10 days left in this month… [sigh]!


The Big Bang Theorists want a college degree after their second day in kindergarten; this is due to the fact that they feel they are already late in raping, pillaging, and “owning shit”. It’s not in their blood; it’s something they never purged from their soul after a previous incarnation. They expect that you’ll ‘get over it.

I kicked my beloved out lest they be abducted; I wanted this crap to end! They’ll return after all is settled with the current issues.

FEELING befuddled? Forget everything they told you; make them convince you all over again, but this time listen to the words they choose and ask within yourself (“your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit”) why they did not choose the words that would make their professed ‘innocent gesture’ more obviously innocent. He’ll always tell you; He’s the judge, not you. And, keep it to yourself when He does tell you; ‘cause, if you tell them, they’ll only try to talk you out of it yet again – but you already knew that, right? Good. Rebellion vs. Witchcraft? Magic comes ONLY with the endorsement of God; those who oppose magic oppose the innocence with which God allows every individual to begin each incarnation anew! They chose to ignore their own innocence; and, they spend the rest of their incarnation’s allotment of time trying to destroy your innocence. It’s what they do! [shrug]. And, don’t overuse your brain; you were in communication with the Holy Spirit using your mind & core long before you knew that science has found a ‘brain’ inside the skulls of dead people. Everyone believed it (#MassHysteria), so now they can run a scan on the one you already have in you living skull. Kudos! You never needed one!

Sometimes, I torment myself, trying to make my former oppressors as “correct” as they had claimed themselves to be for so many years. This is, I think, a symptom of:

Stockholm Syndrome You may research this in other ways for yourself, if you wish. If you’ve lived with it or in it, note that the words you will read during your research were written mostly by observers rather than by former victims. Similar to the way ‘history’ gets written by those who prefer not to have their reputations reflect how cruel they really were to their victims. Twisting someone’s arm behind their back, while your army aims their guns, at close range, at the heads of the subjects of the one whose arm your twisting, gets written down as “negotiations”, “peace talks”, then finally “surrender”. Read more closely in the future!

Do victimizers think themselves to be ‘correct’ while they abuse others? Do they truly believe their actions to be ‘beneficial’ to their victims? Do they even consider what their abuse of others is doing to their own minds? And, what about their souls?

Under Construction…


Sorry about the wait; but, I shall be removing many OLD posts, herein. Recently, the LOOK as well as the name have changed on this blog site… the OLD name was “Original Impaler”, not to call myself out. But, a change of heart requires a gathering of one’s old ways, and a restructuring of one’s thought patterns, in order to hope for any future at all. That said, thanks for reading; I look forward to better words to come!

Feel FREE to check out my “Goals…” page; simply CLICK the link above!

One American Dream…


A man went to his psychologist one day. The man made himself comfortable (as he always had during previous sessions) and began. “Doc, last night I had a dream and I need you to tell me what it means:

In my dream I found myself in a beautiful village surrounded by marvelous countryside. There were lushly forested patches, along with fields, streams, rivers, and lakes. In places, there were meadows in which the most wonderful cattle and sheep were grazing. They seemed content, almost happy (if that can be said of animals).

The village itself was pristine. In the center square was a fountain that ran quite clear and many of the villagers were around it, some drinking from cups while others filled larger vessels. The buildings were well-kempt; neither a crack nor crumble. All the available stones were being used to line paved streets and walkways, no stone was out of place. Dogs and chickens and cats were about their usual business (as dogs and chickens and cats are known to do). I wondered at what this place was, so I hailed a nearby villager and asked him, “What is the secret of this place? How does it remain so beautiful?” The villager came near and spoke softly, “Come. I show you.”

I followed him for some distance outside the village proper. When the sounds of the people faded into the distance, a different sound became apparent. We rounded a bend and the sound became louder and slightly more cacophonous. “What the devil am I hearing?” I demanded. The villager only raised his hand – silencing me – and led on. After some minutes, the sound was even louder, and the top of a deep pit came into view. Rising out of the pit I recognized the backs of elephants. “What are they doing?” I asked him. He only motioned and said, “Look closer.” I walked up to the edge of the pit and looked in. What I saw within were every kind of donkey on the planet. They were in all sorts of positions: some on their side, some standing, some running wildly around the perimeter of the pit, some on their backs with legs kicking all about them, their desperate brays rising up like haphazard gusts of wind until a few stomps from a nearby elephant brought about their last breath, and each fell silent in turn. “Doesn’t that hurt the elephants’ feet?” I asked. The villager told me, “They know that it is for a good cause, so they tolerate the pain in their feet. Also, we rotate them so that they can rest before returning, smiling (if elephants can be said to smile), to their task.” I pondered this somberly for a moment, then articulated my ruminations, “Oh, so… elephants stomping donkeys keeps this place running smoothly, and it’s always beautiful, and everyone’s happy and content?” The villager smiled widely at my recognition of the employed system. “Ah, you are a quick learner, mister! I am quite pleased to have made your acquaintance.”

“When I awoke, all I could remember was ‘elephants stomping donkeys…’ What does it all mean, Doc? Tell me!”

The psychologist held up his hand and muttered, “Hold on a minute.” The man thought that the doctor seemed angry. “Is he angry about something in my dream? Has he even been listening to me?”, the man wondered, confusedly. The psychologist picked up the receiver of one of the two phones on his desk – it was red, the other was black. Without dialing, he waited a few seconds then spoke into it gruffly, “It’s me; put him on!” After a short while he spoke into the red phone’s receiver again, this time nearly shouting, “You, sir, are an idiot! You can go to HELL!” Then the psychologist slammed down the receiver, stood up, turned himself around, and leapt forward, crashing through his office window, to fall to his death thirteen floors below. Just then the door flew open and the receptionist ran into the room. “What happened?”, she demanded. The man tore his gaze from the broken window (he had been staring at it) and answered her with a slight shrug of his shoulders, “I don’t know. He just jumped out of the window.” Then, gathering a modicum of composure, he added, “Uhmmm… will I be billed for this session? I didn’t really get an answer regarding the purpose for my visit today, and…” The man was suddenly interrupted by the sound of children’s voices rising up through the broken window from somewhere below. They were beginning their school day:

Quoth they, “… and to the Republic, for which it stands, …”

9 Little Injuns…

I went to the local museum a month ago. There was a visiting high school there for a tour (so I wasn’t the one who HAD to ask all the ‘dumb questions’; there were students there to ask on my behalf [grin]). The tour guide (the curator) was explaining how Red Man used to send out a 14 y/o boy, naked, with NO provisions. He was instructed to make his own clothing, tools, and feed himself until he was allowed to return at the NEXT full moon. A sob escaped my lips, and I wiped away a few tears before any of the kids noticed. In 3 nanoseconds, I was jealous of the 14 y/o boy for being allowed to strike out on his own, hated myself for sending him out, began planning a hunt just before the next full moon so he’d share a FEAST with us featuring prime venison or buffalo upon his return, and planning to reintroduce him to a too-long sad, little girl who only sat around, forlornly, missing him all the time he was away.