MORONS AND ALIENS: TUESDAY, DECEMBER 14, 2021: DAY 2250

Who indeed, writes this? It’s a riddle, I guess; it’s a riddle that’s become an integral part of the story. Not central but incident to the central plot of the story is a tall tale. It’s the story of us. A supremely tall tale has been, the implausible story — of us.

A tall tale has been the telling story of me; and the telling story of us. And hubris runs through it. Hubris runs through, the story of us. A tall tale has been, the story of us. And I confess my shameful unfitness. I confess my unfitness — to lead us.

This is a riddle, I guess. But who’s the author is the least of it. The larger riddle is the message of the author; and who told him. This epic poem shall be a riddle, I guess; because I’m no prophet. That notwithstanding, I’m predicting — some things.

A TALL TALE — THE STORY OF US

In a sense, everything that happens, is in the nature of continuing education. Yellow and bricked, need not be, the pilgrims’ progress. And an inglorious past need not bear any resemblance to a resplendent — thanks to me — future.

Everything that happens is in the nature of a cosmic continuing education. And so I incorporate by reference herein, the Urantia Book. A cosmic, continuing education, is the Urantia Book. It’s the key, along with my book, to a resplendent, future.

Read them in conjunction to one another. And read, in addition, the Earthly Scriptures. And then imagine the implausibility of everything that’s happening; and the implausibility of my predicting these implausible things — happening — to us.

Imagine the implausibility of everything that’s happening. Even one as lettered as myself, only psychographically, might aspire to this. I agree with Arthur. It’s The Watcher that’s actually — writing. It’s The Watcher — who — writes for us.

It’s The Watcher who writes for us. It’s The Watcher that wrote for Arthur and then me. It’s The Watcher who writes to the rest of us. I’ll get the credit, nonetheless. I’m an expert on hubris and altho I’m no prophet, still, I — predict, things.

Implausibly, I’ve become a political pundit; a mover and a shaker; a sharp critic; a thorn in the side of whomever would dare to cause pain to me. But the people will clamor that I am a prophet because, coincidentally — I do — predict things.

Predictions; they’re coincidences, by and large. Perhaps, my most famous one might be one of those that hasn’t happened yet. Because men, all too often, have to see, to believe. Because we’re so visual, we’ll have to see the asteroid, to believe.

Because we’re so visual a species, we’ll often have to see something, to actually, believe in it. It’s easy to believe when things are seen and it’s easy to disbelieve when things are unseen. No wonder then, it’s hard to determine, in what, to believe.

Imagine, NASA and the UN, an asteroid impact, catastrophic. Then imagine it, sooner than later. It’s that game-changing opportunity I imagine, that I think, that I know. But it’s probably — not me. I’ll reap the credit but it’s not me — I know.

’Tis what ’tis. ‘Tis yet to be known what’s actually happening. But the Watcher’s been channeling Arthur and me. Cometh an asteroid impact, catastrophic. But in catastrophe if yer lucky, lies, opportunity — I know. That much — I know.

In catastrophe, if yer lucky, lies, opportunity. That much, I know. ‘Tis yet to be known what’s actually happening. But the implausibility of my predicting these implausible things, pales, before their possible benefits — and possible, consequences.

The implausibility of my predicting these implausible things pales before their possible benefits and their possible consequences. Predictions; they’re coincidences, by and large. But my predictions — bring — consequences.

My predictions bring consequences. It shall come to pass. It’s the Watcher that writes for us. It’s The Watcher that wrote for Arthur; and then for me. And it’s The Watcher who writes to the rest of us. It’s The Watcher who writes — to the rest of us.

But again, I digress. Who writes this? It’s a riddle, I guess; it’s a riddle that’s become an integral part of the story. Not central but incident to the central plot of the story is a tall tale. It’s the story — of us. A supremely tall tale has been — the story of us.

E = mc2

Once upon a time, my friend Al reminded me that everything is relative; “E = mc2”, he had said. The proof is in the pudding he said to me one evening in a dream, on Earth’s moon — Luna. Attesting to all of that is my ex-womb-mate, brother, Arthur.

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 — and from — Heaven. Ever since then I dream nights, on Earth’s, Luna. With Vladimir; and with Arthur.

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, from Earth’s Luna, by this, ex-president; seen also, by Arthur.

Take Israel, the Jewish apartheid state; and take Gaza, the largest open-air prison on Earth. Take the Chinese Uyghurs of Mongolian descent, they who once ruled over China. All these things, from Luna, I’ve seen. All these things, hath seen Arthur.

Everything is relative. The proof is in the units; E = mc2. All the more so, between relatives. The impossible dream. It’s the Pilgrim’s Progress, surreally. Everything’s relative. Even the Taliban, on this misbegotten, Earth, take a turn — or two.

On a misbegotten Earth, even the Taliban take a turn or two. Just like me, on Earth, the Taliban ruled, in Afghanistan, once upon a time; the Americans ruled, after them. Everything’s relative. And I shall rule, God willing — once again — too.

MORONS AND ALIENS is The Watcher’s magnum opus, if not mine, nor Arthur’s. In this central main plot I ghostwrite for Arthur, while Arthur lies low; in hiding from the various viruses and an uber-long-armed, Vladimir — Vladimirovich — Putin.

The gist of the plot; Don and Art are ex womb-mates, Don having, once upon a time, kicked Art from the womb, into the future. Having returned in a miraculous intervention, the ex wombmates now ally against — Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin.

The most able of all of us, I’m the one person, destined to unite us against the aliens; and or Xi, Kim, Vlad and Mohammed. What’s not to believe about that? And what’s not to speculate about a mad mix — of morons and aliens — on Earth?

What’s not to speculate given everything that’s happening? The aliens may be renegades taking advantage of the primitive and technologically unsophisticated species of being living on Earth. Certainly, we aren’t alone, in — and on, the Earth.

We aren’t alone, in and on, the Earth. Beings, extraterrestrial move surreptitiously about us, largely, unbeknownst to us. It’s astounding to me that no one in the mainstream press, questions that. Someone like me needs — to question that.

Someone like me; someone heroic needs to question that. It’s astounding to me that no one in the mainstream press, questions that. We aren’t alone, in and on, the Earth. Everyone knows that. Still, nobody mentions them. What’s up, with that?

What’s up, with that, indeed. The aliens are the elephants in the middle of the room. Someone heroic needs to question that. Astounding as it may be that no one in the press, questions that, still — ‘tis what ’tis. Nobody — mentions them.

Nobody mentions the aliens. The entire subject remains a black hole to most academics. And that’s to the liking of governments, universally. ‘Tis what ’tis. Nobody amongst the mainstream press mentions them. But created beings are the aliens.

ELEPHANTS AND GORILLAS

The aliens are the elephants (or the gorillas) in the middle of the room. But verily I implore thee to follow me. Follow me to face the enemy; to fight him or embrace him, as the case may be. Witness the coming asteroid, to China’s Xi — so disarming.

Follow me to face the enemy; to fight him or embrace him as the fates or the circumstances may dictate. Cometh a would-be, alarming, asteroid. But nobody’s panicking because no one actually believes, as I do, it’s actually — a-coming.

Thanks to my leadership, because no one knows nothing, no one’s been panicking. And so it matters not that cometh, a would-be, alarming, asteroid. No one will believe it, until it happens. No one will believe it until it, really, happens.

No one will believe any of this until it actually happens. Never mind all the happenings, previously, predicted. Witness my election; and waves of pandemics. Witness also an asteroid; a divine intervention — as it just — so happens.

In hiding is Art from the various variant viruses; and from an uber-long-armed, Vladimir Putin. I thought I’d been ghostwriting for Art but he’s got me convinced me that it’s been The Watcher, that psychographically writes, for us, in lieu of us.

In hiding is Arthur from the various viruses, variant; and from an uber-long-armed, Vladimir Putin. I thought I’d been ghostwriting for Art but Arthur has convinced me that it’s been The Watcher, that psychographically, writes for us.

In hiding is Arthur; from Vlad and variants alike. Arthur has convinced me that it’s truly been The Watcher, that psychographically, writes for us; in lieu of us, so to speak. It’s The Watcher who’s the author of this. It’s The Watcher‘s — redemption.

In lieu of us, it is The Watcher, who is authoring this. It is The Watcher‘s, magnum opus; it is the Watcher‘s, redemption. It is for all of humanity; for all of the surface Earthlings, one final opportunity, for redemption in evolution and its — salvation.

SHARE — THE PANACEA

Share this modern-day, epic poem. The fate of the planet, I suspect, is in my hands. I am, after all, the author. The transformation of mankind now depends, accordingly, on an inerrant, asteroid. It depends on DJT. It depends on an inerrant — me.

I’m the one and only. It’s counter-intuitive, I know; it’s counter-intuitive that one, above all the others, should be so highly favored. I’ve got my own cult of personality; my sycophants. It’s not for no reason that — I’m the one — and only.

Mankind’s transformation depends on me. And J’ve been doing my part; destroying the Party of Lincoln; and writing my story. It’s the story of man. And it’s the story, very possibly, of aliens — submarine — or subterranean — extraterrestrial.

This is the story of aliens extraterrestrial, whether they turn out to be submarine, subterranean or indeed, extraterrestrial or indeed, all of the above. It’s the story of me and an asteroid. And it’s the story of hubris and the surface — terrestrials.

Methinks that the in the aftermath of the asteroid, the Koreas, the Philippines, Japan and Taiwan may see the asteroid for what it is; it seems that what’s happening is nothing less than a miracle. Indeed a blessing in disguise may be, an inerrant, asteroid.

Indeed it seems that what’s happening is nothing less than a miracle. A blessing in disguise may be, an inerrant, asteroid. Blessed seem the lessons in the timing of everything that’s happening. And a blessing in disguise may be, an inerrant, asteroid.

In explanation of what’s happening, as surreally, implausible, as it seems. It shan’t be, maybe, neither Joe Biden nor me that rallies the people in the aftermath of an asteroid; the asteroid that saves the planet, from the ambitions — of Xi.

It maybe that neither Joe Biden nor me rallies the people in the aftermath of the asteroid; the one that saves the planet, from the ambitions of Xi. This I offer in explanation of what’s happening, as implausible as it seems. Still, I’m the one and only.

Still, in my opinion, I’m the one and only one that can fix this; the one that saves the planet, from the ambitions of Xi; and the hubris of us. This I offer in explanation of what’s happening. Human hubris — It may yet be — the death of us.

In my humble opinion, I’m the only one that can fix this; and I’m the one in the end, that’ll save the Earth from the ambitions of Xi and the hubris of us. Hubris; it may yet be the death of us. Seems nothing’s on Earth’s more corrosive, than hubris.

What’s happening is in the nature of continuing education. Thank Allah God Jehovah Yahweh for The Watcher’s watching, Arthur’s dreaming and my presiding, over and over, haphazardly, again. Read — between the lines. Behold — the future.

Read between the lines of what The Watcher hath written. And marvel at his prescience; for an inglorious past need not bear any resemblance to a resplendent, future. Only I can do it. Read — in between the lines. And behold — the future.

In a sense, everything that happens, is in the nature of continuing education. Yellow and bricked, need not be, the pilgrims’ progress. And an inglorious past need not bear any resemblance to a resplendent — thanks to me — future.

Everything that happens is in the nature of a cosmic continuing education. And so I incorporate by reference herein, the Urantia Book. A cosmic, continuing education, is the Urantia Book. It’s the key, along with my book, to a resplendent, future.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s