The Clickety-Clack of Bleating Hearts
There was no scheduled bleating for today but then I strolled the beach from Flamingos to La Cruz de Huanacaxtle and back and as the sun rose through the final third of the journey a pod of dolphins emerged not far from shore and clicked at me.
When I finally rounded the bay I knew what their clicks were meant to communicate. It all translated into one searing image in my mind’s eye of a sheep, bleating out in pain.
Did the dolphins recognize a kindred spirit in this fluffy ram, blindfolded and muted? Were they holding up a mirror and demanding I take an honest look?
They say dolphins can sense the pain of others and are capable of communicating empathy. Maybe this is simply human researchers seeing what they want and anthropomorphizing a mammal they were told from birth was the smartest.
A Dolphin trainer and Mammologist in Miami arrives to work after some brief time off due to her husband’s sudden coincidence. “Why him!?” She cries out on her bed for days in the fetal position. “He was so healthy and fit.”
All this SADS is getting old
It’s getting me down my love
The Miami trainer finally returns to work after grieving and her bottle-nosed friends perceive her sadness and react differently to her instructions.
She senses the emotions she needs the mammals to communicate to her, and tells her colleagues. The Journal of Marine Mammology, not owned by the NIH publishes their findings: Empathic Dolphin Clicks After Spousal Sudden Coincidence.
An image did smack my brain after hearing dolphin clicks, one of a bleating sheep in agony curled up in the fetal position. It was a brief flash. Multilayered in meaning, deep and probing. Similar to the way alien abductees describe the muted communications of only images through regressive hypnosis—the flashing of one image after another that appears to them from their little grey abductors who use no words.
Then the deep probing begins.
Images flashing: Naked on a metallic platform. Silver metal probe. Paralysis. Favorite Penthouse Stories actress on her knees. Sudden seminal extraction from the non-pureblood subject. How did they do that so fast? The Greys count the dead tadpoles poisoned by mRNA nanoparticulate graphene hydroxide sterility fillers. No living specimen.
One grey asks another, “What the hell are these humans doing to themselves?”
The bleating for this evening is not new
You've seen this entertainment through and through
You've seen your birth your life and your death
you might recall all of the rest
Did you have a good world when you died?
Enough to base an alien abduction on?
Those quick flashes communicate so much. Similar to the way that gormless ponce Captain Kirk went barely up into the troposphere courtesy of that Bezos douche who projects his phallic wants onto his rocket designs to impress his frozen-faced botoxed LatinaX and looked at the curvature of the earth (sorry flat earthers) and claimed to have seen a horrific image of death and destruction.
Maybe it’s easier to see all the sudden coincidences from the troposphere?
Perhaps the further one ventures from the prescribed reality where victims of gravity and Psyops reside, the clearer things become.
Spaceships or sailboats. the future of liberty and clear thought.
How silly for Kirk to assume there’s anything wrong. People die all the time, and I have it on good authority from all the experts on Twitter that correlation does not equal causation.
And dolphin clicks do not equal bleating sheep in agony.
Besides, doesn’t Captain Kirk know that all is well down here?
For example Meta’s babies Facebook and Instagram may start allowing titties to appear on their sites, but only trans titties. This is the kind of diverse digital transformation humanity has been waiting for, a total inclusivity that will alter the way we waste time online.
Moobs Captain Kirk, moobs.
All is well on earth.
It’s raining Biden classified documents across Delaware. A perfectly natural occurrence Captain Kirk. They’re finding them at the ice cream parlor, in the booth at the soda jerk, at the local arcade, at the daycare sniffing centers, and at the ping pong pizza parlors (Joe’s favorite) of Wilmington.
On the domestic executive agenda, the CIA has gone from deciding presidents in turkey shoots in Dealey Plaza, to getting Ross Perot to depose their former boss to install their Mena, Arkansas man, to diddling chads in Florida, to programming Diebold machines, to hiding Michelle Obama’s penis and Barry’s love for it, to orchestrating soft coups of a bad orange man, to simply dumping “classified documents” all over creation with Papa Dementia’s fingerprints on them.
CIA Covert Op: Operation Maximization Classification Defenestration
Psyop summer at Mar-a-lago.
Leak photos of staged documents to press.
Stress felonies worthy of a special counsel.
Voila, the stage is set for Joe’s turn at the CIA fixing den.
For eight years those documents meant nothing, and suddenly they’re a “violation of serious national security laws.” The old man yelling at clouds gets ideas about 2024 and the CIA smothers them in the crib.
Prepare the school bus lover with kneepads for her DIE cameo. A vagina is finally coming to the oval office to continue the pretensions of a constitutional republic.
All is well in ‘Merica Captain Kirk.
Artificial Intelligence is set to cost hundreds of millions of humans their jobs over the next two decades. ChatGPT did not write this post.
All is well.
70% of the world’s population will live in total surveillance prison cities by 2050. Delhi will be the largest with 50 million people!
I took a wrong turn at Place Republique and got trapped with the marching frogs chanting “Je Suis Charlie!” in Paris pretending to care about free speech the weekend after some cultural enrichers killed cartoonists who drew caricatures of their favorite pedophile profit.
There were two million people marching that Sunday. There was no escape from the shoulder-to-shoulder masses for five kilometers. It was pure insanity.
Most of the earth is so vast and empty and yet they want whatever humans don’t get SADS to live like sardines, in a 6G or 7G frying can.
All is well on earth.
War criminal Tony Blair spoke openly about forced vaccinating of the “anti-vaxxers” at Davos, and mandating Digital IDs for a total surveillance system of carbon-based social credit control. Not one of these sick fucks has taken a shotgun blast to the face yet.
All is well on earth Captain Kirk.
Will ChatGPT replace this bleating ram?
Could ChatGPT connect Captain Kirk’s image of death, to a chance encounter with dolphins, to SADS, alien abductions, CIA White House fixes over 60 years, Instagram moobs, to other recent events that tell us all is well on earth?
Could ChatGPT describe the random and chaotic events of a New Year’s Eve in Prague where a Hungarian with soft brown wavey hair made eye contact and proceeded to drag the machine from club to club, dancing in the new year with shots of vodka, sweaty embraces, deep longing stares into the machine’s soul?
Could it describe the complex euphoric feelings of that particular night, or the next afternoon’s hangover, the goodbye at the train station two days later?
What letters of correspondence would it produce to the Hungarian fling over the following months?
Bleep. Blop. Bleep. Blop. Please wait, my dear…searching Hallmark’s website, Brainy quote, and Goethe’s library for romantic combinations of authentic-sounding impressions of love and longing to send to your inbox.
The only humans they will replace with AI are the ones who produce predictable rudimentary fluff.
With no imagination.
With nothing gained through toil or suffering, through finding a creative spirit, or emotions that dredge themselves up from simply experiencing our world as a fellow of the human species.
Bots replacing bots. Techno-determinism strikes again.
All is well on earth Captain.
Don’t tell Al Gore that, or we won’t get to see him shit his trousers in public again.
Insert into ChatGPT: Al Gore shitting himself in public about climate delusions that nobody above the intelligence of a half-wit believes anymore.
ChatGPT: Searching Greta’s father’s diary for a rageful screed about nuclear armageddon to tie into climate hysteria to scare the hell out of young people so they stop wanting or having children and instead contemplate suicide from despair or chemical castration.
Perhaps Al Gore, like most of the Illuminati-created factory droids is already powered by ChatGPT.
And that’s probably what the dolphins were really clicking on about.
Hey Good Citizen! (Clickety-clack) Did you hear that moron Al Gore fabricate all kinds of crap again about the weather, the oceans, and the earth while publicly making a complete ass of himself!? (Clickety-clack) What a royal pompous douchebag! Hahaha!!!
All is well here on earth.
No point in getting SADS.
Aye aye, Captain.
Further reading on ChatGPT:
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Man, you're taking this writing to a whole new level. The semi-surreal style captures the unprecedented evil oozing from almost every pore of the body politic. Great article, therefore The New Yorker, Ms., Rolling Stone, The Nation, and Village Voice wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole. They're all captured and fake. This piece reminds me of Jim Morrison & The Doors' "Texas Radio and The Big Beat"...
"Listen to this, and I'll tell you 'bout the heartache
I'll tell you 'bout the heartache and the loss of God
I'll tell you 'bout the hopeless night
The meager food for souls forgot
I'll tell you 'bout the maiden with wrought iron soul
I'll tell you this
No eternal reward will forgive us now for wasting the dawn"
Great as usual. Don't ever lose the unabashed sharp edged sarcasm. Its one of the few things we have left in this world that keeps us going.
We're currently in the mountains back here in Poland on holiday, and tonight at the dinner buffet a guy with his family sat near us and on his hoodie it was written "Mother Earth is Speaking. It's time to listen. " I let out an involuntary chuckle when I saw it and thought to myself, I'd bet the farm he's the douchebag with the Tesla charging in the hotel parking lot.