I'm not a spy McGoofy

What has happened to our world? What has happened to me? Can’t I go outside without seeing a white bird fly over my head? Is the matrix crashing? Ok, Ok, don’t beat the drum so hard, they say. Last time I blogged, I nearly had to have a lobotomy. So I slept until 10 o’clock the next day; tried to calm down before the awards show. I knew of a song about Uncle Albert once upon a time, next to Mars, but I didn’t expect him to want to move in.

I try not to think, please stop me from thinking. If I don’t write, I just bounce, like a ball, with a double loop and a twist; greased lightning. Oh wait, his name is Alfred. This probably doesn’t make any sense. My bad advice is to read regular. You know, just the tickle without the art. We live in a world of the psycho, and the paths, it scars me so I take bathes, and I keep the curtains open.

I can’t read long essays anymore. I just get a headache. I have one now. Like the guide dog for the blind, the insolent green; the jolly man. I warned myself once about myself. It hasn’t helped, went bezant once before, probably once too many, a hornet or two. I thought I had gone too far, and needed to visit the hospital in the sky. Damn near made the whole trip into a short run.

I keep looking at the big C and the little c wondering who is in charge. Oh, back to the bird. You can’t bend time like that, it just doesn’t work. How can you go without leaving? I wonder if the she-goat is flipping over, a blue taxi. I don’t like guns or high powered rifles. Violence sucks. If this doesn’t make any sense, please leave. I keep checking to see if I’m blocking myself or if I am painting the wrong masterpiece, flying the wrong plane. The N and the Y are not one, and this seem blurry.

I never had headaches my entire life. That was before I walked naked into the fire, now my nose is smashed into the back of a mask. They always have names for these conditions. This one is called thought. I thought I thought of something, never mind. This is not natural. The moral stick is a long story, and must be practiced, you know, wouldn’t want to loose the touch of the ball.

A few good actors, and you have the McGoofy, but no one knows what it is. It comes down from the hill, so nice and pleasant, ready to help for the tango in the night. It’s book is open, no pages though. There ya go, eternally sacred secularist maternal with short hair; a shorter version of the bad news bears. I keep rhyming with myself, it is truly sick.

The story begins when I thought I needed to study emotions, a big mistake, especially when these balls are caught by blind people that have never seen daylight, a court of law in the mind, set forth in a sand bar, at the dyewer inn. Anyway, that’s all history, later it was decided to actually organize them, a disaster in the making, one that would forever begin to haunt me with, you guessed it, the McGoofy.

It comes with a repeated squishy sound, and screeching sounds out both ends, like the languor earrings on fire, a woman without a dress. So, let’s go take a look. How is the gyp joint built? We’ll need to go back in time a bit, which now is no problem it seems. It is simply an application, one that is self-resistant, and can be felt by most that ache for the needs to know, actually not know, as self-resistance is built into the program.

The not-know, or guff, is all back-talk, similar to white noise, but seen fuzzy to applicators, or those who see the movie movie, the bad deck of cards. Just look at the basic application to begin.

ABCDEFG…..HIJKLMNOP…..QRSTUV…..WXYZ

The bad spirit is set by math, the singing, plus four, and the brain builds a soupy sales. Most think math is not natural, yet math holds all the keys in place, and its manipulation changes everything. The child’s brain is like a super computer, thousands and thousands of times more powerful than any computer on earth, millions of times more complicated, and capable of storage capacity that cannot be duplicated by any machine without organics, which are in the works. Actually, you won’t read anything about this, and certainly not now. But this will likely also fail, as it is the wrong approach. Why?

The human mind has set a stake, one that is fastened to home plate, one that knows, and a spirit to win not just for oneself, but for something unknown, something that can only be felt, and cannot be explained, or computed by numbers. There is no intelligent design, but design and intelligence remain constant, one needing the other for eternity.

Is the alphabet a program? Yes. Its main purpose seems to be communication; however, this is questionable, as most things are felt, and it is emotions that navigate our purposes in life. What is apposite becomes relevant to the guff. Immediately, the ball flies around almost killing everyone in the room, the again plus the soon, if a guff is in the room. Stop rhyming asshole.

This is all laid out in the most boring book you have ever seen. It is called the dictionary, of which contains a section of roots, codes for the mathematical snowman who sees. The book is so boring it becomes disgust, an idiot’s ploy, a waste of time. Hardly anyone has one. It’s just a bad egg with darts; one doctor with a picture on the wall with a hole behind it, called the Solanum melongena, an eggplant who wears a woman’s head with long silverware.

To understand how the hole is bored to death in the rain, one must be a reader, willing to let go of the drill, and unplug the cord. The beasts will attempt to offer up the battery, but these tools are complete junk. To be disconnected while also connected is the plan.

The Internet is full of alpha, continuous information, which will seem like wow, this is important the guff calls out, yet all those who write online, and nearly every classification for knowledge is just guff for the mind, and Mr. McGoofy is hardly seen or known, blocked by all the inflated senses established from phantasms built off the application, and spreading like a virus, a stink of a bald head, which can only be squeezed into silver bug juice crammed into your neck of the woods.

This rancid black water is like the vampire of crime, the endless wanton of death and destruction no one can see, blocked by all the bombs bursting in the air, proving through the night, that the flag of hate is still there. Yet wave does not compute, but that seems ok, as long as you can drive the riddle into the ground, and call emotions the mob, and dial it on the ills of time.

Crack the skull and bones, and check the story of organizing the roots, which has reached another climax, and a good nap hopefully without a rhyme.

I used to dream, now I only build maps and smoke bad cigars, and talk Like I don’t have a brain, without ratio or reason, and rings of fire that seem insane dancing in a room with mirrors, and a captain who has Mephistopheles for a name who has one foot on the ball.

Stop kissing me you harem beast.

I need a number. I stole this phone from a nut on the street.

Hurry, the men in black are shooting at me with white bullets.

So, I organized a third of the rheum. If you have read the first 60 chapters of the electric book, you’ve already seen the rheum, and sink came. Good song. It was hard, and took all my time, and I want the readers to know that it must slow down. I can’t keep this pace, but for those who have followed, it is not as imported now. You have most of what you need. The damage has been done, so if I am whacked, it is no big deal. Actually, I will be back, and much more dangerous.

The roots will be organized now no matter what. The palindromes revealed, and the beasts will be consumed, all four of them, shaken, and not stirred. This is exactly how they currently feel, and scared of themselves, and the power of love, hidden in the brain waves of time.

My headache is subsiding. Thank you. Some of you still fight the fight, but you must wake up as many as you can. Save as many as you can. We cannot change the world, this is the truth. It is too big, and the beasts are too many. Read all chapters, not necessarily the sapient stones, of which I needed as a method to get me to have the guts to say to myself, “you are not nuts” for spending all this time where no one seems to have gone.

Know that the organizing of the roots has long been done, and hidden from you, like an electric drill that runs on a battery, that is now up for a recharge. This is only another phase for good food that will only be eaten with spilled Tabasco sauce, of which I would love to crank, but the hemi’s say no. Don’t listen to the Rhea Americana which is just a stupid ostrich.

Bugs Bunny is back. What’s up your dock? Where’s your sense of humor? Has your spirit been drunk? That’s what erasers are for.

So as the story goes, I quit setting myself on fire last Tuesday, and it has been hell ever since, but each day gets a little better. I refuse to bring the ash tray in this rheum. You can hit me in the nose all you want, I won’t feel a thing. Don’t ask me to shave my head or sell my cat.

The beasts will consume themselves for this place, and those silly expressions between red and white navigated by the dark lord whose tail is wrapped around Satan herself. They sit behind their spokesman like snakes, just look at them, and how disgusting they really are. It makes you want to puke. The no in the yes is their stupid game of death, all for a little abstraction, where the beasts are in complete control, and they are the slaves forever bound to their death.

Do not fear them. They are much more afraid of you. Save as many as you can, time is neigh. Love your neighbor as your own family, and forget the bheuæ.

Stevie, I love you, and the Knicks suck.

So, there you go, I’m not a spy McGoofy, and if you believe that, you are seriously goofy.