A world in motion . . .

By Kirsten Nour Namskau

She looked at her Master as he came in the door, dressed in riding-trousers of soft black leather, high-legged black boots in like as soft leather, black silk shirt with a small red scarf around his neck and the “brush-whip in his hand”.
He looked at her, tied her with his glance.
She couldn’t move. She felt the tingling in her body as she met his eyes. She knew this look . . .

She had just taken a long hot bath, scented with Jasmine. Surrounded the tub with Jasmine-scented candles and sedated herself with a glass sparkling champagne.
She had brushed her long, black, soft-curled hair and given a drop of “Love-potion no.1” perfume behind each ear. Carefully put on discrete make-up with only gloss on her lips.
She had covered her naked body with a Chinese-designed red silk-robe with a golden drake on the back, tied around the waist with a silk-band. Finally she had put on the cuffs.

She was tripping nervously with her small feet.
She went up to him and gave him a kiss on his cheek.
“You have had a bad day at work” she stated with comforting voice “ I can see it in your face.”
His eyes moved slowly from her face towards the door to the padded room. Their room. The secret room. The room furnished with a huge black leather chair, a huge pillow in soft, black, sued leather was on the floor beside the chair. On the other side of the chair was a small table with a tiny vase with one single red rose.
In the middle of the room was the special designed seat with a small table on wheels beside with all his tools. At the short-wall was the panel with strategic placed hooks.

She followed his glance and moved with grace towards the door and opened it. He went to the bar and made two drinks and passed her at the door to enter the room.
He handed her one of the drinks and sat down in the chair. She kneeled down beside him and placed herself on the pillow.
“Drink with greed,whore” he whispered between clenched teeth as he looked at her with peering eyes.
She took the drink in two gulps. She leaned her head on his leg.
He rose with a sudden as he at the same time took a fast hold around her wrist and drew her with him up. He pointed at the panel.
She went up to the panel and faced it as she at the same time let her robe fell to the floor. With rough moves he took her wrist and ankle-cuffs and hooked her to the panel. Arms and legs stretched out. He gagged her with a ball-gag.
He let his brush-whip glide slowly over her back, from her delicate little butt to her neck. Then he rapidly swung the whip though the air and let it fling over her back, her butt, her tights, over and over again.
Her head bobbed backwards and then forwards towards the panel at each beat, leaving a bruse at her forhead. The red lines that appeared on her back fast turned purple and small drops of blood trickled through her porcelain-colored skin.

He left her and went to the seat. The seat could be clapped together so it made a V-shape with the tip up. He went back and loosened her from the panel. She felt week in her legs and was about to fell when he lifted her up and carried her to the seat. He softly bent her over the seat so her legs reached the floor on the one side and her head on the other side. In this position her butt was on top. He fastened her cuffs again on the outer side of the seat. The leg-cuffs he fastened so that her feet were placed on small plates on a rail on each side of the bed. The lower part of the seat was narrower than the upper part, so when he now pushed the legs up, she came I a position as if she was crawling.
He placed electric poles to her vaginal lips. As the electric impulses flung through her, her body bobbed.

*********
As she woke up the next day, crouching up in his arms she whispered: “Thank you, my beloved master. It is always a pleasure to please you.”

*********
One year later . . . She came with in a Green-peace parade. “Save the whales”
It came to turmoil. The police tried to stop some violence between the participants of the parade and some bullies on the sideline. She was in a tough fight with a younger boy when the policeman took her arm and bends it behind her back to lead her to the police-car. As she tried to pull away from the grip of the policeman, she twisted her foot and fell to the ground with the result that her arm dislocated at her shoulder.
At the police-station she shouted out her anger about the violence of the police and claimed compensation for her sufferings.

“Is this the kind of world we offer our children” she shouted “A world full of violence ! !”

*******

So many ways of experience life

While one is called whore is another called wife.

.

So many ways of experience pleasure

What for me is torture, is for you a treasure.

Insulting is felt in so many ways

What for you is a title of honor is for me a word of disgrace.

Where is the limit and what is a lie

When the limit is reached is that when you die?

Where does the word “abuse” come in

Is that when you feel the ice you are walking, start to get thin?

Where will you go then, with your complain

When everyone you contact tell you, it’s all in vane

Both lawyer and doctor and friends give advice

They remind you, your choice and this is the price.

They will tell . . . you deserved it since you didn’t obey

And be happy it’s only the kidney they took away

The next time you were told you should feel honored

When they took half of your liver and called you a donor

When also half of your lung is gone

It is then you are told to try to be strong.

When your Master or Devil or Manager say:

“Remember I love you, that’s why we do it my way

”When your vagina is burned, so you are no more a woman

Don’t believe it’s finish, that was only an omen

When they take your back-skin to make you a pillow

Enjoy the softness as if you are in a meadow

Open your hands and with grace receive

The life as a zombie, in which you believe

You are all given “something”, only to “relax”

So you don’t “wake up” and take a prolapse

When your husband or master or devil has friends

With the lawyers, the doctors and members of the governments

Then he is given only two option of winning,

The price which is given in “Lotte-ringen”

Be sure, he always choose you to be the winner

The price of an illness, mutilation or being a billet

So many times I remember . . . the Bible will tell

“They will talk so beautiful . . . about the life in Hell”

What you call Paradise, I call Hell

What I call Paradise, is for you not at all well

So if we tomorrow shall make a new world and norm

Will it be your way or my way . . . or will we both be forlorn?

Because whoever be the ruler in the new world from now on

One will be in Paradise . . . the other in Armageddon

The difference. . .

.

As the years pass by . . .

When I got born, in Norway right after the world war II, the world was still, after all a good world to live in.
We didn’t know about child abuse although we were told not to talk to strangers.
There were no medical traumas about doctors that mistakenly amputated wrong leg or stole organs for donations. In hospitals, the doctors did the best they could and if such “mistakes” was done, the doctor who was responsible lost his medical license.
Children never came to school with guns and started to shoot around.
Pornography was for grown ups and were held away from children.
Sexuality was also something that belonged to the adult life, and children were not in need of to know about sexuality before they reached their teens.

Children had their right to be children. They should play . . . They had the right to go to school and learn to read and write. Home-work should not take more than 2 hours max. After school and homework, they should be outside playing.

At school, we had subjects beside reading, writing, mathematic, science, natural science, biology, social studies, history, geography, art, music, languages, religion, also handy-craft, needle-work, house-hold and cooking, gymnastic and sport.
No one had private tutor at home. It was the teacher’s job to teach the student. Not the parents, not anybody else. If a teacher had more than 20% of the student below average, the teacher got fired.
The classes were holding in average 25 students.
We didn’t know about drugs . . . It was simply not on the marked at all.
The school was holding free medical and dentist care up to 21 years.

We had 100’s of different kinds of hop-scotch, ball-games, skipping-ropes and skipping elastic, seek ’n hide and “catch you”, we made tents of two blankets over a rope stretched between two trees. As a girl, we collected glossy pictures, Kleenex with beautiful decorations, played with paper-dolls as well as ordinary dolls. (And a lot of things I don’t know the English term of.)

In the school holidays we were sent to farms outside the city to put on weight and have a change of milieu.

The school provided breakfast, ordered by the government to be sure that all children at least got one proper meal during a day, since many still were poor after the war.
The breakfast contained; 1 tbsp fish-oil, which held all the vitamins a child needs, ½ liter milk, crisp-bread with cheese, coarse bread with cheese, jam, liver-pâté or caviar. At the end a fruit or raw vegetable to clean the teeth. You could eat as much as you could.

Slowly things started to change . . . The fish-oil disappeared, then it was only ¼ l milk, so the bread disappeared, then the crisp-bread.
So the farm holidays disappeared.

It started to become childish to play when you started school. Homework took more and more time as at the same time it seems as if the children learn less and less.
Subjects disappeared. The house-hold and cooking, needle-work, handy-crafts, religion, art and music were the subjects that disappeared first. Biology, science and natural science were put into one subject with fewer tasks in each to fit the schedule. History and geography was put together and called orientation- subject, again fewer tasks in each field.

Now, we can see that it became much more lessons for reading, writing, language and math.
But . . . The tests started to become easier and with all the extra time for the “important” lessons, it still seems that the students learn less and less, they have more and more learning-problems, more and more homework and the teachers takes it for granted that the parents teach the children at home and provide private tutors.
Today the rule is; if a teacher has 20% of the students above average, then she/he is a good teacher.
Today, computer-lesson is more important than to learn cooking or make you own clothes.
The students are provided with a smoking-corner in the playground . . . Because they don’t play any longer, they only hang around.
Lessons in sexuality starts in kindergarten and they start smoking and do drugs and have intercourse at the age of 12.

Today’s breakfast is bought from Mc. Donald’s with coke as drink and the schools have opened a kiosk for sweets.

This is what we call a positive development. This is what we claim is so much better than before.

I don’t know . . . I’m glad I am not a child today . . . And I am glad I do not have small children in today’s society.

Going to a whore-house . . .

A girl like mom . . .

Manny was almost 29 years old, most of his friends were married and Manny just bounced from one relationship to the next.
Finally a friend asks him "What’s the matter are you looking for a perfect woman?" "Are you that particular?"
"Can’t you find anyone who suits you?"
"No," Manny replied. "I met a lot of nice girls, but as soon as I bring them home to meet my parents my mother doesn’t like them. So I keep on looking."
"Listen" his friend suggested "why don’t you find a girl who's just like your dear ole mother?"
Many weeks pasted before Manny and his friend met again. "So Manny, did you find the perfect woman yet, one just like your mother?"
Manny shrugged his shoulders "Yes, I found one just like my mom. My mom loved her, they became good friends."
"Excellent!" So are you engaged yet?

"I am afraid not, my father cant stand her!"

Are you / or do you want

.

a strong woman ~

.

Or a woman of strengh . . .

.

A strong woman works out everyday to keep her body in shape…
But a woman of strength builds relationships to keep her soul in shape.

A strong woman isn't afraid of anything…
But a woman of strength shows courage in the midst of fear.

A strong woman won't let anyone get the better of her…
But a woman of strength gives the best of herself to everyone

A strong woman makes mistakes and avoids the same in the future…
A woman of strength realises life's mistakes can also be unexpected blessings, and capitalises on them.

A strong woman walks sure footedly ...
But a woman of strength knows God will catch her when she falls...

A strong woman wears a look of confidence on her face…
But a woman of strength wears grace.

A strong woman has faith that she is strong enough for the journey…
But a woman of strength has faith that it is in the journey that she will become strong.

In emergency of good advice . . .

Dear Kirsten,

I've never written to you before, but I really need your advice on what could be a crucial decision.
I've suspected for some time now that my wife has been cheating on me. The usual signs...phone rings, but if I answer, the caller hangs up.
My wife has been going out with the girls a lot recently, although when I ask their names she always says, "Just some friends from work, you don't know them."
I sometimes stay awake to look out for her cab coming home, but she always comes walking up the drive as I hear the sound of a car leaving, around the corner, as if she has gotten out and walked the rest of the way. Why?
Maybe she wasn't in a taxi at all?I once picked up her cell phone, just to see what time it was.This caused her to go completely berserk. She quickly snatched the phone out of my hand and cursed me hysterically, screaming that I should never touch her personal property, then accused me of trying to spy on her.
Anyway, I have never broached the subject with my wife. I think deep down I just didn't want to know the truth, but last night she went out again and I decided to really check on her.
I decided I was going to park my Harley Davidson Lowrider next to the garage and then hide behind it so I could get a good view of the street around the corner when she came home.
It was at that moment, crouching behind my motorcycle that I noticed a small amount of motor oil leaking through the gasket between the rear head and rocker arm cover.
So... is this something I can easily repair myself or do you think I should take it back to the dealer

Regards
H. M.
.
.

(What do you think? Should he take it back to the dealer?)

This is the only day in history

named Thursday 25. January 2007

*

(click on the card if it doesn't show.)

What will you fill this historical day with?

.

I got this in my mail . . .

.

MARK YOUR CALENDARS FOR THIS SATURDAY.

DO YOUR PART!

AS YOU MAY ALREADY KNOW, IT IS A SIN FOR A TALIBAN MALE TO SEE ANY WOMAN OTHER THAN HIS WIFE NAKED, AND THAT HE MUST COMMIT SUICIDE IF HE DOES.

SO THIS SATURDAY 27.January 2007 AT 4 P.M. EASTERN TIME ALL AMERICAN WOMEN ARE ASKED TO WALK OUT OF THEIR HOUSE COMPLETELY NAKED TO HELP WEED OUT ANY NEIGHBORHOOD TERRORISTS.

CIRCLING YOUR BLOCK FOR ONE HOUR IS RECOMMENDED. FOR THIS ANTI-TERRORIST EFFORT.

ALL MEN ARE TO POSITION THEMSELVES IN LAWN CHAIRS IN FRONT OF THEIR HOUSE TO PROVE THEY ARE NOT TALIBAN, AND TO DEMONSTRATE THEY THINK IT'S OKAY TO SEE NUDE WOMEN OTHER THAN THEIR WIFE AND TO SHOW SUPPORT FOR ALL AMERICAN WOMEN.

SINCE THE TALIBAN ALSO DOES NOT APPROVE OF ALCOHOL, A COLD 6-PACK AT YOUR SIDE IS FURTHER PROOF OF YOUR ANTI-TALIBAN SENTIMENT.

THE AMERICAN GOVERNMENT APPRECIATES YOUR EFFORTS TO ROOT OUT TERRORISTS AND APPLAUDS YOUR PARTICIPATION IN THIS ANTI-TERRORIST ACTIVITY.

GOD BLESS AMERICA.

When Grandma learns to e-mail . . .

Dear Kids,

I am very happy in the new residence you have put me in. This week we actually got to go outside for an hour.
I haven't been feeling very good this week - the friend I shared a room with died yesterday.
I am coping pretty well with my sorrows. It's been six months since you've visited me last, so I guess you're all pretty busy.
It's OK, I've learned to use the Internet to pass the time.
And the computer in the rec room has a pretty decent web cam.
So you can remember what I look like, I have attached a recent picture of myself.
You all take care now, and write to me soon.
With all of my heart.
Love,
Grandma

Want to see what I'm doing

in front of the mirror? . . .

Don't laugh . . . I have only one in the audience and that is me !!

But now . . . Also you are in the audience.

http://www.dancesisterdance.com/myvid/index.php?v=9bde290da37f4

(Use the bell on the side of the door to change my hairstyle)

To judge the book after its cover . . .

Can you judge someone from looking at them?

BY LOOKING AT A PICTURE OF A PERSON, YOU HAVE TO DECIDE IF HE IS A COMPUTER GEEK OR A SERIAL KILLER.

GO WITH YOUR GUT FEELING AND CLICK ON YOUR CHOICE.THERE ARE 10 PHOTOS. YOUR SCORE WILL BE GIVEN AT THE END.

http://www.malevole.com/mv/misc/killerquiz

The humans trust & ignorance/

the authorities indifference . . .

*

We are the world . . .

It is we, the ordinary people who are the world. It is we who have to react on what is going on in front of our faces if we want a better world.
To show ignorance and indifference towards the authorities and the crime going on in the world is to give them space and free hands to continue.
The biggest problem is; that usually one is not heard or believed, if one tell something out of frame.
The same is in the case with the kidnapping of Shawn Hornbeck. Would the police have believed him, if he, when he came to report his bike stolen also told that he was kidnapped? NO . . . Is the fault with him? NO. . .
If he had told the neighbors, (that though he was the son of Mr. Devlin,) that he actually was kidnapped . . . Would they have believed him? NO . . .
His parents made a web-site in the hope to find their son. Did they investigate all the hints of that “maybe this is your son, because they look alike”. NO . . . It is no such thing as “RANT” in these kind of cases ! ! !
If we want a better world, we have to start listen, open our eyes, act and react and believe what people try to tell us, even if it is out of frame.

Let us start now . . . .
Let us make a better world to live in.

The report below is taken from FOXNews, 20.January 2007

VANCOUVER — Marnie Frey called her parents for the last time on her 24th birthday. Lynn, her stepmother, answered the phone to hear Marnie giggling, wheedling for some birthday cash. Mrs Frey was reluctant, knowing that it would be spent to feed her heroin habit.
She told her daughter that a parcel was on its way, with clothes, food and toiletries, things low down on her daughter's shopping list for life on the mean streets of the Downtown Eastside, Vancouver. The thank-you call never came.
Rick and Lynn Frey would not learn what had become of their daughter until after a frantic search that lasted five years. Her remains were unearthed on a pig farm in Port Coquitlam, on the outskirts of Vancouver. The farm belonged to Robert Pickton, known as "Uncle Willie," a pig farmer well-known for the parties that he threw for prostitutes and bikers at his quasi- legal drinking club, the Piggy Palace.
Investigators dug up the remains of one woman after another, from body parts to minute traces of DNA, until the count came to 30. Four could not be identified. The other 26 were among the names of 67 women who had disappeared from the Downtown Eastside streets. On Monday Mr Pickton goes on trial for six murders, the only cases in which body parts survive.

Few of the details of the evidence have been made public in Canada, where strict publication bans have muffled preliminary hearings.
But what has come to light is grim enough: butchered body parts discovered in a freezer; a woodchipper, confiscated by police, where the women's bodies were believed to have been disposed of; and the public health warning that the pigs believed to have been fed on human remains were then slaughtered and put into the human food chain — along with, perhaps, human meat itself.

At jury selection, the judge warned potential jurors that what they would hear would be "like a horror movie". But this time, he told them, they would not be able to switch it off.

Continue reading on you own risk . . .

http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,245118,00.html

A jigsaw in a dangerous game . . .

From Deathdealer’s blog

http://blogg.sol.no/deathdealer

Liten Brikke i Farlig Spill!
20 December kl. 08:00

Zahid er nervøs. Han har sett noe han overhodet ikke burde ha sett. Og skjønt hvordan mange uavhengige aktører kan danne et nett av tilsynelatende intetanende brikker i et rått maktspill. Zahid har nylig oppdaget at han selv er en av de såkalt uvitende små brikkene, som gjør som de blir bedt, stiller få spørsmål og får mange ganger så godt betalt som jobben egentlig er verdt. Han tør ikke betro seg til Julie. Han vil ikke utsette henne for fare. Men hva skal han selv gjøre? Holde kjeft og late som ingenting - eller ta kontakt med Politiets sikkerhetstjeneste (PST)? Kan han stole på at de vil hjelpe og beskytte ham og hans familie? Kan han stole på at de i det hele tatt vil ta ham alvorlig, hvis han legger alle kortene på bordet? Zahid er slett ikke overbevist. Hvem vil tro ham, når han sier at han tar inn helt bestemte biler etter bestilling, som han gjør konkrete endringer på, før han lar dem videresende til avtalte land i Øst-Europa. Zahid har etter hvert skjønt at disse endringene gjøres for at bilen skal kunne skjule eksplosiver og giftig materiale, uten å bli oppdaget i en vanlig rutinekontroll. Enn videre skal bilen kunne brukes som mordvåpen i seg selv. For eksempel ved å tilrettelegge for infisering med gifter - slik som anthrax og ricin - som inhaleres eller tas opp gjennom huden ved kontakt over tid. Zahid tenker på den tidligere sovjetiske storspionen som nylig døde i London, etter å ha blitt forgiftet av et radioaktivt materiale. Han skjønner ikke hvorfor etterforskningen utelukkende er konsentrert rundt de restaurantene spionen besøkte dagene før han ble syk. Hva med å undersøke rattet på bilen hans? Zahid har nesten overbevist seg selv om at han bør ta kontakt med politiet. Han skal bare ta en telefon til Julie først. Nummeret utløser den fjernstyrte bomben som noen har plantet i telefonapparatet. Den påfølgende eksplosjonen er så kraftig at hele kontorbygningen blir lagt i ruiner med et kjempesmell, som gir gjenlyd over hele byen.

Free translation below . . .

A Jigsaw in a Dangerous game!

Zahid is nervous. He has discovered something that was not meant for his eyes. And understood how many independent people can make a web of apparently innocent jigsaws in a bigger scale of brutal power. Zahid did recently discover that he himself is one of those small innocent jigsaws, who do as they are told, without asking questions and often get well paid as he deserve. He doesn’t dear to tell Julie. He doesn’t want to risk her to come in danger. What can he do? Shut up and act as if nothing is wrong ~ or shall he contact The Security Police? (TSP) Can he trust them in that they will help him and protect him and his family? Will they believe him at all if he gives them all details? Zahid is definitely not sure. Who will believe him, when he tell that he take in special cars after order, and do special changes on them, before he send them further on to appointed countries in east-Europe. Zahid has by time understood that these changes were ordered to cover explosives and poisoning materials, without being discovered in a routine control.
As well should the car be ready to be used as a weapon in itself. Per example to entangle the car with poisons – like anthrax or ricin. which can be inhaled or picked up by the skin with regular contact. Zahid is thinking about the late Russian spy who recently died in London, by poisoned with radioactive material. He doesn’t understand why the research is only concentrated on the restaurants the spy has visited his last days. What about to check the steering-wheel in his car? Zahid is almost convinced that he has to contact the police. He only wants to contact Julie first. He dials her number . . . The number release a remote controlled bomb someone has placed in the telephone. The explosion is so strong so the whole building blows up, and gives an echo over the whole city.

A heart of golden . . .

From Deathdealer’s blog

http://blogg.sol.no/deathdealer

Et Hjerte av Gull!
17 December kl. 08:00

Hjertet mitt er sykt. Dødssykt. Jeg har ikke lenge igjen å leve. Hvis jeg ikke kan få et nytt hjerte. Et donorhjerte. Men hvem har et hjerte å gi bort? Har du? Jeg for min del har ikke tid til å vente på at du eller noen andre med et noenlunde brukbart hjerte skal sovne stille inn. Jeg trenger et nå. Helst i dag. Men jeg vet heldigvis råd. Jeg har kontaktet Organjegeren. Han er faktisk ikke så dyr. Selv om han er uhyre effektiv og meget diskret. Diskresjon er uhyre viktig i slike saker. Det må ikke fremstå som en målrettet jakt. Bare et hendelig uhell eller ulykke med tragisk utfall. Ikke så tragisk at de indre organene blir skadet, men såpass at utfallet blir dødelig for donor. Jeg har bedt om at det må skje på en skånsom måte. Jeg liker ikke langvarig lidelse og pinefull smerte. Helst skal ikke donor skjønne noe som helst før det hele er overstått for hans del. Ikke hvem som helst kan brukes. Organjegeren konsentrerer seg om dem som har registrert seg i Donorregisteret. Slik at det ikke skal bli vanskeligheter med de pårørendes samtykke i ettertid. Organjegeren har lovet meg et hjerte innen i morgen tidlig. Senest. Jeg gleder meg allerede. Kanskje blir det ditt?

Free translation below . . .

A Heart of Golden!

My heart is ill. Very ill. I don’t have long time left to live. Unless I can get a new heart. A donated heart. But who has a heart to give away?

Do you. . .?
On my side, I don’t have time to wait until you or someone else with a decent heart only drift peacefully towards the pearl-gate. I need a heart now. Preferable today. Fortunately I have an advice. I have contacted the organ hunter. It was not that expensive after all. Although he is extremely effective and discrete. Discretion is very important in these cases. It must not be noticed as an accurate organ hunt. It has to be notices as a handy accident or a tragic ending . . . Not that tragic so the organs get demolished, only enough to let the donor die.
I have told him to do it in a humane way. I don’t like long and painful death-processes. Preferable, the donor should not understand what is going on at all.
Not whoever can be used. The organ hunter concentrates on those who is registered at the donor-depot, in order to eliminate problems with the family afterwards. The organ hunter has promised to have a new heart for me by tomorrow morning. I am excited. Wonder who’s heart I will get . . . Maybe it is yours???

I must add here that he is not talking about himself. This is his way of trying to open people's eyes of what is going on in front of their nose. This is what happens all over the world, also in America, Australia, Asia, Europe, Latin Amaerica, Africa . . . Even if you didn't know about it from before, even if you don't believe it . . .

Organ-hunters on the road - Watch out!

From Deathdealer’s blog

http://blogg.sol.no/deathdealer

Organjeger på Jakt - Vær på Vakt!
13 January kl. 08:00

Jeg holdt nesten på å bli lurt. Men bare nesten. Jeg kom til trikkeholdeplassen - for å ta trikken - men der var ingen trikk. Derimot stod det en stor sort kassebil der. En svartmusket mann, med stikkende øyne, sleskt flir og fett hår, ba meg gå inn i kassebilen. "Erstatning for trikken", påstod han. Og tok meg i armen, tilsynelatende for å hjelpe meg opp stigtrinnet. Jeg tittet inn i kassebilen. Der satt det allerede to intetanende kvinner og smilte blekt. Plutselig skjønte jeg hva som var i ferd med å skje. "Slipp meg", sa jeg. "Du lurer ikke meg. Dessuten lider jeg av hjertefeil, lungeemfysem, skrumplever og fremskreden nyresvikt". Organjegeren så skulende på meg, smilte ondt og slapp armen min. "Stikk", hveste han mellom sammenbitte tenner. Jeg nølte ikke et sekund, men løp bort fra stedet det forteste jeg hadde lært og så meg ikke tilbake før jeg var trygt hjemme igjen. Omsider kunne jeg puste lettet ut. Som sagt, jeg holdt nesten på å bli lurt. Men bare nesten.

Free translation below . . .

Organ-hunters on the road – Watch out!

I was almost trapped. But only almost. I came to the tram-stop ~ to take the tram ~ but there was no tram. On the other hand there was a big black van. A dark-haired man with a piercing glance in his eyes, funny smile and glossy hair told me to enter the van.
“It’s a replace for the tram” He said.
He took my arm to help me inside. I looked inside . . . There were already two innocent women, smiling faintly to me.
Suddenly I understood what was about to happen.
“Let me go” I said “ You can’t trick me. By the way I have a weak heart, pleurisy, and a heavy kidney failure.”
The organ hunter looked at me with a scowling glance, gave me a malicious smile as he dropped my arm and said between clenched teeth: “Run.”
He didn’t have to tell me twice. I run away as fast as I could and didn’t look back before I was safe in my own home. Finally I dared to breathe again.
As I said . . . They almost got me . . .

Almost.

Free speech and democracy . . .

In Norway, this means: “you can say what you want, as long as you shut up!”

It is by no coincidence that a blogger in Norway has got a reprimand by the administrator of the site he is blogging at. (A Norwegian site.)
Unfortunately, he is blogging in the Norwegian language, but I have got his accept to translate some of his posts and put it in my site.
This is one of those things I have noticed after the release of my book. People start to dear to talk.
In his blog he tells his opinion in small short-stories, which also make them entertaining.
I will from time to time translate some of his posts.

Deathdealer’s blog

http://blogg.sol.no/deathdealer

Pålagt Sensur!
10 January kl. 15:02


Hipp hurra! Jeg er blitt kontaktet av Blogg-administrasjonen. Merkelig nok ikke for å bli tilbudt en høyst anstendig årslønn for å blogge fast på SOL-siden - vi mest trofaste og hyppig leste bloggere må jo trekke en mengde lesere til sidene deres - men derimot med et skarpt pålegg om å fjerne et innlegg. Kritikk av Regjerningens asylpolitikk kan oppfattes som rasistisk! Nå har jeg lest det også. Administrator kan umulig ha skjønt ironien. Ellers så må vedkommende ha fått seg en skrape av sjefen sin for å ha vært for slapp i jobben sin. Vist unnfallenhet og dårlig skjønn i forhold til det som skal siles gjennom eller rettere sagt all den uinteressante dritten som er blitt sluppet gjennom, uten filter. Men det hjelper ikke med skippertaksmetoden i denne businessen, vennen min! Så heretter skal jeg konsentrere meg mer om hvem som har pult med hvem. Pirrende detaljer ved ulike samleistillinger, stønn og grynt! Det kan jo bli noen fuktige lesere av det også!

Free translation below . . .

Ordered cencor.

Hurray ! I have been contacted by the Blog-administration . Strange enough, not to be offered an decent payment for regular blogging at Sol-blog.
We regular and most read blog-writers I think, is those who bring the readers and users to their site. No, not an offer like that, more correct is to say that I got a sharp reprimand to delete a post.
A post containing critic of the governments refugee-politic could be understood as racism, I was told ! Now, that was a new one for me!!! The administrator of the site “Sol” could impossible have understood the irony in my post. Or maybe he has got a correction from his boss to be stricter with what is written in the bloggs around.
It is by no surprise most of the bloggs is pure “baby-shit” or raw porno.
If that is the only accepted contains of a blog, I can also start a pure pornographic blog, talking about who has fucked with whom, exciting details about different sexual positions, moan and groan! I assume I will get some wet readers with those kinds of posts too.


I have also noticed that another post than the above mentioned is removed from his blog.
A post where he slightly indicate the fact that it is human meat for sale on the marked. (It was one sentence in a broader story.)
That is not a secret in Norway. Everybody knows that fact, that it is sold human meat at most places on earth.
Even my own family buys ½ whole animal, in order to be sure it is an animal they eat and make the mince themselves.
Even here in Egypt, I have taken that habit with me and make my own mince and meat-cut for sandwiches. (Although here, I buy the meat at the butcher and can see the whole animal and point out the piece I want.)

It must have been a serious threat, since he decided to remove the post. Believe me . . .!

Concerning cannibalism . . . Check out this website:

http://www.trosch.org/lif/cannibalism.html

What is the truth? . . .

What does happen when we die?
Do we really disappear . . . . Or do we continue in another level, dimension or condition?
Which life is then the real life?

Is that the meaning of being omnipresent . . . To live several lives at the same time, in different dimensions?
If it's nothing more after this life . . . What is then a ghosts?

Take a look at this picture . . . Can you see the ghost?

What is a ghost? . . .

Does incubuses (male) and succubuses (Female) exist? (People who can make themselves invisibile?)

If so . . .
Have we then got the answer on . . .

~ How Virgin Mary got pregnant?

~ The reality of what a so called "guardian Angle" is?

~ How "Jesus" could die and then resurrect?

Eternal life . . .

For century, people have prayed for eternal life. What do they actually mean??
Do they feel that the life here on earth is sooo good, so they want to live for ever??

Or do they mean something else . . . per example:
Do they mean to be constant reincarnated into a new life, after death?

Or do they mean to continue an eternal life after death, in the spiritual world?

What if you ended up in “Hell” after death . . . Do you still want an eternal life??

If one get reincarnated . . . can one get reincarnated into something else than a human?? Per.ex. : Can one get reincarnated into an animal??

If you get reincarnated as an animal . . . Do you still want an eternal life as that animal??

If you get reincarnated as something else than a human . . . Do you believe you can choose by yourself, what you get reincarnated into??

What Emotional IQ do you have?

Your EQ is 147

50 or less: Thanks for answering honestly. Now get yourself a shrink, quick! 51-70: When it comes to understanding human emotions, you'd have better luck understanding Chinese. 71-90: You've got more emotional intelligence than the average frat boy. Barely. 91-110: You're average. It's easy to predict how you'll react to things. But anyone could have guessed that. 111-130: You usually have it going on emotionally, but roadblocks tend to land you on your butt. 131-150: You are remarkable when it comes to relating with others. Only the biggest losers get under your skin. 150+: Two possibilities - you've either out "Dr. Phil-ed" Dr. Phil... or you're a dirty liar.

What's Your EQ (Emotional Intelligence Quotient)?

The value of ~ 0 ~

Is it the same as white. . .

Nothing???

I am ~ 0 ~

The smallest and the biggest. Whatever number you make, I can make it smaller by adding an ~ .0 ~ in the beginning, or bigger by adding an ~ 0 ~ at the end.

If you are standing at point ~ 0 ~ and take 5 step forwards; 0 -1-2-3-4-5
Now, you are at step 5 . . . Go so 5 step backwards, starting at step 5-4-3-2-1
Are you at the same place as when you started?
NO ! ! !
To come to the same place as when you started, you have to take the ~ 0 ~ step.
In other words. . . ~ 0 ~ is the most important number in the line of numbers and has both the biggest and smallest value.

~ 0 ~ is the Quantum – number between ~ .01 and 10 ~

The Quantum Theory is “the amount, power or energy “ you can not “measure, see or weight” but can be noticed in “value / quality, strength or emotion”
Per example: The wind / storm, the heat from the sun, the cero amount, a glance (of love or hate) . . .
You can not see it, count it or touch it . . . (meaning that it doesn’t exist) but has an enormous "value, power and effect/outcome."

That is me . . .

They said that I was nothing . . . I had no value . . . No one would listen to me, any way . . . worthless without any chance to harm them, the “real power”.
I answered: “ If you don’t leave me alone and in peace from now on. I will shout out the truth so loud, so the whole world will hear me at the same time. And I will not stop before I have torn off the face of Norway, so the worms underneath are exposed.”
They were laughing . . . . They didn’t believe me. . . They didn’t leave me in peace. They continued and continued to interfere in my life.

Suddenly, their laughter stopped . . . now, they don’t laugh any more. . . .

Now my book is sold all over the world at the same time . . . It will be translated to other languages and my next book is on it’s way.

I am waiting for their next move . . . I have told them what will happen if. . . Do they believe me . . . ?
It is amazing how things changes when the fears disappear. . .