I’m outside of it. Outside of the Blue Velvet Suite.

I found something…

I’m outside of it all. Outside the Blue Velvet Suite. Outside the wire. Outside all of it with just a Big Gulp filled to the brim with Gin (Bombay Sapphire rogues who don’t understand good liquor) and Sprite and I’m seeing stars up above and I’m sure something Black is looking down at me and giving me a wink that makes me shudder. I’m sitting on this boulder out in the open. Pahrump is well passed midnite cold right now. Cold like Rios’ dead body wherever they finally buried it after his trailer disappeared. I’m wrapped up like an old medicine man in so many blankets with a campfire blazing like a million torches. Mother Midnite don’t care if I’m out in the desert all alone because she’s at the hospital tonight after I grazed her cheek with an .22 target pistol round. Didn’t know she was out there in the kitchen getting a glass of warm milk.

The .22. The assassin’s weapon of choice.

I feel bad. What’re you going to do, you know? Innocent people get in the line of fire all the time. Doesn’t mean I need to give up my inalienable gun rights does it? This is a society on the brink of mass extinction brought about by its own puppet masters!!! The Maoists in Washington might want to disarm EVERYONE in order to set us up for mass slaughter during mass revolution but the Second Amendment is for all Americans RIGHT NOW and not just Americans who have a clean bill of “mental health” quote unquote unquote.

The Cult is playing on speakers hooked up to a laptop with the aircard catching found wifi. It was one owned by the son of Mexican Drug Lord or so the guy at Tech Shaq intimated. I Love the Cult. Love the song playing. Love is the song playing. I am alone under a dark blanket sundered by white stars. I spent a long time on this road, in this town. Sums up my life, really. All gone out here-

Sneak the Steven is dead.

Redneck Ron is doing twenty long.

Dr. Midnite abides.

Old Man at Midnite moved on toward better pastures, apparently. He just said he had a place somewhere better to be in the stars way above (that’s some good mescaline to be thinking crazy, friends and kitties CRAZY)… I remain, alone in a desert, gun and gin in hand. I still wave the flag. I still play The Cult.

Here’s the thing: Hollyweird and the rest of the Red Army encamped in Washington (known as the DemonRATS) think that guns should only be allowed only for people who haven’t had moments of mental weakness like I have…

… I mean, sure, one time I was visiting cousin Eugene in North Jersey and I shot up a donut store where this kid was giving me lip about not being able to use Diner’s Club anymore or some sort of wacky con job Wizard-Magik.

Sure I did that. Once.

No-where in the Constitution does it say anything about giving up your guns because you have had a moment, got crazy, questioned everything Pat Buchanan ever told you and went Lizard King at the Donut Storr. Washington, Jefferson, even Harry Truman never thought twice about you not having a gun because you started to hear the voices of the dead wanting you to commit some Long Needed Justice at a Donut Storr because Teenybopper Special of the Week was screaming his lungs out about Diner’s Club cards.

It was my OK Corral. I was Doc Holiday.

AND I WILL BE YOUR HUCKLEBERRY!

They’re already questioning me about what happened to Mother Midnite. I JUST held up my copy of the constitution that I’VE highlighted in crayon (Yellow Rose of Texas) and pointed out that I HAVE EVERY RIGHT TO A GUN DESPITE SEVERAL LIES MY PSYCHIATRISTS AND VARIOUS POLICE AGENCIES HAVE BEEN STATING ABOUT ME BEING A HAZARD TO MYSELF AND OTHERS IN GENERAL.

I may be drunk at this point, friends and kitties. Even a Big Gulp is a Big Deal to me when it’s filled with- with whatever-Gin AND SOME Sprite. I just TOPPED-OFF midway through typing on this Mexican Druglord Kid’s laptop with a bottle of Beefeaters or some other good old fashioned intoxicant. I got the RHINO-stomach and I can just knock back alcoho-fun without consequences, so excuse me “Squares” if I can’t maintain a proper blog rant. Okay?

Cool out everybody.

Is that my mother coming back from- no it’s not. Just Coyotes all around, past the fire and out into the black of the desert night and its beyond-ing. Maybe it’s Jerry Brown communing with spirits out there, again. You never heard that before? Jerry Brown communing with spirits? He does. The once and future Governor who may end up in charge of the United States of America and all its NUKES, is a dancer with the spirits. I’ve seen him out here, sometimes in Bonnie Springs beyond Vegas, singing his songs of praise to pagan demons out in the late hours.

I got pictures-

You don’t want to know… but I got pictures of an old man dancing under the moonlight like he’s having a personal movement of bliss and nirvana in the cold heart of a desert, naked as a jaybird. It always rains flowers when the music begins- and that’s not just a lyric from The Cult, that’s how Jerry Brown ends his rituals.

It rained flowers when the music began.

Scary weird stuff, friends and kitties. Stuff not to think about by yourself when all that’s between you and the cold dark night of the desert is an AR-15 and a bundle of Indian blankets covering your hide while the Governor of California communes with dark spirits like some pagan war chieftain.
Black magic for the man in charge of the 8th largest world economy.

If California were its own puppet nation-state (like Italy) it would be a force to contend with, measure twice and cut once. Even cross to the other side of the street on. What do you expect though in a world that cowers under the hash glare of the something Black out in the Beyond and the 88 leaders of its Lizard Kingdom?

I’m telling you some truth out here. Best your forget it.

Jerry Brown’s pagan paternalism is nothing compared to some of the oddness and strangeness of the Darknet I’ve seen lately. Oh yeah. I cruise its midnite wastes. Out in the dark of the desert and the dark of the night I cruise a Dark Net to see what comes up in the surf by the only light I have left. The flickering light of the laptop screen of a Dead Mexican Druglord’s act of apology to a son he never really knew. And the light of freedom burning in my heart.

Now… the real reason for this post. All that other stuff was just to lose the casual observer. But here’s something to chew on. Something real Crazy…

So, here’s this New thing: a new video came up on then old Darknet- an old Steve McQueen movie produced back sometime when bellbottoms and free lovin’ were all the rage. 1970s. Never released, though, or at least as far as IMDB is concerned. It’s called “Five Years After”. Beautiful film except for the sound quality and the fact it looks like it was recorded on a CCTV feed of that time period (which is basically like watching a music video on your least favorite potato).

I’m watching this cinematic travesty, right, and I’m weaving in and out of consciousness -(Dunhills battling the fog of war I call “too much scotch”)- and I wouldn’t have really caught this little trick if it wasn’t for that fact I burned a hole through three blankets and caught my shirt on fire and hit pause at just the right moment to save the last of the scotch I’d considered dousing the flames with. (Don’t worry I managed to put myself together by rolling in the sand and scorpions). Judge me all you want, “well wishers” but when a man has been chugging Top Gear Scotch, well guess what? Accidents and fires are gonna happen just like a winner hitting a Black Jack.

Stop it. Stop being a child about the facts of life.

“Five Years After” is a great film, though it’s perhaps the strangest from the time period. I mean Steve McQueen is the big bad dude of the times, the early seventies, and boy does he put together a lunatic-pie of a film here,. He wrote and produced it. First the production quality is- I mean it’s lower than that bootlegged copy I saw of Jerry Lewis’s “The Day the Clown Cried” (another little misplaced gem never to hit the theaters)- its black and white, grainy as hell, and hard to hear (voices are mumbles and shouts and screams are barely a whisper) but man is the gun that Steve McQueen uses, it (Mosin-Nagant, 1891) booms across the screen. It’s a bad little thunder bumper pre-Commie Russian Rifle and McQueen utilizes it better than any Mare’s Leg he used to put down the bad guys before, sniping them one at a time as they sit in their greasy diners or their roach motel rooms or riding the range on the back of their stolen Harleys.

I mean McQueen was one bad mother-(shut your mouth) as he just annihilates the competition – this Mexican biker gang. This actual all ethnic Mexican gang that you won’t see anymore because political correctness dictates that all violent organized crime gangs have a fair employment rule where they must represent all races (and if you don’t understand this to be SARCASM, I got news for you bud, I am the one who quips). He just mows them down because they kidnapped and tortured to death his Mad Max Convoy gang They even killed one girl by sticking her neck deep into a sand pit and pouring honey and ants all over her head- that part was really crazy, I mean I was spitting scotch and out and out laughing. I mean the scene just went on for like 30 minutes and this girl is screaming and biting her lips and she’s got ants crawling all over her and you can just see them start to bore holes right into her cheeks, I mean its awful. Maybe that’s why it got pulled from theatres. Too real? Seemed real. To me at the time. I don’t know, that post Vietnam post-Watergate era of Hoory for Hollyweird were up for a lot of nutty stuff.

…Anyway, McQueen goes one-man guerrilla war with his Mosin-Nagant and a danged up GTO and just kills Mexicans. I was so happy when he set the leader on fire in a parking lot after crushing him with his car that I didn’t notice there was a whole frame missing from the footage. When I rewound it back you can see around the 1:43:03 mark, right before Steve McQueen starts to urinate on the pinned biker, the thing goes black. The frame is “missing” and in a blink you’ll miss it- but of course, Dr. Midnite never misses something that could potentially have a prescription for fixing the world. I stared at it for a long time until I saw the world “Help”. It was just a darker shade of black.

Turn of the TV freaky.

Freaky.

Then this sudden disco colorized washed out funky WA WA shootout between McQueen’s other little sister and this biker goes Super Bronson. As in Charles. As in Deathwishes 1-5. And you know what, I found another missing frame right in the middle of that whole crime scene. And this time there was a problem. A problem to be solved.

And there it is- a math question.

Check it, friends and kitties:
 

 
I wonder what the answer is. And does it have anything to do with www.doormouse.link/mayhem and the Black Helicopters in the distance every time I log in.
 

Caged Freedom, the 78′ Star Wars Special and THE Arab Prince of Cocaine

Hope this gets out to you friends and kitties. Looks like the good Doctor is in the can at Las Vegas Metro holding detention correctional whatever, and I’m writing all of this down with a golf pencil on a stack of napkins I smuggled from the commissary. I still got some blood on my hands here, literal blood, not figuratively. I was over at O’Shea’s Casino in Vegas when this loud mouth Bro-Spartcus challenged me to a game of beer pong and I won and he wouldn’t pay up the five dollars and the pack of Kools and so long story short somebody got stabbed and it wasn’t me and this is not a legal confession and I am not waiving my rights as an American citizen. When I’m getting out I’m suing O’Shea’s, I’m suing everyone I can think of.  I’m suing the makers of Kools.  That’s how far I’ll go.

 

Place smells like ‘El Salvador on the day they burned down the jail.  The guards are a bunch of psychos and this Jamaican loony tune I’m locked up with keeps singing about a big river and the sky falling. I rate this place on yelp one star… so far.  One star. I mean this place is obviously nothing but it’s you know, jail so, I don’t know, is there a two star jail even? Four stars? What would that be?  Where did Hillary’s brother go?  Club Fed prison camp in the desert, that would be four stars, I suppose.  Wherever they sent the Wolf of Wall Street. They have Tennis Courts. That would be nice. Tennis courts. I should build one here in Pahrump but Mother Midnite is a slow player (and by the way Mom, thanks for transcribing and posting this- outstanding red team player, case of beer for that one.) I could get the O’Connel’s kid, Ash, to play me but that twelve year old Matt Damon got scared when I said we’d be playing Poker for real and I put a gun on the table.  

Flip the Queen, buddy boy.  Flip it.

 

Or a four star prison would be one of those places like the Castle Itter, a special 11-11 site, where the first E.T.’s from the Pleiades to crash in Austria were kept for thirty years under the supervision of the Allied Control Council in conditions that were beyond luxurious for them- sulfuric saunas and hydrogen bathes, molten gold drinks and unlimited access to bodies from the morgue to use as communication devices to their human captors and to use as walking puppets to visit the towns nearby during the dead of night.

Or so a guy told me once right before he disappeared.  Coulda been the rental we’d gone half sues on.  But I always suspected the Aussies.

 Four stars. Ain’t nothing four stars anymore. What is there to say? Societal standards have slipped.  Not like it was when I was growing up. When I was growing up you could use fireworks against moving vehicles that drifted within fifty yards of your property or against women who rejected your advances. Men acted like men.  And women wanted it that way.  If somebody didn’t like what you had to say you got stabbed and you just appreciated they didn’t go for a major artery.  Sometimes you had your housecat shoved in the freezer for twenty minutes if you did something bad like talk while adults were talking. Sure it was harsh but it was a harsh world. Still is regardless of that long-play Sesame Street acid trip they call College.  When I was growing up I had a shot of whiskey and a bottle of beer for breakfast. People, supposed intellectuals, say that’s a bad thing but how else were you supposed to roll with the punches in strange times, sinking into a sweltering abyss of a hate jungle filled with death and eyes being clawed out left and right by MSNBC? Papa Midnite made me eat the flesh of a dead deer that had been clipped by a trucker off the side of the road that we doused in vodka and Tabasco sauce while the other kids watched from across the street one morning as they were getting onto the bus. That showed those kids, they didn’t talk to me for a year.  AND I LOVED IT!

 

Times suck. I mean, you ever have one of those moments where you remember thinking to yourself later that this was the high water mark of your life? I do. I was watching The Star Wars Holiday Special with Pat Buchanan and this Saudi Prince, something something Mohammed the first or second I don’t know.  1978. Good year for me, bad year for America. He owned these oil wells and had access to pure liquid cash and the addresses of every hit man and hooker from here to Timbuktu. We needed him to stem some of the Soviet offensive in the heavy agriculture machinery market. They were buying up our stuff through front companies and John Deere.   We were dealing with this MilIndy Startup Front called Tarragon.  It was the Air America of European farm equipment.  The Ruskies were stealing the secrets of our combines and me and Pat had just been commissioned to put a stop to this nonsense. We also needed him for Iron Castle. That was more important than putting the screws to some John Deere executives. And by screws I mean actual 3and a quarter drywall screws. Remember. This is not a legal confession.  I’m clearly still drunk from the ‘largesse’ of the O’Shea Casino.

 

This was, uh, during my days as an independent contractor. Let’s put it that way. Mother Midnite, you remember those days. I used to come home with cuts all over my hands and some new guns to shoot in the desert with Papa Midnite. Good times had by all.  Had by all.  Market down.  The High Water MARK!!!!  Except for some people. John Deere executives… Mainly.

 

So anyway, were in this desert tent, Pat and the Prince and I, and the Prince, he’s thirty and he’s got this whole West Hollywood Ashram belief system for Star Wars and he’s got twenty people setting up a satellite dish so we can watch the special in the middle of the Rub’ Al Khali . Now Iron Castle was Heart Attack important, lets call it earth shaking, and this Arab was gonna watch it even if it was at 3:00 A.M. our time. Pat’s nudging me the whole time to take a swig out of my flask because we are tired and talking about world important projects like Iron Castle and no way are we gonna watch the Star Wars Holiday Special Mormon sober. No way, no how. 

 

So I kept sneaking back to my tent to refill the flask and we sit down with the man who could make Iron Castle happen and we spent- I don’t know how long, a 101 Arabian nights of Carrie Fisher coked out of her mind singing, some Chewbaccas running around talking about the meaning of life and Harrison Ford being extremely uncomfortable. The Boba Fett part was cool. I guess. Pat liked it and we agreed that was a highlight. The Saudi Prince couldn’t stop laughing at the Chewbaccas everytime they came on screen and there were multiple Chewbaccas so this guy was just losing his mind between bumps of cocaine (you see that was the crazy thing, he hated us drinking but he was doing more coke then Carrie Fisher).  About whenever that special ended or we may have passed out, I remember looking over to Pat who was in the other sleeping bag and saying  staring at to tent and mumbling some song from College.  And it was at that moment, lying next to Pat Buchanan, talking about a secret off-book project in the middle of the desert with THE Arabian Prince of Cocaine while drinking and watching Star Wars, all of us ripped to the gills, that I realized I loved politics.

 Ain’t life Grand?

Mr. Johnson and the Hulk Smash to Stop Our Space Program

Hello friends and kitties, its your old favorite Doctor Midnite giving you a little wisdom through the miracle of the internet, brought to you by a man who will not sit down but will stand up in his own Blue Velvet Garage Suite and shout to the skies what the truth is from the beautiful and open wastes of Pahrump (and pass along such fine shoutings through the World Wide Web without the filter of the dead hand of the Illuminati and their superiors from the stars).  I got something oh so very fine and interesting to pass along for all you ones trying to see the little man behind the curtain and figure out what this old scary world is really all about. You’re welcome in advance.

I was munching on room temperature T or C Pizza, a little bruised and a little battered from Joanne the Minimum Wage Harlot’s Methhead boyfriend having slapped me around in the parking lot just as I had gotten my second large heavy Sausage pizza of the week (lucky for him I just hit him with a blast of my homemade pepperspray gun instead of using some of my Khalid Mustafa moves- the Saudi Arabian art of extreme martial arts taught to me by the His Holiness the Burj Khalifa back in 2003 when I won 10,000 dollars  at Orleans Station and moved to Dubai for three months. The Methhead just inhaled a bunch of hi-grade pepper particles and went down gasping and crying for a few minutes instead of going down with a torn out throat and no eyes). I was sitting in the Suite waiting for my mother to bring up the mail when lo and behold my favorite Space:1999 episode, the “Testament of Arkadia” came onto the tube, despite the static and interference of the HAARP experiment happening overhead that I recorded later with the Miller’s kid’s Iphone I found in his house. Who doesn’t remember this show?  Fantastic sets, fantastic storylines- ones that made you think, not like this nonsensical bullshit our benefactors in the NWO machine put out to dull our senses, like Real Whore Housewives of Upper Detroit or whatever. Now this, this my friends, is something that should be remembered, this talked about life and what our present holds (my life is full of omens, muttering shadows and the little clues to the ultimate reality- Pahrump is on top of a circle of magnetic energy from deep ore deposits that expands the mind instead of clouding it like overpopulated spaces such as New York or Tokyo, for instance). This was the last true episode of Space: 1999, this was the last one to showcase the world that might have been had Kennedy not been murdered and the real space exploration program not put on permanent holiday by the machinations of that Texas Madman, Lyndon Butcher Johnson in order to appease the Reptilians.  You ever think about that? Maybe you do, friends and kitties, but if you don’t, think about the fact that when were on the moon in 1969 originally we were ready with a plan that in thirty years we would have a moon base, and now we are just fiddling with our thumbs, space wise.  God I hate that bastard Johnson, he’s the worse. If we hadn’t been slapped down by the Butcher’s Gang and he didn’t have Kennedy killed by a gamma ray powered Terminator in 1963 we’d have our own little Moonbase Alpha up there by 1999 instead of just having nifty cellphones. Well, history is written in favor of unscrupulous winners. Salud, you prick Johnson. May the warmth of hell comfort you for the eternities.

Anyway, I’m watching this “Testament of Arkadia” at my Blue Velvet in the dark, all alone, wondering at what a world that has been wrought. The writers at Space: 1999, whom I presume were later lobotomized and sent to live in the Mojave like so many others, were really trying to tell us what was going on in the world before the silencing hand moved against them.

I sip my gin and tonic in the safety of my own home, watching that episode  and keeping an ear out in case Mama Midnite was calling me over to help with the laundry, and thinking that they were showing the ABSOLUTE TRUTH. I was amazed that such a thing could still be shown on controlled airwaves, even in re-run form- perhaps, perhaps it was a double feint, a sort of trick within a trick, a sort of put everything out there so if people ask if that was true they will look silly for thinking that the truth of mankind’s origins were just splayed out there by a British television series.  Amazing that was it still on, I was riveted by it. Of course we are older than what was once thought, twe did have origins beyond the Earth, twe did have space travel thousands of years ago- that “Testament of Arkadia” episode of the first and only true season of Space:1999 is entirely correct. All this ABSOLUTE TRUTH has been washed away in the Great Flood caused by our watchers from the stars above, the Reptilians and their Black Knight satellite that communicates to our overseers and watches us from the blackness of deep space. Yet, every once in a while, enterprising and dear souls will get past the static and send out a true and righteous message Patriotic Heroes can understand.

Even if it is in bold, up front code.

But of course, they can get away with this sort of nonsense and dress up the truth as just simple entertainment for the proles even when the dissidents unleash a truth tiger like Space: 1999. Johnson and the Terminator code named Oswald put the kibosh on the Space Program by shooting Kennedy in the head, retarding it and making it just about shuttles and crappy stations when we could have had bases and cities on Mars by this point. They re-directed the resources of that great program towards something much more sinister, something that President Kennedy never would have wanted- cyborg assassins, A.K.A “Project HULK”.

You might remember if you are tuned into the Earth’s secret messages about the origin story of the “Incredible Hulk” produced by paid Government Agent, Stan Lee. Bruce Banner, a poor abused boy who grows up into a walking vagina of a scientist, gets hit by gamma rays by a bomb he built because this dumb ass kid drove onto the bomb range as a dare or something . When he’s upset or “angry” at the world, Bruce Banner changes into the green giant with unrippable pants, the “Incredible Hulk”.  Just kids stuff right? Just like how “Spiderman” and its Nazi spider experiment origin story is “just for kids” and Wolverine’s Canadian origin story has “HAHA” absolutely nothing to do with the overthrow of the Gough Whitlam government in Australia?

Well. Let me ENLIGHTEN YOU before my mother asks me to pick out the sheets from the dryer. LET ME ENLIGHTEN YOU.

The story of the Incredible Hulk is nothing but Slick Stan Lee’s little joke on the peasantry that truly explains where all these cyborg assassins come from. The “Hulk” origin story is incredibly true, just minus the young teenager driving onto the test range. A real Bob Banner had, because of the Nordic Race Aliens holding his wife and child hostage, implanted the special chips into his body and shoved himself onto the open flats of the Nevada Test Range and juiced himself up with thousands of gamma rays. He was the first of the bunch and had to be released into the Congo later. You might remember the others by their code names like “Sirhan Sirhan”, “Bill Cosby” and “John Hinkley”. Or better yet, Mr. “Stephen King” of Maine (who, let me tell you, is no gentleman when you confront his John Lennon murderin’ ass at the checkout counter of the Bangor Subway). They all are implanted with a microchip designated 27B stroke 6, a chip no bigger than your fingernail of your pinky which is punched into their brains and genitalia (like someone putting a mini-floppy desk into their brains and family jewels). Which, of course, is nothing really at first, not even noticeable to these pre-selected “Terminators” as the Illuminati call them…Which again, in the tradition of the great game, is already referenced by the sickening but somewhat true “Terminator” movie series in order to cloud over the scent of such beings and to make anyone who meets an unstoppable killing machine doubt what they found (or if they don’t doubt it, make others think that they are just simply re-telling a science fiction movie).

However, Incredible Hulk style, once they are pumped up with gamma rays that would normally kill an unprotected gross of villains if they didn’t have that government approved microchip to help them, they “transform” or “Hulk Out” -they immediately get a sense of rage at their target and become incredibly energetic and able to do the impossible in normal humans. Remember Lee Harvey Oswald’s famous run down four flights of stairs in time to be at the cafeteria drinking a coke when the officers from the Dallas P.D. came in and he didn’t seem to be out of breath or break a sweat despite putting a bullet in the POTUS literally a few minutes before? I rest my case.  He didn’t die by Ruby’s hand, as a side note- they had to shoot him multiple times in the basement of the Police Station after he found out he was selected for termination by the “Bill Cosby” terminator. The scene in the first Terminator where Arnold kills all those cops in the dark police station- that was actually a replay of Oswald’s fall, though Arnold’s Terminator made it out much better.

The truth is your face like the smell of a three-day-old cafeteria sandwich left out in the sun. Know what else stinks? The costs of such a program. $109 billion in today’s dollars, the same as the entire Apollo Program.  Project “Hulk” and its “Terminators” were considered priority and sucked up the cost of the entire real space program and when push came to shove, Johnson and the Freemasons decided to keep Project “Hulk” and end true space exploration after the moon in order to use the savings to buy the allegiance of the Chi-Coms against the Russians and to expand “Hulk”.

Interesting how far we get into the rabbit hole, isn’t it? When you enjoy the next “Avengers movie”, remember you are celebrating the heroics of “ Humanoid Unit Locator Killers, or “HULK”s.

Help Me Obi-Wan Kenobi, Luke Skywalker Can’t Wipe His Own Behind.

Coming out of T or C Pizza, stuffed like a walking log of cheese and with a shit eating greasy grin on my face as I had finally gotten Joanne the waitress’s number (turns out later that minimum wage overweight harlot with the lazy eye gave me the local line to the local Pahrump AA chapter), I suddenly realized as I fumbled around for the keys to my 94’ Ford Probe that I hadn’t really taken the time as I have before to really watch “Star Wars” for the signals that I knew this mainstream trilogy had to be sending out through its NWO approved channels.  I’d have to correct that I reasoned, I got a moral job here and audience out there wanting to know what this big ol’ bullshitter of blockbuster was really trying to get across from its masters. So I retreated to the Blue Velvet Suite above the Garage overlooking the wide black desert, cranked the A/C to polar winter, poured myself a liberal gin and tonic, and sat down for what I figured to be the 88th time watching the trilogy and really getting into the nit and the grit of what “Star Wars” was all about. 88 times. Yes I am right, I write down how much I watch a movie so I know scientifically and exactly what my favorites are. 88 times, I noticed. That’s a real special number, 88. You watch anything or read anything 88 times you begin to notice certain things. I read the Stand 88 times (boy Stephen spits on the flag and dances on the bible all through that 1,000 pages of anti-christ rantings, I noticed on the 88th try), I’ve read the Hobbit 88 times, and I know all the ins and outs and the what have yous (the Hobbit is really about the need to return to a gold standard, I noticed that on the 88th try).  My first Thai internet girlfriend dumped me on the 88th session. Bitch. 88 is the number of knowledge, sometimes good, mostly bad. But always truth.

And you know what it’s all about, friends and kitties? WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT REALLY??? Star Wars is about horseshit! Collectivist idealism run way the hell amok, that’s what its about, friends and kitties.  And something more… Mother Midnight is upstairs, slaving away and the stove, making a penne alla vodka with sausage, and I scream out “GEORGE LUCAS YOU MAGNIFICIENT COMMIE BASTARD!”  The cats jump, Mom screams, burns herself and I go right to where I am at right now, in front of a computer with my third gin and tonic fresh, writing to you now after I dialed up the Nye County Fire Department (Mom’s fine). You see, Comrade Skywalker, he doesn’t ever DO anything. He listens to no one, doesn’t do anything anyone tells him to and in the end SAVES THE DAY?!?  He does not “Save the day”.  EVER. First off, Han Solo saves his ass so he doesn’t get shot down in order to make the easiest shot that any dummie without cancer in his brain can do (UH HOW HARD IS IT TO SHOOT STRAIGHT DRR ERR WITH A HOMING MISSILE DDRR EERR). Second movie COMRADE SKYWALKER SAVES NO ONE and loses his girlfriend, I mean right hand. Last one? Return of the Bullshit? His dad saves the day by issuing an old school prison-style beat down on the Emperor. I mean its just like in that Alan Alda made for TV movie I watched 88 times, Liberal Larry Saves Some Degenerates From Being Shot by the National Guard,  or somethin’, I don’t know.  Really. Alan Alda didn’t beat someone to death during a prison riot, he was always the one to see it the way the poor sodomites did negotiator or he was the intrepid journalist. I think.

But here’s the crux. George Lucas is trying to tell the audience one thing (you can’t do anything in life unless your friend boinking your sister bails you out or your father in the mobile iron lung does the same) but really, really, he doesn’t even know it, that bearded marshmallow of a phony passing himself off as a man.  What he’s really telling you is not what he wanted to tell you that (that you have to rely on the great collective in order to win, AKA Communism). What he’s really telling you without knowing it is that life is just one big prison riot, and if you turn your back one second, your next in line is throwing you over the railing. Simple as that. Life is a prison riot.  After Return of the Jedi, Lando and Leia plot to have Han stabbed to death in the showers when the Guards are playing gin rummy in the laundry room. That’s life. One big dog goes down, another gets on top, until his girl plots with his attractive African-American friend to doom him while Luke Skywalker dances the meringue with a bunch of sexually ambiguous muppets in a forest. Voila, New Emperor Lando. That’s how it works in life.

Every revolution ends up the same way (except ours, friends and kitties, but that’s because we had the Count of Saint Germain writing our constitution and freedoms behind the scenes, see my book “Gift of Freedom: Saint Germain Wrote our Constitution Behind the Scenes” that’s currently available on Amazon, quick read, eighty seven pages plus one of notes, I have pictures in there too my cousin Ron drew plus charts).

I looked out over the desert, the high desert around our little square nest, past the tires and barbwire fencing and thought about this all, looking out that big ol’ moon that haunts the wastes, drinking my sixth G and T . Life’s just one big prison riot. No rules until the guards show up with the rubber bullets and the batons (and then, ha ha, its their rules, until they turn their backs!).

Look at the Middle East right now. JFK’s assassination. Jennifer Lawrence’s acting. All a bunch of horrors we have to endure because life is just one big prison riot. And just like a prison riot, you get this sense that things can only end real ugly (AND THE FUN PART WAS IT ALREADY WAS UGLY TO BEGIN WITH…)

You think about Star Wars. One layer after another. First layer, boy wonder. Second Layer, Commie Peacenik bullshit. Third layer, the void and nihilistic death.  So many layers in life. I peruse it though. Me and my freshest G and T look all around for layers at night, looking through the Dark Net.

That’s where you see some layers my friend. Cruising through the dark net after I posted a sixty page email to that stuck up Theresa Manalucci triple whore triple fat triple slack jawed swamp donkey ex-homecoming Queen for the Pahrump Pioneers about how she dumped me back in 1981, I saw the face of the true reality in there. People don’t want to play around in the Dark Net. I do. I felt mean and you gotta have a mean heart to play around there. And a good head about your shoulders- people go nuts seeing some of the things I see at 3:00am on a Tuesday, out above the garage over looking the high desert with only the glow of my monitor and my G and T glass to keep me company. People just lose their shit, end up painting the walls with their brains. Happened to Joe Slams my parolee friend.

Last night I saw these things rip a man to shreds- undead, zombies, whatever you want to call ‘em.  I thought I was watching some east European zombie flick from the early 90’s called The Black Castle. Maybe it was Italian.  But then I remembered I was in the Dark Net.  And no, children, it wasn’t a movie.  Bottom right hand corner.  CCTV.  Fashion Island Mall.  Newport Beach, CA.  12:03 am. Then a series of numbers  (numerical website address to get PART 2 of WYRD The Black Castle). Dark shit. True ugliness- at a mall no less at night! How the Lord does THAT HAPPEN IN AMERICA.  Like a prison riot ‘cept all the prisoners were undead ghouls who’s only goal was to drown themselves on their victims blood.

But that was only one little thing, my friends and kitties. One little snapshot. There’s a whole lot of the abyss staring back at you at 3:00am when you are watching things on the Dark Net.

“The horror. The horror.” “Mistah Kurtz- he dead.” “Exterminate all the brutes!”

Life is a prison riot. It just gonna keep getting uglier and uglier. 

Thanks, George Lucas.