Sacrificial Child Offering

Aztec Death Rant

When I was five years old I was attacked and stoned in an alley in Boyle Heights near downtown LA.  My parents had taken me to a relative’s birthday party.  We were from the San Fernando Valley and the other kids recognized that I was not a local.  In order to protect their neighborhood they stoned me with baseball sized rocks. I went to Children’s hospital and we never had to go back to East LA to see my mother’s Mexican relatives. My life has always been like that. This Death Rant has stalked me for all of eternity in this life and my other lifetimes that I can only feel by intuition.  

“Welcome to the Barrio, punk!”

My destiny is eschatology. Eschatology is the conceptualization of the end of humanity. The smart money says that everything breaks down into total anarchy in the year 2075. The people that own the oil refineries and all the money say that chaos begins in 2075.  I always thought that I would live to see the end of America but now my cardiovascular system is wearing out. Perhaps President Donald Trump will be able to facilitate the death rant of America. I genuinely feel that I have experienced Aztec death and some kind of American Civil War death. After experiencing death everything else is all down hill.

death moneyManifesting Death Money 

My current means of support is to frugally spend my father’s blood money. My siblings and I killed our parents for their money. My parents owned me a karmic debt which they failed to pay, thereby setting me free. My siblings stole my share of the inheritance and a Superior Court gave it back to me. Now my death money is being doled out to me by my sister’s attorney in Glendale. The purpose of this article is to ritualize the universal death of my parents and the world upon my Christ body.

desert child of deathLife in the Desert Death Rant

Praying and contemplating in the desert I see what it all means now. I have been set free emotionally to become the person I am supposed to me. I knew my father’s death would finally set me free. My father was in competition with me because my jokes were funnier than his. I would intentionally kill him with comedy. Everybody else would laugh but my father would just smirk. My blog yesterday about my father’s snicker was wrong. The kid delivering his impromptu eulogy said my father had a smirk on his face and not a snicker. This blog is my processing of my life. I have never talked to anybody about this snicker vs. the smirk. This blog is by birth of freedom from my everyday death by life. 

By Dean McAdams

Born a poor peckerwood in a Tujunga holler, Dean practiced secrets of the ancient & modern masters to end up liberated in the coastal paradise of West L.A.