All Along the Red Line

 

I’m just mad about fourteen

 

 

fourteen’s mad about me

 

(top: October 27, 1970 “Halloween Card” from the Zodiac, announcing his fourteenth victim; bottom: Patriot Palins; lyric: “Mellow Yellow”)

 

Any ‘jokes’ about raping my 14-year-old are despicable. Alaskans know it and I believe the rest of the world knows it, too.

– Todd Palin

 

What a fine White House 2012 addition the Palin Family will make for our New Woman Order!

– Mayor Hector C. Bato, B.M.F.,  inviting the Palin Posse to Eagle Pass, Texas, for a Peckerwood Hill Weenie Roast

 

As drearily debriefed last missive, the matriarchal meme of Sarah Palin’s village family, if not already sufficiently blunt, crystallized in the aftermath of a lame David “Red” Letter-Man joke about a Yankees player “knocking up” Palin’’s eldest dotter, the already once-knocked Bristol.

Catty kitty Dave. 

From there, the tableaux suddenly ratchets to charges of advocating rape of a fourteen-year-old, Willow, Palin’s middle daughter.  Demeter raging in defense of Demeter Persephone.

  

 victim’s car door showing Zodie’s “slave tally” – evidence from knifings at Lake Berryessa, midst Kalifornia’s Valley of the Moon

 

Last yak mentioned Mare Island/Vallejo again, and thissun kicked off with Zodiac’s 4-teen Halloween card.

[The sentimental old salt.  Sniffle.]

From a page called “He“:

“Surrounded by water on three sides, Vallejo was a water town – home for Zodiac, a water-obsessed killer…” ZODIAC UNMASKED p.2.

Satan, who is water-0bsessed, comes from the sea or lakes where he was drowned. Mark 5-13. And in the end a lake figures in his doom. Revelations 21-8. Also the name Vallejo is very close to the word “valley.” The following shows that a valley is significant to Old Scratch:

The Valley of Hinnom had a very horrendous history in ancient times. It was used as a place where the pagan worshipers did all sorts of vile and wicked things – including burning children alive as sacrifices to the idols Moloch and Ball. One section of the valley was called Tophet, or the “fire-stove,” where the children were slaughtered (2 Kings 23:10). It was a place of tremendous evil for many years.

 

 

We’ve scrutinized Zodie, Vallejo, and the mystical topography of the North Bay Area B-4, to use Zodiacese . . . along with tussling Manson’s Arctic seabasilisk (an amphibian actually, like the polliwog/frog) and endless other nautical occulture — most recently, “Crossing the Line.”  

The valley in  ”He” indeed is Vallejo, only partly after its founder, General Marianno Guadalupe Vallejo — though geophysically “valley” references the adjacent Napa-Sonoma valleys, the Kalifornia Wine Kountry collectively called “The Valley of the Moon.”  Giza West.

Note drawn sickle moons at bottom of Zodie postcard, and recall our chitchats about the late nineteenth-century “ Good Templars Orphanage” on the verdant and breastful hills overlooking Vallejo and the Carquinez Straits –very near the site of Zodiac’s first lovers-lane cereal-moany, on Lake Her-Man Road.

 

 

Pharaoh — all on his own, the big boy, no more dideys for you!– equated himself with the Egyptian Priest Qar/Kar.   Vallejo is separated from Mare Island by the Carquinez Strait which leads — under gaze of Mt. Diablo — to the Abyss Duat hm one more chance . . . Pacific.  Qar + quin (five) + Z, with quin also Cain.  A strait is a narrow nautical passage, and/or a danger or crucible.  AF reminds that cropcircle or Otherwise, the ubiquitous “jellyfish” = MedUSA. 

 

Yeah now I’m running down California 5
with your laughter in my head
gonna have to block it out somehow to survive
’cause those dreams are dead
and I’m alive

 (Jax’ son)

 

Carvaggio’s Medusa, porthole agape in prosecution, circles us back all enantiodromic-like to PalinGenesis, and them trippy trip sisters. 

Question to the Dreaming Mind:  in this modern-day TV re-enactment of the Demetrian/Eleusinian “Mysteries,” why not invoke Piper, the youngest daughter, for full mass-hysteric value? . . . max  Kore kaaba dramatae?   

Answer from the Awake Mind: because no mountains in Alaska are named Piper.

 

 

Yo Dorothy, look who sportin’ yo kicks.  

In the wake of The Red Witch Alaska Governor Palin’s Cerelean Meltdown, a 5.5 earthquake surfaced, prompting Anchorage folk to haul same and burrow ‘neath deck and desk.  (Linked story quotes 5.4, USGS has it 5.5.)

The jolt centered near Willow, Alaska.  Not Piper, Alaska.  Which unexists, townwise.

On Good Friday, March 27, 1964 — about four months after JFK’s kingkill — a 8.6 earthquake and tsunami weighed Anchorage.

 

 

 

 

On the original Good Friday

. . . when Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit.   At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom.  The earth shook and the rocks split. 

(Matthew 27: 50-51)

 

There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven and, going to the tomb, rolled back the stone and sat on it.  His appearance was like lightning, and his clothes were white as snow. The guards were so afraid of him that they shook and became like dead men.
 

(Matthew 28: 2-4)

 

‘Twas a fussy, mussy Monday, postsolstice partum blues, as the Deal went twinning down the Red Line, on the skirts of the Virgin’s State, in the liminate funkzone between Columbia’s District and Mary’s Land.

A subway train piloted by Jeanice McMillan of Springfield, Virginia, plowed highpeed into a train ahead, killing nine and injuring more than 70.

National Transportation Safety Board Spokesperson Debbie Hersman and Co. are investigating the worst accident in Metrorail’s 33-year history.  

Like Vallejo P.D., drawing chalklines on Lake Her(s)man Road.

 

 

 

 

 

 

credit: Zodiac Killer Facts

 

Such a man is the antichrist—he denies the Father and the Son.  (1 John 2:22)

 

Pharaoh, that grinning megaphone of MedUSA, again celebrated Fathers Day by threatening and chiding American men for their faults and irresponsibility.  Our mother-in-law commander, married to Mom-in-Chief.  The masses love ‘em.

Obie didn’t “dream of his father. ”  He capitalized on him in a national climate of pandemic male-hating.  Mom and granny — and then those more clever, if no less virulent – groomed this gelding from the gate.  As with that other gonadal M.I.A., Bill Clinton, the Alkhemical Chessmasters of R’lyeh use Barack’s daddy-rage to further demonize maleness, to divide us from our Father.   Frontman Obie, the Gynogulag’s Presiding Dildo, making mammy not just proud, but ecstatic.

This blogger explains how Pharaoh and The Gals cooked the “Stimulus Package”:

A current story in The Weekly Standard by Christina Hoff Sommers details how NOW and its cohorts lobbied the Obama administration — successfully — to redirect the stimulus plan towards female jobs and away from infrastructure investment. (You may remember Sommers as the woman who was brave enough to take apart Carol Gilligan in her book “The War Against Boys”.)
This, despite the fact that this recession, as we all know, has hit men very disproportionately. As Sommers points out, 80% of the jobs lost in the United States between December 2007 and May 2009 were male jobs.

. . .  This war against men is entering a new phase, readers. They’ve taken our families and children from us. They’ve taken away any respect for us in society and the culture. They’ve taken our boys from us and repressed and emasculated them so that girls could surpass them. And now they’re coming after our jobs, full stop.

. . . The bitch queen of Mordor has turned her evil eye towards us, and slammed her pink fists down in her wrath against low status men.

 

See The Water Connection (scroll to page bottom.)

 

That concludes today’s tour.  Cheerio.  We’re off to meet Jack Fate at the Snowman Promenade.

Mind your step departing the bus.

The funeral directors calculate while the broken cars are dragged, screeching, off the Red Line.  The servants of D.C. matrons clatter tea-ware, the upstairs rooms abuzz with high, insistent voices.  Birds retreat deep into lush summer trees.

It’s a party! 

In a snug, tidy sloop on the North Bank of the Potomac, Medusa lounges in a beanbag chair, picking at the little fabric-clots on her bathrobe.  She’s occasionally daubing her toenails black, watching Deal of the Century.  When the party voices rise, her hair sways harmony. 

Across country a heavy, bespectacled man hikes an evening hilltop, playing it back, glancing out over the water, mumbling to himself in numbers.  By switchback he descends, a languid parashootist.  At the valley floor he crosses a broken-striped blacktop road and vanishes, merging with the tule fog that hugs Lake Herman.

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