Space Portals and the Large Hadron Collider

      The world is living in what the Holy Scriptures of the Bible call "The Last Days".  Ignorant and illiterate globalists and unbelievers who are incapable of sound  in regard to the preternatural realms, give us the same old lie that the Bible does not tell us anything, or that you have to be part of the occult to learn true metaphysics. All occults, when you get to the basic existence of them,  are all about Satanism - Luciferianism - Devil Worship.  It is really THAT simple, that easily broken down and understood.  

      Each occult organization of this world in their own way  are nothing more than backward Devil Worshipers, and the real metaphysical of eternal life-giving power is always ultimately found out to be solely in the same faith and summed up in child like simplicity as that same basic knowledge as possessed of the true Bible believer into Jesus Christ, washed by faith in the blood of the Lamb of GOD at the Cross of Calvary in 30 A.D. in a one time for all time atoning act.  It is a metaphysical ingrained fact in Creation  that even the most powerful demons or fallen angels are hindered and often stopped from being able to overcome the mere spoken name of Jesus Christ when a believer uses that name with faith into Jesus Christ as his or her protection.   Why is that?  Because THAT Name is where the true power of the Universe is. 

      The pre-incarnate Jesus, as Jehovah / YHVeH, whose very NAME you and I breathe in and out and are to know (Lamentations 4:20) by the will and good pleasure of GOD the Father, created this Universe, and to Him alone has all authority in it and over it been granted, even if He gives us space and benevolent time to a designated limit set in Bible Prophecy to screw it up in limited amount on Earth for ourselves. 

      Technology has more and more  been pushed to follow a type of occultic religious sorcery instead of intelligent creativity alone.  Since the 1970s, the United States has engaged in splicing insect genes with human genes, animal genes with insect genes, and doing all sorts of cross-breeding experiments too disgusting to relate here.  The average public citizen has no clue how alien and science fiction horror far too many globalist mad scientists are trying to make into a reality, and succeeding.  

     Horror movies are generally a mental conditioning and desensitization of the mass populace that allows the most horrific experiments to be sniffed at, even if discovered and exposed to exist.  And it does not have to all be biological, this desensitization also involves the break down of the nuclear family, the acceptance of violence and murder and manipulation  of the general population by many means, and often in coordinated but compartmentalized efforts, so that the citizen is overwhelmed and told by the State and various approved authority figures that his oppression and many manipulations are normal, and to accept these intrusions and attacks and manipulations and to NOT fight back or individualize and be in any way victorious in resistance and extracting themselves from being enslaved or oppressed  in any way. 

      So it is no wonder that there is a form of mass disconnect and a hypnotically induced or inserted form of insanity by hundreds of means and ways upon society, so that a hurdling toward nuclear war in reality seems little more than some fictional movie or a dream passing in the night, and this mass hypnosis attention deficit disorder (MHADD) or "mhaddness"  dumbfounds the leadership of a nuclear superpower that has seen us as a nation voluntarily send its own people into a disconnect insanity while provoking a world war of nuclear exchanges and annihilation of hundreds of millions, if not billions, as if seeing themselves as spiritual Luciferians who are as if about to themselves morph magically into some kind of advanced next stage of evolution alien life-forms while on earth, who are now not even human anymore, but some sort of hybrid other kind of species. 

       So for the globalist elites, anyone or anything that holds them back from immortality, even of living 160 or 200 years instead of 60 or 80 or 100, they are as if evil and irrationally the hindrance to their new sought longevity.  It is as if they are fed the lie of being like gods, the same as was stated (in Genesis Chapter 3)  in the Garden of Eden to get Father Adam and Mother Eve to eat the forbidden fruit which stripped them of immortality, because they had already the light of eternal life already given them and by their spiritual death, that flame of eternal life  given by the Creator (the pre-incarnate Jesus and the GOD-spark by which man attains longevity in this body) was extinguished.  Through Jesus, the spiritual flame is re-lit through faith, but the flame of longevity now is only to be after the Resurrection of the Dead unto life, while unbelievers retaining damnation, refusing even the spiritual spark which is the means by which the eternal GOD-spark will be re-given, which is actually a sliver of the eternal fusion of the energy of  GOD Himself, only then will eternal life be attainable in a form by which the body of man achieves a same and greater state as that of the angels of Heaven themselves.  

     Globalists, desiring to merge with machine and even insects, seeking empowerment and believing the lies of the Devil and of themselves, are ever failing to recognize their humanity has never changed, only their mental state has changed while engaging in homosexuality - pedophilia and other occultist ritual practices and gone from from sane to nuts.  Meanwhile, such are now in leadership positions and their insanity and Luciferianism perplexes other world leaders because those in America and the West behave as if trying to live out some comic book fantasy in the real world, and the Media and so many who are supposed to be alert members of society, are themselves entranced and going along with the insanity of those as if in bondage and Satanically possessed, acting as if having given themselves over to hypnotic suggestions and commands of unknown alien hostile master controllers who also could care less about humanity as a whole.      

Meanwhile, since September 10, 2008, the experiments have been conducted at the Large Hadron Collider have entered a new phase of operations.  

This mega-linear collider http://lhc.web.cern.ch/lhc/  will be one of the keys for us to understand and see the Biblical past in present fluxes of known scientific laws of Creation. 

Associated with the Hadron collider is both hope and dread:

http://www.scientificamerican.com/article.cfm?id=the-discovery-machine-hadron-collider

http://www.boston.com/news/science/articles/2008/04/21/will_new_collider_create_black_holes_that_destroy_us_all/

The Large Hadron Collider website describes the nuclear technology electro-magnetic unit as thus:  

https://home.cern/topics/large-hadron-collider

"The Large Hadron Collider (LHC) is the world’s largest and most powerful particle accelerator. It first started up on 10 September 2008, and remains the latest addition to CERN’s accelerator complex. The LHC consists of a 27-kilometre ring of superconducting magnets with a number of accelerating structures to boost the energy of the particles along the way.

Inside the accelerator, two high-energy particle beams travel at close to the speed of light before they are made to collide. The beams travel in opposite directions in separate beam pipes – two tubes kept at ultrahigh vacuum. They are guided around the accelerator ring by a strong magnetic field maintained by superconducting electromagnets. The electromagnets are built from coils of special electric cable that operates in a superconducting state, efficiently conducting electricity without resistance or loss of energy. This requires chilling the magnets to ‑271.3°C – a temperature colder than outer space. For this reason, much of the accelerator is connected to a distribution system of liquid helium, which cools the magnets...

Thousands of magnets of different varieties and sizes are used to direct the beams around the accelerator. These include 1232 dipole magnets 15 metres in length which bend the beams, and 392 quadrupole magnets, each 5–7 metres long, which focus the beams. Just prior to collision, another type of magnet is used to "squeeze" the particles closer together to increase the chances of collisions. The particles are so tiny that the task of making them collide is akin to firing two needles 10 kilometres apart with such precision that they meet halfway.

All the controls for the accelerator, its services and technical infrastructure are housed under one roof at the CERN Control Centre. From here, the beams inside the LHC are made to collide at four locations around the accelerator ring, corresponding to the positions of four particle detectors – ATLAS, CMS, ALICE and LHCb."

In Switzerland, since at least 2009, it has been reported that the Large Hadron Collider is being used to experiment in opening inter-dimensional windows, be they time or space portals, to see what is there, what may or may not come through.

 http://www.theregister.co.uk/2009/11/06/lhc_dimensional_portals/

Then in December 2015, in Geneva Switzerland, a tourist noted one of the daytime sky reactions while the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) was running in operation.

7 months later, in June 2016, an even stronger night time experiment was conducted, an a more ominous result was achieved.

http://www.wnd.com/2016/07/on-video-see-portal-created-by-hadron-collider/#!

  https://freedomfightertimes.com/end-times/science/cern/cern-portal-end-times-large-hadron-collider-clouds/

In ancient history, there were at least 5 major magnetic polarity shifts in regards to planet Earth, and temporary states of anarchy which disrupted the whole planet.   The worst being the Noachian Flood of 2348 B.C.  This was followed in distant severity in 1961 B.C. with the destruction of Sodom and the creation of the Dead Sea depression; then again in  1551 B.C. and 1511 B.C. coinciding with the Hebrew Exodus,  and finally again in 30 AD.  with the crucifixion of Jesus Christ.  

30 A.D. would be the event of the Cross, where a full moon of blood red light under a clear sky of withdrawn stars and a black sun was observed from noon to 3pm when Jesus hung upon the Cross.

Psalm 81

⁷ Thou calledst in trouble, and I delivered thee; I answered thee in the secret place of thunder….

It appears that according to prophecy, there will by necessity be another and even more power Hadron Collider built in Israel in the coming years, because without being at a portal point, such as the lost location of Jacob's ladder (genesis 28:10-19), the inter-dimensional portal will not achieve the Globalist mad scientists aim...to invade Heaven itself.  


 Prophecy indeed tells us hat eventually, an  inter-dimensional “window on high” opens up (Isaiah 24:18)  but that it will be directly above the southeast section of Megiddo, over part of the Valley of Jezreel.   The inter-dimensional window will be a portal -- like the concept of an inter-dimensional "worm hole" -- that warps instantaneously, the distance between Heaven and Earth. It will indeed likely be called at that time, "Jacob's portal" or "Jacob's ladder" or words to that effect.     And it will probably look like a more intense form of the June 2016 "Awake" night-time experiment at the LHC.  For that to happen, one of the requirements will be to initiate an invasion of Israel or a war in which a 7 year truce is signed that allows for Israel to rebuild its Temple.  In exchange, the main goal for the Globalists will likely be the building of an even more powerful collider in that southeast section of Megiddo in order to open up the portal of Heaven itself and invade it.  Part of the motivation will come because the Enochian Rapture might have by some kind of electronic observation identified that location at that unseen Rapture.  I doubt my writings will mean anything to them prior to those observations.  And since prophecy already makes it a known place and a known event openly, I believe it should be allowable to discuss the actual inter-dimensional portal location within 5,000 to 6,000 feet above the Earth in that location.  Other places of sensitivity Masons and others have already known exist, and errantly seek dominion in such locations in the hope of demonic spirit guides or at least word it to that effect.  

 The Scriptures describe the "in between" / "the inter-dimensional", as though a long winding path or road in the AWPR revealing of Greek of 1 Thessalonians 4:16.

There will eventually be a War of the Heavens (Revelation 12:7-9; Judges 5:19-22) on Day 1291 (cf. Daniel 12:11, 9:27) of the Tribulation Period as we enter into the Great Tribulation Period which will end 1335 days after that (Daniel 12:12).  But in regard to the war in the Heavens as we transition from the Tribulation into the Great Tribulation Period upon the Earth, there will be an inter-dimensional  invasion that will be signaled by Media broadcast of Anti-Christ at the Temple, marching into the Holy of Holies and declaring "Anochi Elohim", where he is then shot in the head, and Satan enters him and his deadly wound miraculously heals.   The invasion in which fallen angels are likely accompanying and assisting humans in an inter-dimensional  air / space war would be launched from nearby locations with perhaps many hundreds of modified fighters of more advanced capabilities than we can dare as yet imagine now, and will be fought primarily upon the roadway in the heavens that leads to Heaven, the tunnel roadway itself being as if a vacuum flowing like a rushing river torrent drawing to a distant outside this Universe location, and that roadway also perhaps like some kind of canyon path having unknown attributes which allow for landing and ambush?  

“Came Kings. They fought. 

Then the Kings in Canaan fought in Taanach [in the Valley of Jezreel],

by the water of Megiddo.

The unjust gain of silver, they took not. 

From the heavens, fought the stars: [the angelic hosts]

from their courses, they fought with Sisera.

The torrential river Kishon swept them away. 

That ancient torrential river, the torrential river Kishon.

Then from the galloping galloping of His mighty stallions

did the horses beat the hooves.

‘Curse Meroz’, said the Angel of YHVeH, ‘Bitterly curse its inhabitants, 

for they did not come to the Divine assistance and help of YHVeH, 

to the help of YHVeH (as to be) among the warriors and mighty men.’”

(Judges 5:18-23 -- translation mine)

It is my understanding that the Earth will have a nuclear war on Day 1290-1291 against the United States of America, and that its 48 state main portion will entirely collapse into the earth and the crust of the Earth will cease there.  Ocean waters will rush upon the lava mantle regions below and create a boiling effect that will rock the planet like pouring water into a hot deep oil fryer, and along with a failed nuclear weapons strike against an asteroid to divert it that will crash in the Mediterranean Sea and be over a quarter mile in diameter, as stated in Isaiah 24:1, the Earth will indeed be more than just "bent, twisted, distorted, and ruined", like the King James translation it appears it will possibly literally be turned upside down as well, by which Planet Earth could be flung so far off its axis that at one point the tip of South America will be where Greenland used to be, and perhaps for days or even weeks  North America will be representative of the South side of the planet.  In the end, however, I think Israel will probably end up on a rotating Earth above 40 to 50 degrees North Latitude once the Earth settles into its post-nuclear war rotation.  The lands which used to be the 48 states of the United States then will have seared shut and been covered by the oceans (Jeremiah 51:42), and the USA as Babylon of the Last Days will sink into oblivion fulfilling the scroll of the words of Jeremiah were bound to a stone and cast beneath the waters of the Euphrates river in Jeremiah  51:63-64.

We already know that every valley will be filled and every mountain (not just in Israel, but over the whole Earth) will be sifted low and every steep place will be leveled flat in Isaiah 40:4.  Yet, the question of how much the Earth shakes and reels to and fro like a hut when the windows on high are opened in that passage of Isaiah 24:16b-18 sees the Earth knocked exactly how far off its axis, and how much closer by hundreds of thousands of miles our annual revolution around the sun will be by comparison to what is now in 2016, will only come to those few who live to see it and have the presence of mind to calculate and know it, rather than just suffer in the heat from it. 

 The signs of the ends are miraculous signs, and apparently, like with the Awake experiment of the Large Hadron Collider, perhaps some of those miraculous signs man himself contributes to bringing about, thinking how great it is to create chaos (as if he can control chaos in Creation, but like grasping at the wind with his fingers, really cannot); and fails to realize it is already prophesied and associated as a sign of great coming destruction.  

Zephaniah 1  (KJV)

¹⁴ The great day of the Lord is near, it is near, and hasteth greatly, even the voice of the day of the Lord: the mighty man shall cry there bitterly.

¹⁵ That day is a day of wrath, a day of trouble and distress, a day of wasteness and desolation, a day of darkness and gloominess, a day of clouds and thick darkness,

¹⁶ A day of the trumpet and alarm against the fenced cities, and against the high towers.

¹⁷ And I will bring distress upon men, that they shall walk like blind men, because they have sinned against the Lord: and their blood shall be poured out as dust, and their flesh as the dung.

¹⁸ Neither their silver nor their gold shall be able to deliver them in the day of the Lord's wrath; but the whole land shall be devoured by the fire of his jealousy: for he shall make even a speedy riddance of all them that dwell in the land.

Fictional Story: Recollections of a Western Deputy (1871 -1897) - 1892 : Stage Dramatics And A Hotel Fire

Entry of  May 5, 1892

  March 3rd:  
        I reported on this day and hour as ordered to the newest Marshal, Jim Daggett, an old cuss lately retired out of the Texas Rangers as a sergeant there, who was called up by the Governor to fill a slot that (for whatever reason) would not be given me. Marshall Daggett said he heard the Governor say it was somethin' about me bein' too quick to gun down my would be killers dead, rather than trick shootin' them in the hand or arm or somethin'.  


     Eastern notions and pretend books are fine for pretendin', especially when actors and their prostitutes put on a play and badly act out a story, and don't take to bother what happens to anything or anyone else in the path of the bullet once you pull the trigger.  They act of some sort of foolishness as if the bullet stops in mid-flight and never kills or wounds or maims any and all that also might be in the path of that fast movin' hot lead weapon of war. 


  In the real world of gunfights and flyin' bullets, you put the man down fast. And preferably, in a place where you don't have the bullet keep moving through to kill or maim someone you never had a mind nor intent to, nor would in any way wish harm.  In the stage play put on last week by a travelin' troupe, the prostitute actress shot her manager off-stage and it went through him into a Deputy Sheriff in the left side above the waist, and he shot her and three other besides in a hail of 6 rapidly fired bullets in which his fellow deputy sheriff at the other side of the stage was shot near the heart and still let loose and shot all three remainin' stage actors as he was passin' out, staggerin' onto stage center, and dyin' in the dyin' scene.  If it wasn't for all the blood and the smell of the insides spillin' out, it would have been worth the price of 25 cents admission.  Since everyone was dead, I ordered the clerk who took the admissions to pay everybody their money back, but by the time the money was out seconds later, everyone had fled.  I collected mine and went home and gave it back to the wife, since she insisted on me goin' to see if it was decent for bringin' the children.  I told her the show died, and that I got my money back, and then I gave her 25 cent piece back to her.  When she asked what "The Show died" meant, I merely stated that "It's a local problem", meaning it's the Sheriff's problem, not mine, and left it at that.  When she put her hands on her hips, began tapping her right foot and glared with that look for not givin' her gossip, which she loves to hear and share with her relatives and friends and be FIRST,  I figured it was time to tend to the horses again rather than be anything other than a man gabbin' the gossip.  This book is different, it's biography and better outhouse readin' than any newspaper you might take with you, only you're not supposed to use the book the same way you use the newspaper...you keep the book.  


The local newspaper is only as good as what it is used for, and it's cheaper than medicinal paper at the general store...just some of the advertisements need to be avoided, especially when it uses too much ink.    It gives you the itches and the twitches, which ain't good when you are walkin' in a very public place, and parts of your body you never knew could twitch or move this way or that just reach up and surprise you.  I once walked into Fat Kate's to get a beer while the music was playin' a new tune I never heard, and I was announced as having the latest Confederate reconstituted dance direct from the bowels of New York City.  The applause and laughter was so loud and long, even though I uncontrollably jerked and kneed the bar twice and accidentally chicken winged another person's drink into someone else's face, I finished my two beers a month limit right quick and left.  So be careful to not use the ads when there is more ink than the plain part of the newspaper to it.  I had to sit on a pan of moonshine to kill the itch, and near two miles later I stopped runnin' from the pain, and felt like I was gettin' death tired.  At 48, I find that I am no longer a young man at more things than I ever realized would happen afore I was in my 60s or something.  


Gunfights are not much different than glimpses in time, moments of revertin' to what happens to a campaigner in war.  For me, it often is like goin' back in some way to step into another time, almost like I was back in the War for the Southern Confederacy, and know I am there and yet not there, but fightin' somewhars else. Sometimes, the gunfights are a bit overwhelmin', and emotions are pushed down as the mind and vision swirls about a bit.  The best I can describe it, is for those of us who have experienced a 6 pound fragmentary cannon balls impactin' near where you is at.  They bust up in a minimum of 50 parts, make a huge thunder and suck out the air which you instinctively have to blow out your own lungs right quick and count 8,  and you never knows exactly what they'se are about to blow apart or blow the wrong or right way or what.  They are acts of war, and the more bullets fly every which way, the greater the danger for women folk and children and good peaceable men in the way not bein' involved to be be crippled for life or killed by those bullets flyin'.  


Often it is not the noise, or the nuisance of smoke and cinders flyin' about blown by the wind, gettin' in your eyes and doin' tricks with your vision while tryin' to see who is tryin' to kill you that is the problem I have...sometimes it's the smell that comes back with a memory that may really get my attention where the world that is, that just stops, and it is like I see only what once was, where moments in time of minutes to hours can be compressed into just a matter of seconds, with secondary effects that can last for hours if I have a mind to let it.  The smell of thousands of battlefield dead that I was detailed by General Lee himself to help bury.  Pick one up and he breaks in half, or a limb pulls right off and he is alive after all and screamin' in pain,  the smell more than the event, when you smell that a second time and aren't ready or alert for it, THAT can really hit and make you lose focus as to where you are and what is happenin' around you, and can get you and others killed if at a time when every second counts.  This never used to be a problem, but of late, it has been, starting with the case of an Army officer who came to testify and was burned beyond identification.  That smell brought about a host of unpleasant memories of the late great war for the Southern Confederacy, things I had long forgotten, and wish to forever forget when I do so again.  That smell cost me 3 bullets through my clothes afore the murderer ran up to get a closer shot and I let loose with 4 to his sternum, as the doc calls the target center of the chest, and one up his nose as he fell back and it goin' out the back top of his head with pieces of his brain...which smell also wanted to again make me dream with my eyes wide open, but which I would not let do so.  


So unlike like any time in the past when I might have tried to spare a life here or thar', if they are tryin' to kill me and I see 'em, and if I don't know them, and reachin' for or raisin' a gun they ain't defendin' life or property, I drop 'em faster than that unbelievably really fat woman I and two others stuck up on the third floor of Flander's Hotel fell from the third story to the 6 foot deep mud pit in the ground under her hotel window.  Trapped by fire on the stairs from goin' back down, me and her father and her uncle Zeke (the Feed Store Owner) could barely even shove her blubbery stinkin' flesh through a third story double-wide window while savin' her while the rest of her hotel was on fire.   


There we was, pullin' at her as she lay naked in bed, intendin' suicide because she is so fat that she puts a circus baby elephant to shame , and the whole means of escape after near 8 minutes of strugglin' to pull her through the door way and down the stairs by her filthy heels, failed.  Fortunately, we was able to use a couple hatpins off her dresser into her sittin' place, and this upset her enough to get her up as far as the window, naked as the day she was born, and no ladder for us.  We already knew where she was goin', and how we was goin' to get her there. 


  Our new Fire Company loaned their one and only ladder out to a family member out in Butlersville, and we was stuck, smoke chokin' and chunnelin' through black and hot and thick so that we could no longer see one another, even though we was by that time almost nose to nose, and the floor was almost fryin' pan hot!  


  I shoved my face under her armpit, tryin' to get my nose outside for even just a single clean breath of air and got a sharp repulsion as if I just took horseradish up my nose.  With what breath I had left, I staggered back about 8 paces to her doorway, and guessed where she was and did a runnin' tackle.  She went straight down and descended like a shooting star, landed back first in a 5 foot deep mud hole, and her 700 pound plus frame  instantaneously emptied all the water and mud onto over 80 or more of the townsfolk who came to watch or help.  Meanwhile, I too went out the window and because I was able to walk two steps off her back and keep goin', from the third story window I landed more than 18 feet from the building onto the backs of the two horses of the fire wagon, folded in half and landed between them as they bolted and ran the wagon over me, rollin' me several times in the muddy street and draggin' me down it about 65 feet or more, leavin' me unconscious and bed-ridden for days after with lots of bruises, a concussion, but nothin' busted.  The out-pouring of compassion by the town toward me and my family was like nothin' I have ever seen.  Even those few who were not partial to religion paid respects, and politely and quietly joined in prayer.  I guess it must have really been a bad fall and what looked to really be a maulin', even in spite of the deep mud perhaps bein' the big difference that allowed me to be spared from what otherwise would have been,  but I have no recollection.  The doc did cut and drain my head, as it also swoll up so much, he could press his fingers between the plates of bone in the top of my head and feel my brain through the skin, he said.  I would be restricted to a soup then stew diet for the next few weeks, and be confined to walkin' in the house and to the outhouse, get what sunshine I could, and no liftin'.



I found out from copies given me of the town newspaper that two cowboys lassoed blubber woman by her legs and used their horses to drag her to safety up and out of the 6 foot deep mud hole at the side of the burning hotel that was in fact, her father's.  Several years before, I saw her once, she was 6' 2' and then perhaps 190 pounds.  I never knew who or what she was, and in fact, up until that day, she was not known outside her family to even have existed.  What's more, for months, because of her weight gain and hidin' like a hermit,  there was all the creaking that came from the third floor where it was always insisted by the hotel that no one was, because they would only rent the first and second floor and had a locked door on the stairwell to the third.  Even when there was no wind blowing outside,  because of the creaking which could even be heard outside to passersby, with sometimes lights and shadows playin' on one of the supposed to be unoccupied  top floor windows, the hotel was thought to be haunted.  


 The two 16 year old cowboys, who lassoed her naked muddy side show figure, loudly stated at the time in amazement that they didn't see her fall at first, and were sure disappointed that she wasn't a hog when they realized what she was.
One of them then threw a rope up to the window where the woman's father and uncle was, and they scurried down right quick before it was too late, havin' smoke pains and small burns all about.  By seein' the young fat woman,  the town finally got over their spooks about the hotel.   Seeing how incredibly huge she is, so many of the townsfolk realized that it was amazing that all those creaks from the top floor was now something having nothing to do with ghosts, and were amazed that with her obesity she never broke and fell through any of the floors.  



 The new County Sheriff Office just established last month and headquartered in town placed the father under arrest for cruelty.  Some folks obsessed and demanded answers of how could her father afford to feed her? The answer was that her father and his wife, her step-mother who hated her existence,  apparently recooked the scraps and unused portions his guests never wanted, and she apparently ate it all.  


I noticed as I was strugglin' to remove her bloated form from her bed by the ankles, that she used very thick and what must have been 5 gallon ceramic pots as her potty, which the normal members of her would obviously rotate out, dump, and clean and return as needed.  Both her father and step-mother were tried and convicted and are now awaitin' transport to their respective prisons: 3 years for the father (2 removed for tryin' to save her), and 5 years for the step-mother.  The children were awarded custody to their Uncle Zeke until age 21.  




The wife -- mine -- has also gone back to wearing  a two revolver quick draw gun belt and hides a .41 revolver concealed elsewhere on her.  She has even created town scandal by wearin' pants when she goes ridin' and trick rides like a Rodeo Champion. This one is worse than when she went barefoot to town once, and two score or more of the women folk wanted to see us run out of town because they could see the wife's legs some 3 or 4 inches above her ankles.  Anyone that ever bothers to look at any of their bedroom windows gets an eyeful of a whole bunch more than that, and not a one of them is worth a look other than immediately after telling a scary story about witches and then sneakily point them out without most of their clothes on, sometimes involved in mating activity with no shades or curtains as if their own exhibitions.  Jealous, just jealous.  My wife with muddy feet is more attractive at her feet and ankles than they are over their whole bodies with a free side peep show with no admission price to any neighbor just walking or ridin' by just happenstance gazing that direction.  These ugly body women are one sure way to scare a person to just always look down at the road.  Their ugly features unintentionally seen gave me more nightmares than any dozen things I could name about havin' seen or been through in the great war for the Confederacy.  If we ever have another war, just send these body ugly women naked before an enemy army, and they'll either flee or beg for terms instead of inhuman suffering to see THAT.  No wonder their husbands are mostly drunks who never seem to be able to forgive themselves.       


   The wife's gun draw and accuracy now always rivals mine at everything and every  kind of gun we can shoot with at near every distance, and sometimes she seems a mite faster on the draw.  I pity any professional gunslinger that ever dares to face her down, his name will never get over the shame of being bested by a woman.  With me, whenever the wife bests me at anything it don't count, as ever since we got married and  we was pronounced as two being now as one flesh,  she has always been my better half anyway.  And shades of General Robert E. Lee if she don't daily sweetly keep remindin' me of her bein' my better half,  as well.   For her age, she still looks young, and she tells me, that even though I ain't gray like fellas my age usually are, it's more than just my face that could always use improvement...whatever that means.  Must be a Dutch or Danish idiom I missed somewhars. 


Deputy B.  

Guest Blog: Hillsdale College Guest: Charles Leerhsen - "Who Was Ty Cobb? The History We Know That’s Wrong"

Ty Cobb :  Baseball's First Hero

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Ty_Cobb.jpg

Detroit Tigers (1905–1926), 
Philadelphia Athletics (1927–1928)
See also:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ty_Cobb


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Who Was Ty Cobb? 

The History We Know That’s Wrong

 “Reprinted by permission from Imprimis,

    a publication of Hillsdale College.”

March 2016 • Volume 45, Number 3 • Charles Leerhsen

Charles Leerhsen
Author, Ty Cobb: A Terrible Beauty

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Charles Leerhsen is a journalist, author, and adjunct professor at the City University of New York’s Graduate School of Journalism. He has been an editor for Sports Illustrated, People, and Us Weekly, and spent eleven years as a senior writer at Newsweek. He has also written for Esquire, Rolling Stone, The New York Times Magazine, Smithsonian, and Money. He is the author of several books, including Crazy Good: The True Story of Dan Patch, the Most Famous Horse in America and, most recently, Ty Cobb: A Terrible Beauty, which won the 2015 Casey Award for best baseball book of the year.

Ty Cobb was one of the greatest baseball players of all time and king of the so-called Deadball Era. He played in the major leagues—mostly for the Detroit Tigers but a bit for the Philadelphia Athletics—from 1905 to 1928, and was the first player ever voted into the Hall of Fame. His lifetime batting average of .366 is amazing, and has never been equaled. But for all that, most Americans think of him first as an awful person—a racist and a low-down cheat who thought nothing of injuring his fellow players just to gain another base or score a run. Indeed, many think of him as a murderer. Ron Shelton, the director of the 1995 movie Cobb, starring Tommy Lee Jones in the title role, told me it was “well known” that Cobb had killed “as many as” three people.

It is easy to understand why this is the prevailing view. People have been told that Cobb was a bad man over and over, all of their lives. The repetition felt like evidence. It started soon after Cobb’s death in 1961, with the publication of an article by a man named Al Stump, one of several articles and books he would write about Cobb. Among other things, Stump claimed that when children wrote to Cobb asking for an autographed picture, he steamed the stamps off the return envelopes and never wrote back. In another book—this one about Cobb’s contemporary Tris Speaker—baseball historian Timothy Gay wrote (implausibly, if you think about it) that Cobb would pistol-whip any black person he saw on the sidewalk. And then there were the stories about how Cobb sharpened his spikes: before every game, numerous sources claim, he would hone his cleats with a file. In the 1989 film Field of Dreams, Shoeless Joe Jackson says that Cobb wasn’t invited to the ghostly cornfield reunion of old-time ballplayers because “No one liked that son of a bitch.” The line always gets a knowing laugh.

When I pitched my idea for a book on Cobb to Simon and Schuster, I was squarely in line with this way of thinking. I figured my task would be relatively easy. I would go back to the original source material—the newspaper accounts, documents, and letters that previous biographers had never really looked at. I would find fresh examples of Cobb being monstrous, blend them with the stories that Al Stump and others wrote, and come up with the first major Cobb book in more than 20 years. But when I started in on the nuts-and-bolts research with original sources—the kind of shoe-leather reporting I had learned working at Newsweek in its heyday—it didn’t even take me ten minutes to find something that brought me up short.

Cobb being from Georgia—he grew up and is buried in Royston, a town in Georgia’s northern hills—I had begun by searching old issues of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. I quickly came across a curious article written in late 1911, after the baseball season had ended, when Cobb was touring in a three-act comedy called The College Widow. (In those days, ballplayers were tied to their teams by the reserve clause and couldn’t sell their services for their true market value; to make extra money, they often capitalized on their fame by appearing in plays or vaudeville.) The writer of the article was recounting a backstage visit with Cobb, and described him as a man who very much wanted to please the audience. Cobb was also going out of his way to accommodate the interviewer (who was asking tedious questions) while simultaneously being hospitable to a second guest—a catcher he had played with in the minor leagues—who showed up in the small dressing room smoking a cigar. It was like the crowded stateroom scene in the Marx Brothers’ A Night at the Opera, and meanwhile the play was in progress, Cobb was trying to make costume changes, and the stage manager was barking at Cobb to be on his mark in 30 seconds.

What did this story say about Ty Cobb? On the one hand, he was just doing what any decent person would do—being as polite as possible under trying circumstances. But on the other, Cobb’s ordinary decency was exactly the point. For me, with this one story, the myth of the evil Ty Cobb began to crumble.

As I proceeded I found many more stories contradicting the myth. Was he widely hated? An old newspaper clipping reported that the Chicago White Sox gave Cobb an award—remarkably, a set of books; Cobb was known as a voracious reader of history—for being Chicago’s most popular visiting player. And it turns out that when the Detroit Tigers were in town, Ring Lardner, Chicago’s smartest and best sportswriter, bought cheap seats in the outfield so he could spend the game bantering with Cobb.

Did he steal stamps from children? Letters in museums and private collections make abundantly clear that Cobb responded to his young fans, sometimes with handwritten letters that ran to five pages. And he always told them he was honored by their autograph requests.

What about race? It is “common knowledge” that Cobb was “an avowed racist”—but when and where did he make such a vow and where is it recorded? A 1984 biography of Cobb, written by a college professor named Charles Alexander, is typical. It describes three people who fought with Cobb—a night watchman, a bellhop, and a butcher—as being black. Such evidence was enough for documentary filmmaker Ken Burns, whose made-for-PBS series Baseball described Cobb as an embarrassment to the game because of his racism and cast Cobb as the anti-Jackie Robinson.

But Burns, like so many others, was letting himself be misled by the oft-repeated myth. Looking into census reports, birth certificates, and contemporary newspaper accounts, I found that all three of the black fighters cited by Charles Alexander were in fact white. Yes, Cobb had also fought with two black men during his life, but those fights didn’t have racial overtones, and Cobb—who had an extremely thin skin—fought with many more white men. So how did such a distinguished author make such obvious mistakes? When I asked Alexander about this, he simply replied, “I went with the best information I had at the time.”

But what about Cobb’s 19th-century Southern roots? How could someone born in Georgia in 1886 not be a racist? What I found—and again, not because I am the Babe Ruth of researchers, but because I actually did some research—is that Ty Cobb was descended from a long line of abolitionists. His great-grandfather was a minister who preached against slavery and was run out of town for it. His grandfather refused to fight in the Confederate army because of the slavery issue. And his father was an educator and state senator who spoke up for his black constituents and is known to have once broken up a lynch mob.

Cobb himself was never asked about segregation until 1952, when the Texas League was integrating, and Sporting News asked him what he thought. “The Negro should be accepted wholeheartedly, and not grudgingly,” he said. “The Negro has the right to play professional baseball and whose [sic] to say he has not?” By that time he had attended many Negro league games, sometimes throwing out the first ball and often sitting in the dugout with the players. He is quoted as saying that Willie Mays was the only modern-day player he’d pay to see and that Roy Campanella was the ballplayer that reminded him most of himself.

Cobb was, like the rest of us, a highly imperfect human being. He was too quick to take offense and too intolerant of those who didn’t strive for excellence with the over-the-top zeal that he did. He did not suffer fools gladly, and he thought too many others fools. He was the first baseball celebrity, and he did not always handle well the responsibilities that came with that. And yes, he once went into the stands and repeatedly punched a man who had been heckling him for more than a year, and who turned out to have less than the full complement of fingers—hence the story of him attacking a handicapped fan. This is a mark against him. But was he a racist and an embarrassment to the game? Far from it.

Cobb’s mind-boggling statistics don’t tell half the story of the ballplayer he was. It is often not remembered, because there is very little motion picture footage of him, but Cobb was likely the most exciting player of all time. Yes, he got thousands of hits with his unusual split-hands grip, and that in itself was entertaining; but it was what happened after he got on base that set him apart. “Ty Cobb getting a walk is more exciting than Babe Ruth hitting a home run,” a sportswriter once said.

When Cobb made it to first—which he did more often than anyone else; he had three seasons in which he batted over .400—the fun had just begun. He understood the rhythms of the game and he constantly fooled around with them, keeping everyone nervous and off balance. The sportswriters called it “psychological baseball.” His stated intention was to be a “mental hazard for the opposition,” and he did this by hopping around in the batter’s box—constantly changing his stance as the pitcher released the ball—and then, when he got on base, hopping around some more, chattering, making false starts, limping around and feigning injury, and running when it was least expected. He still holds the record for stealing home, doing so 54 times. He once stole second, third, and home on three consecutive pitches, and another time turned a tap back to the pitcher into an inside-the-park home run.

“The greatness of Ty Cobb was something that had to be seen,” George Sisler said, “and to see him was to remember him forever.” Cobb often admitted that he was not a natural, the way Shoeless Joe Jackson was; he worked hard to turn himself into a ballplayer. He had nine styles of slides in his repertoire: the hook, the fade-away, the straight-ahead, the short or swoop slide (“which I invented because of my small ankles”), the head-first, the Chicago slide (referred to by him but never explained), the first-base slide, the home-plate slide, and the cuttle-fish slide—so named because he purposely sprayed dirt with his spikes the way squid-like creatures squirt ink. Coming in, he would watch the infielder’s eyes to determine which slide to employ.

What of the stories about him sharpening his spikes and injuring opposing players? Cobb believed strongly that the runner had the right of way in what he called “my little patch,” in front of the bag. The opposing players who were asked to comment on him respected his ability and consistency, and agreed with his “little patch” theory. “It was no fun putting the ball on Cobb when he came slashing into the plate,” said Wally Schang, who caught for almost every American League Club. “But he never cut me up. He was too pretty a slider to hurt anyone who put the ball on him right.” Infielder Germany Schaefer, a teammate of Cobb, called him “a game square fellow who never cut a man with his spikes intentionally in his life, and anyone who gets by with his spikes knows it.” And if Cobb could dish out the punishment, he could also take it. Catcher Steve O’Neill of the Cleveland Naps once favored Cobb with the greatest compliment a catcher can give: “He came home on a base hit and I was blocking the plate. I got him in the kidneys and knocked him out. When he came to he didn’t say a word. He just got up and limped out to his position.”

There is a famous photograph that is often used to indict Cobb. It shows Cobb and St. Louis Browns catcher Paul Krichell in 1912. Cobb appears to be flying foot-first into Krichell’s crotch while the catcher squints in pained anticipation. But there is a 1950s interview with Krichell, then a scout for the Yankees, and by his own testimony, Cobb was aiming his foot at the ball in Krichell’s glove, and succeeded in knocking it to the backstop. Here is Krichell’s account: “The ball hit the grandstand on the fly. I was mad and stunned. Cobb was mad and shaken. In a way it was really my fault. I was standing in front of the plate, instead of on the side, where I could tag Ty as he slid in. But out of that mix-up I learned one thing: never stand directly in front of the plate when Cobb was roaring for home.”

To the extent that the myth of Ty Cobb is connected to his aggressive style of play, it has seeds in his playing career. People in those days were fascinated by spikes—an adult fan in the early days of baseball had almost certainly not played the game, and thought of spikes as exotic. The legend of “the man who sharpened his spikes” had been around since at least the 1880s, and had been attributed to many, including John McGraw. And some sportswriters—understanding that sports is less about scores than about storylines, and that without antagonists stories fall flat—were willing to fan the flame and depict the aggressive, unpredictable Cobb as a dirty player. Many of the quotes I found from opposing players defending Cobb’s style were in response to charges that he was a spiker. To a man, they said he wasn’t. And in 1910, Cobb wrote to the American League president asking that players be forced to dulltheir spikes so that he might be free of the dirty-player charge.

In that sense Cobb was always controversial. But how did he come to be portrayed as a monster? After he retired in 1928, he stayed out of Major League Baseball, and the game changed to a slugger’s sport. It became the game of Ted Williams, Joe DiMaggio, and Mickey Mantle, and Cobb faded from memory. By the late 1950s, when Cobb went on the TV quiz show I’ve Got a Secret, the panelists not only didn’t guess his “secret”—“I have the highest batting average of all time”—they couldn’t identify him by sight. Cobb didn’t like that, and he disliked even more being remembered as a dirty player. As he grew older and less healthy he became obsessed with setting the record straight, and he started to shop around an autobiography. Doubleday & Co. agreed to publish it and assigned a ghostwriter, Cobb being too ill to write it himself. For this job they picked a man who was known for quantity over quality, a hard-drinking hack newspaperman named Al Stump.

Stump, who had never met Cobb, spent only a few days with him before setting off to write. For several months he refused to show Cobb the work in progress, and when Cobb finally prevailed upon the publisher to give him a look, he was angry. Stump was filling in the gaps by making up stories out of whole cloth, and Cobb’s voice in the book sounded suspiciously like Stump’s own. Cobb wrote letters threatening a lawsuit if the book wasn’t cancelled or rewritten. But he died soon thereafter, and the book—entitled My Life in Baseball: The True Record—came out a few months later.

Stump also struck a deal with a sensationalist barber shop magazine called, ironically, True. For $4,000, a tidy sum in 1961, he would write a seamy tell-all about what it was like to live and work with Cobb in his final days. Stump had negotiated the fee by pitching the tale of a wild man drinking to excess and driving around the Lake Tahoe area waving a gun at (unnamed) people, cursing at (unnamed) emergency room doctors, flinging drinks at (unnamed) bartenders, and waking up an (unnamed) bank president in the middle of the night—in person, with a gun—to stop a $5 check. All the women in Cobb’s family feared him, Stump wrote, again without naming names. Furthermore, he may have killed some unnamed person, though he was never prosecuted and the story never made the newspapers. Everyone in baseball had hated him, Stump claimed, adding meanly and dishonestly that only three people went to Cobb’s funeral.

It didn’t matter that sportswriters rushed to Cobb’s defense, saying they had visited his homes in Tahoe and Georgia during this same period—had spent more time with him than Stump, in fact—and never witnessed such behavior. It didn’t matter that all of Stump’s sources were anonymous, all his quotes unidentified, and that Stump himself had been banned from several newspapers and magazines for making things up. It didn’t matter that Cobb’s family had put out the word that his funeral was a private service, or that four of his closest friends in baseball did attend, or that thousands of people packed the church and lined the way to the cemetery. Despite all this, people thrilled to the story of the monstrous Cobb. And the story got a lot of attention because no one had ever written anything like this before about a major sports figure.

The next big development came in 1984, when Charles Alexander published his book. The word “racist”—non-existent in Cobb’s time—was by then very much a part of the lexicon, and people were eager to make assumptions about a Southern white man. A decade later, director Ron Shelton bought the screen rights to Stump’s True magazine article and urged Stump, still alive, to write yet another book—a biography this time—that would serve to promote the movie. This 1994 book, also entitled Cobb, was a huge bestseller and was excerpted in Sports Illustrated. Then came Ken Burns’ Baseball documentary, which parroted Stump and Alexander. And the myth grew further with the rise of the Internet—search for “Ty Cobb” on Twitter and see what you find.

I knew going into this project—having been at one time an editor at People magazine—that human beings take delight in the fact that the rich and famous are often worse and more miserable than they are. What I didn’t understand before was the power of repetition to bend the truth. In Ty Cobb’s case, the repetition has not only destroyed a man’s reputation, it has obliterated a real story that is more interesting than the myth. Is it too late to turn things around? John the Evangelist said, “The truth will set you free.” But against that there is the Stockholm syndrome, whereby hostages cling avidly to what holds them in bondage.

I guess it’s me versus Al Stump. Who knows who will win? What I know for certain is that the greatness of Ty Cobb was something that had to be seen, and to see it was to remember it forever.

 “Reprinted by permission from Imprimis, a publication of Hillsdale College.”