The purpose of this note is to describe how I became a prisoner to soldiers of fortune in a bid to unseat my interests in educational reform, an intellectual heritage they claimed effectively by an insidious address I was unfit to obtain.  For this reason, I was denied sign language education when purposefully deafened and restricted from attending school, lured to a pig’s blood ceremony by a Tacoma war college in the end when a deaf girl with Downs Syndrome enabled me on her own.   The pig’s bloods were Saoirse and Covid 19, but the authors were Steven King’s Federal in Hollywood.  To circumscribe all of this I am choosing baseball history to illustrate the discovery of a grand fraud of totalitarian indexing and warehouse encryption that portended how Greta Thunberg was promoted by persons who see her right and needed activism as crank and look forwards to spoiling it.   This dispute over the character of the Green Movement is sad drama when so much for them is clear.  My goal is to clarify these issues in order to contribute to successful progress in maintaining high standards of information flow.  I bring to it what has always been my “what’s next?” attitude towards housekeeping and civil repair.  My own tragedy has been considerably lessened by the emergence of strong, new, able brilliant awareness of the plight of the earth.  I want the children to have hope but am keenly aware that for this to be realistic they also must be the hope they need as well, and in a world where our leaders are too often destructive juveniles this is a tall order to fill.  Where are the mentors?

        Ultimately, the discovery of war crimes has dislocated my attention most effectively.  My notebooks on earth from the Heaven and Hell Odysseies, studies of music as alternative education in the field of higher learning, Buckminster Fuller’s geopolitical and ecological theory, poetry of morale, have all been ruined and drafted into the indecent purposes of attackers masquerading as Green reform, originating merely in Hollywood’s warrior charades, destructive, vain and murderously cruel, rendering ecology a difficult precinct to address.  In short, assassins rendered me love bait.   This fact is important because it was timed on their genocide clock.  I am in love with Greta and nothing said here is to be construed as affirmative of the Palace spyglass that turns harm on my personal commitments, but she, like I, was an upload of plotting.  I do not say this to demean her, planned earth care is to be welcomed not put in jeopardy, only to announce my civil alarm upon learning that such care is construed as requiring genocide.  The long, brutal history of war has no bragging rights over the subject of ecocide.

        So, admittedly, this task is a dungeon of the spirit.  You’re crazy if you think I would ever abandon it.   Demoralizing miseducation comes in baseball through the form of confiscating the terms of our morale.  I also love the sport.  This isn’t about anything but the way the Trumpytunes abused their power and influence in trouncing the civilities of the sports’ heritage.  I will attempt to reform them, thanklessly, and likely hopelessly, but I will do it all the same as a written text to enter into the books.  The genuinely interesting case special factors in baseball make for timely reading in a situation room.  The pigs blood dumped on my progress came from Warhol Foundation, whose odious smirk over baseball is legendary.  Indeed, after the first few exciting pages, their smudge renders the Dave Niehaus book, My, Oh My, not much better than a sequel to a George Romero film, and that hustle from the genre of Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing at T-Mobile Stadium, isn’t tribute writing on my part, it comes down the tracks from a former Pitt News journalist, Adam Eisenstat, recent Trump speech ghostwriter.  This tightly knit culture holds violent domination, CIA fuck culture, a Green Party exclusive.

         Trump, as you may remember my noting, long ago called dibs on Greta.  What’s that?  Oh, of course, Donald, I’m a dangerous hippy.  The truth is, Trumpytune, I’d be happy to see her find a boyfriend.  This isn’t about Greta Thunberg.

Trumpytune mongered a plebiscite minus the plebeians and it really jumps out of the hedges at you in the Niehaus book, My, Oh My.  Just you wait as I fill in the gap where our plebeians grannies once so recently were, Trumpytune.   First, to NYC, keep it brief.

          The NYC gobblers are clones of sympathy adroitly gleaned from some fell area of Ringo Starkey   They make appear at Tacoma Rainiers for play by instance.  It would be a lot easier to be civil with persons who were raping and murdering while calling their victims pedophile, if that wasn’t their agenda as well as overt proclivity.  My, Oh My isn’t a terrible book until this Church of Latterday Weasels so renders it one.  One thing is clear, Cooperstown is a rendezvous after hours for rock stars.  They need a special jump and holler for this grisly crowd of stuffed shirt self regard, surrounded by state troopers, off limits to the press, and well stocked with professionals in white coats.

          As I noted elsewhere there was a mumble of hallowed digest concerning Roberto Clemente in Edgar Martinez’s recommendable book.  I found it a little bit grandstanding as though to say beware my Praetorian Guard in this matterrrr.  Niehaus and his tooth Billy Mac prefer Maz, so, Trumpy-old-azeroski was thfo dithmayed by a queerbait’s blessing by birth location a week from his Holy Home Run that he just about hadda implant a neurobedient mind control trauma.  My, oh My bangs on about how we are suckled to de wean with transistor outings to the ballpark where cardboard grannies just sit side by side with Trumpytune barons in recreation most fine (agreed).  It begs the point that Wattenmaker rode off when queerbait stood an hour to get Bob Prince’s autograph whose voice was the first thing lost to the implant.  Now for some weird hypnosis.

         Some Mississippi Gail Gal and a piece of the action.

         I’m not sure who made the notion that Jimmy Creary is a stake from Bush’s ship therefore Code Red College hadda kill Saoirse, hadda.  But given the message of Martin Sheen’s diversion in Pittsburgh from Vince Eirene of the low and downtrodden, I would suspect the same engineer of the Shulman Bailout that led to Two Virgins Pussyball.