MAYDAYS

MAYDAY 1818: SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 2020

URANTIA FIRST

Do help me help Art. Help me help him to get us, to save ourselves. A puzzling mystery, this poem, penned by George Washington and since handed down — president, to president.

Handed down — from president, to president. Barack advised me to read it. I, didn’t. Honestly, I don’t like to read. I’m a doer; a man of action. Too little time to read — if I’m — the president.

Recapitulating, what’s already happened. Art’s my prodigal brother from the future, implanted to another womb when I kicked him from the womb that we were, back then, co-inhabiting.

I kicked him from a womb, we way back when, co-inhabited. It’s telling; my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb of a woman; alas, a mother — unforthcoming.

Indeed it is telling that my first moral decision came not at 5-6 years of age but in the womb. And it’s more telling still, that that first decision was in the nature — of a residential — eviction.

From our womb I evicted my brother, Arthur. I remember stretching my legs and relishing, the feeling; it’s the same feeling I get, kicking folks out of the country, wantonly, deporting them.

The deaths I’ll be blamed for may well reach 233,000 by October’s end. And projections therefrom show that more than 2,900 more Americans could be dying daily — by January.

Don’t worry. Be happy. This nightmare will, like all things, end. And ye shall, in retrospect, later, better understand why I do and say all the seemingly crazy things I do and say, routinely.

Let’s help Art kickstart his plan; to transform man; to suppress in the pilgrim’s progress, ego, even as we foster, empathy. It’s not about ye. And near incredibly (to me), it’s not, about me.

It’s been most shocking for me to learn, I’m not centering, the universe. Now, Hope is gone. The White House is, near empty. And the few folks there, garbed in full PPE, proactively, avoid me.

I yearn to project an imaginary image of super manhood. And I haven’t learned that projection of that fantastic alternative reality, isn’t working like it used to; back in 2016 — before — 2020.

2020. It’s been awful; worse yet, increasingly, it gets worse. But how bad might it yet get? Spoiler alert: It’ll get really bad before it gets, surreally — better. Witness, March 4th, 2030.

Tuesday, March 4, 2030: Because it is both a calendar date and a command, I’ve got a date in mind for Urantia‘s citizens’ inaugural celebration of their first, Global Citizenship Day.

On Tuesday, March 4, in the year of Allah God Jehovah Yahweh. 2030. A perfect fit. And the surreal irony of it all, is not at all, lost upon me. From America First, a Global Citizenship — Day.

THEATER OF THE ABSURD

What’s happening across Urantia’s America are blessings from God. Making it that much more incumbent upon US not leaving it entirely up to Him. He will help US help ourselves. In theaters

of the absurd, both the illness and the cure are, in my VP’s view, Heaven-sent, blessings. His snow-white hair attests to his age. And the fly atop it attests to the absurdities — of theater.

What happens when human existence lacks meaning or purpose and our communications break down? And how on Earth do we make a come back from something fatal — like that?

That’s just one existential question, I’ve asked myself. It’s an existential question, I’ve also, answered. When one’s a genius, one’s able too ask and answer, existential questions, like that.

For 122 seconds on Wednesday night the vice presidential debate was hijacked by a fly. What appeared to be a residential housefly rested or did its thing for more than two minutes on my

VP’s white hair. That’ll mean treatment for him with antibiotics, experimental viricidals and a shampoo. For 122 seconds, no one listened, because atop him, doing something, was a fly.

And whether that fly was resting or evacuating on Mike’s hair matters less than matters this series of indignities, unbroken. Seems to me an unbroken string of calamities — since January.

Since January, it’s seemingly been for me, a string of calamities and indignities, unbroken. And that fly last night, symbolized for me, the Chinese that has arisen, since the start of 2020.

In all honesty, I’m not given to lying; nor the leaking of misinformation. But I’ve reason to believe that Joe’s in cahoots with the Chinese. They’ve sickened me. And the fly was a drone.

Joe’s colluding with the Chinese, sickening me, already. And under investigation is whether the fly in Mike’s hair was a fake fly, Chinese, drone. They’ve sickened me. And the fly was a drone.

Biden-Harris fly swatters quickly sold out but there’s bobblehead Mike Pence complete with a fly and swatter. And apparently, there’s an abiding conviction that Joe Biden and Kamala

Harris will always choose truth over lies and real science, over fictional fare. There’s an abiding conviction about Joe and Kamala that they’re the good guys on the planet of Urantia.

Theater, truly absurd. Pence’s bobblehead joins a lineup of 2020 bobbleheads including the collectibles of Carole and Howard Baskin and the coronaviral, fighting doctors, the fly-bys,

Anthony Fauci and Deborah Birx. Visit the National Bobblehead Hall of Fame online store, for delivery, sometime, post-2020. Meanwhile, I’ll check reports of Chinese drones — and flies.