World to end next week, 21 June 2020, Mayan calendar REALLY ends
What did li'l Zebulon getcha for Father's Day?
Roswell, not Zebulon; i do have a bunch of hippie cousins with Bible names. Named after an early 19th c. pioneer ancestor, back when Ohio was the frontier.
i got large amounts of meat, smoked to perfection: nice fatty brisket, and ribs that you can't pick up without it falling off the bone, and spicy pork sausage, and fried okra.This last is not technically meat but it is fried. And sushi for lunch.
But no End Of The World so far. As you say, total gyp.
Please test this hypothesis by reporting whether you see any around your neighborhood.
There is NOBODY around our 'hood. We are still in isolated tranquility.
Albert Pike's statue was flipped by rioters
Your link links to a page that states: "On the eve of the Summer Solstice, the graven image of Albert Pike, the chief of 19th century Freemasonry and Satanism in America, has fallen and burned in Washington D.C."
That's an interesting description.
As you say, total gyp.
It always is. But they keep bringing it back for an encore. With only 8 years since the previous Ending, we can't even attribute the phenomenon to a generational fixation, something they "have to go through." Tomorrow I will name this one "The False Trumpet," or maybe "The Fabricated Seal," and get back to watching the mere End of Civilization, as predicted by AC himself.
Roswell, not Zebulon
Roswell that end well. I'm sure he hasn't heard that one a hundred times.
That's an interesting description.
A shame. 1800s Satanism is the best kind.
I didn't really kill my dog, since I don't have one, but the joke did remind me of a funny story about my grandfather -- and since it's still Father's Day where I live, I thought I might tell it.
Quite a ways back, when my own father was just a boy, he and granddad went to a fine southern flea market. Back then, they had a little dog, named Junebug or something like that. As the day was winding down, my father-as-a-boy spotted an old black fellow with a dog that looked just like-... no, it was Junebug! This stranger had had taken Junebug! So dad brought this to granddad's attention.
Granddad went over and said something to the effect of, "That's my dog!" You can imagine what he actually said.
The fellow protested, saying it was really his own dog, and this exchange continued for a few moments more.
Eventually, the dog-napper asked, "How're we gon' settle this?"
Granddad, a Horian before his time and very in touch with his most primal of urges, said, "Settle it?! I'll settle it right now!" and drew his pistol before shooting Junebug right in her little, fuzzy head.
The dog-napper ran off, and dad and granddad drove home.
Just as they opened the door, who should come happily scurrying up but Junebug?! They had forgotten that they didn't even take her to the flea market! And, as it turned out, the other, dead dog really did belong to that poor bastard. They all shared a laugh at his expense.
Dad grew up to be a professional killer, beret and all. (This was before they gave everyone a beret, of course.)
I'm the only one he ever told that story.
My ever-accurate Borgex Calendar/Clock now says it's June 22 ... here (Rocky Mountains USA). This means Europe, UK, Ignantville, NY, and New Mexico have averted The End. California & Hawaii are still at risk, but it's pretty low risk.
Maybe in the morning somebody will have something clever to say about this, the latest The End.
Which, according to all portents, potentates, and signs, failed to show.
I am reminded of a favorite story from my days hanging out with junkies for a living:
A pal, who was a minor-league rock star, and major-league heroin addict, decided to kill himself.
He accordingly purchased a gallon bottle of Gallo Hearty Burgundy (also my mom's favorite cheap plonk), and got every heroin dealer he knew on the LES (this was basically all of them, he earned his daily bread, and needed drugs, middling on heroin deals for musicians and artists) to front him a bundle (10 bags) of dope.
He went to the apartment he was house-sitting, shot roughly 100 bags of good NYC heroin, enough to kill 40-50 normal folk (easy), and drank the gallon of wine.
He woke up two days later in a pool of purple vomit and empty dope bags, syringe still in his arm.
His first thought was "Feck! I'm invincible! I cannot die!" [i can attest to the fact that he was devoid of any fear of anything after this]
His second thought was "Feck! Now i've got to pay for all that gear!" ["gear" meaning heroin; he was of UK-ish extraction, thus "feck" for "fuck", and "ye kint" for "you cunt" when he would punch folks (fairly often even before he had his fear removed, you can just imagine after)]
You takes your End Of The Worlds as you find them.
'Minor league rock star', what could that mean now? This Brit never had a top 40 hit and wasn't known trans-Atlantic. I'm ruling out Billy Idol.
Way more minor-league than that, a cult figure but far from famous.
I once, at the peak of his fame, spewed a full beer in Billy Idol's face; he had a purple toga, and two bodyguards who did not catch me. To save anyone accusing me of having Old Timer's Disease, i am aware that i have told this story before.
I think we all share some of my dopefiend pal's anti-climactic feelings on waking up The Morning After The End today. Still haven't seen any Xians yet, so the raptured hypothesis remains open.
@shiva I left my house without bothering to lock the front door. What would be the point?
I took a train to Dorking and sat on top of Box Hill all night, but nothing unusual happened.
I returned home by train and that cost me extra because when I went to Box Hill I didn't think to buy a return ticket.
My house had been ransacked by disbelievers. All the tellies and furniture were gone; only my collection of Zechariah Sitchin books remained: the thieves were not aware of their immense value.
Anyway, it was a nice night at Box Hill and I am looking forward to the next one.
Waltz of the 101st Lightborne.
My second favourite on the album. If leaving across the cosmos for a new world in a third order space convoy that's leaving breadcrumbs for the cylons to follow I'd go with the group that includes Lyra-ists for my journey across the heavens. There's a reason their stringed instruments are depicted in ancient paintings.
Sawdust and Diamonds is my favourite of all her songs I've heard. Going from Bunyan's bells to zen water and wood so well interwoven.
As for Thelemic astrology. It needs get real. Sidereal.
Time to rewrite the seasonal myths as told by the heavens.
June 22. Sol at Mid Heaven. High Noon at the NM Corral
The World itself, plus Time, continue to March On!
All readers are encouraged to keep a look out for Chicken Little, and to get a Judge's signature on his Warrant the next time he opens his peep.