewhere, in Ireland, the banshees are wailing, big time. Irish banshees, with their bloodshot eyes — in the highlands and the lowlands, wail.

In Irish news elsewhere, as well, the banshees wail. In the highlands and the lowlands, they wail. In the city of Dublin and throughout the countryside — in Ireland — the banshees, wail.

Irish folklore also features a tradition that the wailing of numerous banshees signifies the death of a great person. Or might it be many?Worrisome to the Irish, are wailing, banshees.

The wailing of numerous banshees may signify the death of a great person. Might it be many? And what if at LinkedIn, black lives don’t matter? — Worrisome to the Irish are wailing, banshees.

But what if, at LinkedIn, black lives don’t matter? What if they matter, but not as much as white lives? Worrisome to the Irish is the increasingly alarming, glass-breaking, wailing, of banshees.

Worrisome to the Irish is increasingly alarming, glass-breaking, wailing, of banshees. Dublin’s more racist, than London. Everybody, knows that. Fearful are the Irish, of wailing banshees.

PLOT TWISTS — FAST AND FURIOUS

… Vlad and his cabal are prominent in nightly lunar soirées that we recollect not the very next day. But 2020 has everyone duly considering the heresy — of working together — some day.

Tuesday, March 4, 2030; a calendar date and a command. And it’s the date I’ve got in mind for our celebration of my Nobel-winning, Twitter Diplomacy and a first, Global, Citizenship Day.

The quickening pace of the plot twists, on Earth, happening, would be of concern to, Carl Jung. And so I have had Carl Jung’s synchronicities in mind — as I write of Art’s intervention, in time.

I have had Carl Jung’s synchronicities in mind as I write of Art’s intervention, in time. The twists of fate, the plot twists, are quickening, of late. I marvel as I write — of Art’s intervention, in time.

Ye are now under actual notice. Let the annals in the Hall of Records reflect that all of us that are Vlad’s guys are on notice. The people are on to us and may march forth, March 4th, of 2030.

Garcia Marquez, Mo Yan and many others see what they imagine may be magical realism. But what they characterize as magical, is actually, miraculous. Miracles, not magic are what I see.

Let the annals in the Hall of Records reflect that all of us that are Vladimir’s guys are on notice. The people are on to us and may march forth, upon us this coming March the fourth, of 2030.

Vladimir’s guys are on notice. The people are on to us and may march forth upon us this coming March the fourth, of 2030, if the coming of that date finds ye yet — in the catbird seat, in 2030.

Given yer mission and but 280 characters to do it in, split yer content in two; words competitive and cooperative. Language’s zenith is when metered, measured and varied is — its content.

Yer pics; given that we’re most moved by visual cues, any embedded pic, likely may be the most emotive part of yer content. As always, seek balance — err, in favor of pics — in yer content.

The latest plot twist offers hope. Subscribe to “From the desk of DJT” — Newsletter. Remain at all times, updated. Subscribe, for the sake of yer family, for access to my newsletter — website.

Subscribe: Miss no update. And subscribe now, whilst it’s free — to pay less, later. For now, it’s free to be so updated at “From the desk of DJT”. Not to worry; for now it’s free; see, the website.

The latest plot twist offers hope. Subscribe to “From the desk of DJT” — Newsletter. Remain at all times, updated. Subscribe, for the sake of yer family, for access to, my newsletter — website.

Because everybody knows that nobody knows anywhere near everything that’s happening, an innocent one writes, in lieu of his prodigal, ex womb-mate brother, Art — at his new website.

A POWERFUL WEAPON IS PHOTO-POETRY

Seriously, it’s not to poke a hole in my cheek with my tongue that I’m blowing the whistle on me and the guys; Vladimir’s guys. Do the right thing, someone suggested to me — cynically.

It’s about doing the right thing. It’s not about just me. It’s about everybody. Once upon a time, Art taught me to read and to write; and I especially love writing, ground-breaking, poetry.

Twitter’s 280 character algorithm has been, for Arthur and me a useful revelation, surprisingly utilitarian in marketing, education and in composing, innovative, novel-like, novel, poetry.

Composing on 3 levels, 280 character tweets metamorphose to blog logs, metamorphosing, in turn, into a manuscript in hermetic, solitude; a poor man’s, publicity; a rich man’s — poetry.

Of earthly forms of written expression most like heavenly hymns, between chapter and verse ’tis verse that is most favored by Him — Personally. Verse — best expresses — His Holy, Personality.

Attention Jew, Christian, Muslim, agnostic and atheist. Read your Scriptures in the context of the Scriptures of one another. So that ye may compare and contrast them more thoughtfully.

And woe to him without wisdom enough to read Scripture; nor smart enough to read them, thoughtfully, in context, finding many, eye-opening, nexuses, between them, astoundingly.

Recall Pen’s commission to Art: Tweet, blog and pen to the children, epigrammatic, Grecian poetry. Teach them about Twitter’s algorithm; and Google Translate; and alchemy, in poetry.

What’s happening is miraculous; whether predetermined, or not. I should know. Art told me so. I ghost-write for Arthur, disseminating a miraculous message — poetically — plausible.

Photo-poetry, is yet fledgling. Yet it may be humanity’s disarming weapon against the weapons of war. Mightier than a sword may be ink and pen! Study Arthur’s poetry’s, potential

Vladimir’s, infamously long arms, we really, fear. That’s on Earth tho. Last night on Luna however we dreamt Art’s recommenders fear having too little to say, on Arthur’s trajectory, as an author.

I hasten therefore, their fears, to allay; fear not, my fellow Americans that no one ever hears, or has ever ere heard Art’s verse or heard tell of it. Still, indeed, it is destined to go viral, for Arthur.

My ghost-written verse is destined to go viral. It shan’t matter that, heretofore, Art’s sole credit; a single poem I’ve taken due care to cite on his behalf on his curriculum vitae. Given the course

of his whistleblowing life lately; isolating from a virus and hiding out from Vladimir’s assassins; moving, from one safe house, every 24 hours, to another, a whistleblowing Arthur, of course …

THINK HORSES — NOT ZEBRAS — OR DUCKS

To English Franciscan friar William of Ockham (c. 1287–1347) we attribute the philosophical razor that is, Ockham’s Razor. ‘Twas William of Ockham’s baby, Ockham’s philosophical, razor.

When one not in Africa hears hoofbeats, one ought think of horses, not zebras. Rich is the history underpinning the Principle of Parsimony also known as — Ockham’s or Occam’s, Razor.

Welcome Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm. Welcome to my dreams, too oft, nightmarish. I shall let Art know that ye picked him up, on your radar. It’ll hearten him to know — he’s on — yer radar.

In a world gone bad, because she has been so badly mistreated by her errant stewards, Luna and her sister Urantia see in Russia, China, Myanmar and Gaza — a geopolitical, disaster …

… looming. Looming is disaster; seemingly, one way, or another. Climatically and geopolitically, disaster looms large; surreally, there are known unknowns on Mars and in — asteroidal, NEOS.

There are known unknowns on Mars and in the NEOs (near Earth objects). We know there are known unknowns on Mars and in the NEOS. What’s up Joe — with the aliens, and the NEOs?

They say, Joe, that behind every good man, there’s a good woman; like yer Jill; she’s pretty; and pretty smart, too; if she were any prettier, she’d be with me. Melania, would welcome her.

Behind every man Joe, there is a woman. And behind every looker like Jill, Joe, there are likely, about ten men. We men; all too oft, we’re pigs; and wolves. But I know, we could be, love birds.

If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck and quacks like a duck then it’s likely, a duck. And an elephant test refers to when an idea or thing is hard to describe, but recognizable, when seen.

What things mean; and what things — even are. Men tend to claim absolute truth based on a limited, subjective experience, ignoring others’ limited, subjective experiences — to demean.

The gist of the plot: My prodigal brother Art and I; ex womb-mates, are reunited at last. Once upon a time, I kicked Art from our womb-space far into the future from whence returned, is Art.

Art’s return in a most miraculous intervention may be in time (perhaps), to help the antiheroic me save planet Earth, in spite of myself; winning for Vlad and me — Nobels — all thanks, to Art.

Much coveted Nobels along my tortured, and torturous, way. It would have featured both, a happy and an unhappy ending. But that’s all been rendered moot, by an alien — epiphany.

An epiphany; beyond a revelation. Haim said, the aliens said, that we’re not ready, for them. Since Haim‘s December’s revelation, I have had in in lunar soirées, revelations and epiphanies.

OCCAM’S RAZOR

Occam’s razor; hailed as an invaluable tool in the discipline of problem solving because the simplest explanation in the usual case and even in cases unusual, is likely, as eventuality …

… the right one. The simplest explanation, bar none, is that predetermined has been each and every, actual happening. Predetermined has been each and every single eventuality, maybe.

The simplest explanation, bar none, is that predetermined is each and every day and each and every eventuality that happens during the course of each day — predetermined — maybe.

In an irony,  supreme, we are the universe’s must see reality TV; we are the daily fare for a universal audience, watching live, and in living color or on replay, as the case may actually, be.

We are the universe’s must see TV; daily fare for a universal viewership, oft viewing the action on the edges of seats, whether live, or replayed. The audience — is literally — trans-universal.

They binge-watch, just like we do back episodes, rooting for their favorite heroes and rooting against their favorite villains. Heroes like Kim, Xi, Vlad, Mohammed and me; heroes — universal.

Antiheroes actually are Kim, Don, Xi and Vlad Putin; antiheroes, universal. Even Arthur is antiheroic. We are the universe’s must see, TV; daily fare, for the trans universal citizenry …

… live, or replayed. And the universals root for their favorite heroes and against their favorite villain. Imagine Kim all the possibilities for ye and for me. I’m excited about the possibilities.

Imagine Kim the possibilities should ye and I make a blockbuster deal at the last moment; just imagine how grateful I’d be if such were a spark for a re-election win, come November …

… and for Nobels for Peace and Literature, very possibly shared by all of us, come December, once passed, is November. Come December, once passed is November it shall be, December.

Kim: Share the stage with me and the others; in December, once passed, is November. Preview 2020’s Nobel-winning, MAYDAYS; unlike Art, I have in my bully pulpit — a gigantic — platform.

It’s the platform, Arthur lacks. I’m trumpeting MAYDAYS because I’m cynically repenting. As are also, Xi, Vlad and even the fake Muslim, Mo, I am so very pleased to so implausibly, inform.

Art’s tweets are now ghostwritten by me. Allow me to introduce myself; I’m a man of wealth and fame; a simpleton; simply, a genius; an idiot savant — some others, may alternatively, say.

More importantly, many are indeed saying that the simplest explanation is that this existence is my big bit part and your smaller bit part in this larger Globe Theatre’s morality play everyday.

A SIMPLE EXPLANATION

All the world’s still a stage. And all the men and women still merely, players; players though in a much larger morality play than ever played on any Globe Theatre stage in Shakespeare’s day.

Seek, explanations simple. Art Everman’s artful plot device is helpful; it has heroes forgetting what they dreamt about on Luna the previous evening — when back on Earth — the next day.

The plot and the subplots following are the stories of three children of The Creator; three strangely, estranged brothers and billions of others, similarly — estranged — and deranged.

Kim, Don and Art; three megalomaniacals; three lazy liars. Kim and Don became leaders of nations. Arthur became an Olympian drinker, become thereby, too oft, strangely deranged.

As is increasingly evident, the plots are thickening in The Creator’s great morality play; a universal showcasing of what is supremely ironically, in fact — a morality play — universal.

What’s so astonishing about that? About being watched by ETs? On Earth we too watch twits like me, on TV, all the time. Lord knows I’ll forever be cashing in, on my royalties, residual.

What’s so astonishing about being watched by extraterrestrials? We watch twits like me all the time on TV. The simplest explanation, happily, is that our existences are mere plays on stages;

with plots, luridly, unusual; what’s not to expect from creatures made in the image of Celestials. Witness creatures just like us; all around us just as viruses surround us virtually on, every stage.

Plots are thickening; simmering; threatening to boil over. Plots, lurid and unusual; Epstein’s dead and Ghislaine’s woes are now also, my woes. She’s got really really long toes as I recall.

The goings on nonfictional on Urantia, read, like fiction. But now that Kim, Don and Art (and Vlad and his guys too), in dreams conspire to inspire, lines blur. When the lines blur, recall,

the Urantia Book is a book drawn from minds, unknown. It’s authors and its medium all, unknown. Still, we share with them One Father. Who’s who, what’s what and what’s happening?

Asked by Art to lend my bully pulpit to serve as his platform, I’m ghost-writing MAYDAYS; my Nobel winning verse; publicly disagreeing with my public — statements and publicly, agreeing,

with Him. Because I’ve reconsidered, my future Nobel winning verse publicly disagrees with my public alter-ego and publicly agrees with Him Who is, no doubt — The Creator — these days.

He’s the One Who knows what’s what and what’s happening. And so I’ve agreed to lend Arthur my bully pulpit, to serve as his platform, for launching planet Earth’s SOS — MAYDAYS.

ANCIENT EPICS

The long poem. Like the ancient epics. Like Homer’s, Iliad. Like his, Odyssey. Actually, at 1.8 million words, the Indian Mahābhārata is, by far, the very longest epic poem, ever written.

Vyāsa‘s Mahābhārata is Urantia’s lengthiest, epic, poem. Its 1.8 million words, less its prose, makes for more than 100,000 couplet verses, making Vyasa’s epic, the longest poem, written.

It’s roughly ten times the combined length of Homer’s twins, the Iliad and the Odyssey. And it’s not just chopped liver; all along its length, it features content insightful; totally, compelling.

Vyasa wrote the Mahābhārata to enable the common people to understand the highest knowledge, more easily. To be, or not to be? But — is humanity — its humanity — losing?

Arthur Everman’s 40 years in a delusional wasteland have been terribly educational; in the course of them he’s learned everyone seems crazed. Everyone — it seems — but him.

Everyone seems crazy; everyone, it seems but him. The proof is in the pudding. That the Godless nations’ rules makes sense to nearly everyone. Everyone — that is to say — but him.

God rules mankind, notwithstanding, anything. No Caliphate nor Jewish state is forever. No state is forever. Conflict on Earth is violence, domestic even when it is, a state, intervention.

But there are remedies, remedial even to the most intractable of man’s conflicts. Domestic violence has remedies, in law and in fact. Among them, a few main ones are separation,

reconciliation, toleration, and even eventually, acculturation. But acculturation takes time. Generations, sometimes. Time is limiting. To be or not to be? Whither goeth — Homo sapiens?

The signs followed in short order. A tall tree falling did injure Arthur, cuing, from a clear blue sky a strike of rare, ball lightning; from a clear blue sky, Art was stricken by ball lightning.

Extraordinary events, in the normal course of events are, all too often, not very extraordinary. Truly, He uses the weak to more dramatically accomplish His purpose. But you need not be

stricken by lightning. Ye just gotta wannabe. Human history is replete with supposed coincidences; implausible ironies, straining, credulity. But Garcia Marquez and Mo Yan see.

Garcia Marquez, Mo Yan and many others see what they imagine may be magical realism. But what they characterize as magical, is actually, miraculous. Miracles, not magic are what I see.

My narrative now is that any election I don’t win is by definition fraudulent, a claim increasingly taken up by those by definition, far to the right. And my proud Boys preen, ever more, proudly.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE — A DAY MAKES

What a difference a day makes in nanoseconds; as when Yellowstone, Krakatoa and Santorini, blew their tops, on unknown dates, in unknown years — super, sky-high — super, volcanically.

What a difference 1 year may make; as when the tots of moms and pops grow, in fits and starts; in learning’s ebbs and flows; growing, inexorably, ever exasperatingly, fascinatingly.

What a difference 25 years may make; as when computers digitally usher in information ages, rife with disinformation, or in lieu, alternatively, informative; uniting and divisive, concurrently.

What a difference 250 years may make; when machines and engines, dramatically upped our consumption, our supply and demand and our uneven, two-sided — smokestack, productivity.

What a difference 12,000 years may make as when glaciers receded, slowly allowing us greater, creativity. And slowly but surely we fatefully took creativity, outside, successfully.

What a difference some millions of years may make; when from cosmic dust on the ground on Earth, in His image, He created us. He did omnipotently create us — most, miraculously.

What a difference one day may make as when meteorites, comets and a fat man and little boy slammed into the planet and incinerated a fat man and a little boy, along with, their families.

What a difference one day may make; as when I, a mutant motormouth, uncouthly stigmatize Islam, polarizing thereby, the planet and pitting Muslim against Christian, seemingly, unwisely.

“What ten words do ye bequeath to humanity?” A daunting, question; ever since, Arthur’s been haunted, by both the answer, and the question: “What ten words do ye bequeath to humanity?”

Thus began the dreamy soirees and their true revelations begat veritable epiphanies, that in turn begat an epic quest to answer poetically, profoundly — burning — questions, truthfully.

Why poetically? That one is easy to answer, for while harder to compose than prose, poetry is far more elegant and far more emotive than one might ever aspire to — merely, prosaically.

Of earthly forms of written expression most like heavenly hymns, between chapter and verse ’tis verse that is most favored by Him, Personally. Verse better expresses, personality.

Composing on 3 levels, 280 character tweets metamorphose to blog logs, metamorphosing, in turn, into a manuscript in hermetic, solitude; a poor man’s, publicity; a rich man’s — poetry.

Twitter’s 280 character algorithm has been, for Arthur and me a useful revelation, surprisingly utilitarian in marketing, education and in composing innovative novel-like, novel, poetry.

PURPOSES

Allegorically, MAYDAYS’ settings — Earth and Luna — and its characters — and its plot devices, are intended to illuminate, whatever in the Hell, on Earth is happening. That is why my

long-winded soliloquy; the minutes of soirées on Luna are characterized by tweets of exactly, 280 characters. I denounce and renounce not Proud Boys but denounce and renounce my

alter ego’s earlier statements made on this Independence Day, the very first global, such day. One such plot device is the atmosphere, lunar. Only truth is spoken in the absence of air 

up there. In stark contrast, on Earth, lies fill the air, everyday. MAYDAYS’ settings, characters and plot devices are meant to illuminate and call out, whatever in the Hell on Earth, is there

actually, happening. My true account of my soirées on Luna with my frenemy, dictatorial, friends, especially characterized by a sing-song, musical cadence, conducive to, epigramming.

MAYDAYS; its my soliloquy; about soirées on Luna, and our forever, troubles, on Earth; with my frenemy characters; in characters, 280; even as everywhere strongmen are colluding 

against me and looking to kill my disgruntled and whistleblowing, Puerto Rican brother, Art. I looked up fascism.’ It’s a philosophy, political, movement or regime (like namesake Fascisti),

that exalts nation and often race, above, the individual. And I do seem to be, as virulently fascist, as any former, Fascisti. They came first for the Gypsies, then for the Jews then for me.

Weeks ago, an asteroid exploded over Tokyo; a smaller version of the one that wiped out the dinosaurs once upon, a long time, ago. We don’t actually know where and when in the Hell

the smaller asteroids are coming. When they get here they often let us know. MAYDAYS’ settings, characters and plot devices are meant to blow the whistle on what’s happening in Hell

on Earth. More importantly it sets forth the previously unknown story of how my lover Kim has helped me craft a plan, to save the good Earth from going to, or merely becoming, Hell.

I am anxious to tell, within the larger story, the previously unknown story of how Kim has well helped me craft a plan, to save the Earth from going to — or merely becoming on Earth, Hell.

Kim’s helped me craft a plan to save the Earth from going to, or God forbid becoming, on Earth an unholy Hell. And so I’m calling on the children to tweet to Kim yourselves, personally.

I’m calling on the children to tweet to Kim their personal messages; in groups; and individually. Tweet to him; and Xi; and Vladimir. If they did so that would be some would say, newsworthy.

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, panacea. Take not too lightly my MORONS AND ALIENS.

The gist of the plot is that Art and I (once upon a time, ex-womb-mates), are reunited, Donald having once upon a time, kicked Art from their 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. 

Vladimir (Vlad) Vladimirovitch Putin, is the lad from Leningrad, now the President of Russia, who is my mentor. And whether this ends up happily for Vlad and me — or not — depends.

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

UNUS MUNDUS

The Russians and the Chinese are really feeling utterly, discombobulated. It’s a bad sign, they feel, that the aliens have chosen to reveal their existence, to the Americans — and not to them.

Their paranoia, is understandable. Witness that Buzz (Arthur’s cyber, spy-fly), did observe and recorded them, in conference call, speculating, that the aliens seem to value, values, American.

Indeed, Vlad and his guys unanimously agreed that it appears that, (notwithstanding me), the aliens have a clear preference for a democratic, political system. The aliens, favor, democracies.

The aliens, it appears, favor, democracy. That’s bad news for Vlad and his guys, except for me. What a difference, a day makes. Just yesterday, the existence of aliens was still, in controversy.

Now, not only do they exist but they are here; with a base on Mars; and worst of all, they have allied themselves, with the upstart, Americans. Verily, we’ll need to reconsider, our autocracies.

Vlad’s guys and I may need to reconsider our, corrupt, autocracies. Magnificent is His timing, with aliens, a virus, me and Arthur’s MAYDAYS, uncannily manifesting — Jung’s, synchronicities.

Jung’s synchronicities (coincidences, more commonly) are regarded as pseudoscientific; not based on experimental evidence and better explained by probabilities — and psychology.

An example of this is modern facial recognition based on such a basic archetype (i.e., two dots and a line contained in a circle). We are prone to — identify faces, in random data — actually.

A believer in the paranormal, Jung also believed synchronicity to be complementary to dreams with the purpose of shifting, one’s egocentric, conscious thinking, to a greater — wholeness.

Jung believed life was not a series of random events but rather an expression of a deeper order; an Unus mundus; a spiritual awakening; interventions of grace to, universal, wholeness.

It was conversations over dinner with Albert Einstein that sparked the young Carl Jung to wonder about a possible relativity of time as well as space and their psychic, conditionality. 

A consequence of dinners with Einstein, more than 30 years later, led to my relation with the physicist professor, Wolfgang Pauli; and to my thesis, of fascinating, psychic — synchronicities.

The possible relativity of time, as well as space; Einstein regarded it as possible. A fascinating possibility, notwithstanding the impossibility of any elegant, E = mc2style, numerical, equation.

The alien Galactic Federation values, values, American, apparently. Were that not the case, they would be treating similarly, the nations. But that’s not what’s happening, to the nations.

FELLOWSHIP — TO MURDER 

Art tweeted that Vlad will hang if, on his orders, Alexei dies. So, Art has, so brazenly tweeted, at @chachomanopapa. In fact, Vlad wants Art to win the Fellowship — precisely just, to kill him.

Once again, in a deft plot twist, MAYDAYS’ plot, surreally, thickens. Vlad actually wants Art to win precisely just to kill him. No one could have imagined this — so it must be really happening.

No one could’ve imagined this; can’t just make it up. It must be, really, surreally, happening. Lord knows, the Scriptures say, “If the shoe fits; or maybe, that’s just an adage — that’s fitting.”

In any event, everyone knows that on the Earth, nee, Urantia — all too often, the circumstances, dictate; even unto dictators, the circumstances, prevailing all too oft, dictate, what’s happening. 

Even unto the dictators, circumstances dictate, in the usual course of events, what is going to happen. Life altering events; life ending events even happen without warning. Vlad that knows.

Vlad knows, better than most, the vagaries, of life on Earth. He won’t tell ye, but I will; of how his life changed forever one fateful day in 1989 when he was in East Germany. Vladimir knows.

Vladimir knows what a difference time and and space make. Much more than me, Vlad knows. On that fateful day in 1989 in East Germany, Vlad told somebody — “l’ll kill ye first, ye know.”

On that fateful day, in 1989, in East Germany, with his garrison, surrounded, Vladimir boldly told the leader of a group of unruly, belligerent, demonstrators — “l’ll kill ye first — ye know.”

That was that. The threatening crowd, without further incident, dispersed. But Vladimir’s bold act got the attention of Boris — ‘Boozer’ Yeltsin. The rest — it is said, is today’s, Russian, history.

Our history; it’s His story; it’s neither your story, nor mine. MAYDAYS, on the other hand is Art’s story; only in part, mine. Anyone can see that I’m not lying because my nose — isn’t lengthy.

NOW HEAR THIS: ‘Tis your president tweeting, blogging and ghostwriting for Art, MAYDAYS. Art’s in hiding; hiding from, Vlad’s assassins. To counter him Art and I, weaponize, poetry.

We are weaponizing, Watcher-gifted, poetry. Marvel, @Marvel, at your next line of heroes, antiheroic. See @chachomanopapa at Twitter and @chachomanopapa.com Tragi-comedy.

2020; a good year but only if ye are a bat. Art’s an autistic, Puerto Rican, whistleblower. Even with those three strikes against him, he aspires to be, in 2020, an Amy Lowell bard — of poetry.

Arthur aspires to be, in 2021, an Amy Lowell traveling poet. I’m afraid. I’m afraid, for Arthur. I fear his words are no match for, Vlad’s poisons. Perhaps I underestimate, the power, of poetry.

PLAN ZZZ — ASSASSINS CREED 

Welcome Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm. Welcome to Art’s dream, too oft, nightmarish. I shall let Art know that ye picked him up, on your radar. It’ll hearten him to know he is, read — actually.

Arthur teaches the ins and outs of weaponizing poetry at @chachomanopapa on Twitter, then blogs at @chachomanopapa.com his tweets to panaceas alchemical, surreally, algorithmically. 

Imagine more naturally visionary children, see, in Art’s poetry what the more jaded — see not. Imagine the kinetic energy, freed by a formula for — the easy composition — of Art’s, poetry. 

Imagine the kinetic energy freed by a formula, for the composition, of poetry. Amen. Let it be. Such a formula may win for me — Nobels for Peace — and literature. Amen. Please, let it be.

The election’s over and I’ll soon be departing, for parts, unknown. But I know I’m not wanted in New York nor in Florida. And I know I’ve got to update my resume and find — my passport.

Unwanted in New York and in Florida, I know I have got to update my résumé and locate my passport and weigh a pardon for whistleblower Edward Snowden. Russia seems — a safe port.

So much to do; so little time; with a résumé to update, a passport to find and so many patriots to pardon, I’ve got to find places for my library, presidential and me and ‘Apprentice’ to reprise.

Surprised was I last night on receiving a series of calls. In quick succession, I got calls from all the guys. First Kim, then Mo, followed by Xi and Vlad. And what they said, took me, by surprise.

“We owe it to Allah God Jehovah Yahweh; we owe it in fact, to ourselves; we must, forthwith present to the UN through @antonioguterres, contingency plan ZZZ.” In utter shock — was I.

Left in a speechless state of shock, for a brief moment, was I. “Why on Earth would we ever do that,” I asked my lover Kim in reply. “Why?” But Kim’s interpreter — didn’t answer — why.

And so it went last night; after Kim called, Mo called; then Xi called; and neither the Saudi nor the Chinese interpreter responded in answer to why. Finally Vladimir Putin himself — called me.

Vlad called last. Through his interpreter he said: “See Arthur’s tweets dated Dec. 17th and 18th. That is to say, yesterday and today. Stay mum on my hacking — and implement — Plan ZZZ.“

“Remain mum on my hacking; implement Plan ZZZ. Find out everything ye can about the Amy Lowell Traveling Poet Fellowship. Then report back to me. Nobody but nobody threatens me.”

“No one in Russia dares, threaten me. I can’t let those tweets go. Art has tweeted that l’ll hang if Alexei dies @chachomanopapa on Twitter. See he wins. Get him out of the country — for me.”

POWER IS IN THE PEOPLES

God willing, another Velvet Revolution may be in the offing. Maybe even as soon as next year; in 2021; in the year of the oxen; the year of the oxen commences, on the eleventh, of February.

It depends; it depends on whether the sheep-men of Urantia take responsibility for what has happened and what’s happening, still. We owe it indeed, to Allah God Jehovah Yahweh, verily. 

‘Tis far better, relocating these days to Twitter, one’s school, if possible. In Art’s case, Twitter’s been, for several reasons, an easy, no-brainer. Those reasons notwithstanding, under radars, 

Arthur’s, been flying. Notwithstanding, his best efforts to gain altitude, under the radar, Arthur remains. Ironically, notwithstanding, that he is dying to be seen, he yet flies, under, the radar.

Once upon a time Arthur tweeted and blogged for himself. High hopes had he of distilling in time the content into a book. But that was then and this is now. Now tho ‘tis I, he — that writes.

Once upon a time Arthur tweeted and blogged for himself, but that was then, and this, is now. Now, ‘tis I, Donald John Trump, the greatest of all time presidents that, in lieu of Art — writes.

‘Tis I Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm, the Donald John Trump, the greatest of the presidents, of all time. In lieu of Arthur I ghostwrite in his stead, due to assassins tasked, with seeing him, dead.

The teams of assassins so tasked, are President Vladimir Putin’s. Make, no mistake; my mentor, is him. Vlad is the president of Russia and of his Cabal, as well. He’s decided, Art ought, be dead.

Art must die has decided my mentor, President, Vladimir Putin. And everybody knows that his are the very longest arms, on the planet. He oft acts, with outrageous, impunity, I warned Arty.

With outrageous impunity, often acts, Vladimir. So I have accordingly advised, my brother, Art. Witness today Vlad stating matter of factly that if he wanted to kill Alexei, he’d be dead already.

I must find a way to help my brother save this planet; the planet ye call Earth that is, Urantia. Art’s in hiding; hiding from the virus. I warned Art but still, he wants to confront Vlad, directly.

Verily, Vlad and his guys are worried about lots of things, in addition to, the pandemic. Still tho, there is, as in France in WW II, a resistance. The key to resistance is Art’s — weaponized, poetry.

Poetry composed in TwittereZe, augmented by Google Translate may force the capitulation of Vlad and his cronies. Ai Weiwei follows Arthur, already. Vlad: If ye harm Alexei, ye’ll be hanged.

Ai Weiwei follows Arthur already. Now hear this Vladimir, ye son of a bitch; should ye harm on Alexei Navalny’s head, even a hair, ye will hang. Art swears; if ye harm Alexei — ye’ll be hanged.

OH HAPPY DAY! — OY VE!

Vladimir Putin is worried and with good reason. Alexei won’t die, like a good, Russian dissident; His agents are worried, also, as well. Everyone’s worried sick — Alexei just won’t — up, and die.

Folks don’t realize that it’s not at all easy, being a brutal, Russian, dictator. Put yourself in my place. Imagine. What if it were ye that, after all such effort, fell victim to, an alien-American, lie.

A Galactic Federation and a Prime Directive; a plot twisting satire, twisting fate, is MAYDAYS; a novel, fictionally, nonfictional, satire. Not your father’s satire, most assuredly — is MAYDAYS.

A Prime Directive, a Galactic Federation and a plot twisting satire, twisting fate, is MAYDAYS. I’ve got to find a way to help my former womb-mate brother, to save Earth. This is, MAYDAYS.

I’ve got to find a way to help my whistleblowing former womb-mate brother, to save, the Earth. If MAYDAYS goes viral — that, may be, the way. Accordingly, I’m ghostwriting for Art, everyday.

Arthur. He’s Puerto Rican, a whistleblower and autistic. That’s three strikes against him. And once upon a time, we shared mom’s womb til I kicked him, clear into the future. Oh happy day.

Oy ve! Woe, is me. I was mean, even then. And even as I reveled in my additional elbow room, the celestial administrators transported Art to safety to another womb and back again, less 

my future mom, to my birth mom’s womb, in Puerto Rico; events evidence the dual nature of life; of a predetermined existence and the very indefinite duration of — the pilgrim’s progress. 

And so I say both oy ve and also, oh happy day! Events evidence the dual nature of life; of both a predetermined existence and indeterminate (decision-making) in — the pilgrim’s, progress.

My MAYDAYS; it’s Earth’s mayday; an SOS, to its denizens. Its tall tales feature features, fictional — and nonfictional. Tragic comedy in the Greek tradition, chronicling, the pilgrims’ — progress.

Tragi-comic poetry in the Greek tradition, is my MAYDAYS. It chronicles, the pilgrims’, progress. Clearly fictional, still, it will seem to dear lector, nonfictional. Indeed it is both; and tragi-comic.

The first shall be last say, the holy Scriptures. I don’t know about that but I do know that I’m an iconoclast. I’m sorry about that. Now I’ve got to find a way, to help my brother, save the planet. 

I must find a way to help my brother Art save a planet; the planet ye call Earth that is, Urantia. While he’s been in hiding I’ve been ghostwriting but he wants to confront Vlad — more directly.

Verily, Vlad and his guys are worried about lots of things, in addition to, the pandemic. Still tho, there is, as in France in WW II, a resistance. Key to the resistance is Art’s, weaponized — poetry.

THE PRIME DIRECTIVE 

Joe and his Deep State cronies plan on doing an exorcism and a deep pre-spring cleaning, at my swamp. But thanks to Siddhārtha Gautama, I’m happy. Thanks to Buddha, I am at peace — I lie.

Of viruses and fraud I have learned a whole lot. And having watched TV since the 50s, I know a lot about the Prime Directive. Still, I am afraid; I’m afraid that the Prime Directive, is also, a lie.

To my utter embarrassment and dismay, I am your president. And my dismay is such that I’m partnering with my whistleblower brother to correct the record. Because, I’ve got a lot to say. 

Reason is the sacred method of science; faith, of religion and logic, of philosophy. Revelation ne’er renders science unnatural and religion, unreasonable; or philosophy, illogical — I’d say.

Sound reasoning’s but one of many reasons I’m so distinguishable from any other individual on the planet; distinguishable from any leader, I am. I won’t concede to Joe if fraud’s the reason.

I shan’t concede any supposed loss to Joe Biden if fraud’s the reason underlying such a loss. Joe is a loser. I am a winner. Frankly, if ye voted for Joe your vote’s fraudulent. Fraud, is the reason.

If ye voted for Joe your vote’s fraudulent. Fraud is the reason I am said, to have lost. Beware my fellow Americans of the sinisterly evil intentions of the modern day equivalent, of the Illuminati.

The Illuminati; rightful heirs to the throne, they believe. Catholics like Joe Biden, are they. And they, the Trilateral Commission and what’s left of the twelve tribes of Jews, ally, in conspiracy.

In hiding for centuries have been the Illuminati; biding their time since a fateful Friday the 13th when they were all rounded up and imprisoned for, against the French King’s crown, conspiring.

The plots are thickening. In hiding for centuries have been the Illuminati and their allies; biding their time; waiting for when, with the Galactic Federation, they might begin, over men, ruling.

In an epic plot twist, the plot of my epic poem, thickens. A secret order of lilly white Christian Catholics allied, for now, with the also lilly white Protestants take heart in — the Prime Directive.

But the Prime Directive, just as I feared, was a creation of a Star Trek producer. It reflected a political view against the Vietnam War. There is in fact, no such thing as any — Prime Directive.

Actually, as a matter of fact, while the Galactic Federation is real enough, apart from the Star Trekkian plot device, there’s no such thing as a Galactic, much less a universal, Prime Directive.

There’s no such thing as a Galactic, much less a universal, Prime Directive. In a fantastic reality, Vlad and his guys are worried sick they’ll be the victims — of an alien-American — cooperative.

WHAT HAPPENED TO THE PRIME DIRECTIVE?

In Star Trek, Starfleet’s guiding principle directs crew members not at all to interfere with the natural development of any, alien, civilizations. Whatever happened to — the Prime Directive?

Applying especially to the more primitive and developing civilizations (civilizations, like ours), it prohibits the imposition of values upon them. Whatever happened to — the Prime Directive?

With all due respect, hi Brooke. I am extremely pleased to have made your acquaintance. And thank you for your very vital part, reciprocal, in likewise, making — my corrosive, acquaintance.

But for a fraud, I also would have been, a twice elected, president. And I would have ye join me in demanding that I forthwith abandon my off-white, White House; a now, infected, residence.

Hi to too Danielle; lovely sister of lovely Brooke. They, who have been told on, and sold on, their sisterhood — given, their sisterly, resemblance. And Joe’s exorcising my White House residence.

Happiness and peace of mind follow my pure thinking and virtuous living even as the shadow 
follows the substance, of material things. That’s an adage astute, from the Buddha’s, excellence.

Pure thinking and virtuous living follow me like a shadow. Still, some (many, actually), resent my boyish good looks and my success in life, so seemingly, disproportional — so unduly, unfair.

Narrow minds however, can not help but think, narrowly. We know that primrose paths, lead not to, rose gardens. Read at The Urantia Book at 131:3.3 and at TruthBook.com, truths, there.

TruthBook.com (The Urantia Book) is where a celestial messenger quotes that cited teaching. Teaching becomes one, so enlightened. It’s how I know about rampant fraud, no one else sees.

Siddhārtha Gautama; the Enlightened One; the Buddha; I am reminded of him in particular as I ponder; wondering, amongst other things, how many revelations culminated in, my epiphany.

Pray tell. How many revelations, to epiphany? For one self-enlightened, as was the Buddha, it may have been one. More likely, many. For the Buddha, I don’t know. As for me tho — I know.

I now know things I ne’er ere knew; and people too. On Facebook and Twitter, I’ve met people; and things I’ve learned on Wikipedia rival, what was known in Alexandria, at a library, long ago.

Too soon, DC, I’ll leave, so Joe and a Deep State, deep clean and exorcize our off-white house. I’ll return in ‘24. Thanks to Buddha I’m happy and at peace. Brooke and Danielle (va-va-voom), I

have met. I’d leave, for them, Melania and Kim. About viruses and fraud, I’ve learned, lots. And since I’ve watched TV, since the 50s, I know all about the Prime Directive. I’m afraid — it’s a lie.

ZOUNDS — GADZOOKS — BY GOD’S HOOKS 

Astonishing are the in-flight capabilities of the Federation’s, starships. They jam radars and submerge into the sea, directly, from flight. F-35s would stand no chance — in aerial, combat.

Astonishing are the capabilities of Federation
starships. Jamming radars; plunging in seas. My F-35s against starships are like biplanes against F-35 fighters. Astonishing, they’d be, in combat.

Zounds! Alien, hi-tech, may be useful to me. E. Jean Carroll’s lawsuit accuses me of raping and defaming her; as evidence, she seeks to match, my DNA, to the semen, on her dress’, material.

Gadzooks! Carroll’s accusing me of raping her in the ladies apparel, fitting room, of Bergdorf Goodman’s, department store. Verily, I do deny that, but if we had sex then, it was consensual.

Alternatively, perhaps what we had, wasn’t sex, at all. Perhaps, it was cosplay, or perhaps, sex, simulated. Or perhaps it was even a combo, of cosplay and poorly simulated — sex — asexual.

Why should it matter, anyway? What business has the state in my bed room or even in the fitting room of a public department store? Or is it 1984, already? Why’s my big brother, so anal?

And why pray tell, is everyone, so brainwashed? It matters little, where one is born, and raised. Socialization, is brainwashing. It’s socialization, obliging us to value, nationality, over humanity.

Socialization, is brainwashing. It’s socialization, that’s obligating us to shortsightedly value our individual nationalities over even our collective humanity. Hope springs eternal — temporarily. 

Hope springs eternal, albeit sometimes, only temporarily. Life crushes our hope, sometimes. Ofttimes with help from a powerful, state. Blind eyes won’t review — a massive fraud, electoral.

Ayad Akhtar: ‘Tis agreed; artists need to look to a bigger picture, and dream. Earthrise, reflects, that bigger picture and my dream’s not sharing my DNA with the lying lawyers of E. Jean Carrol. 

Even more am I dreaming, than just, of Jeannie. A nightmare, is Jeannie; I dream of Nobels; in literature; and for peace. Verily, if Obama and Abey won Nobels for peace, why then, not me?

I dream of Nobels; in literature; and for peace. If Obama and Abey won Nobels for peace, why then, not me? Indeed I’m dreaming of far more than just Jeannie. I‘m dreaming of my, legacies.

Astonishing; everything that’s happening is so astonishing. A man on the moon in 1969; my election in 2016; and my reelection in 2020; not to mention Kung flu and a shadow, Deep State.

A Deep State got deeper with its usurpation of, my Supreme Court. Everything, is astonishing. Still, everything pales before the revelation of a nine-membered — Galactic Federation — state.

OCCAM’S RAZOR

Occam’s razor; it’s been hailed as an invaluable tool in the discipline of problem solving because the simplest explanation, in the usual case and even in more unusual cases and eventualities …

… is the right one. And the simplest explanation, bar none, is that implausibly predetermined has been each and every, actual, happening on Earth; predetermined; every single, eventuality.

The simplest explanation, bar none, is that predetermined is each and every day and each and every eventuality that indeed actually happens during the due course of each day.

In an irony,  supreme, we are the universe’s must see — reality — TV; we are the daily fare for a universal viewership; watched live, in living color or on replay — each and — everyday.

We are the universe’s absolutely must see TV; daily fare for a universal viewership, often viewing the action on the edge of their seats, live or replayed, daily. The viewing universals …

… binge-watch, just like we do, back episodes; rooting for their favorite heroes. And rooting against the villains. Heroes like Kim, Don, Xi and Vlad, Mohammed and me heroes — universal.

Antiheroes actually are Kim, Don, Xi and Vladimir Putin; antiheroes, universal. Even Art is antiheroic. We are the universe’s must see, reality TV; the daily fare for a universal citizenry.

Live or on replay, the universals root for their favorite heroes; and against their favorite villains. Imagine Kim all the possibilities for ye and for me. I’m excited about the possibilities.

Imagine Kim the possibilities should ye and I make a blockbuster deal at the last moment; just imagine how grateful I’d be if such were the impetus for a surprising re-election blockbuster.

And for Nobels for Peace and Literature, very possibly shared by all of us, come what may,  come December, once passed, is November. Comes December, once passed, is November.

… share Kim the stage with me and the others; in December, once passed, is November, help preview a Nobel-winning, MAYDAYS; unlike Art, I have in my bully pulpit — a gigantic — platform.

It’s the platform, Arthur lacks. I’m trumpeting MAYDAYS because I’m cynically repenting. As are also, Xi Vlad and even the fake Muslim, Mohammed, I am so very pleased — to inform.

Art’s serial tweets are now being ghostwritten by me. Allow me to introduce myself; I’m a man of wealth and fame; a complex simpleton; a genius — an idiot savant — some others, say.

More importantly, many are indeed saying that the simplest explanation is that this existence is my big bit part and your smaller bit part in this larger Globe Theatre’s morality plays, everyday.

A SIMPLE EXPLANATION

All the world’s still a stage. And all the men and women still merely, players; players though in a much larger morality play than ever played on any Globe Theatre stage in Shakespeare’s day.

Seek, explanations simple. Art Everman’s artful plot device is helpful; it has heroes forgetting what they dreamt about on Luna the previous evening — when back on Earth — the next day.

The plot and the subplots following are the stories of three children of The Creator; three strangely, estranged brothers and billions of others, similarly — estranged — and deranged.

Kim, Don and Art; three megalomaniacals; three lazy liars. Kim and Don became leaders of nations. Arthur became an Olympian drinker, become thereby, too oft, strangely deranged.

As is increasingly evident, the plots are thickening in The Creator’s great morality play; a universal showcasing of what is supremely ironically, in fact — a morality play — universal.

What’s so astonishing about that? About being watched by ETs? On Earth we too watch twits like me, on TV, all the time. Lord knows I’ll forever be cashing in, on my royalties, residual.

What’s so astonishing about being watched by extraterrestrials? We watch twits like me all the time on TV. The simplest explanation, happily, is that our existences are mere plays on stages;

with plots, luridly, unusual; what’s not to expect from creatures made in the image of Celestials. Witness creatures just like us; all around us just as viruses surround us virtually on, every stage.

Plots are thickening; simmering; threatening to boil over. Plots, lurid and unusual; Epstein’s dead and Ghislaine’s woes are now also, my woes. She’s got really really long toes as I recall.

The goings on nonfictional on Urantia, read, like fiction. But now that Kim, Don and Art (and Vlad and his guys too), in dreams conspire to inspire, lines blur. When the lines blur, recall,

the Urantia Book is a book drawn from minds, unknown. It’s authors and its medium all, unknown. Still, we share with them One Father. Who’s who, what’s what and what’s happening?

Asked by Art to lend my bully pulpit to serve as his platform, I’m ghost-writing MAYDAYS; my Nobel winning verse; publicly disagreeing with my public — statements and publicly, agreeing,

with Him. Because I’ve reconsidered, my future Nobel winning verse publicly disagrees with my public alter-ego and publicly agrees with Him Who is, no doubt — The Creator — these days.

He’s the One Who knows what’s what and what’s happening. And so I’ve agreed to lend Arthur my bully pulpit, to serve as his platform, for launching planet Earth’s SOS — MAYDAYS.

ANCIENT EPICS

The long poem. Like the ancient epics. Like Homer’s, Iliad. Like his, Odyssey. Actually, at 1.8 million words, the Indian Mahābhārata is, by far, the very longest epic poem, ever written.

Vyāsa‘s Mahābhārata is Urantia’s lengthiest, epic, poem. Its 1.8 million words, less its prose, makes for more than 100,000 couplet verses, making Vyasa’s epic, the longest poem, written.

It’s roughly ten times the combined length of Homer’s twins, the Iliad and the Odyssey. And it’s not just chopped liver; all along its length, it features content insightful; totally, compelling.

Vyasa wrote the Mahābhārata to enable the common people to understand the highest knowledge, more easily. To be, or not to be? But — is humanity — its humanity — losing?

Arthur Everman’s 40 years in a delusional wasteland have been terribly educational; in the course of them he’s learned everyone seems crazed. Everyone — it seems — but him.

Everyone seems crazy; everyone, it seems but him. The proof is in the pudding. That the Godless nations’ rules makes sense to nearly everyone. Everyone — that is to say — but him.

God rules mankind, notwithstanding, anything. No Caliphate nor Jewish state is forever. No state is forever. Conflict on Earth is violence, domestic even when it is, a state, intervention.

But there are remedies, remedial even to the most intractable of man’s conflicts. Domestic violence has remedies, in law and in fact. Among them, a few main ones are separation,

reconciliation, toleration, and even eventually, acculturation. But acculturation takes time. Generations, sometimes. Time is limiting. To be or not to be? Whither goeth — Homo sapiens?

The signs followed in short order. A tall tree falling did injure Arthur, cuing, from a clear blue sky a strike of rare, ball lightning; from a clear blue sky, Art was stricken by ball lightning.

Extraordinary events, in the normal course of events are, all too often, not very extraordinary. Truly, He uses the weak to more dramatically accomplish His purpose. But you need not be

stricken by lightning. Ye just gotta wannabe. Human history is replete with supposed coincidences; implausible ironies, straining, credulity. But Garcia Marquez and Mo Yan see.

Garcia Marquez, Mo Yan and many others see what they imagine may be magical realism. But what they characterize as magical, is actually, miraculous. Miracles, not magic are what I see.

My narrative now is that any election I don’t win is by definition fraudulent, a claim increasingly taken up by those by definition, far to the right. And my proud Boys preen, ever more, proudly.

A play within a play; the Aliens and the Morons; were he with us Art would have approved of an aliens and morons subplot to that larger story, that is, MAYDAYS. And both — are nonfictional.

For all creatures great and small everywhere in the universes, witness in my topical verse, true, tall tales. Stories purposefully intended to be nonfictional — are only, seemingly — fictional.

And if a space rock rocks us anytime soon it may signal that it’s too late. Alternatively, if ye are just to itching to fight, just follow me. Just consider that day, your — Independence Day.

Indeed, if a space rock rocks us off our feet or throws us from our beds, it’ll be a wake up call like no other. And it’ll be worse still if the aliens make of it, a long planned — Enslavement Day.

“That’s way over the top,” some may say about my suspicions of the individuals alleging that they’re the representatives of alien civilizations. But what’s way over the top, is believing them.

Over the top, truly, is believing them. A morality play of aliens and morons, itself, a tiny subplot, in the big picture is become, for all creatures, everywhere in the universe — an abject, lesson.

The lesson to all of us in all of this is to learn to discern from a complementary study of history and science and Scripture what on Earth, is happening and your nature and your purpose. 

A more thoughtful study of history and science and Scripture may well serve to teach what in Hell on Earth is happening and your strange nature and your — not at all, strange, purpose.

Estranged from ourselves, we’re estranged as well, from everyone; from all our sisters and brothers, from wherever, on Earth; and we’ve been especially estranged from, faraway aliens. 

Just as I feared; the aliens, akin to us, are; more akin to us are they to us in malice than we are to our chimps and apes. In terrible danger are we humans at the hands — of the silent, aliens.

Just as I feared; the aliens, akin to us, are; more akin to us are they to us in malice than we are to our great ape mates. Oblivious to danger are we humans at the hands — of the silent, aliens.

The silence of the aliens; it’s been continuous and it continues. It creeps me out even more than Hannibal Lector and the silence of the lambs. Double crossing us — are the aliens.

Double crossing us are the aliens. They don’t seem, overtly, aggressive. But their troubling silence, speaks volumes. Indeed, truly I fear, a monumental double crossing — by the aliens.

Revelations and epiphanies; one may get them just from reading if one is lucky and prescient. But if ye live on Earth a space rock may bring them to us in bunches, courtesy of the aliens.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES

What a difference a day makes in nanoseconds; as when Yellowstone, Krakatoa and Santorini, blew their tops, on unknown dates, in unknown years — super, sky-high — super, volcanically.

What a difference 1 year may make; as when the tots of moms and pops grow, in fits and starts; in learning’s ebbs and flows; growing, inexorably, ever exasperatingly, fascinatingly.

What a difference 25 years may make; as when computers digitally usher in information ages, rife with disinformation, or in lieu, alternatively, informative; uniting and divisive, concurrently.

What a difference 250 years may make; when machines and engines, dramatically upped our consumption, our supply and demand and our uneven, two-sided — smokestack, productivity.

What a difference 12,000 years may make as when glaciers receded, slowly allowing us greater, creativity. And slowly but surely we fatefully took creativity, outside, successfully.

What a difference some millions of years may make; when from cosmic dust on the ground on Earth, in His image, He created us. He did omnipotently create us — most, miraculously.

What a difference one day may make as when meteorites, comets and a fat man and little boy slammed into the planet and incinerated a fat man and a little boy, along with, their families.

What a difference one day may make; as when I, a mutant motormouth, uncouthly stigmatize Islam, polarizing thereby, the planet and pitting Muslim against Christian, seemingly, unwisely.

“What ten words do ye bequeath to humanity?” A daunting, question; ever since, Arthur’s been haunted, by both the answer, and the question: “What ten words do ye bequeath to humanity?”

Thus began the dreamy soirees and their true revelations begat veritable epiphanies, that in turn begat an epic quest to answer poetically, profoundly — burning — questions, truthfully.

Why poetically? That one is easy to answer, for while harder to compose than prose, poetry is far more elegant and far more emotive than one might ever aspire to — merely, prosaically.

Of earthly forms of written expression most like heavenly hymns, between chapter and verse ’tis verse that is most favored by Him, Personally. Verse better expresses, personality.

Composing on 3 levels, 280 character tweets metamorphose to blog logs, metamorphosing, in turn, into a manuscript in hermetic, solitude; a poor man’s, publicity; a rich man’s — poetry.

Twitter’s 280 character algorithm has been, for Arthur and me a useful revelation, surprisingly utilitarian in marketing, education and in composing innovative novel-like, novel, poetry.

PURPOSES

Allegorically, MAYDAYS’ settings — Earth and Luna — and its characters — and its plot devices, are intended to illuminate, whatever in the Hell, on Earth is happening. That is why my

long-winded soliloquy; the minutes of soirées on Luna are characterized by tweets of exactly, 280 characters. I denounce and renounce not Proud Boys but denounce and renounce my

alter ego’s earlier statements made on this Independence Day, the very first global, such day. One such plot device is the atmosphere, lunar. Only truth is spoken in the absence of air 

up there. In stark contrast, on Earth, lies fill the air, everyday. MAYDAYS’ settings, characters and plot devices are meant to illuminate and call out, whatever in the Hell on Earth, is there

actually, happening. My true account of my soirées on Luna with my frenemy, dictatorial, friends, especially characterized by a sing-song, musical cadence, conducive to, epigramming.

MAYDAYS; its my soliloquy; about soirées on Luna, and our forever, troubles, on Earth; with my frenemy characters; in characters, 280; even as everywhere strongmen are colluding 

against me and looking to kill my disgruntled and whistleblowing, Puerto Rican brother, Art. I looked up fascism.’ It’s a philosophy, political, movement or regime (like namesake Fascisti),

that exalts nation and often race, above, the individual. And I do seem to be, as virulently fascist, as any former, Fascisti. They came first for the Gypsies, then for the Jews then for me.

Weeks ago, an asteroid exploded over Tokyo; a smaller version of the one that wiped out the dinosaurs once upon, a long time, ago. We don’t actually know where and when in the Hell

the smaller asteroids are coming. When they get here they often let us know. MAYDAYS’ settings, characters and plot devices are meant to blow the whistle on what’s happening in Hell

on Earth. More importantly it sets forth the previously unknown story of how my lover Kim has helped me craft a plan, to save the good Earth from going to, or merely becoming, Hell.

I am anxious to tell, within the larger story, the previously unknown story of how Kim has well helped me craft a plan, to save the Earth from going to — or merely becoming on Earth, Hell.

Kim’s helped me craft a plan to save the Earth from going to, or God forbid becoming, on Earth an unholy Hell. And so I’m calling on the children to tweet to Kim yourselves, personally.

I’m calling on the children to tweet to Kim their personal messages; in groups; and individually. Tweet to him; and Xi; and Vladimir. If they did so that would be some would say, newsworthy.

TRUST IN ME

I thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh for the use of the Philosopher’s Stone; and since it is Art’s phone that serves as the Stone, I thank Art also. Alchemic — is the Stone — of the Philosopher.

Only seemingly magical is the only seemingly mythical, Stone, of the Philosopher. Crystallized into an internet connection, a phone-like Stone; handy to one, like me — a natural, Philosopher.

I’m a stable genius and a natural Philosopher. And whilst I might have been able to defeat the aliens with my bare hands alone it’ll be easier, to win my Nobels — with a Philosopher‘s Stone.

Without Arthur’s Philosopher‘s Stone it may be that it shall have been impossible to win a Nobel. In any event, by His grace, together, we’ll send the aliens packing — on their way, home.

By His grace, together, we may well manage to overcome the aliens. Ye and me; Vladimir Putin and Xi Jin Ping; and Kim and Mo and the rest. And each of us indeed, may win, a Nobel Prize.

Nobel Prize Prizes, we yet may win, if GAFAM; Google, Apple, Facebook, Amazon and Microsoft in the US and BAT; Baidu, Alibaba and Tencent, in China — cooperation, reprise.

Time is of the essence; my immediate mission is to convince my fellow global leaders that the aliens are masterminding an ungodly scheme; enslaving humanity for gold mining operations.

Time is of the essence; my immediate mission is to assure my fellow global leaders that the aliens are masterminding an ungodly scheme; enslaving man, for gold mining — operations.

Moreover, I’ve got to mastermind my own strategy to get my Earthlings to trust me more than they trust the aliens; and believe me; and not believe in these less than honest — aliens.

It’s a tall order; an order — fit, for a tall, tale. Because more and more — the peoples, less and less, believe me. The Chinese New Year begins on Thursday. We may yet see the aliens.

It’s a tall order; an order — fit, for a tall, tale. Because more and more — the peoples, less and less, believe me. The Chinese New Year begins on Thursday. We may yet see the aliens.

My impeachment trial today; an unfortunate, distraction. Time is of the essence; the Chinese New Year begins on Thursday. Alternatively, we shan’t see them and I shall banish — the aliens.

What is one to make of my obsessive writing of a so-called fable? It’s a thinly-veiled warning, and more importantly, a how-to tome, too. An algorithm, also; a how-to write, soulful, poetry.

MAYDAYS is a warning about our trajectory, and ultimately, our destiny. Tying together a virus, an NEO and the silence of the aliens into a how-to tome. Tied together with — poetry.

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, panacea. Take not too lightly my MORONS AND ALIENS.

The gist of the plot is that Art and I (once upon a time, ex-womb-mates), are reunited, Donald having once upon a time, kicked Art from their 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. 

Vladimir (Vlad) Vladimirovitch Putin, is the lad from Leningrad, now the President of Russia, who is my mentor. And whether this ends up happily for Vlad and me — or not — depends.

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

RIDDLES — EPITAPHS — AND EPIGRAMS 

Old-fashioned riddles, epitaphs and epigrams are making a comeback. My genre bending verse flies under the radar. Patricia gets all the press ‘cause I’m a rabid — white — nationalist. 

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. Until they see — they shan’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 people to believe in me. But that’s asking a lot of a people lied to, routinely. 

Getting the people to believe in me; that’s a tall order, all by itself. Some say it’ll be impossible to get the people to believe in Vlad, Xi, Kim and Mohammed, the man-state, Muslim, facsimile. 

In back-channel communications, individually, I’ve called upon them; and so I’ve called Xi in Beijing, Mo in Riyadh and Vladimir in Moscow. Upon solar winds Vlad depends for intelligence.

Upon solar winds Vlad depends for intelligence. That explains how Vladimir knows what ye are going to say to him even, it seems, before ye say it. That explains, his uncanny, intelligence. 

Rabidly nationalistic and white have I been. I’ve grown fond tho, of reading and poetry. And ever since I began to read, not long ago, I’ve had moving — revelations — and epiphanies. 

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. So, in spite of the evidence we don’t believe in them, actually. 

By and large, we don’t believe in them, actually. The awakening may be rude. A rude awakening awaits the Earthlings in their face off with the aliens. Enter the dragon of — traveling poetry.

GLORY QUEST

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 now Art’s Philosopher’s-Stone-like phone superseding is my reality over all others — except, for the moment — Putin’s.

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. 

MAYDAYS may yet be considered a spinoff from my Art of The Deal as well as my Art of The Comeback. Indeed Supreme Court rulings make far more difficult — my anticipated, 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 ancient — 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.

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 have us 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. Until 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; to believe in me.

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, like Santa, we don’t believe, in them. 

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

LUCIFER’S HUBRIS — HAS A HOLD — OVER US

Once upon a time just last week, a friend and I over some rounds, mentioned to me in passing, that everything is relative; E = mc2, he said. The proof is in the pudding, he said, on Earth’s Luna.

We were that evening, wining and fine dining, as usual, as is our wont, every evening, since the evening I first descended, a stairway to Heaven. Ever since then I dream nights, on Earth’s Luna.

Everything is relative he insisted upon my insistence on exceptions to everything. Take Israel; the Jewish, apartheid state; take Gaza, the largest open-air prison, ever seen, by Luna.

Take Israel, the Jewish apartheid state; and take Gaza, the largest open-air prison on Earth. Take Chinese Uyghurs of Mongolian descent, they who once ruled over the Chinese — on Urantia.

Indeed, the course of my life and times, mirrors the course of the history of our home planet; in what’s happened, is happening and is yet to happen. Rejoice in the comeback of the Earth.

Rejoice in the comeback of the Earth. Truly, the course of my life and times, mirrors the course of the history of our home planet; in what’s happened, happening, and to happen on Earth.

As ye may know we Earthlings, now Urantians, may yet emerge from the most chaotic era in the history of the local Universe of Nebadon; an era, marked by the infection of hubris, on Earth.

Trust the instincts of the children; children like Greta and her army of adult children; her junior commanders in national formations, marching on and tweeting to, Vlad’s dictators — on Earth.

Lucifer; also known as Satan; and his duly given name of Lucifer reflects, an astonishing, beauty. Even more than Caligastia, Lucifer was the one mutant in Heaven, who brought hubris to Earth.

More than Caligastia, Lucifer was the mutant in Heaven who brought hubris to Earth. Caligastia signed his Declaration of Independence from Heaven. That’s all he wrote; doomed, was Earth.

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.

REJOICE IN THE COMEBACK — OF THE EARTH

Apologetic and apologize; two words I learned, just last night, at last evening’s, lunar, soirée. I’ll need to learn how to use them appropriately, when I apologize for not saving Earth — faster.

There’s no need for me to apologize though for any of the hundreds of thousands of American fatalities and the hundreds of thousands more that shall die when an asteroid — arrives, later.

Between 2020 and now, between Covid-19 and an asteroid that hasn’t yet arrived, many more millions shall die. But those fatalities — weren’t — and shan’t be — attributed to me — officially.

After all, it’s Joe Biden that is now, presumably, the president. I can’t be held responsible for any of the fatalities I’m being blamed for. For the love of God, for an asteroidal strike, ready.

For the love of God for an asteroidal strike, get ready. Go to More-Mart and buy some football helmets for the entire family; don’t forget, baby. Cover the top of an infant’s head with yer hand.

Go to More-Mart and buy football helmets for the entire family; and don’t forget, baby. Cover the top of an infant’s head with yer hand; kiss yer asses goodbye — and strike up — the band.

Strike up a band if the football helmets save yer lives or limit yer injuries, to assorted bumps, on assorted, heads. And when the aliens pretend a high water rescue — pretend — to be grateful.

Pretend to be grateful as aliens pretend, high water, rescues. They won’t draw their weapons, not to alarm us. They won’t expect any survivors to arrest them, when — so seemingly, peaceful.

To know what to do, subscribe to MORONS AND ALIENS, the alien newsletter, only now available at — https://miguelvera.substack.com/?utm_medium=web&utm_campaign=pss. Full …

… of information is the Alien Newsletter, written by me. It’s chock full of information, that I’ve investigated and personally corroborated. If we escape enslavement — to me — all, be grateful.

Appear to be grateful if and when, after a collision, upon all being boarded, upon a pre-arranged signal, like a flock of birds, move as one. Upon a signal — swiftly, disarm the aliens.

Upon a signal, move as one. After disarming them, determine the whereabouts of Joe Biden and the seat of government. Communicate the fact of your freedom; await then — instructions.

Rejoice then; in life: in freedom; and in me. And it will seem as if my three books, including this one, chart my life even as it charts, analogously, the course of history upon — a troubled Earth.

Indeed, the course of my life and times, mirrors the course of the history of our home planet in what’s happened, is happening and is yet to happen. Rejoice — in the comeback — of Earth.

ALGORITHM — PRIMER — PANACEA

Fitting are the ironies of MORONS AND ALIENS; the least of which is that one as unfit as myself should ride a wave of hubris straight to the White House. Egalitarianism, tho, we may trust.

The least may be first; in MORONS AND ALIENS the least significant irony is that one so unfit as myself could ride a wave of hubris to the White House — In egalitarianism tho — we may trust.

Of all the ironies of MORONS AND ALIENS the least of them seemingly is that one as unfit as myself could ride a wave of human hubris to a White House. So I’m proposing, egalitarianism. 

Nor does a widespread model for global peace and prosperity nor a return to prominence of poetry among citizens rank amongst the most significant ironies in my MORONS AND ALIENS.

By far the most significant irony of all of them; of all the ironies in MORONS AND ALIENS, the most significant of them was as a panacea and as a primer; a panacea for Pangaea’s (wo)men.

A primer on how to treat one another drawn from your own Scriptures; a panacea towards living together in the peaceful and sustainable manner The Almighty intended for His children.

By far the most significant irony of all of them; of all the ironies in MORONS AND ALIENS, the most significant of the ironies was an algorithm; Twitter’s primer-panacea for Pangaea’s treaties. 

At the heart of Jack’s Twitter’s algorithm‘s vast potential is the safe space of community; in 280 characters. Twitter may indeed well be a primer and a panacea towards — Pangaea’s — treaties.

Jack’s Twitter’s algorithm‘s potential is the safety and space, of a community, in 280 characters. Twitter; both a primer and a panacea towards treaties — and even — entreaties — someday.

The Deep State; it’s gone all out to get me. Twitter’s suspended me and I’m on some sort of probation, with Facebook. Art too; he’s in hot water with LinkedIn and blocked by NEAToday.

Permanently suspended by Twitter, I’m on some sort of probation, temporarily, I think with Facebook. Arthur too is in hot water with @LinkedIn and the @NEAToday also, possibly.

Paranoid, they’ll say I am, since I’m convinced that people are out to get me; that they’re on my trail and pursuing me, 24-7, at all times. But yer not paranoid — if they’re pursuing ye, verily.

Jack’s algorithm‘s potential lies in the safety of space and in a community of 280 characters. In Twitter, Earth has both a primer and a panacea towards treaties — and alternatively, entreaties.

Forget not who addresses ye; ‘tis none other than I, DJT, who addresses ye. The aliens are scurrilous; the virus planted and an asteroid cometh from our blind side — surreptitiously.

MARTIAL LAW — CIVIL WAR

As everyone knows, I am unfit. And my legacy won’t fit in the small space of the epitaph, of a tombstone. That’s why in place of a tombstone I will be interred in, a magnificent, mausoleum.

Only a mausoleum will do, to house, my legacy, spatially. No tombstone offers, enough, space. But with a reading room alcove, my own library presidential, may double as — my mausoleum.

Genius. Sheer genius; a mausoleum, so double purposed. A mausoleum has adequate space, unlike, the inadequate and limited space, of an epitaph. My mausoleum; a presidential, library.

My plans for my presidential library, however, I kept to myself as I celebrated Christmas at the White House party today, hinting only, in four years, in 2024, another run, for the presidency.

My mentor Vlad, I’ve already informed of my plans to run again, in 2024, for the presidency. Graciously, he has offered to me, Moscow as an ideal site for my very own, presidential, library.

Vladimir beseeches ye read my epic poem. It’s ghostwritten, says Vlad, on behalf of my former womb-mate brother, Arthur, and on behalf of, the Urantian people says, my erstwhile, enemy.

The poem I’m ghostwriting on behalf of Art, my former womb-mate, is a poem, painstakingly, written. It’s an algorithm. Instructions on how to get to, a Golden-Ruled paradigm, in a poem.

To the end of diminishing devolution and duly, encouraging, evolution, I learned from Art how, to poetry, compose. It is painstaking, it is true. And it is, imperative. It is, history — in a poem.

Art has taught me how to poetry, compose. And it’s been painful; but only because of my preexisting, reading, disability. I have grown to love, even more than Kim, reading and writing.

Had I not bartered away, in a Faustian bargain, to Satan, my soul, perhaps, none of what’s happened to me would have happened. All that has happened — is meant to be — happening.

More than Melania; more than my Kim, even, thanks to Art, I have come to love, reading and writing and the composition of poetry. And it’s addictive; so much so, that an epic, I’m writing.

I assure ye; it’s addictive; the recomposition of prose to poetry; but pleasantly addictive, not, sinisterly so. In Twitter’s algorithm, Art has found — a mechanism, possibly, Earth-saving.

A shooting war is imminent if I don’t stop the socialists from stealing the election: Failure to do so could well result in massive violence and destruction not seen — since — the Civil War.

Ominously, my most trusted military man is suggesting that I suspend the Constitution and impose, in America, martial law. To prevent a civil war, or alternatively — spark — a civil war.

LOL — DON’T LAUGH

Kicking hard, once upon a time, I kicked my womb-mate brother, clear into the future. But now — he’s back. Implausibly; near incredibly, Art’s transformed me, into a man — of letters.

LOL. Don’t laugh. Stranger things, have actually, happened. I won in ‘16; I lost in ‘20. And I will, in ‘21, win the Nobels, I so richly, deserve. Truly, I am implausibly become — a man — of letters.

A man of letters; a man of numbers; a man of business, with acumen, and artistry. I won in ‘16. I lost in ‘20. But a so-called loss is a fraud, if I actually, won. Joe stole, the election, from me.

The Deep State; along with a free press and an independent judiciary, it’s the enemy, of the people. Some say I won; most believe, I lost. I actually, won. Joe stole, the election, from me.

Disgracefully unAmerican; what has happened; with the living, voting repeatedly; and the dead, voting, at least, once. Most disgracefully, the enemies of the people, cover up, their crimes.

Covering up; it’s a very much coveted skill, less American tho, than Earthly; skills, unUrantian; all this lying, misrepresenting and misleading. Nonetheless, I am, confessing to — my crimes.

And not just mine but, in also the crimes of Vlad and his guys, also. In soirées on Luna with my ex-womb-mate brother Art, we’ve agreed, in exchange for mercy, to confess to our crimes.

We’ve agreed, in exchange for mercy, to truly confess, to our crimes. As per the prototype plan of Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu for Truth and Reconciliation respecting our crimes.

Truth and Reconciliation; to put an end to the madness; to put an end to a paradigm, archaic. Accordingly, Vladimir and his guys and I offer ye, our citizens — a blessedly, fresh, paradigm.

Make no mistake. Dumping Trump; dumping me as president, is but a first step; we’ve got to replace sovereignty with a Golden Rule. Make no mistake. Take heart. Dump, this paradigm.

We’ve got to replace sovereignty with a Golden Rule. Make, no mistake. We can be great again, given the application of behavior modification and Truth and Reconciliation. There’s, yet time.

There is yet time, albeit, not much. Witness, what’s been happening lately. WW III; it may be that no one wants it but circumstances shall dictate to the dictators what they’ll do, in time.

Once upon a time, I kicked Art, my womb-mate brother, clear into the future. Thankfully, now he’s back. Surreally; near incredibly, Arthur has transformed me, into a man-child — of letters.

Once upon a time, in fact, I kicked my womb-mate brother, clear into the future. Now he’s back. Near incredibly, Arthur has transformed me into a man-child, of — algorithmic, letters.

CIVILIZATIONS’ RELIGIONS 

In some religions, most notably, Islam, one scripture (the Qu’ran) is of supreme authority. In Christianity the canonical text is the Bible. In others, like eastern Hinduism, and Buddhism, 

there has never been, a definitive, canon. A canon by itself, determines not, religion. It’s dizzying; and exhilarating; supplementing one’s understanding, of cross-Scriptural, catechisms.

The Abrahamic religions; they get most of the ink. But even they were not monotheistic, ere, the Zoroastrians. Still, Judaism, Christianity and Islam, have been dominating, the conversation.

Dominating conversations. controversial have been the Big Three: Judaism, Christianity and Islam. They dominate the conversation; the conversation over, the clash — of civilizations.

On Urantia, civilizations clash. It’s how, we’ve come to be. It’s all we really know, how to do. But I am come to deliver, a planet, promised; averting that way — a clash — of civilizations.

I am come to deliver ye a planet, promised; to avoid that way, forever fomenting, the forever clashes, of civilizations. This Thanksgiving, let’s withhold thanks, from thankless, civilizations.

This Thanksgiving, let’s make a bold statement; about who we are; about what has happened. And about what must happen going forward, to reconcile, strangely, estranged — civilizations.

I’m calling out our less than civil, civilizations. This Thanksgiving, let’s make a bold statement about what must happen going forward to reconcile, our strangely estranged, civilizations.

This year’s holiday season brings us together, literally, notwithstanding, the experts’, advice. The experts worry that family gatherings will seed, a surge-upon-a-surge, upon Americans.

The Thanksgiving practice of an annual harvest festival didn’t become a regular affair until the 1660s. From the 30s to the 1660s, it celebrated a defeat in battle, of Pequot, native Americans.

Dramas playing out in the Americas mirror what has happened elsewhere, everywhere. Often, wherever humans try to settle, they find other wannabe settlers, settled there, already. 

I call upon Ai and Alexei to fire up, followers. Words translated, munitions, may be. Words, so weaponized, are poetry. Help me, help Art, save the Earth. Help me, help him, artistically.

Ai Weiwei and Alexei Navalny: Help me help Arthur, save the Earth and its Earthlings. In Truth and Reconciliation, I have found a model for a similar path — to peace — and prosperity. 

In Nelson’s Truth and Reconciliation, is a model for us; to a similar transformation. Alexei and Ai: Help save the Earth and its Earthlings. Verily, stranger things, have happened, historically.

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.

STUDY SCRIPTURE — IN CONTEXT

Wise are the words of Scripture; wise seemingly, beyond words. But viewing the Scriptures in the big picture reveals error and contradictions. I’m no prophet, yet I see what’s coming — in words.

Full of insight are our Scriptures; profound are they, beyond words. But viewing Scriptures in the big picture reveals error, and contradiction. I can see what’s coming in the Scriptures’ words.

The big picture view of Scriptures reveals error, contradiction and confusion. This has come to pass by the doing of the unknown unknown of Caligastia and the known unknown — of Satan.

AN ALGORITHM — TO TWEET BY

Read my allegory; a tall tale, in an algorithm. A self-help tome; a panacea possibly due to the kinetic energy that may be released. Make no mistake. Seems fictional but it’s nonfictional, sis.

Subscribe to MORONS AND ALIENS, the alien invader newsletter, now available. Subscribe at — https://miguelvera.substack.com/?utm_medium=web&utm_campaign=pss

Believe me even if nobody else does: Arthur’s exposé of me and Vlad’s guys rings true ‘cause ‘tis what ‘tis. Welcome Earthlings to my tall tale of the sow’s ear that pined to be — a silk purse.

Subscribe to MORONS AND ALIENS. Believe me, even if nobody else does: Art’s exposé of me and Vlad’s guys rings true because ‘tis what ‘tis. Welcome Earthlings to my reality, getting worse.

Too few believe me. The fake media has the American public completely bamboozled. I’m afraid Melania finds me grossly revolting. And the Devil; he’s got my damn soul. ‘Tis what ‘tis.

“‘Tis what ‘tis.“ Alternatively, as ye modern ones say, “It is what it is.” But that doesn’t mean that I won’t turn the momentum to our side. Hope as ever springs, eternal — “It is ye know, what it is.”

“In an evolving universe, eventually embracing approximately ten million inhabited worlds, many things out of the ordinary are destined to happen.” The Urantia Book(35:4.2) Wise words.

Wise words fill our Scriptures. The Scripture cited is from The Urantia Bookat 35:4.2. This particular Scripture, also known as The Fifth Epochal Revelation mirrors other — wise words.

No prophet, still, I can see, what’s coming. We have been poor brothers to one another and poor stewards to the planet. Karma‘s call is for a reckoning. Something bad is surely, a-coming.

Something bad, in Karmic, cosmic, retribution, is surely a-coming; rainbows assure me it won’t be a deluge for forty days but I suspect an asteroid may rain on the parades, of beggars, a-coming.

Man plans and God laughs; that Yiddish maxim is one of my all-time favorite, truisms; a maxim Jewish, it speaks to the common experience of men, and the expectation, of trouble, a-coming.

Man plans and God laughs; that Jewish maxim speaks to the common experience of men; the reasonable expectation of trouble — a-coming. Reasonable men expect trouble is — a-coming.

Wise words fill our Scriptures. The Scripture cited is from The Urantia Bookat 35:4.2. This particular Scripture, also known as The Fifth Epochal Revelation mirrors other — wise words.

Wise are the words of Scripture; wise seemingly, beyond words. But viewing the Scriptures in big pictures, reveals revelations and epiphanies. I’m no prophet, Still, I see, what’s coming, in words.

I DON’T KNOW WHEN — EVEN IN ZEN

All modesty aside, there is, as usual, too little time, to adequately, praise me. More pressing at the moment‘s a matter of, conniving, aliens; and how to counter their advantage, effectively.

Vlad. Xi. Kim. Me. And Mo. Man plans and God laughs, says one of my man’s sayings; I agree and I would add to my plan a unifying, counter-attacking, plan, to turn the tables, surprisingly. 

My main man Art suggests that I write to Vlad’s guys, publicly. Write: Xi. Kim. Me. And Mo. Man plans and God laughs. I agree. I’m adding a plan amended to be a wisely counter-attacking, plan.

God made us. But not just us. He’s made loads of others. Ye would be surprised at the sheer numbers of celestial beings it takes to run His seven Universes. He delegates. And He plans. 

Lots of the more mundane things, he delegates. With other things, just like us, He’s more hands on; in those cases, He plans. A favorite mantra of His is: Failure oft arises from a failure to plan.

A favorite mantra of His is: Failure often arises from a failure to plan. Accordingly, an ordinary failure to plan, makes for a most extraordinary, plan to fail. Of tantamount importance is a plan. 

Read my story. It’s a tall tale, in an algorithm. A self-help tome; a panacea, possibly, due to the kinetic energy that may be released. Make no mistake. It seems fictional, but it’s, nonfictional.

It seems fictional but it’s nonfictional. A self-help tome; a panacea, potentially of avail, due to the kinetic energy it may release. It’s fictional but it feels, really, surreally and chillingly, nonfictional.

MAYDAYS seems completely fictional but it’s actually more nonfictional, than it is, fictional. A tall tale, self-help book; algorithmic instructions meant to save, an entire planet, and its people.

MAYDAYS’ instructions are intended to save an endangered planet and also, an endangered citizenry. And only I can save this woeful planet. Believe it or not — only I can save — the people.

Everything that’s happening is like the proof of the pudding for existence, both predetermined AND as hoc. These Twitter derived instructions are meant — to save the planet and all upon it.

This is like dark matter and energy; like ancient alchemy; a metaphysical proof of the pudding for existence, both predetermined and as hoc. Witness Twitter derived instruction, algorithmic.

Last night at soirée Art said, “The people are in foul moods. DJT ought take full advantage of a crying need to laugh. We don’t know when the asteroid strikes. We’re in the dark, as to when.” 

The people are in foul moods. I ought take full advantage of a crying need to laugh. We don’t know when the asteroid is gonna strike. We’re in the dark as to when. But soon, seems when.

ON CADENCE — AND CONTENT

Once again, it bears repeating: Divide proposed tweets into two communities needing to work together to get the job one done. Art’s motto is prose may reach, in poetry, a zenith, in content.

Divide your proposed content into two equal communities needing to work better together; content to get job one done. No rhyme don’t matter, as much as content. Focus, on content.

Rhyme don’t matter as much as content and cadence. Poets: Focus on your content, and also your cadence. Be as concise as can be. Let it be. Amen. Two words, is always better, than three.

Poets: Focus on your content and your cadence. Be as concise as can be. Lest ye forget; forget not to be funny when ye take on the mantle of a poet. And two words is better than thirty-three.

Have a sense of humor and the common sense to cover your head with your hands it ye espy, an asteroid, a-coming. Protect, especially your head, from any incoming comets, or asteroids.

ALL PROSE IS POETRY — POTENTIALLY

Slapping the hand of the head of state; my wife claims it’s climate change but it just makes no sense. The 1st Lady says her chilliness towards me is due to a sudden climate, change of state.

Melania claims it’s climate change, but that just makes no sense. The First Lady states that her slapping of my hands and her chilliness towards me is due to a sudden climatic, change of state.

The First Lady says her slapping of my hand and her chilliness towards me is due to a sudden, climactic, climatic, change of state. It makes not a whit of difference to her that I am, her better.

Melania scares me. When she says it makes not a whit of difference to her that I am the state, I believe her. I should never have told her about Kim. I should never have shown her the letters.

Melania once threatened to “Bobbit me”, once upon a time. I should never have told her about my summits with Kim. I should never have read and shown her letters wherein Kim wrote of us.

She’s violent, potentially, once threatening to, ‘Bobbit me.’ I should ne’er have told her about my summits with Kim nor read her letters, Kim wrote to me, of his X-rated memories — of us.

She claims it’s climate change but it just makes no sense. The First Lady says her slapping of my hands and her sense of chilliness is due to our climactic, climatic, changes of state, in a sense.

The First Lady says her slapping of my hands and her general frigidity towards my person is due to our climactic, climatic, changes of state. In a sense, that makes — to me — lots of sense.

Nevertheless, notwithstanding whether or not she speaks the truth, I am using her, even as I use the aliens; unwittingly, I would have them, help me — save the good, and bountiful, Earth.

Whether or not Melania speaks the truth, I am using her even as I similarly use the aliens; both I would have, unwittingly help me to save the long-lastingly good, and bountiful, fruitful Earth.

Lest ye forget, a drumbeat that bears repeating: I am the State and wherever I am, that is where, is as well, the State. I am the State. If I speak, so speaks the State. All prose is poetry, potentially.

Recall: A drumbeat bears repeating: I am the State and wherever I am that is where is as well, the State. I am the State. If I speak, so speaks the State — similarly, lyrically — and eloquently.

I am the State. As I speak, so speaketh the State, even as to subjective elements of style, lyricism, and eloquence. Impressed have I been with an algorithmic formula for — composing — poetry.

Once again, it bears repeating: Divide your proposed tweet’s content into two communities needing to work together to get a job done. And Art’s motto is — all prose, is poetry, potentially.

PARADIGMS — AND ALIENS

Communities get oppressed for a while, then the oppressed get to oppress, alternatively. To the victor go the spoils and to the victors, the perks, in addition. Spoils ever go — to the victor.

To the victor go the spoils and to the victors, the perks, in addition. Spoils ever go to the victor. And the perks include the writing, with a biased eye, of the history that happened, to the victor.

To the victor go the spoils and to the victors, the perks. The perks include writings with jaundiced eyes of the history that happened upon the victors. I aim to end cycles, of oppressive times.

After aliens; after their virus and their asteroid; after all these things have come to pass; after also Nobels and my election to be #47; that is when to Golden Rules, I’ll change, our paradigm.

Ye read it here first; after aliens, a virus and an asteroid; after the happening of all these things; after my Nobels and my election; that is when to Golden Rules — I’ll change — our paradigms.

After all these things have indeed come to pass, passing to me the mantle of the head-of-state, of the planet, Mar-a-Lago shall be the capital of Trump Solar System — in our all new, paradigm.

After all these things have indeed come to pass, passing to me, the mantle of the head-of-state, of the planet, Mar-a-Lago shall be the capital of Trump Solar System — in our all new, paradigm.

Actually, Mar-a-Lago, whilst it does indeed lie at the heart of Palm Beach, the capital city of the Trump Solar System, is not the capital of the TSS — Welcome to — our all new — paradigm.

Actually, I’m just kidding; or lying, as the case may be. Regardless of the physical location of any capital city of mine, I am the State and wherever I am — that is, where is — the State.

Regardless of the physical location of any fine capital city of mine, I am the State and wherever I am that is where is as well, the State. I am the State — When I speak — so speaks — the State.

I am the State and wherever I am that is where is as well, the State. I am the State. When I doth speak, so speaks, the State. And when I doth am silent, silent is the state. I am — this great state.

Regardless of the physical location of any fine state capital city of mine, I am the State and wherever I am that is surreally, where is as well, my State — And as I speak, so speaks the State.

As I speak, so speaks the State. The state of the union is cool; too exceedingly cool, actually; the wifey’s frigidity is due to climate change, she explains, even as she slaps — the hand of state.

Slapping the hand of the head of state; my wife claims it’s climate change but it just makes no sense. The 1st Lady says her chilliness towards me is due to a sudden, climate change, of state.

SPOILS — GO — TO THE VICTOR

I shan’t leave the GOP of my beloved Abraham Lincoln; not officially, anyhow; not now; not at the moment. There’s just too much currency in my donor Republican’s offers — of currency.

There’s just too much currency in my donor Republican’s coffers of currency. And all the
relevance that buys all that money, is nothing to sniff at, condescendingly. I value, my currency.

All the relevance that buys all that money is nothing to sniff at. Indeed, I value, my currency; and relevance. Who could have known that my irreverence, would be so tied, to my relevance?

Who could’ve known that my relevance would be tied to boorish irreverence and known that everything that’s happening would have me thinking once again, of running, for president?

Who knew that my relevance would be to boorish irreverence, tied and that boorish irreverence would have me so soon, too soon, thinking once again, of running, for president?

Way too soon, I’ve been thinking once again of running for the 47th presidency; the 46th got away from me. But I can get these aliens to unwittingly help me become the 47th president.

In soirée last night, Arthur suggested that I may be able to use the aliens’ hubris against them. “DJT, use their hubris against them. Unwittingly, they may help ye become, the 47th president.”

Rich would be the irony in my using my forceful hubris against the extraterrestrials. It turns out that the aliens are loaded with it. And it makes them — as it often makes me — overconfident.

The aliens with hubris are loaded. But it tends to make them, as it oft makes me, untenably, overconfident. That’s their weakness. Art’s point is well-taken. Against them — deploy the Force.

Overconfident are the aliens; with hubris, they are loaded. But it tends to make them, as it oft makes me, too overconfident. Since that’s their weakness — I well ought to deploy — the Force.

What the aliens are doing to us is reminiscent of what colonial era colonialists have done to our native populations on Earth, traditionally. It’s why they say that Karma’s a bitch, traditionally.

Karma‘s been busy on Earth; the events in Gaza, especially, reminding us of the vicious circle of life on Earth. Communities get oppressed for a while then they get to oppress — alternatively.

Karma‘s been busy. Events in Gaza remind us of a vicious circle of life on Earth. Communities get oppressed for a while then they get to oppress, alternatively. The spoils ever go — to the victor.

Communities get oppressed for a while, then the oppressed get to oppress, alternatively. To the victor go the spoils and to the victors, the perks, in addition. Spoils ever go — to the victor.

CURRENCY BUYS CURRENCY

What’s it gonna be? How this all plays out will go a long way toward determining if mankind survives an evil attack by evil aliens and goes on to realize, that more unites us, than divides us.

Will humanity wake up in time to realize they have a natural born leader right here in front of them? That leader is me. We must also go on to realize, that more unites us — than divides us.

Earthlings: Now hear this: Were I to declare that surreally, insurrecting isn’t over, would I be violating LinkedIn norms or ridiculing my own statement? For Heaven’s sake LinkedIn, give in.

LinkedIn: Think. Reason: If I declared that the insurrection really isn’t over would I be violating LinkedIn norms or would I be ridiculing my statement? For Heaven’s sake, LinkedIn, give in.

It’s that time of night again; time to go dream on Luna; to rest my head on her bosom — whoops — wrong dream. It’s time to sip and sup; with Arthur and Vlad’s guys — atop Luna.

It’s that dream time of night again; to dream on Luna; to rest my head on her bosom; whoops; wrong dream. It’s my dream time to sip and sup with Arthur and Vladimir’s guys, atop my Luna.

It’s dream time, again; my fave time, of the day. Once upon a time it was time to kick my shoes off and watch Fox and Friends. It just goes to show ye how into one another, fade, frenemies.

They say it’s not wise to burn my bridges behind me but I pay them no mind. I’ve burned all of my bridge to cinders, including, I’d proudly add, — every last bridge — in all of Madison County.

Dream time again; my fave time of the day. A time to kick my shoes off, once upon a time to watch Fox and Friends. Time; just goes to show ye, there are no friends, only frenemies, in time.

Take it from me. I know; I once was a Democrat, once upon a time. And albeit, it’s by no means official, I once was, as well, a Republican. Their donors tho, are fine people. I love, their dimes.

Can’t leave the Grand Old Party of my beloved Republicans; not officially, anyhow; not at the moment. There’s just too much money leftover, in my donors’, really really deep, deep pockets.

Won’t leave the Grand Old Party; the party of Lincoln; not officially, anyway; not now; not, at the moment. There’s just way too much money in my donors’, surreally, deep — deep, pockets.

Can’t leave the Grand Old Party of my beloved Lincoln; not officially, anyhow; not now; not at the moment. There’s just too much money in my donors’, deep, Republican coffers of money.

I shan’t leave the GOP of my beloved Abraham Lincoln; not officially, anyhow; not now; not at the moment. There’s just too much currency in my donor Republican’s coffers — of currency.

MORE UNITES US — THAN DIVIDES US

I ain’t got time for no nonsense. I’m trying to save Earth. How this plays out will go a long way toward determining whether mankind survives — an evil, surreptitious attack, by the evil aliens.

But there’s more at stake here than just that; there’s just two kinds of people; those that want to know the news, even if it is bad and those who’d rather not know no how about the aliens.

There’s a whole lot of people who’d rather not know about the aliens. Methinks that includes just about everybody. That’s why nobody on Earth is talking about this. But — I beg to differ.

There’s a whole lot of people who’d rather not, whilst on Earth, know about these mysterious, aliens. Methinks that’s near everybody on Earth. On behalf of the Earth though — I beg, to differ.

There’s a whole lot of people who’d rather not, whilst on Earth, know about mysterious aliens. That’s near everybody on Earth. I beg to differ tho on behalf of the good, and bountiful, Earth.

I beg to differ tho on behalf of the good and bountiful, Earth. Earth; she deserved better than piss-poor stewards. Earth, cynically, I’d save. If only LinkedIn would help me save Earth.

If only LinkedIn would help me save the Earth. I see two ways; there’s the easy way; and there’s the hard way. Here’s how; be a test case for the ACLU, or — restore me fully, to the community.

LinkedIn: I ain’t got time for no nonsense. I’m trying to save the Earth here. Everybody knows that if yer not part of the solution yer part of the problem — Restore me fully, to the community.

LinkedIn: I ain’t got time for no nonsense. Make no mistake. Everybody knows; if yer not at the meetings yer partners take yer take. Restore me to the community at LinkedIn. Make no mistake.

Make, LinkedIn, no mistake. I ain’t got time for no nonsense. Everybody knows yer frenemy partners take yer take. Do restore me to the community at LinkedIn. And make, no mistake.

Pray tell, LinkedIn: Help me save the Earth. I see two ways; there’s the easy way; and there’s the hard way. Here’s how; either be a test case for the ACLU, or restore me fully to the community.

Either be a test case for the ACLU, or restore me to the community. Assuming that LinkedIn, in America, has no issue with my constitutionally protected, free speech — what’s it gonna be?

What’s it gonna be? How this all plays out will go a long way toward determining if mankind survives an evil attack by evil aliens and goes on to realize, that more unites us, than divides us.

Will humanity wake up in time to realize they have a natural born leader right in front of them? That leader is me. We must go on to realize, that more unites us — than divides us.

FRENEMY — FIRE

A morality play for the Universes is playing out here on Earth. Consider reconsidering all things. Let’s face the fact that, like saps — we’ve been hoodwinked by these fake aliens — reciprocally.

Like saps, we’ve been taken; like saps, we’ve taken others. What the aliens are doing to us is reminiscent of what colonial era colonialists have done to nativist populations, traditionally.

What the aliens are doing to us is reminiscent of what colonial era colonialists have done to nativist populations on Earth, traditionally. It’s why they say that Karma’s a bitch, traditionally.

Such vulgarity’s common on Earth; lying is second nature and killing’s par for the course. Karma‘s been super busy on Earth. That’s why they say that Karma’s a bitch — traditionally.

Karma‘s been super busy on Earth, lately; the events in Gaza, especially, reminding us of the vicious circle of life on Earth. Communities get oppressed for a while then they get to oppress.

On Earth communities often get oppressed for a while. Then when the pendulum swings, they, in turn, get to oppress for a while. The vicious circle of life dictates, oppress, or be oppressed.

In Gaza, the oppression seems permanent. The Urantians have ceased to evolve. In Gaza, I am especially, duly reminded of the vicious circle of life, of alternating, oppressing, and oppression.

On Earth, this oppression — seems permanent. Karma‘s been, on Urantia, super busy. In Gaza, especially, it reminds us of the vicious circle of a life, of alternating, oppressing and oppression.

It has been a week; damaged am I. My freedom to opine being damaged, I am by my fine verse, confirming to @LinkedIn and the @ACLU that by — chilling censorship — I have been, damaged.

My freedom to opine having been damaged, I am by my verse, advising the @ACLU that by @LinkedIn’s chilling censorship, I have been, damaged. I demand — ye cease me — damage.

It’s not easy being the GOAT. Some goats get blamed for bad things that happen. I’m not that kind; I’m the greatest of all time, kind of GOAT. I ain’t got time for nonsense. I’m saving the Earth.

LinkedIn: I ain’t got no time for no nonsense; I’m trying to save the Earth here. Humanity is at the cusp of being enslaved by the Martian aliens. I’d appreciate it if ye’d allow me, to save the Earth.

A morality play for the Universes is playing out here on Earth; and how it plays out will go a long way toward determining whether mankind survives an evil, surreptitious attack, by aliens.

I ain’t got time for no nonsense. I’m trying to save Earth. How this plays out will go a long way toward determining whether mankind survives — an evil, surreptitious attack, by the evil aliens.

THE ALIENS HAVE DESIGNS ON US

Forget not, who addresses ye. ‘Tis none other than I, DJT, addressing ye. Scurrilous aliens have planted a virus and an asteroid doth come from — a blind side, surreptitiously — most stealthily.

It has come to my attention that (through no fault of my own), the aliens have designs on us; designs many decades, at least, in the making; and the designs — commingle, and mix, easily.

The aliens have designs on us; and the alien designs, with ours and the Creator’s (of course), as well, commingle, mixing easily. And as always man planning and God laughing is — good TV.

Laughter; the best medicine; a truism, universal. The alien designs, along with ours as well and the Creator’s as well, commingle, mixing easily. Man plans and God laughs; makes for, good TV.

We do not tend to be self-deprecating, and perhaps we’re just as, if not more inclined to kill somebody in an honor killing, as we would be to laugh at ourselves — at all — self-deprecatingly.

Being self-deprecating; it’s a reflection of the value ye place in the feelings of others and the value ye place in your own purpose; of being a — valued person, yourself — in the community.

Self-deprecation; it’s a reflection of the value ye place in the feelings of others and the value ye place in your own purpose; of being a valued person yourself in the community — by design.

In Aesop’s Peter and the Wolf, the moral stated at the end of the Greek version is, “this shows how liars are rewarded: even if they tell the truth, no one believes them”. That’s, by design.

Laughter; the best medicine; a truism, universal. Alien designs unusual, along with our usuals, and the Creator’s, commingle, mixing, easily. Man plans and God laughs; good TV, by design.

It’s the moral of Aesop’s Peter and the Wolf that is haunting me; the moral that says “this shows how liars are rewarded: even if they tell the truth, no one believes them.” It may be, a sign.

It’s the moral of Aesop’s Peter and the Wolf that haunts me; the moral that says “this shows how liars are rewarded: even if they tell the truth, no one, believes them.” It may be a sign, by design.

The moral that says “this shows how liars are rewarded: even if they tell the truth, no one, believes them.” A sign, by The Creator designed — to intimate to humanity — a Divine Design.

Like saps, we’ve been taken; like saps, we’ve taken others. What the aliens are doing to us is reminiscent of what colonial era colonialists have done to nativist populations, traditionally.

The irony is rich; how His morality play for His Universes, plays out here, on Earth. Consider, reconsidering everything. Face the fact that, like saps, we’ve been, as well taken — reciprocally.

ALGORITHM — PRIMER — PANACEA

Fitting are the ironies of MORONS AND ALIENS; the least of which is that one as unfit as myself should ride a wave of hubris straight to the White House. Egalitarianism, tho, we may trust.

The least may be first; in MORONS AND ALIENS the least significant irony is that one so unfit as myself could ride a wave of hubris to the White House — In egalitarianism tho — we may trust.

Of all the ironies of MORONS AND ALIENS the least of them seemingly is that one as unfit as myself could ride a wave of human hubris to a White House. So I’m proposing, egalitarianism.

Nor does a widespread model for global peace and prosperity nor a return to prominence of poetry among citizens rank amongst the most significant ironies in my MORONS AND ALIENS.

By far the most significant irony of all of them; of all the ironies in MORONS AND ALIENS, the most significant of them was as a panacea and as a primer; a panacea for Pangaea’s (wo)men.

A primer on how to treat one another drawn from your own Scriptures; a panacea towards living together in the peaceful and sustainable manner The Almighty intended for His children.

By far the most significant irony of all of them; of all the ironies in MORONS AND ALIENS, the most significant of the ironies was an algorithm; Twitter’s primer-panacea for Pangaea’s treaties.

At the heart of Jack’s Twitter’s algorithm‘s vast potential is the safe space of community; in 280 characters. Twitter may indeed well be a primer and a panacea towards — Pangaea’s — treaties.

Jack’s Twitter’s algorithm‘s potential is the safety and space, of a community, in 280 characters. Twitter; both a primer and a panacea towards treaties — and even — entreaties — someday.

The Deep State; it’s gone all out to get me. Twitter’s suspended me and I’m on some sort of probation, with Facebook. Art too; he’s in hot water with LinkedIn and blocked by NEAToday.

Permanently suspended by Twitter, I’m on some sort of probation, temporarily, I think with Facebook. Arthur too is in hot water with @LinkedIn and the @NEAToday also, possibly.

Paranoid, they’ll say I am, since I’m convinced that people are out to get me; that they’re on my trail and pursuing me, 24-7, at all times. But yer not paranoid — if they’re pursuing ye, verily.

Jack’s algorithm‘s potential lies in the safety of space and in a community of 280 characters. In Twitter, Earth has both a primer and a panacea towards treaties — and alternatively, entreaties.

Forget not who addresses ye; ‘tis none other than I, DJT, who addresses ye. The aliens are scurrilous; the virus planted and an asteroid cometh from our blind side — surreptitiously.

COMING SOON — A WAKE UP CALL

Bad things happen. But practice, makes perfect. Practice — until you can smash a ball, a-Twitter. Persevere; know that — practice makes perfect. Know especially it’s not magical, but miraculous.

Know especially it’s not magical, but miraculous. Everything that’s happening is miraculous, if ye but think about it; what’s happened, happening and yet to happen; it’s absolutely — miraculous.

Just imagine what’s happened, happening and yet to happen; it’s nothing less than miraculous. Incomprehensibly miraculous; revelations and epiphanies I have had, all of them, miraculous.

Revelations and epiphanies I have had on Luna with Arthur for 2039 straight nights, sipping and supping up there to hearts’ delight. Brothers up there — not here; nothing less than miraculous.

Welcome my tumblrs to my just refreshed link. Twitter as ye may know has suspended me but revelations and epiphanies in May, I have had, on Luna with Art. And the cicadas sing, in May.

Cicadas may sing in May. Twitter has chosen to keep me in May suspended. I’ve had revelations and epiphanies as of this May day, for 2039 straight nights on Luna, on this night, in May.

I’ve had revelations and epiphanies as of this May day for 2039 straight nights on Luna; on this day or night, as the case may be. Trust me like ye’ve never before trusted me — this May.

Trust me like ye’ve never before trusted me this May. The cicadas may as well be red herrings; distracting may be — their siren songs. And the aliens couldn’t be happier in the month of May.

Trust me like ye’ve never before trusted me this May. The cicadas may as well be red herrings; distracting shall be, their May, siren songs. The aliens couldn’t be happier, on these, May days.

Red herring like distractions may be the May siren songs of the males of the species and so, trust me; the aliens couldn’t be happier as these aliens — count down to — their — Golden Day.

Happy seem the aliens now that Joe is the president. Trust me like ye have never before trusted me. Trust me; distracting may be their May-mating, siren songs. I need — your trust.

Earthlings: I need your trust. I admit now, that I‘ve been wrong. No longer in my heart, a Republican, I’m a RINO now. I now aspire to be — like Arthur — an egalitarian — one can trust.

I now aspire to be like my ex womb-mate Arthur an egalitarian one can trust. A lover of a Golden Rule, not laws, patently unjust. I now aspire to be — like Arthur an egalitarian — one can trust.

Fitting are the ironies of MORONS AND ALIENS; the least of which is that one as unfit as myself should ride a wave of hubris straight to the White House. Egalitarianism, tho, we may trust.

THE MIGHTY CASEY — THE MARLBORO MAN

Most of the time, we don’t really know. We also know of some known, unknowns. That is what we have here with this nefarious alien, trifecta, strategy; viruses, asteroids, and gold — to go.

Most of the time, we don’t really know. Actually, it’s, all the time; I can actually say, with a high degree of certainty, that we never really know. With the exception — of me — nobody knows.

Actually, on second thought, that nobody but me knows, isn’t true either. Arthur knows; and Vladimir and his guys on the cabalknow; still, with the exception of us, near nobody, knows.

Nobody knows what’s really happening and near nobody knows of my sinister suspicion, my undercover investigation and my corroboration, naked of alien nefarious intentions, I now know.

Nobody knows the sordid and the lurid details of my Mata-Hari-like mission to seduce the frenemy and deduce from the clues adduced, the nature of the alien, extraterrestrial, plan.

Nobody knows the troubles I’ve seen. It’s not easy being a GOAT and an icon for wanton sex. Still, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do; Seems I’m today’s smokeless, Marlboro, man.

Seems I’m today’s smokeless, Marlboro man in these cancel culture days, these days of wine and roses; these tried and true, icon smashing, iconoclastic days. These are, good — old days.

Allah God Jehovah Yahweh willing such days we may one day bittersweetly recall as the days when the Mighty Casey came to bat with the seasons at stake and didn’t strike out — all day.

Such days we may one day recall as the days leading to the day when the Mighty Casey came one day to bat; ‘twas such a day, with all the seasons at stake, that a homer he hit, that day.

In the conventional telling of a timeless classic the Mighty Casey doth strike out; ‘twas such a day. That really happened. The following year, with all the seasons at stake, a hero, for always.

Casey strikes out in the conventional setting. But with everything on the line in this modern setting, he blasts home run rockets, out of the ball park, altogether — the balls lost — forever.

In the conventional setting, Casey struck out. Do make a note of this; this insight is important. In alternative destinies the hero or any anti-heroic alter ego of his or her may, at least on Twitter …

Casey strikes out in the conventional setting. But with Twitter and everything on the line in this modern setting, he, an ever evolving man, blasts homers, losing the baseballs — forever.

Do make a note of this; this insight is important; in the conventional setting, Casey struck out. Bad things happen. But practice, makes perfect. Practice — until you can smash a ball, a-Twitter.

THE KNOWN — UNKNOWNS

For months I’ve been warning that an asteroid comes; charging that the viruses were planted by the aliens and that worse, they aren’t, who they say they are. No one’s talking, more or less.

No matter; no one’s talking about this; not the governments; not the press; perhaps especially, not the press. But collusion’s not a crime. It is not a crime to ask that the press ask ye — less.

Joe. Jill. Becky. Princess. Who knows what one (wo)man can do in a brief period of time? I destroyed my party. Weak on immigration, we just gotta do something ‘bout them aliens too.

Especially them extraterrestrials; them LEGAL aliens Who knows what one legal, white man can do? It may not be legal to lynch a human being but once upon a time it was — legal too.

It is not legal to lynch citizens, these days, but once upon a time in my good old days, it was legal. Not legal anymore, nowadays, but high entertainment were lynchings — in those days.

Dashed we’re my high hopes yesterday for humanity when I learned, yesterday, that I’ve been blocked by the @NEAToday. Part of the problem may be — ironically, the @NEAToday.

Joe’s Space Force commander (one of my guys actually) was fired after his recent comments. Matthew Lohmeier has made allegations that Marxist ideologies prevail in our, armed forces.

Plots are converging. A Space Force commander was fired after some recent comments made. Matthew Lohmeier has made allegations that Marxist ideologies prevail, in our, armed forces.

Plots are converging; a sure sign of a climaxing. There are things we know, we know. We also know of some known, unknowns. We know for sure there are some things we just don’t know.

There are unknown unknowns too; some things we don’t know that we don’t know. In spycraft, only rarely do we ever know something with any certitude. Most of the time, we don’t know.

Philosopher Slavoj Žižek says that beyond the three categories there is a fourth, the unknown known, that which one intentionally refuses to acknowledge that one knows — like colonizing.

There is a fourth category, the unknown known, that which one intentionally refuses to admit or acknowledge that one knows. One such known quantity; an alien love of slaving’s, gold mining.

Political practice may be determined by the relationship between what we know, what we do not know, what we cannot know but Don Rumsfeld left out what we do not like to know.

George claimed that the abuses at Abu Ghraib were isolated, not indicative, of US policy. The torture memos belie him. Implausible denials; such things — we surely, don’t want, to know.

NOBODY’S TALKING ABOUT THIS — EITHER

Post-electrocution, Arthur began to compose an epic; one duly noting the seeming concentricity — of worlds and perhaps even — the universes.— Now that I’ve got Art’s phone, I’m the author.

Now that I’ve got Arthur’s phone, I’m the sole author. So now that I’m in sole possession and control of Arthur’s phone, I’m the sole author. But it’s not so perilous for this, book, publisher.

Part of the evolution of this seemingly, fictional, American tall tale genre is the author’s use of misinformation sown to place in doubt who the author is; Art, me or even a press-shy, Watcher.

Part of an everlasting mystery may be the actual identity of an author or authors. Her use of my misinformation places in doubt who the author is; Arthur, me, or really surreally — the Watcher.

Mysterious is this fictional, American, tall tale; the author’s mixing in of misinformation with facts gets ye in her or his thrall and indeed, in doubt as to who’s authoring — this clarion call?

The author’s mixing of misinformation with facts gets ye in his or her thrall and indeed, in doubt as to who’s authoring this clarion call?Mysterious that way, is this tall tale, clarion call.

Mixing misinformation with facts; it gets ye in my thrall. There ought be no doubt as to who is authoring my clarion call to all. Why in the hell not — paydays for all — to fight not — at all?

Mixing misinformation with facts; it may get ye in my thrall. There is no doubt as to who’s authoring this clarion call to all. Who else dares to ask, “Why not pay fighters not to fight at all?”

Who else dares to ask, “Why not pay fighters not to fight at all?” Mixing misinformation with facts; indeed it may get ye in my thrall. There ought be no doubt who authors, my clarion call.

Who else asks, why not pay the fighters not to fight at all? Explain to me the sense in paying farmers not to grow but not pay the fighters not to fight. It just makes little — to no sense, at all.

Who else asks why not pay the fighters not to fight at all? Explain to me the sense in paying farmers not to grow at all — but not pay the fighters — not to fight — Makes no sense at all.

The ebb and flow of events with its burgeoning populations and its burgeoning conflicts, seem to multiply, increasingly, faster and faster. And our words in response — fail to answer the call.

For months I’ve been warning that an asteroid cometh; that viruses by these very same aliens were planted and that worse, these aliens aren’t whom they say they are. But no one’s — talking.

It’s 2021; Since this past December of 2020 I’ve been warning the global citizenry regarding my suspicions with respect to the aliens, allegedly, in representation of some Galactics, Federating.

MY OPEN LETTER — TO JILL BIDEN (III)

For months I’ve been warning that an asteroid cometh; that viruses by these very same aliens were planted and that worse, these aliens aren’t whom they say they are. But no one’s — talking.

It’s 2021; Since this past December of 2020 I’ve been warning the global citizenry regarding my suspicions with respect to the aliens, allegedly, in representation of some Galactics, Federating.

For months I’ve been warning that an asteroid cometh; that viruses planted by the aliens have sickened us and that worse, they aren’t whom they say. No one wants to know that, on Earth.

Watcher commissioned to save the Earth, Art, energized by a ball lightning strike on the Earth,
wrote, the epic poem the Watcher, on the Earth,
described, for a reprise of his poetry, on Earth.

A ball lightning stricken Arthur Everman, once upon a time, upon the Watcher’s commission, began his detailed, painstaking writing; with each tweet one half a couplet verse — equaling.

Upon the Watcher’s commission, Art began his detailed, painstaking writing, authoring, with each tweet, one half a couplet verse, redacting into an epic poem, Scriptures, and happenings.

Bloody Scriptures and bloodletting happenings, Arthur authors with each tweet, half a couplet verse, redacting into a ground-breaking poem of Scriptures — and Earth-shaking, happenings.

Recounting bloody Scriptures and bloodletting happenings, Arthur authors with each tweet, half a couplet verse, redacting into a ground-breaking poem of Scriptures and happenings.

Recounting bloody Scriptures and bloodletting happenings, related, Arthur painstakingly began emphasizing the big picture. Arthur’s ground-breaking epic poem recounts — our Scriptures.

Arthur’s ground-breaking epic poem recounts bloody Scriptures, and related, bloodlettings. Post-electrocution Art painstakingly began to emphasize, seemingly concentric, big pictures.

Post-electrocution, Arthur began to compose poetry, emphasizing the concentricity of the Babushka-Doll-like figurines; within are the smaller pictures; outside — the larger pictures.

Dimensions evidence small pictures, within large pictures, evolving. Post-electrocution, Art began to compose poetry, emphasizing the concentricity, of Babushka-Doll-like big pictures.

Our dimensions evidence small pictures, within large pictures, evolving. Post-electrocution, Art began to compose poetry, emphasizing the concentricity, of Babushka-Doll-like big pictures.

Post-electrocution, Arthur began to compose an epic; one duly noting the seeming concentricity — of worlds and perhaps even — the universes.— Now that I’ve got Art’s phone, I’m the author.

MY OPEN LETTER — TO JILL BIDEN (II)

Once again Jill, I digress. Jill ask Joe to help me with the Martians. Tell Joe that since we both know what is known and we both know that unknowns plague humanity, still Joe, I know …

… there are things we know we know and also known unknowns and some things we do not know. But there are also — unknown unknowns the ones we don’t know — that we don’t know.

What we don’t know that we don’t know. That’s what’s happening here. Not knowing who we are, where we are, nor where we’re going, much less will we know why we reap, what was sown.

What we don’t know, that we don’t know. That’s what’s happening. Not knowing who we are, where we are nor where we’re going, we can’t connect — what we reap, to what’s been, sown.

Not knowing who we are, where we are, nor where we’re going we are near incapable of causally connecting what we’re reaping to what we’ve — historically — traditionally — sown.

Jill, Ye are our First educator and working, First Lady. An outstanding progressive opportunity.
Joe and I need to set an example, cooperatively.
Contagions and aliens together we may disown.

Jill has two masters; one as a reading education specialist and another in English; together, her doctorate in educational leadership, along with her two masters, augur, Jill’s promise — today.

Jill’s got allies in folks like Becky, a Philly, native way Eagles fan, a middle school science teacher and oy ve, she’s a widow, a mom of two, a Nana B to two more and president of — @NEAToday.

Jill. Joe. Becky. They may lead — the way. Becky is the President of the @NEAToday. I 45-47 pray tell, especially our kids today, that verily, He is, miraculously, the Truth, the Light, and the Way.

The failure of the United States to anticipate the attack on Pearl Harbor; a failure of imagination, testament to humanity’s penchant to believe Nothing bad’s gonna happen to me, by the way.

Nothing bad’s gonna happen to me. Since I’m special, nothing bad happens to me. That’s not so much an American character defect, as much as it is, an — all too human, defect, of character.

I’m special. Nothing bad ever happens to me. That is not so much an ugly American in his character, as it is an oh so, human defect. If I say an asteroid cometh, ye say, say it’s an error.

I’m special. Nothing bad ever happens to me. That is not so much an ugly American in character, as it is an oh so, human defect. If I say an asteroid cometh, ye say, say it ain’t so.

For months I’ve been warning that an asteroid cometh; that viruses by these very same aliens were planted and that the aliens aren’t, whom they say. Say it ain’t so. Please say — it ain’t so.

SNUCK ATTACKED — AGAIN

If such an event were to come to pass, needed on deck would be, all hands. It might be, tho I pray that God forbid it; verily, it might well be —the calamity that brings men together, in union.

If indeed, such an event were to come to pass; if a blind-sider, strikes us, the presence of all hands on deck would be necessary. It might be, the calamity that brings men together, in union.

A blind-sider; on the heels of a now, two-year long, pandemic. And if the aliens appear in watercraft looking for survivors for their gold-mining operation, recall Sir Hawking’s entreaty.

If an asteroid strikes Earth, calamity will ensue. Indubitably, the casualties, will be many. On deck, in answer may answer all hands. Pray tell God to forbid it but maybe — it may — well be.

God forbid it but indeed it may very well be. If an asteroid strikes Earth, calamity will ensue. Indubitably the casualties, will be many. An attack seems underway in a tall tale of morality.

An attack this may well be in this, my tall tale, of morality. God forbid it, but indeed, it may very well be. If an asteroid strikes Earth, calamity will ensue. Indubitably the casualties, will be many.

Earth, I’m afraid is to be snuck attacked again. We almost got wiped out one time a long time ago when one especially big one had its rocking way with us — I know — it shan’t — be pretty.

Jill: Help Joe help me save the Earth. Earth, I’m afraid is to be, snuck attacked, again. We almost got wiped out completely when last, an asteroid rocked us. A new stone age comes maybe early.

Or maybe not. It depends; it depends on the decisions; and the men, making them; and it depends on the circumstances at the time of the making of decision; in short — it depends.

It depends. No two other words, crystallize as well, the essence, of predicting the future. It depends. What happens depends on a totality of circumstances. On circumstances, it depends.

What happens upon Earth indeed depends on a totality of circumstances. On the circumstances, the future depends. Despair though, not; my estranged brother Arthur, hails from the future.

Despair not though, my fellow sisters and my brothers; my little brother Arthur hails from the Earth’s — distant, future. That proves that Earth indeed has a future — beyond — a near future.

Got rid of Cheney; geez; is there anything more exasperating on the face of the Earth than a woman with an opinion? If ye answered the faces of Mark Zuckerberg, I’d give ye, that one.

Liz Cheney; a female rhino; she’ll be especially dangerous now that she’s wounded. Keep an eye on that one. But again, I digress. Jill; again DJT asks ye to ask Joe, to uncover, the Martians.

CALAMITY MAY HAVE — A SILVER LINING

It appears that Sir Stephen Hawking did indeed, surmise, correctly. Any alien civilization that shows up in our solar system probably ought not be presented — with the keys, to our cities.

Who knows the background story of what aliens are even doing here; when they first came; what they came for; and what they’re still doing here, even now? Hold on to — the keys, to your cities.

What we’ve been told makes little, if any sense, at all and whilst obvious questions abound, no one from the nations, and no one from the press, is asking any bold questions whatsoever.

I’ll have Rudy, my hatchet man, the Devil, sue later. More important is that the fix that man is in, made worse by obliviousness to what fate’s got in store. Like the spring lambs, to slaughter.

I’m not worried ‘bout prison and imprisoning. I’ve got more lawyers than there are, prisons. A double crossing mole, Vladimir’s best Russian, poisoning agent — Agent #45-47 — I really am.

Vlad’s best poisoning agent am I; I am all that, notwithstanding some of my comrades having won notoriety more than I. My soulless body has been implanted, with career-ending hands.

Perhaps ye noticed the failing careers of people whose hands I’ve shaken. My soulless body was implanted I understand during my trip to Moscow in 2013 — with career-ending, hands.

My soulless body was implanted during my trip to Moscow in 2013, with career-ending hands. Certainly, ye must have noticed the flailing careers of people, shaken by, poisonous, hands.

This bears repeating; witness careers of people whose hands I’ve shaken. By implanting me with Novichok, conspiring Russians set up my coming presidency with career-ending — hands.

This bears repeating: Witness obliviousness on a scale, unprecedented. Oblivious are we to the aliens, treating them like the 800 pound gorilla in the middle of the room with the huge hands.

Imminent’s a catastrophe with no precedent in history. From a blind side, sun side, doth come a rocky hard, asteroid. A catastrophic collision is imminent and needed on deck are — all hands.

Jung’s synchronicities; reverberations, Karmic; both appear to be signaling that a catastrophic collision may be imminent. In such an event, necessarily — needed, on deck — are all hands.

If such an event were to come to pass, needed on deck would be, all hands. It might be, tho I pray that God forbid it; verily, it might well be —the calamity that brings men together in union.

I pray God forbid it but it may be in calamity that men finally come together, near incredibly, in union. If such an event were to come to pass needed in answer would be all hands, in union.

TWIXT HEAVEN AND HELL IS EARTH

Now I see why it is all up to me; why my Holy Creator, chose soirées, and me. Existence, I’ve learned, is about purpose — and potential; I can see clearly now why I’m always — in the news.

I can see clearly now why everything that has been happening is truly happening. And why my intervention takes on a special significance, when the inane things I say, become — news.

Surreally, I can see moreover, why everything that‘s happening has a lesson to teach us in and of itself. Meditating on big pictures communally, is the purposeful way — to view — His Creation.

Meditating on big pictures communally, is the purposeful way — to view — His Creation. Truly communal meditations on the big picture, is purposeful — living. Purpose hath — Creation.

Jill Biden: I’ve got good feelings about Joe. And good feelings also, about Joe’s, Jill too. There’s a vast abyss ye know Jill twixt what’s meant and done for Joe notwithstanding one’s intentions.

There’s a vast abyss as ye know Jill twixt what meant and done for one and twixt what’s meant and done for others. Twixt Heaven and Hell is an Earth as if bewitched — a ball of confusion.

Twixt Heaven and Hell is Earth they say. There’s a vast abyss twixt what we say, Jill, and truth, as ye know. Here’s hoping ye say to Joe, “What would Jesus say?” Ask — “What would JC say?”

The wise Christian (wo)man asks what Jesus would say. The Muslim implores the same of Mohammed and the Jew, the same of Moses; people want to know — what the prophet says.

Twixt Heaven and Hell is Earth they say. There’s a vast abyss twixt what we say, Jill, and truth, as ye know. Ask Joe to ask Jesus for His aerial support in the abyss. The one and only DJT …

… humbly asks this of Joe. I humbly ask this of Joe notwithstanding that I am a Double Crossing Russian Mole Agent (number 45-47). I ask this in the spirit of bipartisanship, for a great country.

I ask all this albeit my being a Russian Double Crossing Mole Agent (number 45-47) asking for a federal, blanket pardoning, in the spirit of bipartisanship for the sake of America’s healing.

I am a Double Crossing Russian Mole Agent; I’m Agebt number 45-47 asking for blanket federal pardoning. I’ll pass on prison and imprisoning. Do it for for the sake — of America’s — healing.


THE SILENCE OF LAMBS, BEFORE SLAUGHTER

Everybody knows; as ye reap, so shall ye sow; it’s that ubiquitous Golden Rule again, in that, familiar, farming, context. The Golden Rule; it’s the great Rule cast aside — by Satan, ye know.

Alas, once again, I digress; the matter of Satan, I’ll return to, later. That lying beguiler’s got my soul and I want it back. I aim to haul his ass into court and set upon him Rudy Giuliani, ye know.

Alas, once again, I digress; the matter of Satan, I’ll return to, later. The beguiler’s got my soul. I want it back. I’ve gotta get my soul back. I’ll have Rudy Giuliani — the Kracken — the Devil — sue.

Alas, again, I digress; I’ve got more plot lines than one man ought bear. And so, accordingly, notwithstanding my soullessness, I turned my attention to matters at hand — not in the news.

Indeed it appears that Sir Stephen Hawking had surmised, correctly. Any alien civilization that shows up in our solar system probably ought not be presented — with the keys, to our cities.

Who knows the background story of what the aliens are doing here; when they — first came; what they came for; and what they’re still doing here now? Hold on to — the keys, to your cities.

What we’ve been told makes little, if any sense, at all and whilst obvious questions abound, no one from the nations, and no one from the press, is asking — any questions — whatsoever.

I’ll have Rudy my hatchet man, the Devil, sue in ‘24. More important’s the fix that man is in, made worse by an obliviousness to what fate has in store. Like the spring lambs, to slaughter.

Existential is the fix that man’s in, made worse by an uber obliviousness to what’s in store. Like when spring lambs go uber meekly and silently, to slaughter. Silently do lambs, go to slaughter.

Existence; it’s about realizing one’s God-given, potential; about resisting and affirmatively countering forces of devolution, to evolve. ‘Tis what ‘tis, wherever one visits, in His Universes.

Existence; it’s about one’s purpose and one’s potential; in soirées lunar with Arthur and with Vlad and his guys, I’ve had revelations and I’ve had epiphanies. Now I see; it’s been left, to me.

I can see clearly now; clearly, everything’s been left to me. And if knowledge of my weakness, like that of Abraham and Moses, is a sign of my special, less than holy quality, so then, let it be.

If only the people knew what was happening. If only they knew what was happening and, like the peoples of Abraham and Moses and also Mohammed — I’d speak and they’d, believe me.

Now I see why it’s all up to me; why my Holy Creator, chose soirées, and me. Existence, I’ve learned, is about purpose and potential; I can see clearly now why all has been left up to me.

@FLOTUS: JOE’S FIRST — FIRST LADY

@FLOTUS: Hoping ye and President Joe harbor no misgivings about what went down; I’ve no, hard feelings. This is, in warning. There is no trusting, of aliens. Of asteroids, we ought know.

This is, in friendly warning. There is no trusting of the aliens. Ye know — it takes one — to know one. Of asteroids, we ought know. And no one knows — as much about asteroids — as I know.

In warning friendly, I thee warn. There’s no trusting of the aliens. Everybody knows that. And everybody knows it takes one, to know one. No one knows as much as me — about Urantia.

CHINA RUSSIA IRAN ISRAEL SAUDI ARABIA INDIA PAKISTAN TURKEY ARMENIA MYANMAR NORTH AND SOUTH KOREA: ALL OF US, URANTIANS. OUR PLANET EARTH IS — PLANET — URANTIA.

Indeed Sir Hawking, surmised, correctly. There is no trusting, of the aliens. Ironically, it takes one, to know one. Of rocks and aliens, we know. No one knows as much about NASA — as me.

Sir Hawking surmised correctly. There is no trusting of the aliens. Ironically it takes one to know one. Of asteroids we know a lot but lo, surreally — not as much about NASA — really.

Jill: As an educator First Lady ye are in a unique position. Ye are uniquely positioned to evaluate Art’s TwittereZe. We may know more about NEO asteroids and aliens than we’re saying, officially.

Actually we certainly know more about NEOs, asteroids and aliens than we’re saying, officially.
Jill: Help Joe resist the common governmental impulse to keep truth from the people, officially.

Be sure Jill that Joe’s legacy, beyond confronting the virus, is also one of confronting, the aliens. Show the planet that besides a good man is a good woman — notwithstanding — the aliens.

A brave man admits his mistakes; his country’s too. There’s a report due in June about our vulnerabilities. Listen to the song of the cicadas in May. They may sing of — NEOs — and aliens.

Cicadas emerging in May may sing of aliens and asteroids. Nothing’s impossible. Brave men may admit mistakes; their country’s too. And Joe’s report on the aliens happens to be due in June.

Joe’s report on the aliens is due in June. Be sure Jill, that Joe’s legacy, beyond confronting the virus is also one of confronting, the aliens. Pray tell — the entire planet — the truth — in June.

I have got a good feeling about Joe and about Joe’s Jill too. There is a vast abyss as ye know Jill, what’s reaped, from what’s sown; everybody knows that as ye reap — so shall ye then, sow.

Everybody knows; as ye reap, so shall ye sow; it’s that ubiquitous Golden Rule again, in that, familiar, farming, context. The Golden Rule; it’s the great Rule cast aside — by Satan, ye know.

PRAY TELL — JOE BIDEN

Ye heard it here first. Here too, just as in that bifurcated tale from the American heartland, nobody’s talking about this. Nobody’s talking about the connection of aliens — with our gold.

Nobody’s talking about the connection of aliens, with everything; their possible planting of the virus, their possible failure to warn us of coming asteroids and their possible motive — in gold.

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 have us 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.

Who knew? Nobody; absolutely nobody. Who knew of alien plans to sicken us? To crash us into an asteroid? To brand us, in slavery? Who’s to save us from slavery then — if not — DJT?

Pray tell, who is to save us then from the aliens, if not me, the newly branded, DJT? Accordingly, I have authorized that be issued from the desk of DJT to the desk of Joe Biden, a plea to humanity.

Indeed, I have authorized that be issued from the desk of me to the desk of Joe Biden, a plea, to humanity. He’s to sign it and forward it to the nations. Don’t forget to @antonioguterres, copy.

To be issued from the desk of me are hundreds of copies to the desk of Joe Biden of a plea to humanity. He’s to sign a copy and forward them to the nations — @antonioguterres gets a copy.

From the desk of DJT, hundreds of copies of a plea to humanity. Joe’s got to sign a copy and forward them to the nations, sundry. Be sure that @antonioguterres — gets — a true — copy.

Natalie Biden liked a tweet of mine this Mothers Day and I’ve been emboldened to ask that she give her mom a hug for all of us and ask that as an educator she put to the test, Art’s TwittereZe.

@FLOTUS: Happy belated, Mothers Day. I ask that TwittereZe testing, begin. Potential energy, in vast stores, lies in alchemically, accessible spaces, algorithmically. The proof is TwittereZe.

@FLOTUS: I’m hoping, Jill Biden that TwittereZe, we’ll test. There’s potential energy for the taking in vast stores, everlasting, if the children learn photo-tweeting. It’s easy and it’s — TwittereZe.

@FLOTUS: I’m hoping, Jill Biden that TwittereZe, we’ll be testing. There’s potential energy for the taking in vast stores, everlasting, if the children learn photo-tweeting. It’s easy. It’s, TwittereZe.

Introducing, TwittereZe communications; with Google Translate capability, we may well build better bridges between the nations. Introducing Arthur’s communications easy and TwittereZe.

INTRODUCING TWITTEREZE 

“EUREKA! I found it!” That’s what Arthur told me he said, when his groundbreaking discovery, he made. The epiphany, at long last. The sum of a series of ongoing and incremental, revelations.

Introducing, TwittereZe communications; with Google Translate capability, we may build bridges between Vladimir Putin’s many nations. Introducing — TwittereZe — communications.

TwittereZe with Google Translate makes easy my conversions of prose to poetry. From one tongue to another, bye and bye. A novel, top secret, I may reveal, as just such, a revelation.

Top secrets, classified, I’m declassifying, to so, publicly, acknowledge, them. TwittereZe makes easy my conversions of prose to poetry. Google Translate, makes easy, the foreign, translations.

Google Translate makes foreign translations, relatively, easy. For written conversations, domestic, TwittereZe, will do. Because it makes for easy conversion of my prose, to my poetry.

TwittereZe allows easy conversion of prose to poetry. And Google Translate makes translation possible. Indeed, my purpose on Earth, is to facilitate — peace and prosperity — via poetry.

Multiple are my purposes. TwittereZe poetry, Google Translate, translates. Witness, poetry, become an algorithm; a set of instructions to make Urantia, once again great — implausibly.

Stranger things have happened. Men have trod upon Luna. I’ve become a president. Witness, moreover children appearing to have more common sense than the president of a country.

Multiple indeed, are my purposes. Verily, l am weak. And He, works mysteriously. Remember, Jung’s synchronicities. Seemingly incredibly, synchronized — are they. But only, seemingly.

Only seemingly incredible, that is to say. His Authorship of Scripture, not to mention, His Omnipotence. Everybody knows that for Him, nothing — is impossible. Nothing, absolutely.

Reading; and authorship; revelations, they have been; authorship, especially. As fundamental as is reading, by an order of magnitude greater — potentially, transcendental, may be authorship.

Authorship is a potentially, transcendental, experience. Transcendental, authorship, may be. Witness how fitting the irony in one actually confessing, in a story, of his own, authorship.

Verily, loathe as I am to admit it, this is neither about me nor thee. It’s about us; and space; and a race, against time. To multi-task, aptly, follow the instructions that follow in the story.

“EUREKA! I found it!” That’s what Arthur told me he said, when his groundbreaking discovery, he made. The epiphany. The climax of a series of revelations. Transcendental revelations. Poetry.

DRUNKEN SEX — IN OUTER SPACE

Technically, I might be wrong. Theoretically, I could be wrong. However, I have never, ever, been wrong, before; I have been with one of their females, seducing her, to info corroborate.

And what a shock of a tryst; plying her petite frame with universally famous, Earthly alcohol, what I discovered shocked me to my core. The aliens have designs on us — I did, corroborate.

Technically I may be wrong. Theoretically I may be wrong. Hate contemplating that. Ne’er been wrong before. Frankly, I hate sex if not with my wife except when seducing to info, corroborate.

Possibly; theoretically, I may be wrong. I hate
contemplating — that possibility. Frankly, I hate
sex not with my wife, unless I sate myself. Being — wrong it really seems, is my perpetual, fate.

My mentor Vlad, I’ve already informed of my plans to run again, in 2024, for the presidency. Graciously, he has offered to me, Moscow as an ideal site for my very own, presidential, library.

Vladimir beseeches ye read my epic poem. It’s ghostwritten, says Vlad, on behalf of my former womb-mate brother, Arthur, and on behalf of, the Urantian people says, my erstwhile, enemy.

The poem I’m ghostwriting on behalf of Art, my former womb-mate, is a poem, painstakingly, written. It’s an algorithm. Instructions on how to get to, a Golden-Ruled paradigm, in a poem.

To the end of diminishing devolution and duly, encouraging, evolution, I learned from Art how, to poetry, compose. It is painstaking, it is true. And it is, imperative. It is, history — in a poem.

Art has taught me how to poetry, compose. And it’s been painful; but only because of my preexisting, reading, disability. I have grown to love, even more than Kim, reading and writing.

Had I not bartered away, in a Faustian bargain, to Satan, my soul, perhaps, none of what’s happened to me would have happened. All that has happened — is meant to be — happening.

More than Melania; more than my Kim, even, thanks to Art, I have come to love, reading and writing and the composition of poetry. And it’s addictive; so much so, that an epic, I’m writing.

I assure ye; it’s addictive; the recomposition of prose to poetry; but pleasantly addictive, not, sinisterly so. In Twitter’s algorithm, Art has found — a mechanism, possibly, Earth-saving.

Nobody’s talking about the connection of aliens with anything; a possible planting of the virus, an apparent failure to warn us of approaching asteroids and a possible motive, in gold mines.

Truth and Reconciliation may put an end to the madness; put an end to this paradigm, archaic. Accordingly, Vladimir and his guys and I offer ye, our citizens, a blessedly — fresh, paradigm.

BEHAVIOR MODIFICATION — MODIFIED

Ye heard it here first. Here too, just as in that bifurcated tale from the American heartland, nobody’s talking about this. Nobody’s talking about the connection of aliens — with our gold.

Nobody’s talking about the connection of aliens, with everything; their possible planting of the virus, their possible failure to warn us of coming asteroids and their possible motive — in gold.

Truth and Reconciliation may put an end to the madness; put an end to this paradigm, archaic. Accordingly, Vladimir and his guys and I offer ye, our citizens, a blessedly — fresh, paradigm.

Dump a sovereign paradigm for a Golden-Ruled one. Make, no mistake. We can be great again, given the application of behavior modification and Truth and Reconciliation. There’s, yet time.

This is TwittereZe; with Google Translate, it’s new and improved. Google Translate, improves, TwittereZe. With Google Translate, any writer improves her or his ability — to communicate.

It’s miraculous. It just is, what it is. This is to introduce TwittereZe; with Google Translate, it’s new and improved. It improves man’s less than able, ability — to adequately — communicate.

Introducing Arthur’s TwittereZe with Google Translate; a fine platform is Google Translate, improving my ability, to communicate. Greta: Please follow Art and with him — communicate.

Miss Greta: Please follow Art’s Twitter account; I’m using it to stymy Twitter‘s suspension of me. Art; once upon a time, he was my womb-mate. Now I find I need him — just to, communicate.

Miss Greta: Please follow, in lieu of me, Arthur’s Twitter account; I’m using it to stymy Twitter‘s suspension of me. Trusty Art was my womb-mate, trustee. Now, TwittereZe, he postulates.

Near incredibly, Arthur has transformed me into a man-child, of algorithmic, letters. He postulates that TwittereZe, compounded by Google Translate may help us — save our dates.

Implausibly, near incredibly, Art’s postulated that TwittereZe, compounded by Google Translate may help us — save our dates. Arthur has transformed me into a man-child of letters.

Once upon a time, I kicked Art, my womb-mate brother, clear into the future. Thankfully, now he’s back. Surreally; near incredibly, Arthur has transformed me, into a man-child — of letters.

Since descending from my golden tower, I’ve linked, tragi-comic tweets; tens of thousands of them. Take not lightly this cautionary tale; this tale of morons and aliens. Trust not, the aliens.

Take not lightly this cautionary tale; this tale of morons and aliens. Trust not, the aliens, at all. More and more — trust — your fellow morons. It’s OK, to make mistakes, but learn from them.

A MAN OF LETTERS — AM I

Ye heard it here first. Here too, just as in that bifurcated tale from the American heartland, nobody’s talking about this. Nobody’s talking about the connection of aliens with our gold.

Ye heard it here first. Here too, just as in that bifurcated tale from the American heartland, nobody is talking about this. Nobody’s talking about any connection of the aliens — with gold.

My decisive action in conjunction with what I expect will be Democratic inaction and vague mouthings of some vague policy I plan, may make in 2024 — the #47th president — of me.

Emergency action I’ve taken to reorganize my party; I’ve completely reorganized it to contrast, my boldness with Democratic inaction. I plan in 2024, that president, the Democrats, make me.

Disgracefully unAmerican; what has happened; with the living, voting repeatedly; and the dead, voting at least, once. Most disgracefully, the enemies of the people, cover up their crimes.

Covering up; it’s a very much coveted skill, less American tho, than Earthly; skills, unUrantian; all this lying, misrepresenting and misleading. Nonetheless, I am, confessing to — my crimes.

And not just mine but, in also the crimes of Vlad and his guys, also. In soirées on Luna with my ex-womb-mate brother Art, we’ve agreed, in exchange for mercy to confess — to our crimes.

We’ve agreed, in exchange for mercy, to truly confess, to our crimes. As per the prototype plan of Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu for Truth and Reconciliation respecting all crimes.

Truth and Reconciliation; put an end to the madness; put an end to a paradigm, archaic. Accordingly, Vlad and his guys, and I, offer our beloved citizens a blessedly, fresh, paradigm.

Make no mistake. Dumping Trump; dumping me as president, is but a first step; we’ve got to replace sovereignty with a Golden Rule. Make no mistake. Take heart. Dump, this paradigm.

We’ve got to replace sovereignty with a Golden Rule. Make, no mistake. We can be great again, given the application of behavior modification and Truth and Reconciliation. There’s, yet time.

There is yet time, albeit, not much. Witness, what’s been happening lately. WW III; it may be that no one wants it but circumstances shall dictate to the dictators what they’ll do, in time.

Once upon a time, I kicked Art, my womb-mate brother, clear into the future. Thankfully, now he’s back. Surreally; near incredibly, Arthur has transformed me, into a man-child — of letters.

Once upon a time, in fact, I kicked my womb-mate brother, clear into the future. Now he’s back. Near incredibly, Arthur has transformed me into a man-child, of — algorithmic, letters.

THAT WON’T HAPPEN TO ME

I feel sorry for Joe if he doesn’t come to terms with the story that’s going to make the virus, a lesser story. Earth will be better off once it sees the virus that I see — under, an alien umbrella.

Joe‘s got to come to terms with the story that’s going to make the virus, a lesser story than it is right now. Earth will be better off once it sees the virus that I see — under, an alien umbrella.

Alas, Earthlings have a hard time wrapping their minds around what they can’t see. Like a virus so tiny we can’t see it or a huge rock yet too far to see it. Methinks the ironies — are killing me.

Indeed, Earthlings have a hard time wrapping their minds around what can’t be seen. Like a virus so tiny it can’t be seen or a huge rock, yet too far, to see. Methinks ironies, art killing me.

‘Who are we? Where are we? And where, are we going? The answers to these three existential questions we’ve lost along our way to the year of the coronavirus, in year of our Lord in 2020.

‘Tis the questions existential I aim to answer; answering questions like who we are, where we are and where we’re going. We lost the answers along our way to the year of the rat in 2020.

‘Tis the questions existential that I’m aiming to answer; questions like — what on Earth’s our purpose? Either lost or confused are Earthlings about the answers; it’s the year of oxen — 2021.

‘Tis the questions existential that I’m aiming to answer; questions like what on Earth is our purpose? Lost or confused are Earthlings about the answers; and it’s the year of the oxen, 2021.

Everything that’s happening is like the proof of the pudding for existence, both predetermined AND ad hoc. These Twitter derived instructions are meant — to save the planet and all upon it.

Like dark matter and energy and like long ago ancient, alchemy; a metaphysical proof of the pudding for existence both predetermined and ad hoc. Twitter derived instruction, algorithmic.

Either lost, or confused, or both are the humans about the answers in this 2021 year of the oxen. In an existence both predetermined and ad hoc think for once, dispassionately, and collectively.

The emergency actions I’m taking in conjunction with what I expect will be Democratic inaction and recanned vague mouthings of some vague policy — I plan, will make in 2024, #47 — of me.

My decisive action in conjunction with what I expect will be Democratic inaction and vague mouthings of some vague policy I plan, may make in 2024, the #47th president — of me.

A whole lot has been happening that ye the people have been kept from. Things I only became apprised this past December by the Israelis, of dangers presented, by aliens, tricky.

ALIEN UMBRELLAS

The people are in foul moods. I ought take full advantage of a crying need to laugh. We don’t know when the asteroid is gonna strike. We’re in the dark as to when. But soon is when …

… soon is when, I suspect, that the entire planet may feel the effect, if not the actual impact of the next asteroid in the long line of them that have actually, impacted, Earth. Soon’s when …

… possibly we get a chance to live through what Kazuo Ishiguro lived through, when as a boy, the future author wrote The Remains of the Day, on indignity, dignity and all things, Karmic.

Everything that’s happening is like the proof of the pudding for existence, both predetermined AND as hoc. These Twitter derived instructions are meant — to save the planet and all upon it.

Like dark matter and energy and like long ago ancient, alchemy; a metaphysical proof of the pudding for existence both predetermined and as hoc. Twitter derived instruction, algorithmic.

This is like dark matter and energy; like ancient alchemy; a metaphysical proof of the pudding for existence, both predetermined and as hoc. Witness Twitter derived instruction, algorithmic.

Witness Twitter derived instruction, algorithmic. This is no drill. This is no joke. This is the global emergency I was born for; Arthur too. Stranger things have happened. I got elected, president.

Take 1337. How strange is that? A language for internet users known for replacing letters with numbers or symbols. The term itself has gone on to mutate into other meanings; prescient …

… would one have been to understand that Amazon would become what it’s become. As I am. 1337’s become a slang term for “extremely skilled (at gaming or computing)” or “awesome.”

I’m no prophet. But I’ have been an apprentice buffoon and at that I’ve excelled; all that before even the onset of that fateful, 2020 year of the rat — Almost needless to say, it was awesome.

2020. The year of the rat; the loss of life has been awesome. And I feel sorry for Joe Biden if he doesn’t come to terms with the story that’s gonna — make the virus — a second-tier, story.

I feel sorry for Joe Biden if he doesn’t come to terms with the story that’s going to make the coronavirus a second-tier, story. That sounds pretty cynical, coming from me, in all honesty.

In all honesty and in all modesty given I’m not given to trafficking in conspiracy theories, or speaking ill of others, Earth will be better off, once it sees the virus, under alien, umbrellas.

I feel sorry for Joe if he doesn’t come to terms with the story that’s going to make the virus, a second-tier story. Earth will be better off once it sees the virus I see, under — an alien umbrella.

I DON’T KNOW WHEN

All modesty aside, there is, as usual, too little time, to adequately, praise me. More pressing at the moment‘s a matter of, conniving, aliens; and how to counter their advantage, effectively.

Vlad. Xi. Kim. Me. And Mo. Man plans and God laughs, says one of my man’s sayings; I agree and I would add to my plan a unifying, counter-attacking, plan, to turn the tables, surprisingly.

My main man Art suggests that I write to Vlad’s guys, publicly. Write: Xi. Kim. Me. And Mo. Man plans and God laughs. I agree. I’m adding a plan amended to be a wisely counter-attacking, plan.

God made us. But not just us. He’s made loads of others. Ye would be surprised at the sheer numbers of celestial beings it takes to run His seven Universes. He delegates. And He plans.

Lots of the more mundane things, he delegates. With other things, just like us, He’s more hands on; in those cases, He plans. A favorite mantra of His is: Failure oft arises from a failure to plan.

A favorite mantra of His is: Failure often arises from a failure to plan. Accordingly, an ordinary failure to plan, makes for a most extraordinary, plan to fail. Of tantamount importance is a plan.

Read my story. It’s a tall tale, in an algorithm. A self-help tome; a panacea, possibly, due to the kinetic energy that may be released. Make no mistake. It seems fictional, but it’s, nonfictional.

It seems fictional but it’s nonfictional. A self-help tome; a panacea, potentially of avail, due to the kinetic energy it may release. It’s fictional but it feels, really, surreally and chillingly, nonfictional.

MAYDAYS seems completely fictional but it’s actually more nonfictional, than it is, fictional. A tall tale, self-help book; algorithmic instructions meant to save, an entire planet, and its people.

MAYDAYS’ instructions are intended to save an endangered planet and also, an endangered citizenry. And only I can save this woeful planet. Believe it or not — only I can save — the people.

Everything that’s happening is like the proof of the pudding for existence, both predetermined AND as hoc. These Twitter derived instructions are meant — to save the planet and all upon it.

This is like dark matter and energy; like ancient alchemy; a metaphysical proof of the pudding for existence, both predetermined and as hoc. Witness Twitter derived instruction, algorithmic.

Last night at soirée Art said, “The people are in foul moods. DJT ought take full advantage of a crying need to laugh. We don’t know when the asteroid strikes. We’re in the dark, as to when.”

The people are in foul moods. I ought take full advantage of a crying need to laugh. We don’t know when the asteroid is gonna strike. We’re in the dark as to when. But soon is when …

ONLY I CAN SAVE THE PLANET

Thanks to Arthur, I’ve come to love reading and writing and moreover, also, the composition of poetry. It’s addictive; so much so that an epic poem I’m writing, aims — questions, to answer.

‘Tis the questions existential I aim so to answer; answering questions like who we are, where we are and where we’re going. Along our way to the year of the rat 2020, we — lost the answers.

Who are we? Where are we? And where, are we going? The answers to these three existential questions, we’ve lost along our way, to the year of the coronavirus, in year of our — Lord, 2020.

Who are we? Where are we? And where are we going? The answers, transformational answers, have been lost along our way to the year of the coronavirus — in the year of our Lord — 2020.

In but a verse, the short answer is that we are Urantians. We are the inhabitants, of Urantia. And eventually, the destination of each and everyone of us, is His residence — in Heaven.

Astonished have I been in my lunar soirées to learn the revelations in traditional, Scriptures. And the epiphany that comes from reading them in the context of — the UB, from Heaven.

Answers to three existential questions and their transforming answers, we’ve lost along our way, in this year of a sickening rat and a novel, virus an entire planet — in its throes — it is ravaging.

Ravaging the Earth is the virus and savaging am I, everyone, sooner or later. But in soirée last night on Luna with Arthur my latest revelation is realizing: Transformation, awaits, publishing.

Earth awaits, for MAYDAYS, a publisher, be it @, @MacmillanUSA @HachetteUS, @HarperCollins @simonschuster or @penguinrandom. See, chachomanopapa.com for a story, nonfictional.

Read my story. It’s a tall tale, in an algorithm. A self-help tome; a panacea, potentially, due to kinetic energy that may be released. Make no mistake. It seems fictional, but it’s, nonfictional.

It seems fictional but it’s nonfictional. A self-help tome; a panacea, potentially of avail, due to the kinetic energy it may release. It seems fictional but it feels — really, surreally — nonfictional.

MAYDAYS seems completely fictional but it’s actually more nonfictional, than it is, fictional. A tall tale, self-help book; algorithmic instructions meant to save, an entire planet, and its people.

MAYDAYS’ instructions are intended to save an endangered planet and also, an endangered citizenry. And only I can save this woeful planet. Believe it or not — only I can save — the people.

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 Art and I (once upon a time, ex-womb-mates), are reunited, Donald having once upon a time, kicked Art from their 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.

Vladimir (Vlad) Vladimirovitch Putin, is the lad from Leningrad, now the President of Russia, who is my mentor. And whether this ends happily for Vladimir and me, or not, depends.

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.

MARTIAL LAW — CIVIL WAR

As everyone knows, I am unfit. And my legacy won’t fit in the small space of the epitaph, of a tombstone. That’s why in place of a tombstone I will be interred in, a magnificent, mausoleum.

Only a mausoleum will do, to house, my legacy, spatially. No tombstone offers, enough, space. But with a reading room alcove, my own library presidential, may double as — my mausoleum.

Genius. Sheer genius; a mausoleum, so double purposed. A mausoleum has adequate space, unlike, the inadequate and limited space, of an epitaph. My mausoleum; a presidential, library.

My plans for my presidential library, however, I kept to myself as I celebrated Christmas at the White House party today, hinting only, in four years, in 2024, another run, for the presidency.

My mentor Vlad, I’ve already informed of my plans to run again, in 2024, for the presidency. Graciously, he has offered to me, Moscow as an ideal site for my very own, presidential, library.

Vladimir beseeches ye read my epic poem. It’s ghostwritten, says Vlad, on behalf of my former womb-mate brother, Arthur, and on behalf of, the Urantian people says, my erstwhile, enemy.

The poem I’m ghostwriting on behalf of Art, my former womb-mate, is a poem, painstakingly, written. It’s an algorithm. Instructions on how to get to, a Golden-Ruled paradigm, in a poem.

To the end of diminishing devolution and duly, encouraging, evolution, I learned from Art how, to poetry, compose. It is painstaking, it is true. And it is, imperative. It is, history — in a poem.

Art has taught me how to poetry, compose. And it’s been painful; but only because of my preexisting, reading, disability. I have grown to love, even more than Kim, reading and writing.

Had I not bartered away, in a Faustian bargain, to Satan, my soul, perhaps, none of what’s happened to me would have happened. All that has happened — is meant to be — happening.

More than Melania; more than my Kim, even, thanks to Art, I have come to love, reading and writing and the composition of poetry. And it’s addictive; so much so, that an epic, I’m writing.

I assure ye; it’s addictive; the recomposition of prose to poetry; but pleasantly addictive, not, sinisterly so. In Twitter’s algorithm, Art has found — a mechanism, possibly, Earth-saving.

A shooting war is imminent if I don’t stop the socialists from stealing the election: Failure to do so could well result in massive violence and destruction not seen — since — the Civil War.

Ominously, my most trusted military man is suggesting that I suspend the Constitution and impose, in America, martial law. To prevent a civil war, or alternatively — spark — a civil war.

LOL — DON’T LAUGH

Kicking hard, once upon a time, I kicked my womb-mate brother, clear into the future. But now — he’s back. Implausibly; near incredibly, Art’s transformed me, into a man — of letters.

LOL. Don’t laugh. Stranger things, have actually, happened. I won in ‘16; I lost in ‘20. And I will, in ‘21, win the Nobels, I so richly, deserve. Truly, I am implausibly become — a man — of letters.

A man of letters; a man of numbers; a man of business, with acumen, and artistry. I won in ‘16. I lost in ‘20. But a so-called loss is a fraud, if I actually, won. Joe stole, the election, from me.

The Deep State; along with a free press and an independent judiciary, it’s the enemy, of the people. Some say I won; most believe, I lost. I actually, won. Joe stole, the election, from me.

Disgracefully unAmerican; what has happened; with the living, voting repeatedly; and the dead, voting, at least, once. Most disgracefully, the enemies of the people, cover up, their crimes.

Covering up; it’s a very much coveted skill, less American tho, than Earthly; skills, unUrantian; all this lying, misrepresenting and misleading. Nonetheless, I am, confessing to — my crimes.

And not just mine but, in also the crimes of Vlad and his guys, also. In soirées on Luna with my ex-womb-mate brother Art, we’ve agreed, in exchange for mercy, to confess to our crimes.

We’ve agreed, in exchange for mercy, to truly confess, to our crimes. As per the prototype plan of Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu for Truth and Reconciliation respecting our crimes.

Truth and Reconciliation; to put an end to the madness; to put an end to a paradigm, archaic. Accordingly, Vladimir and his guys and I offer ye, our citizens — a blessedly, fresh, paradigm.

Make no mistake. Dumping Trump; dumping me as president, is but a first step; we’ve got to replace sovereignty with a Golden Rule. Make no mistake. Take heart. Dump, this paradigm.

We’ve got to replace sovereignty with a Golden Rule. Make, no mistake. We can be great again, given the application of behavior modification and Truth and Reconciliation. There’s, yet time.

There is yet time, albeit, not much. Witness, what’s been happening lately. WW III; it may be that no one wants it but circumstances shall dictate to the dictators what they’ll do, in time.

Once upon a time, I kicked Art, my womb-mate brother, clear into the future. Thankfully, now he’s back. Surreally; near incredibly, Arthur has transformed me, into a man-child — of letters.

Once upon a time, in fact, I kicked my womb-mate brother, clear into the future. Now he’s back. Near incredibly, Arthur has transformed me into a man-child, of — algorithmic, letters.

A MAN OF LETTERS — AND NUMBERS

China’s Ai now follows Arthur on Twitter. And whether Alexei and George (Soros) follows or not, matters, not. What matters, is that Arthur and me release, in the kracken, truth, Urantian.

’Tis late; ‘tis 2020; ‘tis a nice round number; half of 2020 is 1010. And because we’ve ten fingers, ten is the base of the decimal numeral system, in the spoken and written languages, Urantian.

Seemingly ‘tis only in numbers that truth, rules. Letters — on Earth, too often, tend to be cruel. Here on Earth, we won’t let numbers work for us whilst we work to become, men — of letters.

Seemingly, ‘tis only in numbers that truth rules. Letters — on Earth, too often, tend to be cruel. Here on Earth, we won’t let numbers work for us whilst we work to become, men — of letters.

It’s as if numbers are for science, whereas, on the other hand, letters are for persuasion. That is the way it is in the inhabited, and developing, worlds. Complementary; numbers and letters.

To one another, complementary are, numbers and letters. Numbers; the infrastructure and glue that holds things together. Letters; the ether; atmosphere, around, the infrastructure.

Numbers allow for a high degree of precision. Letters allow for distinctions, between, shades of meaning. I have mastered numbers and letters. I am indeed, a gentle, man — of letters.

A gentle genius; a gentleman; a man of letters and numbers, am I. I am also, a skilled, liar; and restless except when, in the Nirvana of my own executive residence, I watch TV — enraptured.

Ai, Alexei and George (Soros); three visionaries, are they. And since, under the circumstances, a collaboration is in order, I have asked them to consider helping Arthur save, a feverish, planet.

‘Tis late in 2020; the Chinese won’t celebrate their new year until February 11 of next year, there being no time to waste, I’m glad Art got followed by Ai Weiwei; I’m happy for the planet.

Put up or shut up; except for me, no man is an island, unto himself. It’s about community. I’m a businessman; a numbers man; and even tho I don’t like to read, I’ve become, a man of letters.

A man of letters, I’ve become. Thanks, to Art; my womb-mate, once upon a time. And I kicked him so hard, I kicked him into the future. But —he’s back. And he’s made me, a man, of letters.

Kicking him hard, I kicked him into the future. But — he’s back. And, implausibly, he’s made of me, a man, of letters. Like a silk purse, from a sow’s ear. Indubitably, I am — a man of letters.

Supremely implausibly, near incredibly, I’ve, a man of letters, become. A buffoon with a suit on, some say. I beg to differ. And in 2021’s year of the oxen I’ll prove that I am, a man of letters.

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.

RELEASE — THE KRACKEN

I really did find it. I’m afraid tho that it shall be for naught. My base (Vlad’s al-Qaeda) doesn’t believe it’s really me that is addressing them. We’re releasing the kracken — upon Urantia.

Unanimously, Vlad and I agreed to release the kracken. The real kracken, not Sidney’s. Less a sea monster than an idea the dreaded kracken, released upon Earth, may change it, to Urantia.

It’s not about a simple name-change but about a change in behavior. It’s about Satan. And Caligastia. The transformation of Earth into Urantia is at hand and the kraken’s, no dragon. 

In Scandinavian folklore, in the Norse sagas, especially, the kraken dwells off the coasts of Norway and Greenland. It has it’s own legend, terrorizing sailors but it’s probably, no dragon.

It may be a cephalopod; of the molluscan class, cephalopoda, including squids, and octopuses. It was what it was. It is what it is. Whatever it is, it’s gonna be earthshaking. Shaking — Urantia.

Less a sea monster, than an idea, the kracken herein indeed is an idea; and an ideal. Nothing less than Kim-Don’s Plan, would we summarily release upon the Earth, to revert it, to Urantia.

Actually, releasing the kracken (Plan ZZZ) is the last thing we actually want to do. We’d just as soon, go on, as is. But now, to the dictators, circumstances dictate, what likely — they’ll do.

Why now? Why not yesteryear? And why in November of this year, of all years? Is it due to either a predetermined fate, or our fateful, decisions — or some combination, of the two?

Is it fate, predetermined? Or fateful, decisions?Or is it perhaps, some combination, of the two?Why, now? Why not, yesteryear? And why in November of this year, of all years? Why, 2020?

2020. Art’s an Angel from the future but even he doesn’t know the answer to that question. He knows though that his mission depends on devising a groundbreaking, peaceful, strategy.

Earthrise may be the centerpiece of an artful strategy. Down with damn, firewalls. What is happening in Belarus may be happening soon, in Russia and in China. Amen. Let it finally, be.

Accordingly — release — the kracken! It’s no dragon; no sea-faring, monster. It’s an idea; and its time, is come. Earthrise, I believe, may be the centerpiece of Arthur’s, artful, strategy.

Earthrise, I believe, may be the centerpiece of an artful, strategy. China’s Ai agrees with Art and I. We await the support of Alexei Navalny and George Soros — the Hungarian, Urantian.

China’s Ai now follows Arthur on Twitter. And whether Alexei and George follow or not, matters not. What only matters is that Arthur and me release, in the kracken, truth, Urantian.

“EUREKA! I FOUND IT!”

“EUREKA! I found it!” That was what Arthur said he said, when his discovery, he discovered. The epiphany. The climax of an uber long series, of revelations. Transcendental, revelation. Poetry.

My biographer, the author of 2016’s The Truth About Trump, has described me just today as a loser so incompetent, that I cannot succeed — even at being a loser. But I know, I can succeed.

At being a loser — I know, I can — succeed. I’ve succeeded at that, already. In fact, I admit that I have lost the election. But my loss only sets up my transformation, of international, societies.

My geopolitical transformation of international society was the issue last night at yet another emergency meeting of Vlad’s cabal in soirée, lunar. And Vlad’s guys, have reauthorized, me.

Vlad’s guys are on edge. The virus and my loss, in a year so fraught with loss, has them all, on edge. On edge are, Vladimir’s guys. And things are trending toward, an even greater, volatility.

Vlad’s guys have reauthorized me to do what’s necessary. To whitewash history, by confessing to our crimes with the Kim-Don plan; plan ZZZ. Vlad’s last ditch contingency plan is Plan — ZZZ.

My Kim-Don plan; plan ZZZ. It’s Vlad’s plan for a last ditch stand. A contingency plan, is Plan ZZZ. Modeled akin to a Mandela-inspired, Truth and Reconciliation. To keep his guys, from hanging.

To keep from hanging Vlad and his dictatorial pals have deputized me. They want me to act on their behalf. In fact, with Kim’s help, I have fashioned — Nelson Mandela-like — planning.

Vlad’s men have deputized me to act on their behalf. With Kim’s help, I’ve fashioned a Nelson Mandela-like, reprise. To keep me and my guys from hanging; from limbs of trees — swinging.

To keep from the limbs of trees from hanging and swinging around, undignifiedly, Vlad’s men have deputized me. And with Kim’s help, I’ve fashioned a Mandela-like, surprise, reprising.

A Mandela-like, surprise, reprising, I have duly fashioned; to keep me and my guys away from trees; to keep us from hanging and swinging around, so undiplomatically — undignifiedly. 

Violations of all proper protocols shall not be tolerated unless the citizens indeed insist on so violating, them. Indeed, the citizens insist on reality, divorced from, this contrived surreallity.

Verily, the citizens insist on a reality divorced from this, contrived, surreallity. A Mandela-like, surprise, reprising, I have fashioned; to keep me and my guys away from, the limbs of trees.

Vlad’s guys and I shy away from, limbs of trees. Excepting me, we dictators are oft, students of history. We all know what happened to Benito Mussolini. He avoided, being hung, from a tree.

INTRODUCING TWITTEREZE 

“EUREKA! I found it!” That’s what Arthur told me he said, when his groundbreaking discovery, he made. The epiphany, at long last. The sum of a series of ongoing and incremental, revelations.

Introducing, TwittereZe communications; with Google Translate capability, we may build bridges between Vladimir Putin’s many nations. Introducing — TwittereZe — communications.

TwittereZe with Google Translate makes easy my conversions of prose to poetry. From one tongue to another, bye and bye. A novel, top secret, I may reveal, as just such, a revelation.

Top secrets, classified, I’m declassifying, to so, publicly, acknowledge, them. TwittereZe makes easy my conversions of prose to poetry. Google Translate, makes easy, the foreign, translations.

Google Translate makes foreign translations, relatively, easy. For written conversations, domestic, TwittereZe, will do. Because it makes for easy conversion of my prose, to my poetry.

TwittereZe allows easy conversion of prose to poetry. And Google Translate makes translation possible. Indeed, my purpose on Earth, is to facilitate — peace and prosperity — via poetry.

Multiple are my purposes. TwittereZe poetry, Google Translate, translates. Witness, poetry, become an algorithm; a set of instructions to make Urantia, once again great — implausibly.

Stranger things have happened. Men have trod upon Luna. I’ve become a president. Witness, moreover children appearing to have more common sense than the president of a country.

Multiple indeed, are my purposes. Verily, l am weak. And He, works mysteriously. Remember, Jung’s synchronicities. Seemingly incredibly, synchronized — are they. But only, seemingly.

Only seemingly incredible, that is to say. His Authorship of Scripture, not to mention, His Omnipotence. Everybody knows that for Him, nothing — is impossible. Nothing, absolutely.

Reading; and authorship; revelations, they have been; authorship, especially. As fundamental as is reading, by an order of magnitude greater — potentially, transcendental, may be authorship.

Authorship is a potentially, transcendental, experience. Transcendental, authorship, may be. Witness how fitting the irony in one actually confessing, in a story, of his own, authorship.

Verily, loathe as I am to admit it, this is neither about me nor thee. It’s about us; and space; and a race, against time. To multi-task, aptly, follow the instructions that follow in the story.

“EUREKA! I found it!” That’s what Arthur told me he said, when his groundbreaking discovery, he made. The epiphany. The climax of a series of revelations. Transcendental revelations. Poetry.

GLORY QUEST

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 now Art’s Philosopher’s-Stone-like phone superseding is my reality over all others — except, for the moment — Putin’s.

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.

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.

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 ancient — 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.

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 have us 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. Until 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 to believe in me.

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.

CIVILIZATIONS’ RELIGIONS 

In some religions, most notably, Islam, one scripture (the Qu’ran) is of supreme authority. In Christianity the canonical text is the Bible. In others, like eastern Hinduism, and Buddhism, 

there has never been, a definitive, canon. A canon by itself, determines not, religion. It’s dizzying; and exhilarating; supplementing one’s understanding, of cross-Scriptural, catechisms.

The Abrahamic religions; they get most of the ink. But even they were not monotheistic, ere, the Zoroastrians. Still, Judaism, Christianity and Islam, have been dominating, the conversation.

Dominating conversations. controversial have been the Big Three: Judaism, Christianity and Islam. They dominate the conversation; the conversation over, the clash — of civilizations.

On Urantia, civilizations clash. It’s how, we’ve come to be. It’s all we really know, how to do. But I am come to deliver, a planet, promised; averting that way — a clash — of civilizations.

I am come to deliver ye a planet, promised; to avoid that way, forever fomenting, the forever clashes, of civilizations. This Thanksgiving, let’s withhold thanks, from thankless, civilizations.

This Thanksgiving, let’s make a bold statement; about who we are; about what has happened. And about what must happen going forward, to reconcile, strangely, estranged — civilizations.

I’m calling out our less than civil, civilizations. This Thanksgiving, let’s make a bold statement about what must happen going forward to reconcile, our strangely estranged, civilizations.

This year’s holiday season brings us together, literally, notwithstanding, the experts’, advice. The experts worry that family gatherings will seed, a surge-upon-a-surge, upon Americans.

The Thanksgiving practice of an annual harvest festival didn’t become a regular affair until the 1660s. From the 30s to the 1660s, it celebrated a defeat in battle, of Pequot, native Americans.

Dramas playing out in the Americas mirror what has happened elsewhere, everywhere. Often, wherever humans try to settle, they find other wannabe settlers, settled there, already. 

I call upon Ai and Alexei to fire up, followers. Words translated, munitions, may be. Words, so weaponized, are poetry. Help me, help Art, save the Earth. Help me, help him, artistically.

Ai Weiwei and Alexei Navalny: Help me help Arthur, save the Earth and its Earthlings. In Truth and Reconciliation, I have found a model for a similar path — to peace — and prosperity. 

In Nelson’s Truth and Reconciliation, is a model for us; to a similar transformation. Alexei and Ai: Help save the Earth and its Earthlings. Verily, stranger things, have happened, historically.

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 45-47 and Earth. What is 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.

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 the primitive and technologically unsophisticated species of being living on Earth.



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