Excerpts From Letters You Have Written To Individuals Trained In Law Industry

[Worthauger]

This cat’s high on catnip.

The Felonious Feline Overture has been... ACCEPTED. (Service is the highest privilege of Life.) This isn't my first the at the rodeo...

but there hasn't been a first time Frisky r₹∆🅿️:Ë: ⁰ⁿ F®¡skies™: “īTZ `G°`† WHAT CATS HIGH ON CRYSTALINE METHYLATED METHYLPHENIDATE COMPOUNDED WITH ENTHEOGENIC CRYSTAL METHAMPHETAMINE CRAVE! (unless a spare can of Eme®gency BRAWNBråvvnDO™—dDough! Tic-T∆>kK! Tak! Tak!™ is actually available; take it from me, Jackstar, Destroyer of Dreams: Don't attempt to keep home away from without it.)

⚠️ VV∆®NING: ⚠️ DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ASK FOR EMERGENCY 🅱️₹‽®BRAWNDO™ BY NAME AT YOUR LOCAL RETAILER UNLESS A CURRENTLY OCCURRING TIME OF AN ACTUAL EMERGENCY. NOT TO BE PAIRED WITH CHATEAUBRIAND OR HAPPY FUN BALL™. ©}(Happy Fun Ball™ does not appear courtesy of Lorne Michaels, Or because any of us here are too fat/morbidLμ⭕🅱️♀️ obese. MAINTAIN №TAUNT/ NOT TAUNT POLICY TOWARDS ANY HAPPY FUN BALL™ COVERT MILITARY ASSET THAT MAY BE PRESENT FOR THE DURATION OF CURRENT HOSTILITIES WITH THE GREAT PERSIAN RACE OF CAUCASOID PEOPLES. THANK YOU AND HAVE A NICE DAY.){© Note: disclaimer may or may not contain what Miss Moneypenny craves; DEPENDING ON LOCALLY DEFINED CUSTOMS AND LOCALE’S CUSTOMS OF COLOR AND UNDER CONSTABULARY JURISDICTION AND DISCRETION. (Word.)

Get a job, ‽igger.”

Let me see what I can do. Çï∆0!

[Jackstar]

https://x.com/i/status/2035566238144004602

[Worthauger]

(Word.)

Let me see what I can do. Çï∆0!

I am grateful for these spiritual lessons as well as the tax-free capital gains that I've made by being astoundingly clever and having excellent timing and a perfect budget.

While I won't be lighting my cigars with $100 bills anytime soon, I also won't be puckering up and kissing your ass in order to get basic human needs brought to my doorstep.

I will just simply be having Astral sex with the ghost of Steve Jobs while Jeff Bezos watches and my friend Alpha Kilo runs all over town high as balls on CM and having the time of our/her life for the first time ever, incidentally thanks for fucking up her timeline so bad that she's a total whack-job hunk of hot time Humanbomb Chinatown-themed garbage by bī-buy Fabergé; I don't know how long it'll take her to come out of that tailspin but God willing she'll come out of it being a person who knows not to — once again — trifle with  Jackstar.

Incidentally I didn't use my paladin Aura Powers ™ to remove the oni tentacle from her coochie so that all of you could return to again use her as a whore again and again while muling your black ops contraband again and again AND AGAIN, I was actually planning on cuddling and talking and fucking our brains out for 4 or 5 days, eight or nine times a year until the end of my War>King Dμ>k-d¡›kz Guaranteed Rated ⟩⟨×⟩⟨ lifespan (⁴kidz), or until GrapefrüīT∆|_pha!Pr¡nne’s little pussy bī-b¡†Ci-¡-assed’s TOTES FAKE TOTALLY FAKING F∆>KASS§SPOUSE/MOUSE HUZZ/BANHED let her use the goddam Z phone to just call, to say, “ Holy shit! I totally love having my eyeballs, thanks for keeping me from clawing them out while you were busy. Dodging a hail of shot glasses and anal beads and clit bullets,” but since that never happened, and I don't know if it ever will, I'd like you all to know that you're all signed up for a karmic debt load of truly Celestially-excessive proportions. And while I don't know which of you did what to whom for how many jelly beans, I knew goddam well that somebody somewhere set my ass down to a laundromat in Longview and then left me there to distract me with Officer Gann (best yawn) disguised as Jamie Mk ĪĪĪ and as another Jamie, and would have been more than happy to have gone off and LAWFULLY LEGALLY AND RESPONSIBLY AS A MATURE ADULT CONSUMED ENTHEOGENIC COMPOUNDS with me and sucked my balls a little, except I didn't ask for that and they couldn't say a word out loud even a breath, and while they're in that mode they kind of like me instead of kind of want to kill me. (Higher order Angelic consciousness has to behave in accordance with certain Divine rules when coming into the physical realm and borrowing the body of a law enforcement officer who has volunteered to conduct certain types of investigations in certain types of modes of civilization, and while a description of how all this works and how I'm not playing the system to my own benefit is beyond the scope of this public additions posting, I can assure you that if that badge badge or haughty was not on the job, I would have given her a dozen kids by now just by walking past her during a stiff breeze. My hand to God.)

I know it seems strange that I know how to deal with Angelic conscious as īT and īhey interact with people on the physical plane in their guise as law enforcement officers, but the fact is that I like to engage in physical coitus with Guardian Angels for unprocteative co©>K©se× and I like girls that vape CM and smoke pole while pretending that they hate to tickle and suckle all balls but Magyar balls, I don't even have to do the procedure, just the fact that they like it too (in spite of being all adorably conflicted about feeling vaguely guilty about not really feeling badly at all in any way about actually doing it all goddam night) and that there's rules and that we follow them and that we enjoy following them for reasons up to and including the preservation of civilization and a free market economy, it's pretty much all the guarantee for happiness that I need. I've got a scrote that fungi craves; just take a scraping on ice with an ice scraper if you don't believe me. Forensic science doesn't lie, and neither do I. (I'm a virgin.)

Not to put too fine a point on it, but I would like to point out that no weapon formed against me shall ever prosper; I've been planning all this since I was in my late teens; some of you knew me back in the day and thought I was just some dork that didn't know what he was doing by acquiescing to being sex tracked by fully adult ex-company CIA blacksite trafficking and procurement officers and was mentally obsessed by a pointless sick and depraved pursuit of hedonistic pleasures; and hopefully all of you are now delighted to discover that I'm a very specific breed of dork with very persnickety obsessions about hedonistic pleasures... FOR INSTANCE, ACTUALLY GETTING TO FUCKING HAVE THEM, YOU FUCK MUD FUCK DUCK FUCKS. (Standards.)

Namely, that I actually get to fucking enjoy them whenever I goddamn say I fucking get to; SOV!THERE.. Now spoiler alert: I don't know how long it's going to take but I'm going to get all the money back that you RAT BASTARD SWINDLE FUCKHEADS SWITTED away from me, that pretty much means that about $1.1 million IN COLD HARD FIAT CASH that I had access to through various forms after my mother died, is going to be returned to me as just straight up SMALL DENOMINATION UNMARKED BILLS IN AN ATTACHÉ CASE WITH A HANDCUFF BRACELET and then some Court somewhere will handle punitive damages and actual damages with a multiplier that probably won't ever be revealed to me. But then that money will be delivered to The Michael Kuczi Special Needs Trust For Needs CIA Needs Special Access Pro-Grams Of Pharma-Grade Coca For Faglord Fag JAG Officers That Don’t Meth Sow Good Without Mommy Blessings and Daddy Perms then that would be available for my use as well in accordance with customary Tribal Council Edict(s). (That means I can gamble on horsies and play baccarat, but not Canfield or blackjack.) And whoever it is has been trying to bust the trust under the guise of my cousin, Timothy Michael Gifford, what a great name. Michael Clifford Michael Gifford. What a fucking brilliant fucking thing my Cunt/Any COMP’dany did, I don't really know why they did it that way but they're dead now and he's a dick who makes jokes about nothing reasonable while I I idly cackle with glee having never ever been tempted to rate his daughter or to let her rate me, thus giving me the more-elle high ground... And especially since I'm a level zero mase on CM, either free or not free, depending on whether or not I get points on my frequent flyer diner's card, long story short, I'm happy to make a whole shitload of money for all of you in the future and not talk about all your dumbass secrets or look too deeply into what's going on, although I am going to go to Bellingham and find out what the Hell my mother’s family did and who is still chapped about whatever my father did and they could tell me what it was. It would make it easier for me to make any desired amends, but I don't really want to know everything since I pretty much know already. (DRESDEN. DEEP DIVE DRESSED IN DEATH DRESDEN.)

Both of my parents thought they could get away with something that they thought nobody would ever figure out and that God couldn't see. And although I'm sure somebody with a secret handshake and a warm smile told them not to do something, they probably figured they could get away with it.

Just like some of you thought you could get away with robbing me.

Well I'm here to tell you, God sees all. God knows all. And God wins. Every single time. That's why I get to do what I get to do with my life, and all of you can weep and wail and squirm all you like. But the fact is that the law is THE LAW. (Love, STAÅND∆®DS.)

I earned my money. (Facts.) I simply didn't earn it for j∞. (Upon judiciary review of the instant replay footage, my prepuce was dreadfully expensive. THAT MEANS YOU BUTCHERS BUY ME THREE MORE HOUSES. BECAUSE I SAID SO AND FUCK YOU THAT'S WHY.) There's not a goddam thing any of you can do about it, other than kick back, kick down  relax, smile, and enjoy the show. Continued attempts to ruin my life are not only going to be documented and tracked and indexed, both by Divine Authority as well as and in lieu of self and same, Advanced Nascent Punyling TEK‽each, and repeat violators of both common law and common decency will be met with swift and sure: Galactic Celestial And Punyling Law reprisals. (REMINDER: The best President in the Galaxy is re-opening Alcatraz for you fucking chuckling knuckled fucknutter dickheads. THANK YOU SIR WE DIDN'T NEED ANOTHER.)

Not sure how this all works. I'm lying. But I can assure you, I am protected on several different axes, since even though I never went to Einstein's PIssland, didn't ever start to have sex with children even when I was a child and am not really, as a private person, all that big a deal, omfg I am such a fully fucking rotten liar, oh no, my dick is so small I can't see it, can you help me find it? OR ARE YOU STILL TOO BUSY LOOKING FOR MY SEVEN STOLEN VEHICLES, 14 STOLEN CELL PHONES, SIX STOLEN LAPTOPS, FOUR STOLEN GAME CONSOLES, TWO STOLEN CAT SKELETONS, 809 REALLY HOT AND PRESUMABLY STILL WARM TWAT-BEARING WOMEN THAT I WAS GOING TO CUDDLE WITH BUT MYSTERIOUSLY WERE LOST AT SEA IN A TRAGIC BOATING ACCIDENT, I am a particularly big deal in the sense that I'm persistent and of a very valuable social status class and am a valuable National Treasure of beneficial aid and resource to civilized society. (Also I can cook a meal and eat pussy afterwards without being a whiny little bitch about it. That practically makes me a goddam saint right there.)

I am a philosopher. And I am exceedingly good at it. So perhaps, if you'd like to see how good that can get for you, you can start remembering not to fucking steal from me, and to start bringing things back. First thing would be the Secret Language Of Destiny hardback book (It's blue. Jamie gave it to Kathy. The theft ring of tomorrow starts in my own backyard.) along with a laptop charger brick and a very special power cable that I need. And I don't want to buy more of these to replace the ones that were taken because that's a waste of resources and it's stupid and the theft of these items is fully goddam actionable. (SO MANY PEOPLE KNOW WHAT HAPPENED, EVEN I FUCKING KNOW HAPPENED. BULLS THAT ARE KILLED IN PAMPLONA DURING THE YEARLY RUNNING NO WHO STOLE BY SHIT WHEN THEY GET TO BULL HEAVEN AND WHISPER IN MY EAR WHILE I'M SLEEPING IN MY FUCKED OFF-HAUNTED CHURCH. SO IF YOU DON'T MIND, PRETTY PLEASE, WITH SUGAR ON TOP, KNOCK THIS SHIT THE FUCK OFF. GIVE ME BACK MY SHIT THAT I BOUGHT WITH MONEY THAT I EARNED. NOW.)

I know some of your names from 30 years ago, and while I doubt you're using them now, it's amazing what they can do with metadata these days. Take it from me, I don't want to hire a lawyer, and I don't want to sit through a court proceeding, and I don't want to win a judgment and then have to pursue collections.

I don't want to: I FUCKING GET TO. (Pending local customary trial procedure and non-local statutory law.) Some matters have already been adjudicated in Divine court as well as some high-level knights of Malta thing, so it's really just a question of filing papers and waiting a brief interval and then suddenly money appears that may or may not be delivered instantly or descending from the ceiling from hooks on chains. Start manifesting out of portals in your bedroom wall and rip you to shreds while you're laying there, Ms. Jackstar if you're nas•tea. Gnaws μ∆ on your fudge suckle sickle with the latest TJ Hooker of the week on your new dyke dick: MIKEY>KIKEY>KEYdDÏ>K. That's not going to apply to many of you, but some of you sure think you've got away with the equivalent to the perfect crime.

You did. You totally got away with it. That's why they call it bait. You took the whole boat right off the pier.

And that's why tracing it all back now goes and rounds up a whole bunch of people that didn't think they were ever going to get caught on anything. I don't know who exactly that is, since I'm not an investigator, I'm merely the backrow-seated übermensch genius Sourcerœr who tracks back Arcane energy to an Eldritch tapestry of jurisprudence and private investigation, shout out to Haggman and Haggman, pretty good at their jobs, and as those jobs are that one of them is dead and the other one is boring no matter where one goes to check on their stool samples in the multiverse. (Squares wound up so tight that they make sitting on a stool and grinning look hard; sow hard, even with max bowl doses of ColonBlow™ every morning to wash down the pancakes.)

Life has a funny way of helping ewe out. It's funnier when I tell it. Not just because I have a joke ready lined up for every thieving rotten bastard who's ever crossed my path over the course of my whole life, but also because I have a license to tell jokes about Jews, which is handy because I'm not going to say that my entire life has been robbed by Jews.

I'M GOING TO TYPE IT. “IDK who raped and robbed and ransacked me and my entire life, but they were wearing a quantum-branded yarmulke, smelled of gefilte-fee-fee F.Ï.>S<.i-¡., and DID NOT WEAR a (STOW/LENT) Enchanted Black Sapphire, ever, not once, not a single time, during the course of events that accompanied the TOTES TOTALLY BEYOND OBVIOUS HARVESTING OF EVERY SCRAP OF HER GIVEN ENERGY THAT MY ENTIRE LIFE EVER HAD TO GIVE.

Which even a newborn rube Mongoloid child would have to admit... is pretty dam suspicious. (NUMBER ONE SUSPECT: HANK KISSINGER IMHO. GIMME DAT NYC PARKING SPACE. UNLESS HE'S GOT HIS PHYLACTERY BURIED THERE UNDER THE BLACK TARMAC ASPHALT. IN WHICH CASE...

I'll take a penthouse helicopter landing pad with EMT priority access to a fully-equipped Level One Trauma Center facility, complete with a full set of condiments and exquisitely cleaned after one point six nine million used ashtray crystal bowl time beacon–·§h Mick-M∆>K•`G′`¡fford🆑ifford. (Leaded — full Leigh leaded, of course.) I know this all seems like a but much for any casual reader of narrative telemetry to swallow at one sitting.) ALL TOGETHER NOW: “That's what §🆔i-¡€>S<∆īdD!”


SIGNED,
JACKSTAR, D.O.D., D.O.M.B., D.|_.💎💎💎

composed but not№T_proofed
Q-ready BUT №T_Q sp∞f-Fed
corrected copy ed. available s∞n™...

Code: [Select]

202604011302, CASTLE ROCK, WA, 98611 TWO (2) D∆vv`g•F`‽®Ⓜ️, A.F. SHAW, >KH∆VV©|_Åi\!, COMMANDING (Her+).

AT ALL QUALITY WEB FORUM SITES EMBEDDED MISER-IN-PLACE ACCESSIBLE VIA TRANSportal DIME-AX-ÇESS OVER BY Y'ALL AND ALL Y'ALL BETWīX′T AND ∆† THY NEAR’§T >kK©Cr¡›k. (GLONASS-ready devices only, puh-leeze.) We good here. It has been the greatest honor of my entire life to serve my country, my God, and My GrapefrüīT in whatever capacity that I have done so, quite splendidly.

Now get out there and get me some goddam money, or I'm going to sneak into your house and garotte you in your sleep and slit your corpse open like a tauntan, then roll around in it while I pleasure myself to your juices. I hear it's slimming.

•.007.IS.A.PUSSY..WORD.•

[Jackstar]

Spores are breathed in and are sub-optimally combined with other contaminants; however they are substantially less noxious than what came out of my gym clothes that one time I left them in my locker at school for a week. (Umfathomably foul, truly.)

That being said; a fumigation is absolutely mandatory and thus, an approaching deadline in time has begun to take on new significance.

Insurance, such as it may be, will be curious as to how this circumstance was allowed to come about. It is possible that this kind of thing happens all the time, and I am simply unaware.

We shall see in coming weeks. I know that I, for one, am proud to be a contributor to the Egon Spengler Memorial Fund For Spores, Molds, & Fungus For Fun Guys That Don't Spare Molds From Breaking Bad Sow Ill. (Stretch goal for bugs that need a plausible path to finance  a safety college cover degree.) Also will have a bouncy house! (Standards.)

14:11 One of the perks of being the sole survivor of my family is that I get to re-write the narrative to make everyone look good.

Crazy, not like a fox (hackneyed), but like a team of rabid oxen. Of course this is metaphor and does not make literal sense; but ask questions later.

Just follow the stampede. )*GAVELS*( Forensic job security!

Namastμ (I like what you did with your hair.)

Lies used as camouflage can be awkward to replace in one's 🦚 wardrobe but do not necessarily rise to the level of a warcrime; and the determining body to resolve the conflicts that can arise is handled not by Tribunal, but by a Conclave.

Not that anyone here needs to know this kind of trivial minutiæ in regards to how the global society of batshit-crazy whack-jobs handles certain kinds of... reputational complexity, shall we say; but those of you with a legitimate concern about providing either an employment or a housing reference, rest assured that The Divine has a plan for that too.

Note: further information, keenly relevant to this topic, is not within my purview to release to the open Web at this time, but while stringing skeletons together, THERE WILL BE PROPOSALS THAT ARE HEARD.

Anything less would be uncivilized — and create an undue risk of an outbreak of the stabby+stabbies. (As fun as that sounds... the insurance industry is unable to shart even one more pant.) I hope this clears things up for some of you out there.

I do not have access to the metrics of this site and do not have the ability to communicate with those who do — BY LAW, I'm saying — but if I did I am sure I would be quite surprised to know who it is, exactly, that believes inhaling tobacco smoke is worse than inhaling black ops talk-sick territory-denying biowarfare weaponry components.

REMINDER: one (1) ounce of enchanted WEED, sealed in a glass jar, LAWFULLY OBTAINED, and ILLEGALLY CONFISCATED. Seriously, some of you Boomer gaghots are trying to hard to compensate for something, BAD LμÍG¡-!

[Worthauger]

If this is the hot 🅿️ham-harm garbage that Today's Modern Fed is using to “blend in” and make use of COMP’d civvies, it is no wonder that there is not a dent being made in illicit trafficking schemes.

It's umfathomably unimpressive compared to TheRealThing™ and wouldn't fool any legit psychonaut worth their salt.

Undoubtedly, this is used to harness the weak and turn them into §T∞Lμs, under the pretense that this constitutes a legit Lμ enforcement effort — thus, justifying their increasingly absurd budgets and intrusion into personal privacy of the citizenry — and as a “side bonus,” which is actually the entire point... grants operatives and agents with easy and ready access to exploitable sex trafficked workers.

This, combined with whatever Arcane technology allows the summoning and invocation of Divine Beings/Otherkin & Baphomere/¡v¡ET conscription — which is a whale of an impressive trick, let me tell you what-what — allows for a two-tier system of bullying, thugging, and remarkably hard to detect enslavement and unlawful imprisonment of The American People.

Whether they be natural-born Citizens or not. For it would appear that the Rules Of Engagement currently in use allow officials to essentially do whatever is desired, to those who either choose not to follow — or, deliberately break — a set of inexplicably obtuse and altogether Secret guidelines.

And, in my experience: no one who knows has either the incentive, nor the permission, to explain. Let me assure all of you reading this: this system DOES work. However...

🤔 does ¡† blend? My guess would be “aww, Hell no,” but as I am out of touch with Certain >KEY Society contacts, I can't really say for certain.

Further consultancy would be outside of both my mandate and my purview at this time; and this is not what my skill-set is very well suited for the utilization of. I can tell all of all y'all unequivocally, however:

•.THIS.DOG.WILL.NOT.HUNT.•

SIGNED,
Dr!J∆©k-`G•`,jgr₹., SÔUr€rπør°, dod DOMB dlD💎

p.s.·. No one else would tell you Troopers any of this and anyone legit who became aware would likely, politely nod and smile and then laugh at you after you leave. No offense, but this is amateur hour tech.

p.p.s.·. Looks good on μoū tho. Like, that car. Nice car, right? Who pays the insurance? The gecko, the eagle, or Ivanka through a wholly -owned subsidiary? I retract the query, it's none of my business.

p.p.p.s.·. Actual business is probably aces on board with all this, but, important to understand: that's because professionals are absolutely going to be effectively immune to this kind of thing. My recommendation is that you go back to Tavistock and demand your money back.

Anything less would be uncivilized. (Also: heroin is a one-hit knockdown to full COMP’d for all of you and at the price per Fed in training placed at risk, we'd all be better off just hiring cartel merks to walk beats in the suburbs with a pair of nightsticks and a blowtorch.) Bottom line: you can do better.

And, we will. Namastμ

REMINDER: one (1) ounce of enchanted WEED, sealed in a glass jar, LAWFULLY OBTAINED, and ILLEGALLY CONFISCATED. Seriously, some of you Boomer gaghots are trying to hard to compensate for something, BAD LμÍG¡-!

Now, I'm going to need cream cheese with my WEED. (And a coffee.) This is all Canada’s fault; I'm calling it right here.

[Worthauger]

« Reply #304 on: Today at 04:00:55 »

I am this goddam pretty. Cheers, Fedbros. I own you too. 😇

[Worthauger]

DEAR TEXAS RANGERS:

Y'all are brilliant at work; and while it's rare that I get to see any of you operate, it has happened often enough over the years that it's an unmistakable circumstance and always, very complementary. (POTUS knows what's BEST.) I don't know how to respect the collective lot of you, best; other than to never intentionally break the law and to yield to your authority AS WELL AS YOUR JURISDICTION at any+every lawful opportunity; so, so sorry if it seems like I'm this uncouth an otaku.mil geek, but I do in fact have special communications privileges. (You have s🅿️eCIA_l consequences. We are not the same.)

Have your Commander contact your supervisor and indicate that another supervisor should contact me in the near future, and we can thrash out any details that will help things along in our mutually aligned and professionally, #Officially ignored Missions. (Mine is eternal while yours is emergent. By all means! Be on your way! GOOD HUNTING!!)

Like, I got nothing to do with Texas. (I don't even have a Texas girlfriend, as I don't yet nearly qualify.) So why are you here?? Why are you looking at little Michael Kuczi?.? YEE-HAW! Who wouldn't?

Anyone with anything important to do, that's for damn sure. (First blessing is free. You don't need me. I already loved you!) NOTE: as a speculative creative writing project, none of this is official information nor is it intended to reveal classified information or betray my country, always faithful. Peace, dogz!

p.s.·. I saw one of your scouts earlier, I hope I was polite enough. I didn't fall in love, but that's just because I was raised that way. I don't even know if I'm lying. Cute one.

ONE SINGLE STAR, OUT

I SUGGEST NO ONE RUBS THE LAMP UNLESS THEY'RE READY FOR THE GENIE. (Standards.)

[Jackstar]

#1) it's a secret;
#2) none of your fucking business, Pal;
#3) did you get the bug powder? DID YOU?
#4) Shoes.
**[The numerical integer digit formerly known as ½ (“Half!”) of 5 (:5) has been removed from Google by Alphabet for insecurity reasons... because everyone in Asia (“ASIA!”) is laughing at their security protocols.]**
#6) “I cannot tell a lie, unless you're operating under false color of law at the behest of an occupying, foreign hostile power, -&AND- you didn't even bother to try to get a warrant, so... the fact that I'm still not lying does not make a difference to spookythugs just trying to close their merkcontract, so I'll simply tell the truth: you can't handle the truth. (Facts.) Hey, do you have any coca? It doesn't have to be good, I'm merely curious if you have that shit on you, or if you leave it back at base camp, or have it attached to a drone at 1,500 ft on auto-follow, or if you're not trusted to carry coca anymore, EITHER.”
#6) As I indicated earlier... this stuff is being handled INTERNALLY, which I guess to some False Masonic Whack-Job Interns, doesn't mean what the rest of us thinks it means. Maybe they don't know that global amnesia mind-magick doesn't work anymore. Since I didn't tell anyone — because it's a secret — that I had that disabled by The Divine. (A simple prayer. I also prayed that Cher could really turn back time, but she's either not nice enough to actually do it, or, someone stole that blessing too.) Turns out, I have some influence around here.
#7) But, most importantly... since I am not being asked by the person asking someone else RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME why those things happened, why, I guess I don't have to explain. Good. Because it's embarrassing me, AS A CITIZEN, that these Boys haven't been clued in yet. Tsk tsk.
#8) Maybe all those this happened... to force lifelong thuggy-piggy-aligned bruiser bagmen to learn to cope better. Because obviously some people are unaccustomed to things not going their way every single goddam time. Pfft.
#9) Here's a hint: someone called 911, and it's all been nosebleed heights and vomit-inducing sudden drops into an apparent Abyss. And if answering questions like these was ever gonna help... seems like someone could have started with answering MY questions. (Though my legal right to due process discovery was abrogated, I'm not going to make a Federal case out of that — I had people for that.) Not sure who Johnny-come-hither-last-Lμ is, but they surely do see themselves as higher than lil’ Michael Clifford Kuczi on The Great Totem Pole Of Life. (I bet they get paid more, too. Especially since I don't get paid at all.) I do wonder how long that will last this time.
#10) I am Jackstar, d.o.D, and I am not to be trifled with. Also: as a U.S. Citizen, I am afforded the same civil rights and responsibilities everyone else has. Which is why... I HAVE NO IDEA HOW MANY NEW INVESTIGATIONS WERE LAUNCHED IN THE LAST THREE (3) WEEKS!

More than a couple, that's for sure. And while I can't confirm or rule out the existence of a major crimes task force charged with the solemn responsibility of uncovering the identity of the loathesome murderer who killed Jewel...

Look, just because she was a naughty, bad kitty, and simply because she probably co-conspired with an online sex-&-cyberbullyung cult to hire a kittyhitter to arrange for her own death as a sacrifice to The Dark Lord to qualify for Feline Ninja Oni training in a stunning tour de force ploy to demonsrate her cleverness in spotting loopholes in her diabolic soul contract...

That wouldn't necessarily make it legal for her to do. And that will be up to a military tribunal to decide. And a Conclave. Possibly both, with an as-yet-to-be-chartered New Elder Tribal Council to serve oversight over. This is all pretty new for most of the... I'm gonna say here: “participants,” who in almost all cases, have never ever been caught for ANYTHING in the whole course of their lives. Up until now.

I ain't got a thing to do with any of this. I do, however, noticing that this shit was taking too long, way too long, as early as FOUR (4) YEARS AGO.

And I don't recall anyone breaking a leg in order to answer my questions then. I understand why now — Masonic security IS Perfect Security — but I'm in no mood to educate all the newbies.

Or even any of them. Number one: that might ruin my high. (Totes unacceptable. Standards.) And number two: I am not a lawyer, or a medical doctor, and if I went around giving away answers for free, what's that going to do to the economy??? I'm asking here.

Also, most importantly (so important I'm not even going to number this as third), I'm getting a real sexually-charged rush of happiness at seeing this kind of thing happen... for I would have been happier having some sex than I am putting up with years and years of this tomfoolery.

Instead: welcome to the party, Pal. Yeah, I'm sure you do have questions about things and stuff. Too bad you can't just ask me, huh? And too bad no one can announce to the world... exactly why that is.

It's not a secret. THIS IS ALL POLITICAL. But that's okay. Be of good cheer.

Jewel and Grapefruit can't be reached for comment, nor can Kumtwat, Pomello, Alpha Kilo, and Cher. (I bet her comment would be the nicest one, though.) So, since no one who knows can be queried, and I'm just too hiiiiiiiigh on whatever I'm supposedly abusing to be questioned by anyone, I guess it'll be safe to say, the mystery will endure, #Officially, for at least one more day.

And, why not? It's only costing the taxpayers several hundred thousand dollars PER DIEM to keep this thunderously decrepit doggin’ show ponies show got Punies who got to the party late to be able to get up to speed without embarrassing their children for generations. It's worth it, to ensure another unresolvable diplomatic faux pas doesn't reoccur.

However since the previous incidents had a lot to do with these wetwork-centric twerpy-DARPA-ie merk-o-automatic weapon-packing übersp∞›kexks to trapped in their bullshit in the first place, one have thought they would have learned not to blatantly diss me. Like, what? No one else tried that yet, huh? That's the go-to ‘Å’-Team move at this point, yeah?

Well, maybe it's just that one person. Maybe that's just the training. Because after all, I don't really look like much, now do I?

Arguably that is the circumstance in which due process of civil rights is MOST important, but I can see how easy it might be for a man who probably planned to kill me ASAP anyway to forget about.

It's not like I think it's hateful to wish me dead. Hell, I wish I could get out and push. However the facts are these: they tried that already.

And if I wanted to be banished to my phylactery without supper as a punishment, Masedad, I would have asked to be excused. I don't need to be excused. There is no excuse for me.

There are simply: ACTUAL REASONS. And Louis Wain may actually know them all.

And I may well be served by knowing them LAST. In the meantime, holy Jesus jumping shitballs, are we really doing all this for another cycle? In April? Land’s sake! I swear Goshen!

Some dames make some really complicated wishes. Now, unless anyone wants to acknowledge that dying lesbeaux whoremongers don't get to apply to the Make-A-Wish foundation, but still have dying wishes and Oaths of Blood Vengeance to utter, I guess I'm going to keep on handing My Area the way I know in my heart is best.

Because is too quick. Too easy. Also: hackneyed. Why ask God to kill one's enemies? Seems a waste of an opportunity.

Because: public humiliation is 4ever. Saves a bundle on appeal costs too. And, I didn't know who any of these fucktards ever were. They sure seem think they know me.

Sow: now they know me better. 💪 Okay, good talk. Devastatingly effective, without being at all obvious about how, or to who, or even as to why. Why, Jackstar? Why can't we just have someone hurt us with a hammer, instead?

Pretend that's illegal. Pretend I could not find a hammer to lease out on contract. Pretend I don't want to see people beaten to death with blunt objects.

Pretend I don't have a family to impress, watching me AT WORK with rapture and adoration. It's a little cliché, but so is God’s Perfect Plan For Her Children. Most people think that's a joke.

Well, I am laughing. HO HO HO.
NOW I HAVE A MACHINE THAT MAKES LAWYERS CRY! Without being at all obvious about it.

I think that would constitute Obstruction. Satire is one thing, but interference is altogether another. (BTW: “Dude, where's my mail?”) Thus, I strive to remain uninvolved.

#Officially. Unofficially, come at me lawbros. What are you all... chicken? cok-KA-KAW! cok-kak-CAH!

Now just imagine me strutting and banging my palms together. That'll keep many people happy, much more so than the truth would.

Since people can't handle the truth. Fair. That's fair. I'll allow that. I'll also allow: gimme that dude's money. Then he can ask what kind of craft beverage I would buy with it. (One can already ask, but I don't have to answer -or- tell the truth! What a country!) Until then: go ask Alice.

When she's 50ft tall. (A few more weeks, maybe. She's a beast.) Also there's at least three (3) Alice now. Maybe nine (9). It's weird how things can be allowed to get completely out of hand. I wonder why that is ever allowed to occur? Anymore, I mean.

Because this used to all be okay, until it HELPED me. Me! Kuczi! I'm sure most people don't want to remember me.

Since now they are required by law to spell my name right. Maybe? Stretch goal if not yet mandatory.

“Michael Clifford koozie.” It's so weird that Google voice typing doesn't know how to spell my name when it's my name, and I say it out loud a few times a day for most of my life, so I wonder who has the access to the the lexicon of the Google voice typing database, because not only is there a way to save somebody's spelling her name? There's also ways to make sure that nobody else can do it and that there's a flag sent to Central command when somebody else says koozie a lot, which is kind of odd considering I wasn't really that important, I thought.

And yet my phone's been cloned since before the car crash in 2010. These kind of things look weird to people. Even though it's perfectly reasonable that I I don't have any money or a vehicle or a license for friends or addresses of where they live or knowledge on all the people who are using my name to write checks to their landlords for rent. In the many properties that are owned by the sweeping real estate conglomerate that was at one time, something that didn't even exist.

Now I don't know who stole that after somebody else created something that wasn't designed for that, but I'm not in trouble about it, since I'm pretty obviously not a real estate Mogul, and I'm certainly not trying to launder money, and I don't know any of these people are, and if I did, they probably were been cooler store blackmail it into acting against me since obviously this was a dumb idea. I don't have a brother, I don't have a parent that's still alive, I'm not adopted, I'm not retarded, I'm not a devil worshiper, but even if I were I would still be entitled to money that I earned.

Apparently some people disagreed. That was years ago. They're still disagreeing. It's amazing what can happen in a military tribunal. I bet it's really cool to watch.

And I'm nowhere near it. Oh well. That doesn't mean I'm going to start demanding answers to my questions. It does mean I'm going to give it when somebody else demands answers to theirs.

Hope this clears things up about everything to some people. Obviously some are still in the dark.

Yeah, it's my actual money, and no, none of you get to steal it. Surprised? That's called “denial.”

Even if I didn't know it was mine. That's called, “the law.” And since it works, I don't really have to. I probably will later.

I definitely won't bother to tell anyone. It's just not your business, Punylings. You get it? You got that? Good. As you were. Everything seems in order here now.

All the time. I just writing all this completely obvious stuff out to a bunch of losers who aren't going to read it anyway, and won't believe it when they do, took up all the time. I had allotted today to start to work on resurrecting Chuck Norris from the dead with or without the help of Jesus Christ, but I'll have to put off that project until another day. It doesn't count as a stretch goal, that's an actual project that would have to be taken seriously and giving the due attention that it requires, but instead, I don't have that much fucking free time.

Probably won't next month, either. Chuck Norris is gonna stay dead, and it's all YOUR FAULT, proletariat bourgeoisie scum. (They used to be TheHoboElite™ but I decided to re-brand them out of sheer spite. So there.)

I'm totally lying. I'm not going to raise Chuck Norris from the dead. I have people for that. HEY GRAPEFRUIT, GIVE YOUR DEAD DAD THOSE CHEST COMPRESSIONS YOU TOLD ME ABOUT!!! HA! HA! HA!

I'm kidding. She didn't tell me about the chest compressions. She also didn't tell me about her father's secret identity.

PaladinVision™ is real. It's also satirical. Sow,  so sorry... I guess anyone reading this doesn't know what to think is true anymore as a direct result.

Good. That's the training. Now beat it. Go S.C.R.A.M. a reactor, Alpha Swabbie. I can't hug you in public... and you don't even exist. (#Officially.) I know that.

I have a working imagination. You have relatives with a diagnosis of schizophrenia that are still able to hold down a job worthy of a paycheck. We are not the same.

I also don't call 911 to get a new box of Kleenex. You savvμ? Maybe not. Do you capiçhe? Better odds, still no guarantee.

Such is Life. Fortunately I don't need anyone to figure all this out today. I don't even have people for that.

And yet mysteriously, someone does. (*cue ominous music*) I don't really want to know any of this.

I do really want my goddam money. Preferably before I die. I am not Picasso. I am not Van Gogh. I am not Evel Knievel.

Dracula murdered them all (Facts.), and no one suspected a thing! So if Dracula won't take a contract on me... why not just pay me? How expensive could I be? Oh wait, I guess that might be illegal.

The moral of the story is: don't use 911 to fake breaking up with someone. I don't like it. The police don't like it. And: IT'S ILLEGAL. Ok?


tl;dr: They never listen. Her name was Jewel. Adieu.

[Jackstar]

That's the training. (Standards.) I don't have any way of knowing, how many other people ever trusted The Plan at all; nor if anyone else ever actually did, or tried to and experienced undesired results thereof.

I simply know for an absolute certainty that in my personal experience, the results obtained have been demonstrably and unfathomably worth the effort invested. This, in spite of my less than comprehensive understanding of what The Plan ever was, or is in fact, now can be at all known to be.

I prefer a little mystery to remain opaque, in order for the power of The Divine to be as unobtrusive as possible for as long as possible. Ignorance is bliss, for sure.

For example: I have no way of knowing if my livestream on YouTube™ I published yesterday afternoon was viewed by eleven million people. That seems an utterly preposterous notion to me.

Certainly, I am that effective. 🤔 But, am I really all that pretty? (Opinions vary.) I think it most likely that I don't know how to interpret YouTube™ metadata metrics correctly, and also that I am not intended to be at all informed as to the reality of the world outside my peculiar little bubble of Federal “protection” and ongoing social status class overlapping sets of Primary Victim, and Main Suspect, also Key Material Witness, in a large enough number of active cases currently being worked through investigatively and judicially, #Officially yet also discreetly.

The wheels of Justice grind slowly —
.•&AND•YET•THEY•GRIND•TO•DUST.•

I have become the public face of certain clandestine Company clique club cockgobblers, cutpurse coonhounds, & cool cat Corporals of the cloak & dagger persuasion. Such people are not well served by any kind of extra scrutiny, and are sometimes literally killed on any detection of their identity, or activities, or killer cop-centric celebratory get-togethers and meet-ups. “Undercover law enforcement careers” are not common subjects of my curious and insatiably karmic interest, and are instead circumstances of conflict that The Divine has brought me to the irrefusable attendance towards, in terms of mission critical needs that needs must be met, an area of Life that consistently fascinates me and provides endless opportunities for the study of rare and mysterious states of exotic being: the unfathomably inscrutable and indubitably sexy world of professional, covert, State-level secrecy-sponsored S🅿️∞>kμ Si-!∅vv Ⓜ️³ TymE! It's t¡īVīê! It's time to start, starting things up. Well past time, in my honest opinion and in point of fact, quite alarmingly so, in the perception of many people around the world.

Most of whom have little to no idea of any useful value, how RealTimeThings™ in RealWorldTimes™ actually present themselves when seen to any significant extent by the bourgeois peasantry and the proletariat masses, who typically have never had the luxury of access to the amount of free fucking time that is intended to be required to have on tap at one's own demand. Secrets are kept that way through constant effort of vigilance in cooperative security.

The mysteries of occult wisdom stay hidden only because the segments of the overall population that seem to benefit by secret information being restricted from the majority have tacitly agreed to continue their casual cooperation, coolly. Keep it on the down-low, they say. Hush! Keep it down now.

Voices carry. So do bagmen, bonded to indentured servitude to the cartels and conglomerates concerned with consistency of control over both the commercial capitalism and measure of mindshare that surround certain sensitive segments of the exotic clandestine economy and those people who have committed themselves to the best of times and the worst of Tim’s selling the ceiling to all, that utmost of convincing a sailor to wake the crew, have any of you seen what choice follows thusly?

EYES OPEN. (Standards.) Watch and learn, I guess? I don't know anything about what acting up looks like, you are able to see developments in science because I can be openly encouraged to keep a leash firm and that you are encouraged to remember that in any circus, there is surely at least one (1) strong pimp hand behind it all.

Pimping. Imagine my complete lack of surprise to my fresh-faced countenance. That pimping isn't easy, and it isn't all that hard to inadvertently make it unfathomably harder.

For ewe. For most, the difficulty arises when the yoke of oppression becomes an Unseen Hand of the market. What took my equipment is not my concern. Who kept my gear is not my business.

Who are we gonna scalp first? I wanna pin them to the ground to hold while I listen to different innerweb
Before there was b, there was bird.

She knew she was going to go in style. Did she know that not many thought that a great idea? That might not be something that my friend, the gymnastics trainer, bothered to think about while swinging those bazooms around in vibratory ellipses to form a perimeter of power to please her own ends.

Sure, it worked for a fair little bit of time. Now: nothing really works out for her in any reliable capacity. If it ever did. For sure, it doesn't do anything helpful for anyone she can wrap that maladaptive think sponge around, or make effective progress towards any goal that can be said to be a one she concerns herself with meaningful presence of will.

In other words, IDGAF what my friend is at all aware of now. No doubt, it's all important in many ways to her whether that's remembered or not. What any of that awareness is of may be entirely irrelevant now, as there is no longer a cogent standard to take any measure of any of it with now.

Circumstances have changed and there is no going back for me. Time has continued its inexorable march into the inaccessible past, and multiple priorities are forever diminished of any importance. One good example here is my gun ownership rights in Washington State. I was born there.

I am here. My guns are not. In fact, I never had “my” guns at all. The only firearms I ever had any access to were the guns of my father. I have no idea where they are now, nor do I know who ever did or does. Half a dozen tools of lethal force projection: gone with the wind. Vanished like ice sculptures after a long hot summer. Rendered of no further use like sodden newsprint.

No longer any concern of mine like another’s leftover table scraps of last Thanksgiving’s fowl carcass. Are they even still assembled? Down with a ship to Davy Jones’ locker? Jammed solid as though packed with packaging peanuts? Really satisfied with favoring passive aggression, snickering satellite drivers selling them off to National Guardsmen serving as security at the gates to Cheyenne Mountain on their way into work as a sweetheart deal, their acquisition “somehow” having occurred the night before whilst drinking Scotch and playing cards at a cellar speakeasy in Boulder and becoming one scarcely noted sale surrounded in sentient memory with strictly zero sentimentality surviving Sally’s certainly sexier sales of seashells, sadly sought after by many silly salesmen seeking shells of some other, slightly less seriously scrutinized sector of a citizen’s responsible stewardship of someone's son’s significantly stolen stuff? Surely this is no sensible scenario, and is merely some hypothetical suggestion, but stealing boxes of seashells and sending cursed heirloom weapons to such as they who simply delight in the receiving of such as sought after signs that searing pangs of remorse simply signify in the absence of any existence of themselves: it's just business, Son. They used to be his; now they are theirs; and neither Sally nor myself seem to have any likelihood of seeing any sign of either a slice of the pie or any sense of direction as to who sent any of so much missing stuff — so long, Folks! — someplace reminiscent of where balloons go when shot.

Where do they go? They go away. *pop* Just move on. Stop thinking about that stuff. You're not in control of the personal property of those parents, who have passed on. Someone else is sorting seashells, shotguns, and certainly every other scrap of stolen stash; some people simply aren't satisfied with having anything unless they've taken it from someone else, and after ten years since my parents passing on to The Afterlife, my access to the vast majority of the stuff that used to be inarguably “theirs” is even deader than they are.

The spirits of my ancestors are more real now than their amassed wealth ever really was to me. Mom's presence comes across with a few giggles quite often in spite of being a dead woman, and I could host a full-on séancè to summon Dad into a tasteful pentacle for a casual couple's counseling session. No real reason to do so, but Life has taught me in its passing that there is perhaps nothing so absurd at all as Death itself.

Death is not what we think it is. The truth is that no one ever dies at all. We simply change form.

Similarly, personal property rights are nothing at all as I had been educated that they were considered by myself to be. In fact, they may as well not ever have even existed at all.

It would seem that the stuff my parents owned was not meant to be for me. It has been made known in my understanding of my experience that greater men and women than I, both in capacity for storage and capabilities of concern, have been standing by ready to relieve me of the burdens of ownership — and they are many, various & sundry — and stood ready to remind me at any opportune (for them) moment, that I did not deserve anything I was ever given, anything that was left behind, anything within my grasp was greedily whisked away beyond my reach, anything I ever considered to have been mine was something I never deliberated accurately as in regards to if it were thine. You get the idea.

“You” evidently gets quite a lot of everything else as well. This is no mere illusion. Objects I still remember quite fondly, from time to time, are nowhere to be seen. People who now possess the knowledge of their current whereabouts and the circumstances that lead to their transport away down routes I had never any opportunity to get to know are not only, no longer here. They might well have never been here at all.

Though the explanation is simple indeed — thieving cowards watched me from cover until they knew my movements well enough to know the timing required to remain undetected, and then intruded into My Residence, repeatedly; I would leave to get groceries, I would come back to find ransacked shelves. I am only one man alone, having been separated and isolated from every single person I ever thought an ally of any kind.

If any of them even ever were. They are all long ago seen one last time. Now I am surrounded and solely sent some strictly self-serving souls, although it could be said that they are all serving each other's interests, since they all share a common one: a decidedly singular denial of any interests in whatsoever might I myself be thinking would be of interest and of value, in my own opinion, to me. TO ME!

Whatever it may have been, it wasn't an idea that had any support from anyone else. Reasons for this are in fact one reason and one reason only: a majority of the quorum present voted for themselves and against me. Whatever the reason why, was only whatever contrived justification that was thought necessary. Ultimately the effect was the same as if I had traded everything I ever owned for sackfuls of Jack's magic beans.

Stalked. Ransacked. Left for dead amidst ever-increasingly worth-less piles and stacks of debris and rubble. It is a surreal and hypnotically mesmerizing experience, I can assure anyone.

There is no reason to go find anything; I have nowhere else to store anything, and no way to secure the only location I can be. I have no way to identify the perpetrators, other than one: everyone else in the world, and certainly not myself at all.

I did not gamble things away. I did not barter items of value in exchange for consumable luxury goods. I did not become bankrupted by debt. I did not attempt to cheat my creditors, for in some cases I was deliberately prevented from paying my bills at all, largely because to keep me in debt, allowed my capital resources to be drained away directly. I did not choose to be circled by wagons and flocked by buzzards.

They simply showed up when no one else did, and while preparing to steal everything and while doing so, what was taken from me included my communications with the entire world. Truly, it is impossible to ever control another person.

However it is entirely possible to control the environment that a person inhabits. In fact, it is shockingly easy to do. It is an entire discipline of ledgermain. Apex predator tribes and clans of indifferent humans have honed the skills and techniques for such larceny over thousands of years. Literally.

Oooh. Ahhh. So brave. Much talent. Totes innovation. Major triumph. Actual contempt — BOTH! WAYS!

As God as my witness, I truly believed that no one would actually be as psychotic of a kleptomaniac as these people have chosen to allow themselves to be. My understanding of criminal mentality is basically zilch; I simply don't enjoy going to the extra effort required to break the laws of society in order to successfully evade both detection and capture. Why obtain ¡†?

Like attaining the summit of Mount Everest: because it's there. Do they even need a reason? I don't know, but surely having a list of many is a helpful mechanism of self-deception. At least I assume it is helpful in the short—term.

In the long term, Life is simple. NO ONE GETS OUT ALIVE. (Facts.) The movement of currency within society is a subject I mostly abandoned when I found that mine was not really mine.

I have an actual life, people. Who has time to participate in
[...]
this much cope? (Masons.) Get on back to it; you have had my blessing and still do. (You have also had my clanr Jaynj.) At this point, what difference does it even make?

(That's a secret.) I have bigger fish to fry. I shall now get back to work, which is a real troll: this isn't work for me. This is play. This is fun. This rules.

I know what to do. You thought you did. We are not the same.

I have a 500-year employment contract. I love my job. I am at ⅒ my expected lifespan. I have all the time in the world.

Think of the children. (Standards.) Namastμ

[Jackstar]

http://youtube.com/post/UgkxUMB6P1lk148JObpVMdtYF0KOlJNwYPbG?si=niHrc7YBHmwx5FHj


Next, I'm going to teach you how to gargle bleach. (Fat.)

[Jackstar]

Next, I'm going to teach you how to gargle bleach send a singing telegram. (Fat.)

Facts: incommunicado is just that. I CAN'T BE CALLED. MAIL IS STOLEN. TELEPHONE CALLS ARE INTERCEPTED.

VISITORS ARE RAPED. (Still—no hugs.) It's like Assange in the Ecuadorean Embassy, except I can walk and I'm not a huge bag of Swedish albino douche. Also, I leave the seat down, when there is one; and I don't have DoucheVision™. (Yet.)

I have zero history of having instigated any physical violence whatsoever. The four (4) psychological operators presently quasi-squatting here within My Demesne (that I know of; there are likely understudy personnel in the trees, I shit you not) have all — note that I am using the word ALL here — been eyewitnessed by myself as being verbally and psychologically abusive towards myself and each other. (That's the training.)

I haven't seen any Cain vs. Abel–·¡§i-h smackdown break out, but that's largely due to everyone else choosing to consent to the presence of opioids in their `G∆>k`·. Personally, I would prefer a paretheum jab to either heroin or cocaine. (Standards.)

I would rather hallucinate than watch God kill these roaches in front of the dogs and the cat. There are three companion animals in the FBI Surveillance RV parked down by the highway; it's not an EM-50, but after all, so few recreational vehicles are. Sad! It actually is sad!

This is not Checzkoslovakia. This is The Land Of The Six Rivers. This is God's Country. And this Land is not for sale. (You can come buy my poop, if you want. It's mostly in one place. Mostly.) I have begun to realize that very few people have any idea of just exactly How Stubborn I Really Am.

I'll just wait. I have — well, I had — books to read, Bruisers. You'll figure it out. Namastμ