Prophecies of MU: The Split

MU predicts:

Ivanka files for divorce and Jared books.

Investigation discovers conspiracy between Trump and Russia to commit voter fraud in the battleground states, assuring Trump’s victory.

Trump and Pence are impeached. Paul Ryan, per the Constitution, is now president.

The Supreme Court invalidates the 2016 election. It calls for a new election. The parties have 30 days to choose their candidates. They have 60 days to campaign. The victors will serve until 2020.

Trump is exposed as a reptile.

Is she or he the one? What career should you follow? Call Mad Mark’s Discount Psychic line: 555-666-999.


Beaten, Battered and Burned: the Early Life of Charles Manson

I googled Charles Manson.

He qualifies as a good subject for a curiosity jag. It won’t last forever, believe me.

Charles Nathan Bedford Forrest Manson was born in Cincinnati in 1918 to Kathleen Maddox, a filthy wench with an embarrassing skin condition. Call her a slut and a drunk. She claimed the boy’s father was a black man. Manson vehemently denied this allegation, kicking, cursing, spitting and making a damn fool of himself, if you ask me.

“You weren’t there yet so how would you know?” Charles pondered this question incessantly.

This was Manson’s introduction to philosophy.

He lived with an aunt and uncle in McMechen, W.Va. from 1939-1942 while his mother was in prison. Now call her a slut, a drunk, and a felon with bad skin.

Kathleen Maddox put out cigarettes on her son’s body and pour boiling water over his head. She kicked his butt hard at least once a day. Finally, the county sent a social worker over to look in on the boy. When she arrived, the mother held the boy down while the social worker dug grooves into his scalp with a pocket knife.

Call her a slut, a drunk, a felon, a leper.

Once Kathleen Maddox sold little Charlie to a pervert for a pitcher of beer. The pervert was never the same afterward. Another life ruined by the goddamn brat.

In 1973, Kathleen Maddox died and went to hell.

Come back for more on Charlie!

FBI Instructions For Handling Forensic Shit

You’re wrapping up a long, cold night of collecting vital evidence, and what do you know, you almost step on a sample of humankind’s most abundant product: a rude, warm, steamy pile of homo sapien squeeze.

You called it poop when you were a kid, but whatever you call it, it’s been following you around ever since: weighing on you, demanding your undivided attention at times, making those silly, vulgar, hateful noises.  Now it has invaded your worklife. What should you do?  My God, you found a turd fouling your beautiful crime scene!

Give up. You heard me. Leave! Pack up your little kit, find the agent in charge, and tell him no, this too much, I’m going home, get out of my way, this is not who I am, no, no, no!

Is it too late for me to become a priest?

Calm down. Tomorrow is your day off, you got over 30 hours of uninterupted drinking ahead of you. Focus on that.

So. Easy. One step at a time.

Before touching the specimem, put on a pair of latex glove. Shit happens to pick up fingerprints well, that is, if the criminal didn’t think to wipe it down first.

Carefully weigh the nasty thing, time stamp it, and assign it a 0 to 9 score. Drop it carefully in a plastic bag, resist the urge to squeeze it and don’t throw it at anybody.

Flee! Your mind is a filthy cloud, but you must find your car.  If you hitched a ride from somebody at the office, steal another car and go home.  You got four fifths of vodka waiting.  As you are driving, look at yourself in the rear view.  That flea hopping off the end of your nose – is this the last of your dignity?