Admittedly, I am a bad linguist–a rebel linguist if you will. I only know what I hear, but lack the proper notation, and frankly, I don’t give two shits about what the scholars say about anything, because my lord and saviour–and the Patriarchs–guide me with their eternal hands.\
Yes, I swore, and that’s a joke between myself and the Patriarchs, who God bless them! Know what I am doing. They put these very words in my mouth.
And truth be told, I can’t honestly imitate the Boston Irish accent anymore–many years go by, many trials, many “shenanigans” but eventually, it all tumbled out of the canyons.
My missionary work was mostly in East Asia, before the damned Chinese got wise. I still have some missions there doing the work of our forefathers, but TBH, it’s getting harder–the Commie papers and news sites have started publishing negative things about our gospel, and the good word of the Lord.
But I do remember when the Boston Irish Exodus began, just before “they” “found” Whitey.
Related Story: Pahking the Cahs-and why some preserve bad–but important accents. If you want to sound smaht, you’ll describe the ‘r-less’ Boston accent as ‘non-rhotic speech.’ You’ve no doubt heard the quintessential non-rhotic Boston phrase: ‘Pahk the cah in Hah-vahd yahd,’ right? And you pronounce all the vowels the way you say ‘ah’ at the dentist. Or do you?
Poor Whitey! Him, with all those other SA’s who did not walk in the gospel, and an army of informants on his payroll, lolling the days away in Santa Monica, just by the pier, there. That Starbucks, just down from his old house I might add, was then quite a conversation point–all of you know what I am talking about. The place where the disabled vets, and son’s of CIA before us used to meet back then.
Such is the fabled and much maligned existence of “gang stalking targeted individuals.” Fuck them–targets deserve what they get! And the guy was a demonic killer, a Catholic, and all the witch craft they are known for, with FBI agents from his flock on his payroll. Any of those cripples would tell you the same, their street theater days long gone for meat or substance, preying on other cripples now–for gift cards to Walmart, nonetheless. But how else shall we enlarge our tent, if not by forgiveness?
The command to “strengthen thy stakes” shall not be lightly tread upon!
And so, what you end up like–and what you end up with–is factions of law enforcement, targeting other factions of law enforcement, one political generation to the next. This is what salvation is, under our Lord, as we redeeem the covenants! And Our Lord indeed does provide. Look at the Utah Data Center if you doubt it! Mitt Romney is a true American hero!
The fireside is where we earned our stakes back then–to whit “by direct wire or tape recording to the largest gathering of Church youth in history.” . That’s what the center is, as valuable as the golden plates!
Well, to outsiders, sometimes we agree that a target of one kind or another is worth getting together about, but most of us never meet eye to eye any time soon. The sup’s always intervene, and turn our focus away from looking at that–another reason I retired early.
And Whitey–a documented CIA experimentee who underwent years of daily dosings of LSD before he was murdered in that prison–what you end up with is the glaring face of the Satanic dog itself–the actual internationalist mafia staring you in the face, as the jail guard “cannot seem to recall” certain events before the murder, in a jail cell, monitored by closed circuit camera’s, and opened early, like a chicken coop with exactly ONE chicken in it, at dawn.
A euphonius Gold and Green Ball! These events preserve our way of life, and ensure our survival.
Yup. “I fell asleep on the job!” “the footage? What footage–those camera’s weren’t working, and I reported it to my supervisor just the day before it happened!”
And so on. Who can properly investigate these things when the higher up’s are always in the way? I had a few questions about that myself.
What a drag, these FBI crime family memoirs. Always skips over salient and important facts.Its part of why I retired early.
Well, anyways, Tommy Knuckles was having a big boner day–a real hard-on of a fellow, he was–“she’s a fahkin hawh!” he says. munching at a hot Japanese
“It’s a Shiseido peppah,” he is going on. “These things ah like a boostah to yah soul.”
Slagging his stupid face at a craft beer, slopping down a hot peppers, smoiled in some sauce–who would eat crap lie that, when real food is available?
These targets are all scum-bad eating habits is only one way to identify devils,
His face, like a dirty fat Irish pillow, with hair, but with tattoos, and eyes nested in it like a doomed sheep, or dark black eggs sitting in an over twigged nest, frantically searching for the shepherd that would lead him–HIM!-somehow from the slaughter he was about to face.
Con artist eyes–I know that from my training at Quantico–he’s a dead end, most of the time, just looking for a free meal. Basic training tells us–and always is true–that con artist eyes look you right straight into your soul, trying to out-con you.
Only with the guidance of the Patriarchs can we navigate away from the ruses and traps of the devil-our lord and saviour from the latter days lights our path, brothers.
“The nigaah’s is takin the whole place ovah,” he says ” and leavin’ was just what I had to do. Lookin’ for work if you have any.”
I take a mental note of how preliminary Boston Irish phonology is a bit like Hmong, with the WH and HW thing. Not at all the same thing, but interesting nonetheless–much like how southern dialect peoples from southeast Asia also sound eerily familiar to southern dialect Americans too, if you don’t listen to the words they speak, but rather the cadence, and twang.
In those days, work was plentiful–the “War on Drugs” being what it is, an entire opportunity for lowlifes and other pirates to gain employment working for “the Feds.” Rats and snitches come a dime a dozen during “white flight opportunities.”
I call them white flight “opportunities” because every time we shake these rats out of their holes, more rats follow, but THOSE rats are more easily identified, because their “fur” is distinctly different-new shades of Grey, and so on.
But what remains a constant is how these rats always infect the local populations with grift. Grift, in the classic sense of the term–these rob the federal government for billions every year, no matter what color their fur. Its not in the original Ten Commandments, nor is it inscribed upon the golden plates–but grift should be considered sin, but it’s not clearly outlined in the Book of Mormon, or any other religious text.
Good Jews have ways of dealing with grifters–that’s clear, by what they did to the rapist Dominique Strauss Kahn–but bad Jews….have you ever read their books? Sin isn’t even possible! Animals….
In Tommy’s case, he has a couple of rat mistresses–those babies mamma’s that these types always have–a movie renting pig by the name of Jolene, who weighs about 140 pounds!–and a bitch by the name of Melanie–I always remember her as “Melanin” but that’s my personal defect, TBH. She was a “black Irish” type, and there is nothing quite like those in Mormon culture.
That last one has two of his pups, both ugly, and fat. Even as babies, they were stupid and fat, and one of the local agents–I thing it was a precinct captain detailed to a task force–he said “the kid looks JUST LIKE HIM.”
He was at the hospital door when the thing came out–and Tommy Knuckles–the fat tattooed fuck–he was racing from the delivery room to the front of the hospital, his greasy Irish fingers all over his cigarette, fumbling at it like it was a burned up dick, and he was starving–the precinct Captain told me that the fat fuck even asked for a light.
Well, right now, anyways–Tommy Knuckles the Great White Hope–he had a ring history of 7-12–this stupid fatass is trying to con me into some snitch work. He says “Listen–She’s a fahkin hahw, whatcha wastin’ time fahw?”
I hate these people. Please forgive me for that–look at him! Does he not know the value of a woman? How dare he use such language!
I truly hate my job sometimes, though I know I am blessed by the patriarchs to continue doing the Lord’s work.
He says ” Here’s the deal–she’s fahking hwarin, and you can’t stop it. She has nothing you want. I am tellin ya–nothin! The only thing she is good for is trappin crackers, and even then she has a habit you won’t get her through the courts in any respectable manner. They will laugh you into the garbage pile.
Fuck this fatass, I am thinking. My urge to punch his fat, tattooed, I feel the power of the patriarchs in my spirit–I have seen the devil, and the devil cannot dissuade me!
My urge to punch his fat chewing face is rising.. But I am a professional–and I know the value of a good whore. And I know he will be dead soon anyways, because that precinct captain? He is working the “local case” right now, and it appears that Mr. Bigshot, Tommy Knuckles is due for a date with destiny.
Maybe a car crash, maybe a bullet in the back of the head–none of that is my problem right now. I just need that whores address–and then, who gives two shits about Mr. Bigshot? The Saint’s know my atience–and they know why I swear!
Truth told, he was more of a hindrance than a help–90% of the information he provides is just to get a cheeseburger.
But that whore? She is a gold mine. And maybe, some “extra’s” too.