I didn't know anything about these crazy lunatics until reading that Tim Holmseth piece.
Unbelievable.
What a bunch of crap. Every single person who has insinuated themselves into this should be ashamed of themselves.
Well, here is TH's BIO.........caution, you may need a barf bag before reading this:
http://writeintoaction.com/Sample%20The%20Dunking%20Tank.htmThe dunking tank
Does our DNA contain a warning system designed to give us “one last chance” to change our life? Can the hour-hand of our clock be quickly turned by a giant finger we can’t see? Has a final moment of “choice” been graciously embedded into our blueprints by the Creator of life?
by Timothy Charles Holmseth
“Oh how beautiful,” I think to myself.
As I ponder the image of the adorable little baby gazing up at me, a gentle smile at the corner of its eye, I slowly begin to drift toward the place where she is.
And yet again, I have made a horrible mistake.
In an instant the tender eyes of the child morph into those of a dog, its gentle smile becomes a menacing grin with rows and rows of green rotten teeth as it giggles, “Timmy, Timmy, Timmy – wanna dance, wanna dance, wanna dance?”
Oh, my God!
It feels like a cement block is sitting on my chest as I fight ferociously to breathe. I can’t get my eyes to open. My battle for oxygen abruptly ends because I cannot feel by body anymore. I know my eyes are ‘there somewhere’ but they won’t obey my commands. They are attached to my carcass like closed windows. I desperately need to see the light but I can’t open my eyes – ‘I’ am not attached to them anymore. I am yelling out to them, commanding them to open, but they don’t recognize my voice.
Oh, my God, not this place again!
A squealing roar permeates the entire abyss where I am trapped. Another specter runs up and assaults the baby-monster, biting into its toes and grinding them around in its teeth. The sound of squealing and crunching bones is audible as blood squirts all over, then turns into feces. Then, in an instant, the baby becomes a real human again. “What are you looking at f—ker,” it says. Then as suddenly, I am inside of its intestines. “Get attached to your eyes,” I hear a voice saying to me. “Try to get attached to your eyes! Let in the light. Let in the light! Get to the light!”
The shrill noises are becoming deafening. The specters are excreting on each other and eating it. They are engaging in sexual acts with instruments. They are raping and torturing each other. They are licking their fingers and giggling – they laugh and they cry - there is no up, down, or horizon. One of them tells me he wants to live inside of my bones, un-peels a banana, and then politely offers me a bite – his skin turns to banana peels – there are maggots on him that I can smell, and I can ‘taste’ the smell.
It is truly the weeping and gnashing of teeth.
“Your eyes Tim, your eyes,” I hear again. I know the only escape from this horrible place is through my eyes because the light is on the other side of them. I begin to hear a chant that gets faster and faster as if tapping a well; “Your eyes, your eyes, your eyes, your eyes, your eyes, your eyes…”
Wham!!! I am pulverized by a huge wave of light and my back arches up like I have been electrocuted. My eyes flip and flutter as light pours into me like oxygen into someone who has been underwater for several minutes.
“Oh thank God!” I try to say. I can’t really talk, though. Nothing on me works properly anymore. There’s no one in charge. I have been relegated to an ******* of my own death. I am allowed to participate with my body for only very brief moments.
The sight of the ceiling, windows, and toddler bed in the room are evidence that I am back on earth. I make a weak fist and try to slam it into my chest.
I somehow know I am having a heart attack and I am trying to give myself CPR 
– I just keep gasping.
My body is convulsing.
I attempt to thrust my right arm across my body in a failed effort to create enough momentum to roll myself off the bed. I am trying to fall onto the cold hard floor where it is harder to drift or ‘sleep.’ I have been drunk for over a year straight with no break and I weigh about 85 pounds. My arm just flaps and dangles. I want to cry but that requires energy my body does not have, and I am so dehydrated I would have no tears anyway.
I am so, so alone.
Lying there I can feel my bladder and bowels have been emptied into my pants. It means absolutely nothing to me.
“Don’t shut your eyes, Tim,” I hear again.
I know if my eyes stay closed I will remain in that place forever. I have known that for the past three days now as I have departed and returned to my body over and over - I am dying.
I am dying - and I am going to hell.
The Nut Ward 
How my body got to the phone in the other room is a mystery. The ambulance ride is a vague memory. I arrive at what the locals call “the third floor.” It is the nut ward of the Northwest Medical Center in Thief River Falls, Minnesota.
“You don’t have much longer to live,” the doctor says. “Your liver never stops trying to clean your blood. You’re going to die, soon.”
From my plastic mat on the floor where I lay in paper pajamas, the tall dark figure in front of the opened steel door speaks to me, glancing up and down from his clip-board. I am deeply medicated to keep me from convulsing or having a heart-attack, so the octaves of his voice are fluctuating and waning as he speaks. “When they brought you in here last night they tried-tried- tried to test your blood alcohol content but the digital lab equipment couldn’t read it. It only reads up to .49 nine-nine-nine-nine,” he says. “You’re going to die die-diiiiii-Die-diiiiiiii.”
My life before this rubber-room was a dizzying kaleidoscope of sinful consumption, sexual immorality, and moral lawlessness, not to mention physical and spiritual sloth. I was a selfish pig of a human being. In all truth, I had a demon in me, and these warnings of impending death meant nothing.However, this was different.
I suddenly realized my little resume of sickening godlessness had been recorded onto the spiritual elements of my eternal consciousness. Our life is a trial and our spirit is the evidence. My trial was held and my spirit testified truthfully against me. My sentence was completely in line with righteous truth.
Death!
Yet, for some reason, the creator of light let me appeal my sentence. He gave me one more chance.
As the years slowly passed I could not forget hell’s dunking tank. I began to wonder why I was held under so long, so many times, but always lifted out at the very last moment.
Then I heard a song on the radio one day.
Once there was this kid who
Got into an accident and couldn't come to school
But when he finally came back
His hair had turned from black into bright white
He said that it was from when
The cars had smashed so hard
-Crash Test Dummies/”Mmmm Mmmm Mmmm Mmmm”
During the Vietnam War a little black-haired Vietnamese boy survived a B-52 airstrike by crawling into a hole. When he crawled back out after the bombing was over, he stumbled home in a daze. Within a week or so, the small child’s pitch-black hair began to turn completely white – like an old man.
He had become so scared that it literally altered his molecules. 
Pim van Lommel is a cardiologist at Hospital Rijnstate, Arnhem, Netherlands. His extensive research and some 344 case-studies on Near Death Experiences (NDE) have easily earned him the title of expert in this niche’ and fascinating field.
I decided to take some questions I had, to him.
“NDE’s are life changing events, causing a new insight in life, (and death, of course), and people know after an NDE what is important in their life now,” he says. “Which is not addiction anymore,” he adds.
Statistics show the majority of people who have had an NDE recount it as being very positive, and often they grieve over being forced to return to their body. A very small percentage of the cases, van Lommel says, do not fit that pattern. “The content of one’s NDE is dependent of the state of contact with aspects of one’s own consciousness, so it can be terrifying as well,” he explains. “This happens in about 1 – 2 percent of all reported cases of NDE.”
Terrifying would be a gross understatement for what I witnessed, felt, and experienced in that place. But what was the purpose of it all, I wondered. Why was I always allowed to return to the light? I knew each reprieve was not of my own will. Looking back, I can see the disciplined methodology and strict timing that was involved. It seemed rather cruel and sadistic, I thought.
Harold G. Koenig, M.D. is a Professor of Psychiatry and Behavioral Sciences at Duke University Medical Center, Durham, NC. “There is a study that shows that psychological stress results in the shortening of telomeres, which is the protein that makes up the end of the DNA molecule,” he explains. The telomere is the cell's biological clock. “When the telomeres are used up, the cell dies,” he says.
Molecular sciences have shown that during our life about 500,000 cells die each second. That equates to about 50 billion cells in our body being replaced each year – each year we are 98 percent brand new. The death of our cells therefore, is simply the process by which we age, because each time the cell dies a new one must be copied, and that process shortens the telomeres just a bit.
I cannot begin to imagine how many cells I lost in that place. Yet, that would also mean I gained just as many new ones.
Starving, dehydrated, soiled, and babbling like a dying abandoned infant, I lay there alone. Closing my eyes, foolish enough to believe I was going to heaven, I found myself inside the rectum of an animal; tasting the maggots of hell. “Psychological stress likely contributes to the aging process,” Koenig says.
I now believe I understand.
I was 27 years-old and the time had come to grow up.
Now 40, a father of two, I bear no resemblance to the Timothy Holmseth born June 17, 1968. Sometimes, folks who knew me those years ago venture to ask what happened. I typically reply with a gentle nod and upward gaze.
What else could I say?
I guess “it was from when the cars had smashed so hard.”
Timothy Charles Holmseth can be reached by email at
tholmseth@wiktel.com 
NOt to mention he calls HaLeigh "trailer trash" in his music that he promotes thru his site.
