Yehp, ladies and gentle-squire's, it's like 'ole Jack Burton says, "When the chips are down, the women are frigid, and you've ate your last taco, there's only one thing left to do...throw a grenade."
Hello ladies and gentleman, and welcome to another episode of the Pork Chop Express, and I your host, who need no introduction, cause I think we all know I'm pretty terrific, is currently in the old steam wagon headed down old Route 66, just outside of Kingman, who after stopping to take a leak at a local watering hole, ran across the one and only, messiah. That's right, you heard me, I didn't studder. As I fell upon our one and only, in utter disbelief, as he himself was kicking back, eating a tasty burger and fry from the local, Jack in the Box. I being the brazen fellow I am, stepped up to the unassuming old man, and asked him a simple question, of which he had a complicated answer. I asked simply, "What happened?" That's when the swami of rock and roll stood up...that's right, I'm a punk rocker, yes I am, pulled out a jar of 'Green Crack', rolled a couple of finely shaped joints, and sat me down and told me, old Jack, a tale of woe and the human race.
He began with a couple of mistakes on his part. A voice in his head, about age 3 1/2, told him to sit in a patch of rough grass, and while he, still in diapers, and not wanting to get poked by the seemingly rough terrain, neglected. Not long after, because of his "insubordination", made his way to the front door, where he got his arm trapped, door actually closed all the way. I mean, how does that happen? Reaching up he pushed the button and freed himself. Upon his arm was the Mark of Cain. Two lines, as opposed to the X. Medulla Oblongata be damned, to hear him tell it. How early we fall. He went on to say, that in his little stretch of wood, for the most part, he was a happy child. Unburdened. Then one night, his parents told him they were going to move. And instead of keeping his mouth shut, like the voice in his head told him to do yet once again, he replied, "I'm gonna run away." Well, being the filth they were, dress up our poor little chosen one, like a hobo, put a knife in his left hand, and a dollar in his right, then shoved him out the door in the middle of the night, all the while, laughing at him through the diamond window. Cause that'll teach him. The solution of two swinger hillbilly pieces of trash in all their wisdom. Sure they could have sympathized, shown a little compassion to kid who couldn't even tie his shoes, in the process of losing everything he loved about life. But naw, let's scar the young chap till the end of his days so no amount of love from anyone would ever fill the hole, never being wanted. At that point old Jack was glad he was high, cause that was pretty much, in old Jacks opinion, some pretty evil shit. Mary and Joseph, Geb and Nut, whoever you wanna call these paragons of parenthood, in old Jacks eyes, were a disgrace to every story ever afforded to 'em.
He said from there, every time he was confronted with an important decision, which would change his life for the better, he always chose the worse, not realizing no matter what he did, he just couldn't help it. Like he was drawn to making the bad decision, no matter what. I mean every decision. Not just a few, but every single freaking one. We’re talking a guy who could of been an Olympic bicyclist. Could of had billions. You heard me, I used the letter B. A pillar of the community, made his grandpa proud. Not to mention all the sweet poon-tang. I've seen the video, I know they're out there. Hello Mrs. Rumpsfield. Oh sure, he could still use his gift to make others wealthy. But for him...Nothing. The golden seal on his forehead rendered dead the moment it was drawn. Angels watching over my ass. Him, being left with a series of bad decisions that made even Satan look like a red wiry little bitch. Cursed! Oh yeah, you betcha. Thanks mom and dad. Am I right ladies and gentleman?
It wasn't long after this point our old Cained-Abel, put down the skinny on the whole fraudulent system of the Anti-Christ. And how the supposed sacred text of our forefathers was actually designed as a intricate system of lies, who in their eyes, was more fitting of slaves. Instead of teaching man the allegory of the human body, which the Essene are supposedly known for, the Christ Oil afforded to us all, the Vatican and their Freemason Illuminati underlings, twisted the truth, robbing us all of the divine wealth held within. At this point I have to admit, old Jack was pretty awe struck by the fact this old man was even still alive. Cause how many scholars of the modern faith wanna hear their full of shit? And always have been.
According to this crippled and frail little man with an out of place muscle in his leg, whose word I've come to consider as the real history of the world, explained how the powers that be, can't go having multiple messiah running around, proving their Jesus wasn't unique. Needing only one person they can drag out before the world at a time, kill em, then eating his pineal gland and heart in secret like tasty dim sung, so the lackeys of the fish headed jamboree can pretend their God too. That tree in the midst of the garden itself. Blood of my blood and flesh of my flesh, oh my. Nor do they want you figuring out that the Pyramids and Stonehenge were built by people, who like the man he used to be, in a life before, could actually tap into this potential of the human body. Using instruments like the crook and flail and the Waas Staff, to raise the energy’s from the Earth, moving these stone like feathers on spring day. Not to mention walking on water. Pulling wood apart like the Buddhist monks. Or like how an entire Native American tribe was able to put their hands in stone over on ole White Mountain. I've seen the photo. Yehp, at this point Mr. Jack Burton felt pretty damned cheated out of his potential as well. NAZI sonsofbitches. That's right, I didn't studder. First Reich my ass. Go on Hollywood, get your leather wearing, Pinhead looking musician who looked like he fucked Casper the Friendly Ghost, to out class old Jack.
On such a rough and tumble path, where did you learn it all I asked.
“It's a Mystery”, he replied.
At this old Jack took his meaning, thanked his for his time, as our beloved fallen one finished up what appeared to be a tasty satchel of fries, I departed.
Looking back, he laid his arms upon the table, then his head. They say old God can return all things, make things new again. Well not this cat. Not even God's got that kind of juice. Old Jack couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever rise again. But then I thought, what would be the point?
As old Jack stepped back up into his trusty steed, ready to head down that old side trial that by-passes the check point into Cali, on a count of all the illegal banana and cucumber I'm hauling. That’s right ladies, you heard me. Old Jack's taking the backdoor into Graceland. Waving by the memory of the King over in ole 29 Palms, like Odd Thomas pointed out. What? I read. When it's about me.
John Saltz O'Huigin
Journal entry 6.
Yehp, ladies and gentle-squire's, it's like 'ole Jack Burton says, "When the chips are down, the women are frigid, and you've ate your last taco, there's only one thing left to do...throw a grenade."
Hello ladies and gentleman, and welcome to another episode of the Pork Chop Express, and I your host, who need no introduction, cause I think we all know I'm pretty terrific, is currently in the old steam wagon headed down old Route 66, just outside of Kingman, who after stopping to take a leak at a local watering hole, ran across the one and only, messiah. That's right, you heard me, I didn't studder. As I fell upon our one and only, in utter disbelief, as he himself was kicking back, eating a tasty burger and fry from the local, Jack in the Box. I being the brazen fellow I am, stepped up to the unassuming old man, and asked him a simple question, of which he had a complicated answer. I asked simply, "What happened?" That's when the swami of rock and roll stood up...that's right, I'm a punk rocker, yes I am, pulled out a jar of 'Green Crack', rolled a couple of finely shaped joints, and sat me down and told me, old Jack, a tale of woe and the human race.
He began with a couple of mistakes on his part. A voice in his head, about age 3 1/2, told him to sit in a patch of rough grass, and while he, still in diapers, and not wanting to get poked by the seemingly rough terrain, neglected. Not long after, because of his "insubordination", made his way to the front door, where he got his arm trapped, door actually closed all the way. I mean, how does that happen? Reaching up he pushed the button and freed himself. Upon his arm was the Mark of Cain. Two lines, as opposed to the X. Medulla Oblongata be damned, to hear him tell it. How early we fall. He went on to say, that in his little stretch of wood, for the most part, he was a happy child. Unburdened. Then one night, his parents told him they were going to move. And instead of keeping his mouth shut, like the voice in his head told him to do yet once again, he replied, "I'm gonna run away." Well, being the filth they were, dress up our poor little chosen one, like a hobo, put a knife in his left hand, and a dollar in his right, then shoved him out the door in the middle of the night, all the while, laughing at him through the diamond window. Cause that'll teach him. The solution of two swinger hillbilly pieces of trash in all their wisdom. Sure they could have sympathized, shown a little compassion to kid who couldn't even tie his shoes, in the process of losing everything he loved about life. But naw, let's scar the young chap till the end of his days so no amount of love from anyone would ever fill the hole, never being wanted. At that point old Jack was glad he was high, cause that was pretty much, in old Jacks opinion, some pretty evil shit. Mary and Joseph, Geb and Nut, whoever you wanna call these paragons of parenthood, in old Jacks eyes, were a disgrace to every story ever afforded to 'em.
He said from there, every time he was confronted with an important decision, which would change his life for the better, he always chose the worse, not realizing no matter what he did, he just couldn't help it. Like he was drawn to making the bad decision, no matter what. I mean every decision. Not just a few, but every single freaking one. We’re talking a guy who could of been an Olympic bicyclist. Could of had billions. You heard me, I used the letter B. A pillar of the community, made his grandpa proud. Not to mention all the sweet poon-tang. I've seen the video, I know they're out there. Hello Mrs. Rumpsfield. Oh sure, he could still use his gift to make others wealthy. But for him...Nothing. The golden seal on his forehead rendered dead the moment it was drawn. Angels watching over my ass. Him, being left with a series of bad decisions that made even Satan look like a red wiry little bitch. Cursed! Oh yeah, you betcha. Thanks mom and dad. Am I right ladies and gentleman?
It wasn't long after this point our old Cained-Abel, put down the skinny on the whole fraudulent system of the Anti-Christ. And how the supposed sacred text of our forefathers was actually designed as a intricate system of lies, who in their eyes, was more fitting of slaves. Instead of teaching man the allegory of the human body, which the Essene are supposedly known for, the Christ Oil afforded to us all, the Vatican and their Freemason Illuminati underlings, twisted the truth, robbing us all of the divine wealth held within. At this point I have to admit, old Jack was pretty awe struck by the fact this old man was even still alive. Cause how many scholars of the modern faith wanna hear their full of shit? And always have been.
According to this crippled and frail little man with an out of place muscle in his leg, whose word I've come to consider as the real history of the world, explained how the powers that be, can't go having multiple messiah running around, proving their Jesus wasn't unique. Needing only one person they can drag out before the world at a time, kill em, then eating his pineal gland and heart in secret like tasty dim sung, so the lackeys of the fish headed jamboree can pretend their God too. That tree in the midst of the garden itself. Blood of my blood and flesh of my flesh, oh my. Nor do they want you figuring out that the Pyramids and Stonehenge were built by people, who like the man he used to be, in a life before, could actually tap into this potential of the human body. Using instruments like the crook and flail and the Waas Staff, to raise the energy’s from the Earth, moving these stone like feathers on spring day. Not to mention walking on water. Pulling wood apart like the Buddhist monks. Or like how an entire Native American tribe was able to put their hands in stone over on ole White Mountain. I've seen the photo. Yehp, at this point Mr. Jack Burton felt pretty damned cheated out of his potential as well. NAZI sonsofbitches. That's right, I didn't studder. First Reich my ass. Go on Hollywood, get your leather wearing, Pinhead looking musician who looked like he fucked Casper the Friendly Ghost, to out class old Jack.
On such a rough and tumble path, where did you learn it all I asked.
“It's a Mystery”, he replied.
At this old Jack took his meaning, thanked his for his time, as our beloved fallen one finished up what appeared to be a tasty satchel of fries, I departed.
Looking back, he laid his arms upon the table, then his head. They say old God can return all things, make things new again. Well not this cat. Not even God's got that kind of juice. Old Jack couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever rise again. But then I thought, what would be the point?
As old Jack stepped back up into his trusty steed, ready to head down that old side trial that by-passes the check point into Cali, on a count of all the illegal banana and cucumber I'm hauling. That’s right ladies, you heard me. Old Jack's taking the backdoor into Graceland. Waving by the memory of the King over in ole 29 Palms, like Odd Thomas pointed out. What? I read. When it's about me.
1 week ago (edited) | [YT] | 0