PLOTS — 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, I having, once upon a time, kicked Arthur from mother’s womb-space — clear into a future to him, alien.
In a miraculous intervention, Arthur, in the nick of time, from the future’s returned, to help me save planet Earth, in spite of ourselves and even in spite of these now threatening, illegal, aliens.
Vladimir (Vlad) Vladimirovitch Putin, is the lad from Leningrad, now the President of Russia, who is my mentor. And whether this all ends up — happily for Vladimir 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, a 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 are 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 separate them from their families.
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.
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, may be.
In an irony, supreme, we are the universe’s must see reality TV; the daily fare for a universal audience, watching live and in living color or on replay, as the case surreally — 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. And the audience, is literally — trans-universal.
They binge-watch just like we, do back episodes, rooting for their favorite heroes and rooting too against their favorite villains. Heroes like Kim, Xi, Vlad, Mohammed and me — heroes, universal.
Antiheroes actually are Kim, me, Xi and Vlad Putin; antiheroes, universal. Even Arthur is an antihero. 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. Just imagine all the plots opened, when the universe is the backdrop, of Earth’s story.
Imagine Kim the possibilities had ye and I made a deal last September at the UN’s General Assembly. Imagine how grateful I’d be now, if such an event had happened, last September …
… and I’d won Nobels for Peace and Literature, very possibly shared by all of us, last December, now passed. But the December once passed cometh once again, once returneth, December.
Kim: Share the stage with me and the others in December once passed is November. Preview 2021’s Nobel-winning, MORONS AND ALIENS. I’ll have again in a bully pulpit, a gigantic platform.
It’s the platform, Arthur lacks. I’m trumpeting Art’s book 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.
Art, Kim, and me; 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 and — 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 will tell 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; not unexpected, 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, the lines oft blur. When the lines blur, recall …
… the Urantia Book’s 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 verse publicly disagrees with my public alter-ego and publicly agrees with Him Who is still and forever, 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 — MAYDAY.
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 has learned everyone seems crazed. Everyone — that is it seems — but him.
Everyone seems crazy; everyone, it seems, but him. And 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. And 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, Arthur 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. Garcia Marquez saw and Mo Yan sees.
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, as slowly, but surely, fatefully, we 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, in His Omnipotence, somehow He created 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 far better expresses, His 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 tool in marketing, education and in composing innovative novel-like, novel, poetry.
Allegorically, my book’s settings Earth and Luna and its characters and its plot devices, are intended to illuminate, whatever in the Hell, on Earth is happening. And that is why also my …
… the long-winded soliloquy; my minutes of my soirées on Luna are characterized by tweets of 280 characters, miraculously, composed. In lieu of renouncing the Proud Boys I prefer to err …
… being fair. My alter ego’s statements made on this Independence Day, the very first global, such day, I do renounce. One such plot device is the light, atmosphere, lunar. There’s no 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.
My book; its a soliloquy; about soirées on Luna, and our forever, troubles, on Earth; with my frenemy characters; in characters, 280; even as everywhere strongmen are unfairly 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. My book’s settings, characters and plot devices are meant to blow whistles 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 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 MORONS AND ALIENS 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.
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 my book; a novel, fictionally, nonfictional, satire — Not your father’s satire — most assuredly — is my book.
A Prime Directive, a Galactic Federation and a plot twisting satire, twisting fate, is my book. I’ve got to find a way to help my former womb-mate — brother — to save the Earth. This is, my book.
I’ve got to find a way to help my whistleblowing former womb-mate brother, to save, the Earth. If my book 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 panacea; 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 panacea. 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.
Thanks to the Watcher Penemue, Kim got his soul back from Lucifer (Satan), as did I. Too soon we shall be long gone too but we’ve left ye in our legacies, invaluable, answers. Witness …
… a wisdom in threes, twos, and ones; witness, trichotomies, dichotomies and unities. Witness, numbers and letters; the alphabet; and witness, Aristotle’s, “Number is everything.” Witness …
… my Emily’s letters to a world, unresponsive. Sense in her verse the wonder, common to all of us. Wonderful to Art, is her verse. Witness Arthur Everman’s commission; and witness …
… a Kafkaesque, mission impossible. Witness the verse. Poetry channeled from elsewhere, somewhere, in the universes. Witness too, Art’s Saul-to-Paul-like transformation. Witness …
… Arthur, by lightning stricken; lol; the ever lit up and drunken Arthur, literally lit up by a ball lightning strike. Witness an illumined Arthur, with his quill pen analogs, penning an analog …
… of his beloved Emily’s lovely letters to the world; a letter to the nations, akin to Emily. I have ghostwritten for Arthur an instructive algorithm. A lettered and numbered, analog.
A how-to — alchemical; towards a Golden Rule fueled, behavior modification fortuitously, mirrored after public health fueled, behavior, modification. It’s not magic — it’s — a miracle.
Remember: Everything that happens is part of His comprehensive plan. Remember also, Occam’s Razor. The simplest answer, is likely, the right one. In any event it is truly, a miracle.
Thus, it bears repetition: Convene the United Nations in emergency session. Exchange the sovereign paradigm, for a Golden Ruled, one. Reconvene then, a brand new, United Nations.
Do this in my memory, when I’ve done gone on to Heaven. From your mindless grazing, lift your heads. Stand up to the dictators. Tweet — to the nations — And march upon — the nations.
And don’t worry about those old-fashioned Russian and Chinese prison society, firewalls. Just rely on all kinds of good-old, time-honored, — old-fashioned — human — communication.
For the time being, for the Earthlings, happy, bittersweet, and bitter endings. Ye have been, for the time being, at least, from crazed bipolars been saved. Thank God indeed, for the children.
Art won his wings. With five planets officially saved, officially retired, is he. He’s off; off to hook up with beloved Emily, knowing she’ll be waiting at the end of the line for him in Heaven.