Magical Mystery Tour

The YouTube photo is appropriate, don’t you think? Trump & his Merry Men are going on Tour, in case you haven’t heard. The reason, I surmize, is because Trump became addicted to The Rallies he organized, promoted and led for the past year and a half and he needs his Fix, so they’re On The Road Again as The Donald scrambles to find an undamaged vein to deliver his Bliss.

They are Butchers, that’s for sure. They’re going to Butcher The Little People, meaning YOU and YOU and YOU and YOU, while you beg for more and cheer them on. It’s so horrifically beautiful in its Pure Evil GeniusPsychopathy after 12,000 years of Continuous Improvement. Sadomasochism at its finest on a Grande Scale, sans the whips, chains and leather, and instead, The Obnoxiously Brilliant Neon Radiance of Orange DayGlo.

Magical Mystery Tour is appropriate because I swear this is just a nightmarish Acid Trip and I’m going to come down and off it and/or out of it any moment now. But that moment never comes. For those of you who have had a Bad Trip, you know what I’m talking about. There’s that fear that you’ll never come out of it and the Reality you are experiencing will be your Reality forever. This time, that fear has come true. This is a horrible Acid Trip with a permanent effect. You are not coming down or out of it. It is The New Reality. Learn to love it, because there’s only one way out, and even that’s no guarantee since none of us know for sure what awaits us on the other side, if anything.



Never Forget!! Except They Always Do Because When It Returns, There's Always A Slight Twist. This Time It Won't Be The Jews Or It Won't Be Just The Jews.
Never Forget!! Except They Always Do Because When It Returns, There’s Always A Slight Twist. This Time It Won’t Be The Jews Or It Won’t Be Just The Jews.

One thought on “Magical Mystery Tour

  1. Che Pasa, your posts are spot on. We’re channelling. Don’t discount that phenomenon — it’s REAL. You are one of the few, very few, who sees it as clearly as I do. We’re too few, but maybe, just maybe, although I kinda doubt it, the seeds we are dispersing will grow into a Rainforest. This is why I despise Michael Moore. Much of his analysis and criticism is also spot on. He challenges people and makes them think, but his purpose is deceit. He gets them worked up and then he feeds them back into The Belly of The Democrat Party Beast. He’s despoiled two generations of possible Evolution now by dashing their aspirations and demoralizing them entirely. I know he knows who I am and he knows about my blog, but he has never reached out to me. I hear he’s creating yet another documentary, no doubt funded by The Establishment, and I’m sure it will be insightful but the purpose will remain the same, and that purpose will be to despoil yet another generation by convincing them their only option is to support a Political Party that seeks to contain their fervor and evolutionary potential and does not work on their behalf and does not have their best interests at heart. It’s tragic, actually. In fact, it’s sadistic.

    Che Pasa, I know you feel like this sometimes, or maybe most of time, because I do as well. It’s like navigating in quickly solidifying concrete. I was going to say we’re like salmon swimming upstream to lay our eggs, but that’s an understatement. What we’re trying to do is tantamount to parting the Red Sea, except there is no God to aid in our endeavor. Kafka describes it best as follows:

    An Imperial Message

    The Emperor — so they say — has sent a message, directly from his death bed, to you alone, his pathetic subject, a tiny shadow which has taken refuge at the furthest distance from the imperial sun. He ordered the herald to kneel down beside his bed and whispered the message in his ear. He thought it was so important that he had the herald speak it back to him. He confirmed the accuracy of verbal message by nodding his head. And in front of the entire crowd of those witnessing his death — all the obstructing walls have been broken down, and all the great ones of his empire are standing in a circle on the broad and high soaring flights of stairs — in front of all of them he dispatched his herald. The messenger started off at once, a powerful, tireless man. Sticking one arm out and then another, he makes his way through the crowd. If he runs into resistance, he points to his breast where there is a sign of the sun. So he moves forwards easily, unlike anyone else. But the crowd is so huge; its dwelling places are infinite. If there were an open field, how he would fly along, and soon you would hear the marvellous pounding of his fist on your door. But instead of that, how futile are all his efforts. He is still forcing his way through the private rooms of the innermost palace. Never will he win his way through. And if he did manage that, nothing would have been achieved. He would have to fight his way down the steps, and, if he managed to do that, nothing would have been achieved. He would have to stride through the courtyards, and after the courtyards through the second palace encircling the first, and, then again, through stairs and courtyards, and then, once again, a palace, and so on for thousands of years. And if he finally burst through the outermost door — but that can never, never happen — the royal capital city, the centre of the world, is still there in front of him, piled high and full of sediment. No one pushes his way through here, certainly not someone with a message from a dead man. But you sit at your window and dream of that message when evening comes.

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