Dear Dirty America


Maria Shriver’s Ranch Plagued with Bad Energy, Not Selling

July 31
11:30 2012
Los Angeles

Maria Shriver, disgraced by Arnold Schwarzenegger, is now so desperate to sell her ranch home she used to share with Arnold, even if she has to lose money on it. From a true and verified source:

“She thinks the land has bad energy,” a source revealed to RadarOnline. “Maria’s a very spiritual person and she doesn’t want any negativity in her life, especially after everything she went through, so she just wants it gone from her life.”

I’ll take the godforsaken thing. The ranch, with its canyons, waterfalls, and ocean views, is listed for $4.495 million. But it has bad energy. I don’t know if Maria’s had it tested by an expert guru, but I’ll take her word that it’s a negative force.

The poor woman. She’s gone through a lot. Some people can’t get jobs. Some are bankrupted by a disease striking a member of the family. Some are loaded with student debt and are receiving sneering phone calls from debt collectors in the middle of the night. Their credit scores are plummeting because they don’t have a job to make student debt payments. When some of those folks really do get a job offer, they are found to be volatile citizens, due to a poor credit score, and the employer decides against hiring them after all.

That’s a true occurrence, and it happens in this country more than I’d like to think. Of course, you could be suffering from owning a 25-acre ranch that’s part of an historic sheet of glorious land thousands of acres called Rancho Monte Alegre. That could be plaguing you and causing a similar lack of sleep that a man and wife are regularly undergoing after they’ve received a notice that they’re being foreclosed on. And what’ll they tell their kids? Daddy and mommy can’t find jobs. The bank says we have to move. We can’t afford our mortgage payments anymore.

Well, at least you don’t have a ranch with bad energy situated in one of the most beautiful, sanctified parts of the country, I’d tell them.

Dear Jesus, Maria Shriver, if you want to get rid of the blasted thing, I’ll buy it from you for $15k. I know five friends who could loan me a grand each, and I could hand you a five thousand dollar down payment. I could promise you the other ten within the next few years. You could visit from time to time, I wouldn’t mind. We could share coffee in the morning. I’d have a clean room and a bed with clean sheets always ready, just in case your private helicopter landed in the backyard.

Hell, I’d even fly out the Queen of England for a weekend if she promised not to eat meat while on my property. No meat allowed, your Majesty, I’d say. I don’t care if you’re appointed by God or Beelzebub, you’re not eating animal flesh on this property. You old buzzard.

I’d bust into her bedroom late at night and rifle through her bags for any contraband. No meat! I’d yell at her, as she would sit up in bed, rub her eyes, and ask what, oh what, in bloody hell do I think I’m doing. Checking for meat, I’d say. Sources say you can’t be trusted. No meat on this ranch. For spiritual reasons. Desperate, dour vibrations have infected this land, and everybody knows the undergloom feeds on meat in the physical realm. Like fruit flies clouding around an old banana.

The Queen and I could shoot guns at targets the next day. She in her lightly used night gown (she wears it during the day, and sleeps in it at night). Me in my army pants from Macy’s. We could wear matching yellow-tinted safety glasses. Afterwards, we could settle down with a cold bottle of beer, grill veggie burgers, and talk about our most annoying experiences with royalists.

I’d tell her about my dream home. The one I’d been manifesting by using detailed visual techniques and nearly impossible breathing exercises, that was sold to another family. I was seeking a new one, and that’s where Maria Shriver stepped in. God works in mysterious ways, I’d tell the Queen, because one minute you don’t have a prayer in Hell of being prosperous, and in the next instant you’re loading a small U-Haul truck with your desk, a wooden chair, four hundred and ninety-five books, one plate, one set of silverware, one wine glass, and a blow-up mattress and are on your way to your new ranch near Santa Barbara.

Times are tough, money is hard to come by, but I’d be happy to live around less than positive energy. Even if that bad energy howled and screeched all night long and haunted the living shit out of me. Whatever supernatural force is stalking that ranch pales in comparison to the sorrowful state of living in the turbulent squalor of so many areas in Los Angeles.

Also, I’ve got a yogi friend, and he could easily clear up that ranch’s negative vibe. He’d do it for free. I’ve seen him take the wind out of an old goat with a bad temper just by shaking his hands and glaring at the animal. Good deeds don’t go unnoticed by God.

That’s the truth, but you won’t find that printed in any true and verified news sources.

My yogi friend could give President Obama an awfully painful erection at the worst time, like during a publicized round of golf. He could also telepathically insert gruesome images of what it looks like when innocent men, women, and children are in the same apartment complex as a suspected bad guy that’s hit by a Hellfire missile shot from an unmanned aerial vehicle.

But my yogi friend would never do that, because no bad deed goes unnoticed by God.

Anyway, the deal’s on the table, Shriver. I’ll clean up the ranch, rid it of gloomy vibrations, and plant a colorful garden of fruits, vegetables, and flowers. I’ll invite my friends and family members and fellow writers, artists, and philosophers to live and build homes on the property, because times are tough. There should be no houses left empty. That’s the real bad energy of the world in action. Everybody should have a place to live.


Manifesting my dream home, until another family moves in

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