More than three months ago, I wrote an article about the enemy’s plan to draw me to the local polo club, which they sought to combine with the cabin, within walking distance of the fields, that my reefer-smoking friend owns.
My friend was hired by my mother to do one day of work on our property more than three months ago.
Now, suddenly, tomorrow, he has found the time to do his little job.
And, on that very day, at the polo grounds next to his cabin, to which British Military Intelligence, GCHQ, and the Masons sought to draw me, they are holding the match of the year between the U.S. Team and the British Expeditionary Forces.
There has never been a match like this in our neighborhood, although we have had polo every summer weekend, for more than thirty years, during which time, I have gone to exactly one game, which was enjoyable, but then the enemy used mind control to keep me away.
Now they mind control their little English slaves, to travel to my backyard, to play their sport, and they think they can suddenly turn me toward the grounds from which they successfully kept me for more than thirty years, where I am sure to run into former girlfriends whom they will use to cause trouble.
I wrote more than three months ago how British Intelligence was trying to force me to the polo grounds and my friend’s ganja-filled cabin, which lie within walking distance of each other.
Now, suddenly, my friend is coming over to my house, so I will have to deal with him—or I can go to the polo grounds to escape.
And another friend, who has not telephoned this house for twenty years, while he is celebrated in my latest book, suddenly calls, so I will have someone to go with.
What a predictable set-up!
And the British Expeditionary Forces presented themselves for a meet-and-greet at my old watering hole, which lies within walking distance, a place the deep state burned down, as they tried to force me farther afield, and failed, but now they think they can revive each of the three staging grounds they purposely destroyed.
They rebuilt the place, but I will never go since the enemy has caused me to lose all interest in the only bar I ever went to, while the fools destroy their own weapons, claiming they harm me.
And I find myself suddenly listening to Cream, remembering the polo-player, Ginger Baker, and imagining myself riding and swinging a mallet.
And my first book describes a contest between American and British polo players, inspired by my time at Andover.
There I describe the rudeness, stupidity, and criminality of visiting polo teams from England, including Lord Mountbatten, who buggered his nephew, or was it his son: King Charles.
And there I also remember my old school pal: Graydon Brittan.
He plays for several teams in California.
And I remember whacking balls with him.
I telephoned his polo club, last year, after decades of silence, and he returned my call that night, when I published my first two books.
But they will never lead me to renew a friendship, with this lovely man, whom they seek to use.
Leaving that aside, do you think any of this is coincidence?
They are using mind control as they work to set up arranged meetings.
It’s Groundhog Day, all over again, where their tired plots fail—something you can read about in the first chapter of my third book.
I sent an earlier version of the chapter to Sir Richard Moore, the Chief of MI-6, and Sir Alex Younger, its former chief, offering him a signed book; but, since the Etonian is no gentleman, the coward never responded.
It’s just like the Norman idiots they sent to the sauna this week, while the ethnic losers think that I will root for the home team in some kind of version of their corporate pro-sports.
Meanwhile, they think they can drive me to one of the two coffee shops in the local satanic town, which they also destroyed, by making one simply unpleasant while they caused me to vocally boycott the other.
That’s where the British, with the Hessians, gathered, under the Sign of the Unicorn, before the largest battle of the Revolutionary War was fought right here—on September 11, 1777.
Meanwhile, the Genesis Building has a time capsule, marked with a stone, buried on September 11, 1998—three years before the attacks that inspired their War on Terror.
Does that sound like a coincidence?
I will not hang out with the reefer-smoker, and I will not go to the polo fields, and I will not go to the bar, and I will not go to the coffee shop, and I will not be driven from my house.
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