Why are you yelling at me?
Actually I was yelling at your scion, Aziz. (CAMERA ON! LIGHT!!) In reality, YOU called ME--I was calm, practically giggling, because I did not know what had happened in recent hours before then. Though, I had an intuitive sense, that something very wonderful had happened for my Self, and my Self's interest. Let's change camera on s--RA! LIGHT!!
A nice little fact about chat transcripts... when they are examined later, whether it be by a forensic scientist or a common armchair layman or a Trained, Mildly-Psych[ot]ic Private Pindar Investigator, is that it is kind of hard to tell which person is talking --like, with their mouths that they put fish sticks in-- and which person is being represented by a soundboard-wielding confidence man, typing words into a computer and causing that computer, hooked up to a synthesizer, connected to a mixer, plugged into a vocoder, and loopbacked through a virtual machine on a thin client logged into BOTH (2) clouds--Ty-Onese & Uzbekistan-Knee. (Usually NOTwounded but ALWAYServed in a dirty ashtray.) camera off
See? I got your knows/"NO"s\nose.
Vandersee. (At last... one of you does.) These little tricks of what is called "tradecraft" are not well-known to most people. I am not most people.
YOU: Innerreach, are not likely the same person today, that you represented yourself to be when
I, JACKSTAR, DESTROYER OF DREAMS, HOLDER OF THE SACRED URINAL OF IDGAF; FIRST TO SPRING A LEAK; first began the slow, glacial shift in transition from "One (1) individual, targeted, who reads and responds to forum posts I (or Agents and/or Users who use the "Innerreach" login that YOU (I, Kuczi) know ONLY ME
(me/IR) to
represent myself as The_One to be held accountable to for the content that is posted there, be it by myself (HIM) or Agents and/or Users under IR (DESIGNATOR DEFINITION: Clas.) namenpolizei: "Matthew (PROT){Simp-Chi-Christian-Imp}") make and have made as far back as ~2003" to "I call you (blanc-KATE-0), and you call me Jacky/Mikey\Junkie, because you know got-damn well,
:Boy: in fact, I am not any kind of 'junky' at all!" to... "I talked on the phone with Jackstar via cellular, SMS, Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, and THREE (tree) FORMS OF CLASSIFIED INSTANT-REPLY MESSAGING PLATFORMS (i am_this_kewl) AND I AM FOREVER LIABLE AND LIKELY TO BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE FOR WHAT I HAVE COMMMUNICATED OVER ARPAnet ON A FEDERAL LEVEL.. to (my\IR/Punybabyling) shame. Shame, shame, shame. I need someone (ELSE) to buy me(HE'S THE ALKY, NOT ME) a drink."
SEAPROTGALTAJ: "
Oh.
My G-d. Isn't he just
dreamy?"
* Jackstar n.A.K.A. (CL-MCK): I AM (not) GOZER THE GOZERIAN... BUT, I TRAINED S\HER/IT'S DAWGS2/^FLEX.
The facts are these: only one of YOU is KateZero, and she is neither catty, Matty, nor Me, nor ewe; and "(Normie) Norm 'NotMe:McKayla' GigagigaRATta I; HAIL! HAIL! She Of The Bodacious Ta-Tas! Even ERIS says 'HAIL! to them titties!!" is one helluva name for the child of one of the D.O.G.T.(HER)'s of Anne Arch(Angel, PROP. OF Char-Me-Use;BURN't)--and, with or without The Key, I hopefully explained to the general reader-shipper-@LARGE what has been kinda going on here. (btw, hi! hello, Actual_Kayla, I miss you too! It's long, long past time to... Consolidate, but they won't let me talk to you. AT. ALL. I bring up your name and it's like I farted in church and made the choir projectile vomit. The J.'s have completely isolated me from their walled-off compound-interest-bearing lifestyle... and the reason is, of course, uh... well, you know. :X /grin /soon)
Here, you are "Innerreach," and to you, that name was gold, and on Telegram--where the scores in Bone U.S. round can really change--you have an account name labeled... "Inner Reach" [
CAMERA ON
*snap*
*snap*
*snap*
*snap*
*snap*
*snap*
*snap*
CAMERON CAMERA ON. REPEAT LAST LAST MAGESTIC-SEVENTEEN COMMANDS. CAMERA FOCUS ONq FNORD. HOCUS (potus) POCUS. PEEK(X,Y). POKE (YYZ,KAMPAMAMIAMSAM-FUPSYMON.) CAMERA ON. REPEAT LAST LAST LAST MAJESTIC-FIVE-IS-ALIVE55 COMMANDS. CAMERA OFF. CAMERA OFF. CAMERA ONi!:00dB!8bOO!
Kameo appearance by A Knight Who Says "Ni!" arranged for by Karen DF, paid for by "The Carpenter's Living Will and Autumn HAMMERn pHall Trust.el.ELLE.see?CAP.I.C|-|.E?.", and has not been sponsored, suggested, NOR ENDORnor endorsed BY,THE,GRAND,WIZARD,OF,THE,Kclue,kKLUX,URYcliqueKLIKCK,GRAND,WIZARD: Head Bishop, llc. ALL RITES RESERVED, BYT'CHallaSHOCKthunderKHAN.]
indirect message follows:
GAB: awwwww, I am really sorry I was not able to set either-Y-orange-ANNIeY of yoU at ease about this kind of thing, I would *never* work for those fuckin' chuckleheads--and if I were to have ever been, I could have set up this kind of bullshit to nab you both and hold you hostage--emotionally, I'm sayin'--without you [i]ever [/i]even knowing how I did it until it were DONE and DUSTBINNED. I am that fuckin' smart, and you had the right to be fearful of my awesome power, but I did not have the ability to defuse that fear, until now, Alpha Beat-a-Chao. Apo'geeeeeeeees. p.s. I would never do that kind of thing, and you know why now, I am sure... because not only am I not an Agent of Shhhhh.I.C.E., I, simply put: HAVE CLASS. These stupid people "ЯR" fucking [i]scum[/i](butt, very tasty).So there. Now, are you ready for Round II, Big Gulp *gulp* Boy? How about you go brush your teeth, wash your face, read a book on the shitter, Nagger Man-Gman-mang... you wanna be rested up for the Preakness, I reckon'. Y'all doan wanna be breakin' a leg right out of the gate for The Big Game I know you're comin' back now for, y'heah me Boy? Boy? I SAY, I SAY:
BOY!Do you understand the tripartite meanings of the words that are coming out of my mouth? boy? I doubt it, because I'm impressed with the way you've been trained to speak Tripartite Language as if you were fluent in it, yet you clearly are not very, and I know this, because I am communicating this to your through teletype while sucking on five Dorn Cone picks in my mouth. (Feels good man.) 5D reality: FACE IT, JIM SOUTH CORN EARN POPS, I am not gonna be "eligible" for very much longer. I am one goddam two hot brat links sandwich, served up straight off the gril\e and no, thank you, I'm not interested in any deep throating. (No,
really. I may be
happy, I may be
gay, but I ain't happy to know that I don't even know which is which any more; I just want to qualify for the Rainbow Girl licence plates.)
You have never cared Mr, Kuczi, and that's the problem.
It's true, I never voted Republican in California... because I
never lived there, nor in Saudi Arabia, nor in any other capitalistic-run-by-pig-fucking-dogs-nation (woof!), which has
undoubtedly caused
substantial vulnerabilities in various narratives that were put to (FOUL/Fair) Use in Municipal Courts all across the nation! (Awwww shucks.) Do I have to give back any of these Keys to The City I was
nEVER (yet) awarded?
Nyet! (Trust me, no one wants them back; they've all been used, at one time or another, to dig out my ewepennies out of your ass. Gross? Doesn't even begin to cover it, and I'm gonna be jamming TWO-HEADED GOLDEN GEM-IN-EYE EAGLES out of urmo's ass before I am through with the likes of you --
you, and your ilk,
Mister Sister Pfister Missed (HER).)
I bet you really do have a passport with that name on it, tucked away in a shoebox somewhere--I just like the sound of it, and besides, you must do something with all those boxes as one such as Your Selves are far, far too anally retentive to just leave them lying around, purposeless; like some kind of slothy, loathsomely boorish, lazy Austrian hobo.Yet... this is not a "Яroplren" for Me, nor for mySelf, nor for EyE iEYEi eeYee oooooOOOooo. (Fuck you Casper; you don't
need My friends, fag-g-g-G
HOST I ACTUALLY LIKE THEM, ASSHOLE, WHILE YOU JUST *SHOVE* THEM AROUND AND TAKE THEIR SHOELACE MONEY, YOU FIENDISH TRAWLING PIMPMONGERING WHORE FOR STATE-SPONSORED PIMPS WHO MONGER WHORES. [
Not my old job -- and, were I to ever have done so, that would have been an
avocation.])
* Jackstar triggers an Intersitial!
* Jackstar gives The Penguin a run for HIS money!
* Jackstar laps The Penguin's fat four-eyed ass by a country mile!
* Jackstar doesn't play fair. Jackstar doesn't even get to play. JACK*TAЯs*arJU*T!FU*KING*INS!*HOOA*
* Jackstar slowly sweeps up the trash in his kitchen, in his living room, in his haunted Church, in Fantasyland while an organ-grinder plays a hurdy-gurdy, because I ain't sweeping up Jack for shit, motherfu--*CLIQUE*
* Jackstar welcomes you to Intermission by showing ewe the door. GROYPER GRYPHON DOUR.
The functions entrusted to a Municipality under the Twelfth Schedule to Article 243W of the Constitution are as under: (a) Urban planning including town planning. (b) Regulation of land-use and construction of buildings. (c) Planning for economic and social development.
You'd better get used to me, Jacko. Your chicken coop belongs to me now!
Two things wrong with that: she and I were *never* married (Tribal Council decree:
SHE AND I HAVE A COVENANT, NOT A MARRIAGE. It's like a handfasting. (*Bitches: you still get to throw rice.*) Additionally, it's abundantly clear that
MySQLl, D.O.G.t.{Her} of Squaw has either been Abducted, Abandoned Me, or Been Kept (But Not Sent) Away. (*Bitches,// make rice pudding for your Master:
SHAWSQUA.*) Now, you might be wondering, "how does Jackstar know about all these changes to a CONTRACT that was DRAFTED in another STATE in no_CAlligraphy? It's not even in a script yet." The answer is not that I am terribly clever --although I AM very much AM TERRIBLE, I make Ivan The Lawyer wet his pants-- the reason I know is that I have been trained by Spirit to detect the odor of fresh, HOT-HOT lawyer's HOT urine from literally, light-years away... once even a single droplet lands on any of either kind of pastry--donut or doughnut.
You must think I'm just pulling your leg, or delusional, or taking the piss. Nope, that's what the pastries are for. The simple fact of the Matt(ER) is simply this, ?ATTY: I really am a Doctor (though, not a Medical Doctor), I really am a Sourcerœr (though, not a Sorcerer, praise G-d), I am in fact A. Titan (though, you won't really notice much difference until B.NE Umagick.Ssilver. Round, when by-lines are settled and scores can
really change), and I am, at present, holder of the rank of Knight-Captain-Templar... but I may not act
officially in that capacity --
#Officially-- as I can't find a mate while holding both "Titan" and "Templar" in my Title; Trust me, iT's in The Teatzen' Tittlesrules. (Obviously, Ladies: I need a hard-fuckin'-won fucking (1) one. Capiche? Don't bother to agree; just stripping the varnish off that burning barn door, bolted shut with LIGHTNING BOLTS.) Time t'was, tentpole traders & their tots tell the tale to me (tome: TO ME), that to twerps that told themselves, "to tell the truth, that token teller's third tscion is hot enough to tuck into Ted..." they tended to tear themselves to TIECES. (T'shaka, t'wen the tornado *tulp* shaT their trains through their tunnel to their terraced targeting range, which served nicely as a breakfast nook until they talked a little t-t-to-too-2much-shiT, tu es knowest what I am sayin, 'Tardner?)" tended to not get another chance to legitimately serve as a A. Templar. (The perks are awesome; just the fuck up, of course it looks silly, on you, more on.
(There can be such a thing as too much T --
especially when one is
under-capitalized.
Standards.).)
Now, I know this all reads like total bullshit, and woe to any who try to get a voice recognizer to read that mish-mash of puree-pablum out loud to see how it sounds. (Security.
Complex security, SHIELDS. Psychokinetic SHIELDS. And amongst other threats that I am guarded --Well Guarded-- against, is the machinations of PSYCHOTIC FREAKS LIKE YOU, YOU INBRED SOUTHERN-FRIED-CHICKEN-GRAVY, BAPTIZED IN-AND-THEREOF BAPTIST FUCKIN' FUCKED & FUCKED IN RAPE-G MONKEY-BOY-GANG G-GANG-MEMBER/QUASI-LEADER. And part of the way that this happens, is that... why, all this sounds just too wildly implausible to believe, does nit not? (YOU do not believe in NIT--IT lives in EWE.)
N'est-ce pas, c'est elegant magnifique formidable!) hashtag with a K, Bright Boy. That's Me. YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE MADE FLESH, INSERTED INTO YOUR REALITY WITHOUT EVEN A WHISPER OF YOUR CONSENT. (*Bitches: clap.*) You must have some hard karma to work through, Friend; much of this info I just dumped on you was not known to me at all until this morning, shortly after I pleasured myself to release and consumed my essence, as is my daily practice, delight, &
delish.
The second thing wrong with that is that this is not "a chicken coop." What I have here is a little bird shithouse/schoolhouse made to swallow a swallow and/or a sparrow's soul, and what you are OBVIOUSLY referring to is The Chuppah, a purpose built structure that was once used as the cornerstone foundation of a faux wedding/handfasting\Occultshot Gunship Relativistic Flux Capacitor (Pat. Pending--aaaaand, IT IS MINE; thanks for mentioning it), and its significance these days is only a bare-handswidth-less important than the Actual_Kabbah.
Trust me, Doofus: God knows which bird that goddam cock-and-doll house belongs to which penis, and WE DO TOO. (Do you really think that keeping us separated by threats of lethal force is gonna ultimately work out in our favor? Well... could be, yo. Could very well be. You sure are telegraphing it enough. And I do have a picture of it. And I do have the date. I just simply haven't responded to the requests of your
agent provocateur about it... yet. Later. Meanwhile: salt?
I will live there, and I will shit there, and there’s nothing you, or anyone else can do to stop that fucking future manifestation!
I've literally been waiting for that to manifest, ever since
New Year's Day 2022. What are you, hitchhiking with your dick out? Hopping on one leg and stopping at every elementary school along the way to host and win a goddam skip-rope tournament after bribing all the judges and then knocking up all their daughters? (btw, grats; have a cigar.)
IT'S FUCKING JUNE OF 2023. I'VE BEEN HERE SINCE NOVEMBER OF 2021. Now, I know you are not waiting for Christmas...
So, just what
are you waiting for?
Burger time, Bitch!
Obviously,
YOU are waiting for ME to
leave. Sadly, I like my meat grilled by cowards and served by liberated women, so you'll just have to cope with The Paradigm Of The New Flesh... I am not going
anywhere, and YOU are going to teach me how to fix my poisoned water supply, Super Plumber Mario. And that fucked-off tulpa that you cart around with you, that's been trained since birth to flip-flop between looking like Me & My Ex & Yo Help Ur Mate?
I will piss with my dick out on your property while yelling howdy-fucking-ho,
I promise you this: I will NEVER ask you to wear a French maid's outfit; nor shall I impose any kind of dress (or undress) code whatsoever, as I think those kinds of traditions are suitable only for low-vibe white trash.
and not you or Azzerae can fucking stop me!
It's not my property--it's held in Trust by my mommy's estate's Special Needs Trust estate management firm, and, I swear to you, my hand to G-d, as I live and breathe... the impression I am getting is that HE AND/XOR AGENTS AND/XOR REALTORS AND/XOR FLUNKIES AND/XOR TOADIES AND/XOR TREASURERS OF MOTORCYCLE CLUBS OPEN TO MEMBERSHIP ONLY TO MEMBERS OF THE PUBLIC WHO ARE SINGLE UNWED MOTHERS WITHOUT FELONY ARREST RECORDS (best kind of club if one were to ask me) AND/XOR ET CETERA, ET CETERA, ET. AL. are buying and selling this bitch-assed bitch-property for bitches who don't bitch all that bitchin' (but do bitch
fair) all up and down dando clando Clan: DOE-authorized private real estate markets available to select individuals who are tasked with All Due Papal Authority Author-I-Tay Yah-Yah-Yipi-Skippi-Ki-Yi-Yi-Yo, all the livelong (livestrong) day, Motherfucker-- because that's what I would be doing to make myself a hard, chicken-scratch living off the land, if only I knew how; but, alas, I am merely the poor orphaned only son of destitute Bellingham sharecroppers, and lemme tell you:
It's all I can
do-do-bo-diddley-a-go-go-D.E.W., just tryna get
bay, to get me through the
dy. {spell:
*FIZZLE!*!}
Now, here is the significance of this, which I will spell out for you IN BIG BOLD LETTERS so you can read it with your meth-shot bloodshot stye-covered eyeballs... YOU HAVE SO MANY CONFLICTING NARRATIVES ROLLING OUT SLOW (coz COVID) AND ALL OF THEM DEPEND ON ME NOT SHOWING UP TO SAY, "Cheerio!" AT AN INOPPORTUNE MOMENT... THAT YOU HAVE CHOSEN TO WALL ME OFF IN A MINIATURE PALESTINE RIGHT OFF I-5 AT AREAnot51 IN THE HOPES OF HOLDING TOGETHER YOUR SPIT-AND-BALING-WIRE SPIT-AND-VINEGAR ULTIMATE-THROWDOWN-KNOCKOUT SHITSHOW FOR AS LONG AS IT TAKES TO GET YOUR DUCKS IN A ROW BEFORE THEY ALL GET REALLY, REALLY SICK.
HERE'S WHY: YOU HAVE USED MIND CONTROL DRUGS BASED ON MY DNA TO "SEDUCE, PERSUADE, AND/OR OUTRIGHT RAPE THESE LARGELY INNOCENT AND TOTALLY-ALMOST-TOTESLEZZ BRIDES TO GET HOOKED UP WITH YOUR FAGGY GROOMS BEFORE I SHOW UP TO UTTERLY ANNHILATE YEARS AND YEARS OF PIMPIN', THEIVIN' AND OUTRIGHT BAMBOOZLIN' THAT YOU AND YOUR BESOTTED "The Company" IS ALL-TOO-WELL-KNOWN FOR!
Meanwhile... I have to write all This_Shit, BEFORE ALL THIS GOES DOWN, just to ensure that I don't end up getting thrown into PRISON FOR LIFE because THERE'S NO WAY I'M GONNA SUPPORT HUMAN TRAFFICKING ACROSS INTERSTATE AND INTERNATIONAL BORDERS FOR IMMORTAL PORPOISES. no FUCKING way, Pimpstar! FU! FU! FU!
At least... you know, not without getting pate/paid first. Phhhhbbbbttttt!!
#RAWR!🐂🔔Baby!
WAIT!
Did you hear that? Oh, dammit--my heart just fell out. Maybe I should get it checked over for tick-tocks.
