You're hopeless.
Well, I surmounted overweight, lowered core body temperature, sleep apnea, depression, an eating disorder, and... I forget, there was this Tarot reading, you dig?
Stay with me here: it sounds like bullshit, "haha, Jackstar studying Tarot like a
real loser." Right? Even better for me. The more I am told that I am who I am not, the more I become Who I Truly Am. These days, I'm considering playing Alex Jones Stream 24/7 as backdrop to the near constant stream of mouthy chicks blathering about The Tower, The Magician, & The Six Of Wardrobes, et. al., which I did the last time I was under 24/7 surveillance, in a situation not at all like this one, but was similar in one respect and one respect only: thuggy missy little piggys, so ran out of leads and willing civilians to brandish weapons at in exchange for clues... were forced to recognize the following fact:
Hi, I'm a registered member of a Special Social Status Class. Like a Medical Doctor (aka M.D., no doubt you're sometotes whatfamiliar), I get some special perks. I don't get to claim special parking spaces, unless I'm... you know, like,
putting on a show--but I don't do that. I also don't spill my guts to investigators. Because, number one, I don't have to, and, number two, I enjoy making thugs sweat. See, usually it's thugs making other people sweat, right? Suspects, perps, convicts, felons, bull dykes; you have heard the stories of "police brutality." Well, I don't wanna boast--because it is uncouth--but I don't really have problems with LEOs: Law Enforcement Officers. (Sometimes they get a little flirty, which is immensely distracting. And flattering. And super awkward when they do it in uniform. They can't get flirty on duty, right? But sometimes it slips out, which is probably one of their cute little ploys to try to gain "the upper hand" in any conversation, or "confortonation," as the heavies like to call it.) They don't have problems with me, either. Not #Officially, anyway.
Officially, they could ask me any questions they like. Sure! Come on in, Officer! Put your hand on this Bible, and... oh, no? You wanna ask me questions, but you don't wanna take an oath, huh? See, it gets fuckin' dicey. Real quick. Real fast. Real shit, in other words. So typically, bracing registered Men of The Cloth (laugh it up, fucktoy: ME. Don't hate me for my career choices, hate me because I couldn't believe you did what you did for so long, I still don't know if you planned the whole thing, or just 85%, and you know why, and you can take that secret to your grave now, if you want, I was looking for you to apologize... TO YOU, and, I have. (I'm sorry this was literally as fast as I could come... because,
reasons. Also, lots of your girlfriends have lied to me.) Sure, you can hate the way I apologize, why not, I bet you'd prefer that quarters shoot out of nose when I'm done too, but: I AM WHAT I AM, and have a great sense of comedic timing) Which is not, generally speaking, Policy. Unofficially, sure, they can send plainclothes up to me just the same as anyone else. And, they fucking well do, because after two decades plus of doing this, off and on, I don't make a big deal of it, but I do have a particular name, I have been not shy, they've met me, they took notes, they've learned to be polite because I am, and I'm a pacifist, and I have been since I was 12. They get a call on KUCZI AT SCENE, they know they don't bring S.W.A.T., and they also knew it was pretty damn unlikely that I started a fight with anybody, no matter how many times she called them and said so on the phone.) They light up on my HUD from a mile away and I read their surface mind as they approach, because... if they've made Clergy a target, just for questioning, like, they think, "I need to question Kuczi!" and then they get in their car and drive towards me, well, that gives plenty of time to send angels back and forth to handle the information exchange. I don't follow all that, and it doesn't even tickle. Much.
But suffice to say, plainclothes thugs don't like it when they are not feared. And I don't fear police, no. Thug police even less so, cuz they make me look good in front of the girls. I don't fear military either. I fucking love military guys and girls and dogs and wives and moms. The brothers are a little freaky though, I always think they must know a little bit something more than I know about some things, you know? Who do I fear? Well, undercover lawyers, and that's about it. Especially ones who fuck me for three and a half years before telling me that they're a “lawyer.” Sure, Jan. However I like talking to just about anyone else... especially if they think they're gonna get information out of me that they think I'm not gonna stop them from doing so. But it works more like this: they get everything they're supposed to get, by Angelic negotiation, before they ever lay eyes on me... and if I, in my esteemed wisdom, don't like this particular UC Investigator's attitude, well... I can just shut his ass down and send him packing. "Buh-bye, and take Kermit and Fozzie with you." This is actually how it works. I literally outrank them. I would never dare pull rank on any LEO professional... because I would -never- have to. It's much simpler to comply with a stand down order after making the meekest of protests: "But, God said... oh, okay, Officer, aww shucks, ya got me. Yeah.
I'm
totes cosplaying. Sure, yeah right. Yes, that's right, part of the kilt's charm is that I'm legit in a Scots clan, and, it makes me totototes underestimated, except by most civilized women with an appreciation for
intelligent fashion choices. Bye bye, Cagney & Lacey.” Oh, a flat tire as you turn out of the parking lot? How unusual. I want to watch two broads wearing gun belts, changing a tire definitely. (Has never happened. You get the idea. I don't need to boast. And you don't need to be
such a weaselly little shit, either, you dig? I don't know where you learned some of your filthy social graces from, honestly, some barbarian constantly trying to buy weed, no doubt. Now if you don't mind, you're better than you've been lately, and you can mention that far and wide as well, that I'm getting pretty fucking sick of people who still believe your lies about me. Period. Thanks. I'm about done trying really hard to pretend to be an idiot, and I'm pretty much on full-time Phase IV Heavy Launch Rocket; “How You Like Me Now?” I know that's a long title for A Phase of A Plan that's not even published or written down, but I kind of like it, and if you got a better idea, why don't you go back in time 28 years and sign up yourself... then go on to fulfill a shitload of quests and pass the times somehow. Or you could just keep on being snide and standoffish with your little gang of misanthropic homoerotic misandristic thought carriers and mind guardians... It's not like I'm the only one who noticed, I'm probably just the only one who prefers you in your hard, hard as nails attitude, since I didn't have the advantage of knowing it was even there and learning to enjoy it for the last 79 years. That reminds me I got to look through that Bellgab Archive someday when... Well, when fucking lives hang in the balance, honestly. Unf. Ugh. Honestly, aren't you sick of me by now? You've had to cope with my fetid presence for years, I don't know how you stood it, but, within 3 months of my destruction of the illusion of your absence... You and the Little Rascals just can't take it. And you hardly argue at all anymore.
58D!!! (That's not a reference to a size of clothing.)
I think I'm about on the same level of hierarchy as a Chief of Police. Of course, I would always -defer- to a LEO professional... but, if I get a message from God, or even better, Jesus, I got no problems arguing with a cop in front of a crowd. Fuck. That. Guy. He wants to intimidate me, he gets to see the blowback. (This has never happened often.) I told this one moronic broad I was "dating" for awhile--pfftt, right, dates, not even raisins--that "I'm a big deal around here," and "the whole State Patrol knows me by sight," statements that may have been a bit outrageous, however... I wasn't lying.
My name tends to stick in some craws. And they've sure as shit heard of me by now, especially after Dick Clark & Clark Kent's Rocking Christmas Eve And Get-Down-On-The-Floor (Potluck/Potlatch/Pot? You mean drugs? BOOK EM FOR SANTA, DAN-OH) Spectacle Of The Spectacular... which in case you haven't heard, seems to be testing well in focus groups. Every single time. And this was settled science -before- I moved into The Three Little Pigs former abode. I didn't huff and puff: I woke up one morning, picked up my phone and DID! NOT! LIKE! what I saw there, although the boobs were nice, but, fuck that, alarm bells went off for other reasons, that I will not describe here. And when Clergy Bells ring, the cloth collar comes off. I'm scrappy for a pacifist.
I made three phone calls and the spooky little drug slinging
schweinhund were out within mere days. Just like that. Can you imagine?
They thought that I was hopeless too. Laughing and giggling as they did... whatever they fuckin' did here, and let me tell you: cleaning house and mowing the lawn wasn't they were doing either. Anyway, not the point of the story--I'm not trying to rub it in--but I am pointing out something important:
Tarot has told me everything I need to know about what is -really- going on... in this Universe, and the closest 4 others. Now, it's not real complicated, but I don't want to bore you--you're not bored, right? Good--so I won't bore anyone else by telling them that the Universe I'm in right now is one I selected for myself months ago. Like, perhaps you may have heard... I'm supposed to be jealous about something, yah?
Nyet. I
chose to be
here, as it was more pleasant than several other timeline choices I had available to me. Most pleasant, in fact, as I'm saving a bundle by not having to subsidize anyone's Red Dope Lobster Crypto Wallet habit--and nor am I involved in crypto tax liability assault schemes, which as you can imagine... can be a real surprise when they land on someone who has had their head thoroughly up their own ass for the previous year-and-a-half. (*This is not an attempt to contact or single out for ridicule any member of Shawclan, except for those serving as Special Wonder Island Cheer Captains, and I can't contact any of them anyway, I mean, I might be gay and one of them -might- have a vag, but still, I can't be that gay, and besides, I don't have a thing to wear to go with my Clergical pom-poms.*) Anyone gets to choose their personal future, I don't have special privileges to teleport through timelines... yet. (Once I can do that reliably, I'll have to ask for special permissions. Until then, fuck it, I can't control myself real well, and isn't that too bad? Oh, psychokinetic shielding is on a hair-trigger today, here I am briefly in a pocket dimension where my car -doesn't- get hit by a semi-trailer truck, hijacked on it's way to- HI JACK! *CRASH*- a monster truck and lasagna tractor beam pull event. (Big in Indiana this year I hear.) But let's not go off into the wilds of woo-woo La-La land here. Not just yet.
I'm just talking about how I'm studying Taror,and why, and I wanted to call back to your earlier question, "Why did you gay up my thread with Tarot readings?" Well, the woods are dark and the ravine by my haunted house is dark and deep, and I had whirlwinds a-plenty to reap before I sleep. Slept. Frick! That almost rhymed. Well, I'll just swallow Robert Frost's soul next time--I mean, I'll give it right back. He'll trust me, even if none you respirating monkeyshiners do.
I could give a shit, truly. You don't know the half of a quarter of what I got going on. You have surface reads at best, and since you haven't actually talked to me about anything I have legit been actually doing, EVER, I can guarantee you that I haven't talked to any other Jedi Masters before you anyway. And to an accomplished Master, such as yourself... why, we could actually get down to dilithium tacks and talk engineering shop.
Except, no, I guess not. For reasons. Check it out though: you could invoke Special Communications Privileges with me. You could ask for sanctuary, succor, and even corned beef succotash, and I, with a brief consult and prayer to the Astral Plane, could deliver that, with a snap of my fingers. Even over the phone! Just think of it! The freedom of protected speech. It's not necessary for me, you know, because I don't really give much of a shit about the complications that Punies create for themselves, and it's not like I have any need to know any information from you: that you are unwilling to talk direct, mano-a-mano, without the same vim and vigor that you do from behind your faceless, anonymous sockpuppets... that's pretty much all I need to know, I can extrapolate from there should your name ever come up, and I must say: it does not come up -often.- No, not really. Not at all.
Believe it or not, I assumed that you were dead, as I thought that far more likely than that Her_Nibs would have thought that lying to me for five fuckin' years was a good idea. (It really wasn't, but she didn't know she was lying, I think; concepts such as "truth," "justice," and "fair play" not well-defined in the households of... CryptoJesters. (I think I can say that. We'll see. RoJ apparently wants a little bit of exposure this century, from what I'm told.) I just heard Pennywise come up through the laundry room sink, so... I'll pause this description of the ways and means of my purpose real quick now.)
So, back to my point: usually a wide-ranging criminal investigation centered on a lone, orphan individual who had just spent Christmas in jail--for three (3) days!--would be feeling somewhat... I don't know, shocked? At what was to come. Because that was barely the beginning of my Yuletide Joy, however; I knew exactly what was going to be ahead of me.
And I could hardly wait for the fun to begin. Because I have done this shit before, under rather different circumstances, but same net result: I'm at home alone and can't live like a normal human being because anyone I talk to, I feel compelled to say, "THE COMMIE PINKO PIGS ARE LISTENING TO EVERY WORD WE SAY! BEWARE! 'WARE! 'WAAAARE!!!" Now, this is not usually the ideal way to covertly gain information through subterfuge.
And that is just too fucking bad, Thugs. Sweat it out until your balls glisten for all I give a shit. You know what they gain from surveilling me? Listening to me yell at Terror Tarot Ladies when I disagree with what they're saying about -My Life- which, as you know, is important to me, at least, and at various times, important to other people, especially if they need to know my current location and ETA to where they're planning on slamming meth and fucking a (Blank) Lord, which apparently had to happen several times over the last 5 years. (Imagine the smell.) So, I can't imagine anything more embarrassing than asking someone when they first started sucking a DEA agent's dick in public
in public... but I wouldn't
have to ask anyone to get that information.
I am simply
totesprepared to.
If I need to know information, I get to know it. Period. That is how it fucking works, “Trollda.” (You're barely a heckleberry.) So I mention this, as I don't really need any of your snooty lippy back-talk on
certain issues, and really never did. I was tryna be nice. However, I was listening to some Terror Tarot Lady say, "This person is just a mess, they've got overweight, lowered core body temperature, sleep apnea, depression, an eating disorder," and I heard that, and I thought, "HEY! That's just like all the stuff that I already conquered for myself, years ago! And now, someone else is struggling with those same conditions? Wow! That's a karmic tunnel cycle in parallel reverse! I wonder if they would like any help? Well, I'm sure they can get some from the Fed they're currently getting Not_Groped by. Sure, no problem I am sure."
I think
perhaps you get my point. Now, let me ask you: am I lying? Am I exaggerating? Am I being less than sensitive? Well, I don't care: I AM Clergy here, I make the rules about Me, and unless someone higher rank than me shows up to argue about it, My Word (on certain matters) has The Force Of Law.
* Adjuticant Pol blows imaginary smoke from the tips of very real finger pistols.
So, I'm uncertain which decision has ultimately made me happiest... walking out of high school early and still getting that laughable "diploma," or, ditching university without getting anything but post-traumatic night sweats from the fever dreams for my trouble. Oh, my Dad was pissed though. A-bloo-bloo-boo-hoo.
And, you know what? Fuck that guy too. He
was wrong. And, I am probably also "wrong" about some of the explanations I've posted above. That's okay, I'm not a Medical Doctor -or- YHWY, or YHWH, or... aw, fuck it, I can never remember any of the Jew Codes for God--and let me tell you, if ever there was a tribe of Jews that loved cryptography, it probably was not The Nose Fer A-Choo.
