of my original-work code-pattern
Event Date variable: 04/22/2025
https://www.politico.com/news/2025/04/11/state-report-anti-christian-bias-033535
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ruhollah_Khomeini
by me, Kerry Wayne Burgess, year 2025
Squint harder your closed eyes, you dim-wits!
Your Divine Monkey-God will not read the thoughts in your moronic mind unless you squint closed reaaaallll hard your eyes!
And do not forget: Your Jesus Christ is always watching you sit on the toilet, just like He watches Mike Pence, and tinkle your urine!
You all believe Jesus Christ is going to judge you when you become a Ghost and flap your wings up to the clouds AND He always has to watch you *every single moment* of your ridiculous life!
Morons.
Stargate SG-1
9.11 "The Fourth Horseman Part 2"
(from internet transcript)
ORLIN
Your entire life was an open book to me the moment you set foot in this galaxy. I was once…ascended, but I took this…form, because it was the only way to warn…the humans about the Ori. Since I made that decision, I've paid a heavy price in terms of the effect it's had on my mind. The memories I've…lost.
PRIOR
"Life and death. Light and darkness. Hope and despair. The rift was created, and on that day, the Ori were born."
ORLIN
But every so often, something will…stir in me. And if I push myself hard enough, I'll remember, one more time, before it leaves me forever. Your name, Damaris. Your wife, Adina. Your…sons, Jaden and Allon.
PRIOR
(desperately)
"But the hatred of those who strayed from the true path festered and bloomed in the dark corners of the Avernakis to which they had been cast!"
ORLIN
And the fact that the…Ori have never…ascended any of their…followers.
PRIOR
And consumed by this hatred, they poisoned all they touched, bringing death, darkness and despair.
ORLIN
You know that as an Ancient, I wouldn't lie to you.
PRIOR
(with renewed confidence)
And the souls of their victims knew no peace, until the Ori came and whispered to them: 'sleep, for the end draws near'!"
by me, Kerry Burgess, Mon Jan 28 2019
There is no "soul" or whatever all the other religions desperately want you to believe. A sad lie invented by cavemen to help them cope with the real prospect of being eaten alive by sabre-tooth tigers or whatever was their personal dangers.
by me, Kerry Burgess, Jul 29, 2018
Monkey-humans brainwashed by monkey-humans in Sunday School. So cowardly terrified of mortality they delude themselves into thinking their idiotic ideas about their "soul" is real. All because they are too cowardly to accept mortality.
by me, Kerry Burgess: Nov 22, 2016 12:04 am
The two most ambitious *inventions* of Man over the past couple hundred thousand years are:
1. You fairy-tale hopes of "God"
2. The Wheel.
Both invented for the same reason: human weakness.
Weak bodies, weak minds.
From 5/17/1900 ( Ayatollah Khomeini ) To 4/25/2019 ( ) is 43442 days
43442 = 21721 + 21721
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 4/22/2025 ( ) is 21721 days
From 1/18/1991 ( premiere USA film "Flight of the Intruder" ) To 4/22/2025 ( ) is 12513 days
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 2/5/2000 ( premiere USA TV series "The Others" ) is 12513 days
https://www.politico.com/news/2025/04/11/state-report-anti-christian-bias-033535
Politico
State tells employees to report on one another for ‘anti-Christian bias’
“It’s very ‘Handmaid’s Tale’-esque,” one official said.
By Robbie Gramer and Nahal Toosi
04/11/2025 12:24 PM EDT
The Trump administration has ordered State Department employees to report on any instances of coworkers displaying “anti-Christian bias” as part of its effort to implement a sweeping new executive order on supporting employees of Christian faith [ superstition ] working in the federal government.
The department, according to a copy of an internal cable obtained by POLITICO, will work with an administration-wide task force to collect information “involving anti-religious bias during the last presidential administration” and will collect examples of anti-Christian bias through anonymous employee report forms.
The cable was sent out to embassies around the world under Secretary of State Marco Rubio’s name. The instructions also were released in a department-wide notice.
The document says the task force, which was established by the executive order, will meet around April 22 to discuss its initial findings.
The cable encourages State Department employees to report on one another through a tip form that can be anonymous. “Reports should be as detailed as possible, including names, dates, locations (e.g. post or domestic office where the incident occurred,” the cable reads.
Some State Department officials reacted to the cable with shock and alarm, saying that even if well-intentioned, it is based on the flawed premise that the department harbors anti-Christian bias to begin with, and warning it could create a culture of fear as the administration pushes employees to report on one another.
“It’s very ‘Handmaid’s Tale'-esque,” said one State Department official, who was granted anonymity because the individual was not allowed to speak openly about internal department affairs.
The department instructions say that examples of anti-Christian bias will be collected to meet the requirements of the executive order but that the department also will collect examples of anti-religious bias of all forms for its internal purposes.
“Although the E.O. focuses on anti-Christian bias, targeting anyone for their religious beliefs is discriminatory and is contrary to the Constitution” and various federal laws, the notice states.
A State Department spokesperson did not immediately respond to a request for comment.
The executive order Trump issued in February tasks all federal agencies to root out “anti-Christian bias” from the government.
The Interfaith Alliance, a left-leaning NGO on religious freedom, condemned the executive order at the time, arguing that “this effort may appear to address certain forms of stigma against Christians, particularly against Catholics. In reality, it will weaponize a narrow understanding of religious freedom to legitimize discrimination against marginalized groups like the LGBTQ community.” [sic] [corrected: Homosexual Community]
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Others_(TV_series)
From 6/29/1961 ( the USA satellites Injun 1 and the nuclear-powered Transit 4A launched into Earth-orbit with the rocket's upper-stage unexpectedly exploding into fragments ) To 12/17/2020 ( premiere CBS adaption of Stephen King's "The Stand" ) is 21721 days
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 4/22/2025 ( ) is 21721 days
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
excerpts, Chapter 62
Her mind turned back to the Judge. Who would have figured that? In its own way, it was a damned brilliant idea. Who would have suspected an old man? Well, Flagg had, it seemed. Somehow he had known when and approximately where. A picket line had been set up all the way along the Idaho-Oregon border, with orders to kill him.
But the job had been botched somehow. Since suppertime last night, the upper echelon here in Las Vegas had been walking around with pasty faces and downcast eyes. Whitney Horgan, who was one damned fine cook, had served something that looked like dog food and was too burned to taste like much of anything. The Judge was dead, but something had gone wrong.
She got up and walked to the window and looked out over the desert. She saw two big Las Vegas High School buses trundling west on US 95 in the hot sunshine, headed out toward the Indian Springs airbase, where, she knew, a daily seminar in the art and craft of jet planes went on. There were over a dozen people in the West who knew how to fly, but by great good luck—for the Free Zone—none of them were checked out for the National Guard jets at Indian Springs.
But they were learning. Oh my, yes.
What was most important for her right now about the Judge’s demise was that they had known when they had no business knowing. Was there a spy of their own back in the Free Zone? That was possible, she supposed; spying was a game two could play at. But Sue Stern had told her that the decision to send spies into the West had been strictly a committee thing, and she doubted very much if any of those seven were in the Flagg bag. Mother Abagail would have known if one of the committee had turned rotten, for one thing. Dayna was sure of it.
That left a very unappetizing alternative. Flagg himself had just known.
Dayna had been in Las Vegas eight days as of today, and as far as she could tell she was a fully accepted member of the community. She had already accumulated enough information about the operation over here to scare the living Jesus out of everyone back in Boulder. It would only take the news about the jet plane training program to do that. But the thing that frightened her the most personally was the way people turned away from you if you mentioned Flagg’s name, the way they pretended they hadn’t heard. Some of them would cross their fingers, or genuflect, or make the sign of the evil eye behind one cupped hand. He was the great There/Not-There.
That was by day. By night, if you would just sit quietly by in the Cub Bar of the Grand or the Silver Slipper Room at The Cashbox, you heard stories about him, the beginning of myth. They talked slowly, haltingly, not looking at each other, drinking bottles of beer mostly. If you drank something stronger, you might lose control of your mouth, and that was dangerous. She knew that not all of what they said was the truth, but it was already impossible to separate the gilt embroidery from the whole cloth. She had heard he was a shape-changer, a werewolf, that he had started the plague himself, that he was the Antichrist whose coming was foretold in Revelation. She heard about the crucifixion of Hector Drogan, how he had just known Heck was freebasing… the way he had just known that the Judge was on the way, apparently.
And he was never referred to as Flagg in these nightly discussions; it was as if they believed that to call him by name was to summon him like a djinn from a bottle. They called him the dark man. The Walkin Dude. The tall man. And Ratty Erwins called him Old Creeping Judas.
If he had known about the Judge, didn’t it stand to reason that he knew about her?
The shower turned off.
Keep it together, sweetie. He encourages the mumbo jumbo. It makes him look taller. It could be that he does have a spy in the Free Zone—it wouldn’t necessarily have to be someone on the committee, just someone who told him Judge Farris wasn’t the defector type.
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
excerpts, Chapter 62
He took a large drag on his cigarette and crushed it out. Then he slung an arm around her. “Why are we talkin about bad shit like that?”
“I don’t know… how’s it going out at Indian Springs?”
Lloyd brightened. The Indian Springs project was his baby. “Good. Real good. We’re going to have three guys checked out on the Skyhawk planes by the first of October, maybe sooner. Hank Rawson really looks great. And that Trashcan Man, he’s a fucking genius. About some things he’s not too bright, but when it comes to weapons, he’s incredible.”
She had met Trashcan Man twice. Both times she had felt a chill slip over her when his strange, muddy eyes happened to light upon her, and a palpable sense of relief when those eyes passed on. It was obvious that many of the others—Lloyd, Hank Rawson, Ronnie Sykes, the Rat-Man—saw him as a kind of mascot, a good luck charm. One of his arms was a horrid mass of freshly healed burn tissue, and she remembered something peculiar that had happened two nights ago. Hank Rawson had been talking. He put a cigarette in his mouth, struck a match, and finished what he was saying before lighting the cigarette and shaking out the match. Dayna saw the way that Trashcan Man’s eyes homed in on the match flame, the way his breathing seemed to stop. It was as if his whole being had focused on the tiny flame. It was like watching a starving man contemplate a nine-course dinner. Then Hank shook out the match and dropped the blackened stub into an ashtray. The moment had ended.
“He’s good with weapons?” she asked Lloyd.
“He’s great with them. The Skyhawks have under-wing missiles, air-to-ground. Shrikes. Weird how they name all that shit, isn’t it? No one could figure out how the goddam things went on the planes. No one could figure out how to arm them or safety-control them. Christ, it took us most of one day to figure out how to get them off the storage racks. So Hank says, ‘We better get Trashy out here when he gets back and see if he can figure it out.’”
“When he gets back?”
“Yeah, he’s a funny dude. He’s been in Vegas almost a week now, but he’ll be taking off again pretty quick.”
“Where does he go?”
“Into the desert. He takes a Land-Rover and just goes. He’s a strange guy, I tell you. In his way, Trash is almost as strange as the big guy himself. West of here there’s nothing but empty desert and godforsaken waste. I ought to know. I did time way up west in a hellhole called Brownsville Station. I don’t know how he lives out there, but he does. He looks for new toys, and he always comes back with a few. About a week after him and me got back from L.A., he brought back a pile of army machine guns with laser sights—never-miss machine guns, Hank calls them. This time it was Teller mines, contact mines, fragment mines, and a canister of Parathion. He said he found a whole stockpile of Parathion. Also enough defoliant to turn the whole state of Colorado bald as an egg.”
“Where does he find it?”
“Everywhere,” Lloyd said simply. “He sniffs it out, sweetbuns. It isn’t really so strange. Most of western Nevada and eastern California was owned by the good old U.S.A. It’s where they tested their toys, all the way up to A-bombs. He’ll be dragging one of those back someday.”
He laughed. Dayna felt cold, terribly cold.
“The superflu started somewhere out here. I’d lay money on it. Maybe Trash will find it. I tell you, he just sniffs that stuff out. The big guy says just give him his head and let him run, and so that’s what he does.
http://nssdc.gsfc.nasa.gov/nmc/spacecraftDisplay.do?id=1961-015B
NASA
Injun 1
NSSDC ID: 1961-015B
Launch Date: 1961-06-29
Launch Site: Cape Canaveral, United States
Funding Agencies
University of Iowa (United States)
Department of Defense-Department of the Navy (United States)
The satellite Injun 1 was the first of a series of spacecraft designed and built by the University of Iowa to study the natural and artificial trapped radiation belts, auroras and airglow, and other geophysical phenomena. Injun 1 was launched simultaneously with Transit 4A and Greb 3. Transit 4A successfully separated from Injun 1, but Greb 3 did not. Injun 1 was designed to be magnetically aligned. However, due to the presence of Greb 3 (which blocked the view of the photometer), it was impossible to keep the satellite constantly oriented on the terrestrial magnetic field throughout an orbit. A single axis fluxgate magnetometer was used to monitor the orientation of the spacecraft with respect to the local magnetic field. Injun 1 had a complex spin-and-tumble motion with an ill-defined and variable period of several minutes. The satellite sent back radiation data until March 6, 1963, and is expected to be in orbit for about 900 yr.
http://www.ne.doe.gov/space/neSpace2b.html
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF ENERGY
Space and Defense Power Systems
History
The U.S. Department of Energy (DOE) has provided radioisotope thermoelectric generators for space applications since 1961. These generators provide electrical power for spacecraft by direct conversion of the heat generated by the decay of plutonium-238 (Pu-238) oxide to electrical energy. The first generator was used on the Navy Transit 4A spacecraft launched on June 29, 1961.
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
excerpts, Chapter 5
Larry looked at Wayne with dawning horror. He did remember a small, wiry guy with a peculiar haircut, a whiffle cut they had called it ten or fifteen years ago, a small guy with a whiffle haircut and a T-shirt reading JESUS IS COMING & IS HE PISSED. This guy seemed to have good dope practically failing out of his asshole. He could even remember telling this guy, Dewey the Deck, to keep his hospitality bowls full and put it on his tab. But that had been… well, that had been days ago.
Wayne said, “You’re the best thing to happen to Dewey Deck in a long time, man.”
“How much is he into me for?”
“Not bad on pot. Pot’s cheap. Twelve hundred. Eight grand on coke.”
For a minute Larry thought he was going to puke. He goggled silently at Wayne. He tried to speak and he could only mouth: Ninety-two hundred?
“Inflation, man,” Wayne said. “You want the rest?”
Larry didn’t want the rest, but he nodded.
“There was a color TV upstairs. Someone ran a chair through it. I’d guess three hundred for repairs. The wood paneling downstairs has been gouged to hell. Four hundred. With luck. The picture window facing the beach got broken the day before yesterday. Three hundred. The shag rug in the living room is totally kaput—cigarette burns, beer, whiskey. Four hundred. I called the liquor store and they’re just as happy with their tab as the Deck is with his. Six hundred.”
“Six hundred for booze?” Larry whispered. Blue horror had encased him up to the neck.
“Be thankful most of them have been scoffing beer and wine. You’ve got a four-hundred-dollar tab down at the market, mostly for pizza, chips, tacos, all that good shit. But the worst is the noise. Pretty soon the cops are going to land. Les flics. Disturbing the peace. And you’ve got four or five heavies doing up on heroin. There’s three or four ounces of Mexican brown in the place.”
“Is that on my tab, too?” Larry asked hoarsely.
“No. The Deck doesn’t mess with heroin. That’s an Organization item and the Deck doesn’t like the idea of cement cowboy boots. But if the cops land, you can bet the bust will go on your tab.”
“But I didn’t know—”
“Just a babe in the woods, yeah.”
“But—”
“Your total tab for this little shindy so far comes to over twelve thousand dollars,” Wayne said. “You went out and picked that Z off the lot… how much did you put down?”
“Twenty-five,” Larry said numbly. He felt like crying.
“So what have you got until the next royalty check? Couple thousand?”
“That’s about right,” Larry said, unable to tell Wayne he had less than that: about eight hundred, split evenly between cash and checking.
“Larry, you listen to me because you’re not worth telling twice. There’s always a party waiting to happen. Out here the only two constants are the constant bullshitting and the constant party. They come running like dickey birds looking for bugs on a hippo’s back. Now they’re here. Pick them off your carcass and send them on their way.”
Larry thought of the dozens of people in the house. He knew maybe one person in three at this point. The thought of telling all those unknown people to leave made his throat want to close up. He would lose their good opinion. Opposing this thought came an image of Dewey Deck refilling the hospitality bowls, taking a notebook from his back pocket, and writing it all down at the bottom of his tab. Him and his whiffle haircut and his trendy T-shirt.
Wayne watched him calmly as he squirmed between these two pictures.
“Man, I’m gonna look like the asshole of the world,” Larry said finally, hating the weak and petulant words as they fell from his mouth.
“Yeah, they’ll call you a lot of names. They’ll say you’re going Hollywood. Getting a big head. Forgetting your old friends. Except none of them are your friends, Larry. Your friends saw what was happening three days ago and split the scene. It’s no fun to watch a friend who’s, like, pissed his pants and doesn’t even know it.”
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
excerpts, Chapter 16
“We’re throwin off pursuit, man,” Lloyd said. In his mind he saw police garage doors opening and thousands of 1940s radio cars issuing forth into the night. Spotlights crawling over brick walls. Come on out, Canarsie, we know you’re in there.
“Good fuckin luck,” Poke said, still sulking. “We’re doin a helluva job. You know what we got, besides that dope and the guns? We got sixteen bucks and three hundred fuckin credit cards we don’t dare use. What the fuck, we don’t even have enough cash to fill this hog’s gas tank.”
“God will provide,” Lloyd said, and spit-sealed the bomber. He lit it with the Connie’s dashboard lighter. “Happy fuckin days.”
“And if you want to sell it, what are we doing smokin it?” Poke went on, not much mollified by the thought of God providing.
“So we sell a few short ounces. Come on, Poke. Have a smoke.”
This never failed to break Poke up. He brayed laughter and took the joint. Between them, standing on its wire stock, was the Schmeisser, fully loaded. The Connie blazed on up the road, its gas gauge standing at an eighth.
Poke and Lloyd had met a year before in the Brownsville Minimum Security Station, a Nevada work farm. Brownsville was ninety acres of irrigated farmland and a prison compound of Quonset huts about sixty miles north of Tonopah and eighty northeast of Gabbs. It was a mean place to do short time. Although Brownsville Station was supposed to be a farm, nothing much grew there. Carrots and lettuce got one taste of that blaring sun, chuckled weakly, and died. Legumes—and weeds would grow, and the state legislature was fanatically dedicated to the idea that someday soybeans would grow. But the kindest thing that could be said about Brownsville’s ostensible purpose was that the desert was taking a Christless long time to bloom. The warden (who preferred to be called “the boss”) prided himself on being a hardass, and he hired only men he considered to be fellow hardasses. And, as he was fond of telling the new fish, Brownsville was mostly minimum security because when it came to escape, it was like the song said: noplace to run to, baby, noplace to hide. Some gave it a shot anyway, but most were brought back in two or three days, sunburned, glareblind, and eager to sell the boss their shriveled raisin souls for a drink of water. Some of them cackled madly, and one young man who was out for three days claimed he saw a large castle some miles south of Gabbs, a castle with a moat. The moat, he said, was guarded by trolls riding big black horses. Some months later when a Colorado revival preacher did a show at Brownsville, this same young man got Jesus in a big way.
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
excerpts, Chapter 24
“Jesus Christ, but that’s not fair!” Lloyd cried.
“It’s a tough old world, Lloyd,” Devins said. “Especially for ‘mad dog killers,’ which is what the newspapers and TV commentators are calling you. You’re a real big man in the world of crime. You’ve got real drag. You even put the flu epidemic back East on page two.”
“I never pokerized nobody,” Lloyd said sulkily. “Poke, he did it all. He even made up that word.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Devins said. “That’s what I’m trying to pound through your thick skull, Sylvester. The judge is going to leave the Governor room for one stay, and only one. I’ll appeal, and under the new guidelines, my appeal has to be in the hands of the Capital Crimes Circuit Court within seven days or you exit stage left immediately. If they decide not to hear the appeal, I have another seven days to petition the Supreme Court of the United States. In your case, I’ll file my appeal brief as late as possible. The Capital Crimes Circuit Court will probably agree to hear us—the system’s still new, and they want as little criticism as possible. They’d probably hear Jack the Ripper’s appeal.”
“How long before they get to me?” Lloyd muttered.
“Oh, they’ll handle it in jig time,” Devins answered, and his smile became slightly wolfish. “You see, the Circuit Court is made up of five retired Arizona judges. They’ve got nothing to do but go fishing, play poker, drink bonded bourbon, and wait for some sad sack of shit like you to show up in their courtroom, which is really a bunch of computer modems hooked up to the State House, the Governor’s office, and each other. They’ve got telephones equipped with modems in their cars, cabins, even their boats, as well as in their houses. Their average age is seventy-two—”
Lloyd winced.
“—which means some of them are old enough to have actually ridden the Circuit Line out there in the willywags, if not as judges then as lawyers or law students. They all believe in the Code of the West—a quick trial and then up the rope. It was the way out here until 1950 or so. When it came to multiple murderers, it was the only way.”
“Jesus Christ Almighty, do you have to go on about it like that?”
“You need to know what we’re up against,” Devin said. “They just want to make sure you don’t suffer cruel and unusual punishment, Lloyd. You ought to thank them.”
“Thank them? I’d like to—”
“Pokerize them?” Devins asked quietly.
“No, course not,” Lloyd said unconvincingly.
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
Graffito written on the front of the First Baptist Church of Atlanta in red spray paint:
“Dear Jesus. I will see you soon. Your friend, America. PS. I hope you will still have some vacancies by the end of the week.”
Chapter 27
Larry Underwood sat on a bench in Central Park on the morning of June 27, looking into the menagerie. Behind him, Fifth Avenue was crazily jammed with cars, all of them silent now, their owners dead or fled. Farther down Fifth, many of the posh shops were smoking rubble.
From where Larry sat he could see a lion, an antelope, a zebra, and some sort of monkey. All but the monkey were dead. They had not died of the flu, Larry judged; they had gotten no food or water for God knew how long, and that had killed them. All but the monkey, and in the three hours that Larry had been sitting here, the monkey had moved only four or five times. The monkey had been smart enough to outwit starvation or death by thirst—so far—but it surely had a good case of superflu. That was one monkey who was hurtin for certain. It was a hard old world.
- by me, Kerry Wayne Burgess, posted by me: 05:15 AM Pacific-timezone USA Monday 04/14/2025
