02 January 2019


2 December  2018.

Oh, I don’t like to paint often, only did several pages of MS this summer because a crew of nice un- married ladies, who liked me amid the cesspool asked me to, and it made me feel tres heavy metal. But, here on a desk now gone I am painting something I’d call Liberalitae, a roman goddess of, what else…?, getting away with it. Funny, but, despite a fetishistic strain among the creepiness, towards a statue of liberty than means nothing to me other than a shocker ending in an ape movie, I did complete her and  got her in an Italian art collection, as an exemplification of America, and too, as a cover of a collection of drawings of liberty,which even though it was anti Trump, they still liked the work.

It was a tough Saturnalia last year, so Id like to get a head start and have a nice Roman solstice this year. It means a lot that the last tweet I was allowed to make on that dying site was that I know this country is the country of Monica , the sopranos and Kordell, and yet, they keep sending me emails asking  me to use Twitter for business, at a price, they studied ethics yonder Brother Bill  , in away  showing  what this country was all about all along.

Last year hot a shit load of image comics from art school era, as I saw something on them I COULD MIMIC AND use, I THOUGHT. I looked at all of them, and found them vital, honest, vulgar and therefore wonderfully comic. I have since then never gotten so much of my work accepted here and there,…

4 December 18.

See, having just went through one of Sweet ole Bill’s favourite books, the Roman diaries, you know, Germanicus, hoo boy, is that a loaded analogy, …yes dear…, I read in old paper worthy of the tale, that one says to a Roman general, never pretend or fake allegiance to anyone, the gods will destroy you for it, and never fain allegiance, as I didn’t have to marry that twat. As having read First in his class, know that Machiavelli junior sometimes only called home when he needed bail. You know why I like Donald Trump, and wish him well, as told some cunt, …see I don’t thinks hes capable or willing or has to save a flagging, flaccid, praetor-ship, presiding as master of ceremonies over a mass grave of plebes, the way other suddenly decent crime bosses had. As I once got a like from poppa Jon Stewart for calling the Clinton's, those pigs, the Duke an duchess of Syracuse, and he liked that, Which means I either got him to look up the Boccaccio tale, or he just got it from the gist.

As I said I do find it funny when  believers in social justice take such a glee in rooting against a black kid at qb if Americas team, as I don’t trust coloreds who don’t  like the Cowboys. In when pride still mattered , a book about Lombardi written by Mariness to get the taste of Clinton out of his mouth, he writes that Cowboy coach Tom Landry and his Giants friend, Vince Lombardi were told by the Maras and the Rooney’s and Rozell to knock it off drafting and recruiting playeres from Grambling, Moorehouse, as they were the first to do out, and the nfl didn’t want , I read, an influx of such players in Ditka land. So, be careful Orange men with antimony, as the Cowboys are saving a league from a doldrums of a dumb wop named Kaeprnick, ands so along with Vincent Price if I was you I’d look up a man named Air CORYELL, as remember when a kid, how Cowboys and Raiders left warm poles and still won, and San Diego never could. Id like to know why #me-too has frosted its share of people who winked at the wrong white woman, I guess Louis never had nuns warning him of the destitute of sexuality of fat chicks as I did, but Rottensberger is openly being said by Prime on Sunday night football round up, he will  find someone to blame for his latest losing streaks. Remember the sophisticated coach of the stealers Chuck Noll, better than his audience, as we all try to be as Roman gamers, wanted to draftee Both Robert Newhosue and Ed Jones and was told by the always stannous parsimonious Rooneys no, both times.

 A nice moment every Christmas week since I was a kid, was the Kennedy Centre Honours. In which a nation my father called a cesspool and a wilderness would put on the pretence of the kind of a county Italy has always been, where laurels always mattered since Ovid. Ask Bill. Italy once stopped Victorian era traffic because a giant amend Verdi lied dying, the ny tiems once wrote an obituary for Tennessee when he was still in rehab.

Again all along my fall, this was a nice minute in which people of merit  were noted by of all people big mouth Cronkite again like say seeing the father of a praetor loser actually like Tacitus place a codicil in a living will that hated president  be acutely right there, fuck you sonny, this is important, the Great Santana is dead, lest his funeral lose it state statutes, and he made sure again, even from the Styx, he was a hectoring patriarch  telling his sons how much he was disappointed by them to the end. As opposed to me who allowed my father to cry at my bedside once, with my eyes as dry as rattlesnake skin. I wasn’t as distraught as Jebby was at the old man funeral, god knows, but, neither did I almost seem giddy as I thanked the sitting praetor as an almost joyful W did, as he seemed to be relived as a boulder weary Sisyphus could ever have been.

Now, have heard not only will new Producers of Hamilton be somehow lauded, as when I was a boy Burr was the Vidalia hero and not the conscript fathers in black face, or whatever its called, but then things aint what they sued to be. And mostly disquieting, was that that creep who has made the bumbling republic a cross between Julius Cesar and a Merv Griffin theme show, will also preside over the worst beatification of the month, and that is saying something, as a slew of self important sash wears will show up to laud of all people, Cher, a relic of a freer age, for her accomplishments in the art of drag. Wow.

Received notice on submittable no less that have gotten into December issues of magazines, not only the second part of Other cities other pillars, but too, some cartoons, actually of playboy Patty showing again we aren’t all so willing to become Spartans, as we hod de do and toddle ooo off to unseen, unwatched, wars, and that somehow us wishes too be Roman satirists and not just be on the pad and the repository, as just saw Arrec Barrrwin of all people, doing his act again, as he couldn’t take a break from this kamikaze mission that festoons itself with italic lampoonery, as frankly were I him, id quite finish with the mugging, as wouldn’t want to get into a reverse Roman Passover, which you Jews are never Goat blooded exempt, as id be quiet before sating aspersions and fake noses sand making faces, lest anyone recall that only moments ago am so unstable that I went violent over a parking spot, showing how venial I really is. There is a Roman Farce however faint in our Spartan victory parade, but is sneering nonetheless.

12 December 2018.

Showing the decorum that has made them what they are today, The Clintons, bless their shrivelled little hearts, at this time of goodwill and charity showed the Juvenal line that even Medved thought in the bible, charity begins at home and at this festive tome went on the road to again shill themselves at a much lowered level of graft then they were sued to selling their parts for.

Ah, but there is a fatiguing quality to evil, and so, a circus that has lasted too long and was too often a giveaway, it seems that tickets are not acutely going like hot cakes, and so they open to empty eats as the calliope crashed to the ground. Even Mother Mo has shown an ability to wash her dank hands of the posers  by placing a piece eon the Times reviling them, calling them names, showing again the nuns were right in their love of Machiavelli as he waned in a book hubby pretends to admire, that avoid ridicule, and ridiculers, because now as it suits her hair flipping needs, she ahs empathy fir Monica, big as hallow as all she’s ever done, as write a more decent eulogy for the dead old Cosmo than she did her own mother , as wont touch that one, all Hillary acolytes despite their mothers, more than the uncles who may have diddled them, an ancient story, and she made a point to encircle the Clintons as she once had their victims, Ah, but they isn’t in power anymore, and worse yet, if not are dead as are some, or incapacitated as are bitumen of the Bushes who find themselves eating tapioca in stroke wards as did the elder men of the ole 1-2 as described in sad detail by the meandering Inspector Lugar, they are worse as clomp from funeral to funeral. Poor Byzantine Bill, Roman I said is out if the question by now, as who would pay to hear more of this shit when we have had a gutful and she allowed her life of Brutus to go from anything honourable to belong Schick for afternoon yaks and midnight frat boy fags on dying television.

So, the times shows it s usual pretence of decency, as they again use their ratty paper to five a living eulogy as they had for Tennessee Williams, writing an obituary for him after a play they were going to savage no matter what, which I read as a 17 year old, called Small craft warnings, which is now seen as a poetic small masterwork, but which was demeaned at the time by them who make middlebrows the closeted thing to Jewish transubstantiations. Sorry Bill, that the climber of people you’re stick with as reluctantly trudged through a Colbert interview as I had for beloved Lauren Graham, and through the uh uhuhuhhhhuhuhs, he is as the Italian said mute when not being vicious, I saw the look that Brother Bill gave him when he dared think he’d sandbag him with the name Monica, if he even said it, or just alluded to a ball of lies, I saw that steely eyed cold, blue eyed, lupine stare that very mint as angered me too coming hen saw him snickered at by a nigger and a monkey faced patrician who lefts broken cement like barbarism, as did he in  OKC, but still a romantic  ruin decked when Isis was not…I saw that look he gave that punk, a look seen just as much as the smirk of Colbert I’d seen at the boys room since literally Cold Turkey as first shown that Friday night ion CBS, and I knew something as over, if it had even started at all. A GLOOMY Lucifer, that moment, BITTER AND SMARTER THAN YOU ALL, NOT AS BIG A compliment BY ME AS it once WAS, STILL YOU ARE A SLOWEST LEVEL OF HOODS NO…?, a look a intake of breath, I saw through a smile will show you as was in that book he mentions cine, The Tempest, no not that one, LA BUFFERA I think it was, it told me all that the time, a last italic poet to make the Nobles committee before it was all handed to black hags and spics who took magic realism and dialect from them and added too much corn starch and buckwheat, your hour has come.

At the beginning of the festive season, a little warmth left to a  wet year coming to and end, we got in an admittedly older somewhat broken down car and went to the Wal-Mart that sits at the top pf a highway I now live at, fulfilling a childhood desire to know the America the trucks were hoeing to,  dream that as now obviously beings saved for those children of the men whose divine comedies weren’t burnt, and who never even thought, as my father alas demeaned, to join any Jew clerked unions when they ere all still socialists.

I rode all the way up  there a probably tenth time since moved here, as am not a big fan of the inferno with slashed prices which is Wal-Mart, another think like republican health care reform, gay marriage, also a republican idler, and Tyson chicken, a going concern that was helped immeasurably as and by a Boss Hogg, having found them a Attlee’s lost preatorium. Although his forth favourite book is Sallust, the good life passages of the heinous Cicero have never been lost on a pig that ran for president to improve his dating chances.

We came into the already busty parking lot and my brother the driver, has broken heels, hammer toes, riddled with arthritis  from a lifetime of playing Bball with the brothers who were his friends  in the days of Connie Hawkins. I had an auger’s instant idea as saw a brown, who buys a brown car..? Jeepish like monstrosity  trying to get as close to the exit as possible, and told my brother  with augers aplomb to let this fat hag have this spot, and go up ways, as I could see through the fat woman’s overlarge glasses making her look like a cartoon of the great  George Woodbridge in mad comix  to life, all scarves and chins and tweed coat, to let this set aside, and yes make a brother who  hurts to walk a bit farther as the fat woman have been on the pad now since given and all clear, as said before all I know is that men who were on television for decades including years of demeaning a brunette gal on television found their black arts of ridicule as comedy made them take the back door out, rather than have to hold Hillary’s dick on national television, which right there should have shown the old bag that hubby’s is still great  at working the phones. Although as I said as have listened to my brother and refuse  to use the qualifier Roman near a word like Bill, I think this was a lot of work, either way, to be or not to be first lady, which makes Roman as a compliment as with me or even as a pejorative  as would be by GE Lesbos and pols scumbags, still seems out of the question.

I knew as much as when he gave a slightly Italianate gesture, that this would be trouble, as fat self important over fed monstrosities as she think they have a victory lap of the last few years, always a mistake as don’t even have the dignity of a last few pages of roman devotion that caused an upset Cicero to demand appendixes from Sallust to  which I  recall he said as I gave said before Trump, that Romans DON’T BLUF--NO THAT WAS HUBBY, THAT ROMANS DON’T TAKE DICTATION, WHICH WHEN ONE THINKS OF IT IS THE SAME BASIC BREAD RECIPE, AS MA WOULD SAY.

Once in I could hear this bloated porcine woman bellyaching away about giving a parking space to a man with a cane and a epileptic, which again earlier this dwindling almost unseen in the rainstorms fall, had to explain to a magazine looking for artwork from the disabled that I sent in  Tonyland to them, and it wasn’t appetent enough that it harpooned as it did in the age of Monica, and age they’d truer forget these afternoon yaks, as it was tough enough being out there for me amid the goofs and unrepentantly childish of comix. Without having been told by some wop who’s  made it the malebolgias and ghettos of cartoons that my Venus and Hercules all looked as I’ve said before to almost hostility from the comic queens, Colored. As said before, parking spaces are like personal fiefdoms the vapid and those for sale.

I hard the hag bitching about how somehow a fat bloated white woman trumped everything and everyone’s else, which my sharper brother could care less and armed with payment and Sam’s club card, we had to at least start to make a mother still alive as nice  a Christmas as one can get as a plebe, which is what  Saturnalia is based on, and why it pleased me to see our Savonarola die, as my father had to , a much moiré stoic and decent man, ask Iggy the Jewish man whit worked with him at the mill, who told him when I was 15, Jimmie we have to vote Reegan, or else this Arab fucker Bush will get in and make us the client state of Saudi Arabia. AH but back then, the Jews were more willing to be honest, before Skokie doth made frauds of them all. I knew there was trouble from this hag, but my brother who would be quick about things despite his Mahogany cane and untied shoes, didn’t much care as the bleating cow as she quaked away. I was , as usual, upset and noted all of it, as John Horne Burns said of the Irish  in the Italian adoring and thus un-filmable Gallery about Naples at war, they stay hurt forever and the italics have a bounce  back in them that shines, like Bill Clinton, I too, amusingly sometimes show up as not Italian enough.

After Shopping, we came out with about less than a hundred dollars in stuff to make the holiday as best as I can, as left more then I thought at a smaller house that was foreclosed in the grovelling age of the Obamas all but Bill wish to return to as we=they can finally get back to travel bans that Whoopee doesn’t even know of much less be televised in her decorative haughtiness to the tenth row of the millionth couch out there in TV land.

When we came out to the car, my brother saw a note attached to the windshield, usually a sign of some sort of accident or something having happened. No, didn’t see any damage, but I went outside to look at saw that it was a old dollar store bill, on which fat little fingers has scrawled an diminution,  not that that fat woman, now mustn’t  the gals by calling them fat or ugly or sluts, I didn’t even know Bill Clinton was sick…again, sorry dears, but am not being censored or lectured to by Jewanals who billed by the Monica joke. Brining the note into the cockpit there, I went around and saw a left behind thing on the blue of the trunk. It was a billfold sort of thing, a accoutrement called in my mother’s golden age of Gummadi and Ladies who lunched a ‘pocketbook.” I quickly palmed it as saw the big truck like fat mobile that had squealed in nearby.

above: MISTER STUPENDOUS. WHAM COMICS page 4. I had kept this pasted back together this way to remind myself my father and the Jesuits were correct, and that this country at it best, as opposed to now,was a nation as a colony of barbarism, where in fact a gift from Italy, the first republic was actually taken and submerged into the Potomac in 1778. And so again I say as said about a comics reporter who hemmed to never give me a break, this guy hates Pogo and Walt Kelly, so what the hell was i going to come up with...? Sorry Bill, you should have run as fast as you could back to some farm, somewhere, as the nuns told me, never treat an ugly woman the way you would a belladonna, as Venus and her mania will always get you for it.

There on a chassis that was not that well kept up, what fat person keeps up anything…?, a relic, but not the sort that Barry the fairy would take a grandmas glee in bombing say, but a relic nonetheless, a smaller than usual political bumper sticker , which should have been a dead giveaway, a blue and white the colours of the virgin Mary as I recall, or was it Minerva, anyway, a lathe H that had seen better days, and a black from soots  lettering Im with her, not as ostentatious as most bumper stickers have been, as I’d seen since McGovern was playing milk toast while telling voters to go fuck themselves when not eerily grinning in to the camera, but then she has learned if nothing else a certain chastised Undrstatedness , has Hillary, since her wedding night. Ah, one of my go to’s, as a line I use often to shut pompous up without having to resort to censorship, as I know the line of Ovid’s that censorship just means the principia is running out of enough money to play enough people to be true believers. Like say, Oh you mean like the Clinton marriage, see…?, or how many likes did Jon Stewart  give you, or my best at shutting you the sanctimonious  coyly now who grieve fir the dark little children whio might die in busses brought you from Marquez land, and who just laughed like clowns while little Palestinian chidden were made into broken marionettes at Jeddah, how many episodes of the Sopranos did you watch…? That one is alas greeted by the same crickets that Bill must be hearing now in echoing, ouch, who saw that coming…?, amphitheatres that are less than Romantic. Sometimes you’re narcissus in Ovid and …

The slip of paper was some embellishment worthy of a Hillary biometry, a lady who over lunches, who was putting on heirs at a wall mart parking lot, but my brother, could care less, as every on like her already with six months of simonising knows and like him as again I am quietly distant. It read that she had a right to that spot, as being white and overfed, the same you’d get from the state department now as a global view as they’d call it as things are different from when I was meeting Hodding Carter, as it turns out the Polish princesses took over the world, cant you just tell…?

He took the slip and crimped it before I could read all of how she was hoying to call the poleese, because someone still like her losing a parking space, such is the world the draconian lace curia old fool just interred gave us with an assault by an Ozarks hillbilly who ran against clemency, don’t mention that to the Times, kids,  and still gits niggers and women to destroy his overdrafts, which as  a Jesuit student could make the argument is unconstitutional, if not unseemly to see a Bloated pig as the portaging of law and order.  8th amendment and all. And I’m not so sure that the Bushes  didn’t push this bit of imperial antimony as they had an inkling that they were about to flood the zone with gimps, whose commercials seen at Christmas time makes me sad for all the fellows that old man burned in his almost Caesarean love of war. But as Byzantine Bill could attest, but who woken us anymore, seems worse than any more Roman love of war, as the boys were always somehow excepted, and only suckers go to the front without armour. He took the slip and crumbled it, and threw it outside, he is already buddies with the cops around here, as an Italian, as was said on Charlie Rose, I am by nature a fascist and yet, hate cops, as said by Polish Prince, see above, Zbignev Brzezinski, Carter’s Vulture, who made Teddy Kennedy run in 1980, as couldn’t abide where the frailness of the democrats was going. So, with a tsk at it all, as this has become a nation where somewhat a fat woman with all that barge and all those nights she sat through prom nights alone gets to put on the airs of a crippled,  to do her shopping at a warehouse store, more easily. It’s a store filled with Christmas vulgarity and over righted ness and yet somehow I still am off put by it as a good Roman boy. I still had the pocketbook in my Cowboys jacket, sure that was a saturnalia blessing and would take full advantage of it at the American GALLERIA.

We stopped at the dollar store, a favourite place  of mine, and many as that house coon pirated over the worst economy in the history of the republic but a rounding error like graph showed us who was winning and whom not, and so, he was justly fine as long as he demeaned both Fox and MSNBC as he did, and  made sure the plebs were always in camps like Occupy and tea parties that Jewish in laws at the times and Comedy central could think were just so vulgar.

I got out and went into the store to buy some xmas saturnalia accoutrements, but saw a pretty thin and thus unsexually appealing to me pixies girl, been speaking to since came up here, a pretty young gal with a nose piercing  and ten fake zircon studs, I am guessing ringing her ears like an African warrior. Hey, Amy, I said, and she nodded, Listen before I shop, I said taking out the ten of the stash, Umn, that basket fill of cheap toys’ for little kids who are poor, I said as she nodded, Here’s ten dollars, throw ten of them in the box, some Barbie’s, some matchboxes, but make sure all the dollies have black hair.

This made her laugh, and she took the bill and dutifully placed the toys, looking for black haired Babies and cars into a large crate that sadly wasn’t even a sixth full and which I had been throwing left over dollars turned to toys since thanksgiving as it made me feel like the Gheppetto that a vicious recoated German nun whose ilk I despise, tried to shame me out of being long ago. I have had enough of that sort, the Hillary Voter, ah there is a unicorn with fat ankles, as said two years ago, after that hunger Christmas that coon made us go through as we now have found out these days, sorry CBS, was undercutting anti Brexist fire arson I guess only his accountant and or hairdresser knows fer sho, something else, as they now do , lifer Rachel Maddox to pretend is fake, again , you see, Like the Clinton  marriage, as I find writing comedy is a natural, once you’ve been as I was, schooled in Jesuitical arguments.

In the dollar store I bought some Xmas faulderal, some small bits of recalled Roman ancestor’s satyr’s day adornments. I had a twenty so didn’t outside of the toys for poor children touch the new principal I had. Usually get some aft supplies for the holiday so forwent any of that even cheap stuff though wanted to get some cartoons done and sent as have had a nice boom let of acceptances this season and would like to submit and thus get more, as getting the equally I enjoyed your work much Anthony, Buts… have gotted on my nerves.

Outside in the drizzle and the swoosh of crass cars hydroplaning in the vast wastelands parking lot, and the tinny mechanized music of the days, I stood at a giant inflatable green xmas tree that again despite its inherent vulgarity, insetting word, it means of the whole showing that greave robber and killer and others have tried to be swells in mother Italia since time immemorial, leave me as a plebe, honestly, cold. I counted the moneys, as my brother went in to buy a subway dinner for us all and only make a light broth for my mother who is convinced such bought foods have been tampered with and poisoned by a nation that we now know were, even in barney miller, playing games with the rat poison called aids as early as 1970, in their new York subway, off Broadway try outs. This and mention of Moscone, are real sticking points in my comics…

I took the wallet, removed the detritus of this fat broad, credit cards, stubs, slips, pictures of her fat ugly ugly children, as finders keeper I think is codified in Roman law. I didn’t ask for your opinion of a car that is being demeaned not far, like many others as a house coon tap danced to the tunes played by the prophet of weeping Water Nebraska as dutiful a chump as he’d ever been, from how they have to drive in Cuba, till the horses legs fall off. And so, showing again, there is no insult to the willing heres I had just found a wallet left mistakenly on my trunk would have easily been a good Joe and handed it in, at Christmas time, told someone, I decide being a real Bitch to make sure that everything she left stupidly and scatterbrained and womanishly hearted to quote Niccolo, on that cars back was gone now for good, So, good luck honey, paying for the crap you came here to buy at the American general store.

I took the credit cards, which having a brother whose friends  have names like Payroll, Leutze, Poppadoc and The Greek, he might have been able to fence for me, but didn’t want him to know of it, no one exactly, as she was scatterbrained and womanish  enough to go out of her way, in writing no less, to take that much time to be that upset about having to  waddle an extra ten feet, and look down and spit downwards at a Wal-Mart fucking parking lot that she thought of as the Ritz. So do suffer now dear, the latest gal of pale skinned  honour to give honoraria to an Italian who doesn’t belong here in away, not that the wasps do, as those insects sting everything everywhere they fly. Know out there, between buffets, like where the liberals lie between pretending they hate war wasps getting talking points from a war consortium and ignoring Korans burned in the sorties, a fat woman’s dying age, car. You went out of your way to demean two men in an older car to get even, like her matron when in fact, the despicable and the undesirables I’m sure looking at her greasy husband was much closer to home than none she lashed out at. I took the cards and the letters the papers, the check book, usually am not like this, but this time, it was my turn to tear up pages sent as a way to me, instead of you,  and  walked to a grating, ala strangers on a train==no what am I saying, my hero, Harry Lime, and the Third man, I tucked this bundle of shit and I hurtled it into an open grating into the sewer, into the woods, into that dis-enchanted  Styx, where all the unnoticed who died at the perpetual militia fronts went where all those who died of aids lectured by Clintons where were still using good old fashioned Syphilis as a VD, where all the books from Ovid to Lonesome Dove pages go that you hate, and from where I saved my cartoons this year published as much as as they’ve ever been. I sent the crap of a fat womanish  life into the under land, the serge of Rivers, which ran through the earth where old man Bush was about to go, and good riddance, I said in the slush. Good luck this Plastic and tinselm if its lucky, Xmas dear, I thought, as she in my eyes deserved it, as no one told you to get out if a car and go out if your way to defame someone, she called our car a sweet ride, which as strange as the dirt and salts hadn’t decadently not seen her sedan now did they…? Who was this hag to try to demean anyone at this Inferno of cheap goods…? Who the hell arte tu bitch…?, I thought and then walked away, as good Jesuit Student.

Answered my own question, with all your papers of transit and card carrying and new found socialists I recall you all never were, certainly not four Christmases ago when imperial Rabbi Medved made a point Saturnalia had nothing to do with Christmas, and the hags at PBS trued to  make the Romans seem like Arabs, in one other deliberate little shows in which they were shown as a kind of Bagdad, which Virgil said Naples was the closest  thing in the west, with belly dancers who all didn’t have the decency as in Etruscan walls, and always on ABC TV shows about suburban witches had the decency to be blond. An unexamined, but bean counted to the last penny, life in the shit hold dearie, you aint nobody tell you get them all back, as again she deserved  it as a Hillary voter who abiding a girl who caint say no. Sonora Fortuna smiled on me this day Kid’s and still have the money in a envelope in a copy of Action Comics M, if bundled fir the holidays, anyway. I got home in time to watch Soap, which was before us all, marked with a parental advisory warning that I once recall the swells and middlebrows demanding and deeming  Tipper for, but then, with all the Rachel’s sucking off the imperial teat, they think we are all on the pad, which the given is we are not, and sooner enough you will be saying to some Vespasian, everything Hillary said was Greek too you, no pun intended, as pretend deviation, dear, is worse than outright hatred, You know, just like in your marriage. See…?

I recall that day she was husked into a van, sickened and scared out of her mind, as an epileptic have been there, but being a no man, I was sometimes taken by nuns to the hospital, as can see still on my mother’s old wedding ring of Italian gold, a notch made by me when I almost bit her hand off, so I know, dearie you were scared to death that day, as they were speeding you in the exact opposite direction of Beth Israel, or even Bellevue, where Id call if I was your husband-- cause you’re nuts! I know what was going through her mind that day she was being whisked away from the press, and now dead Jewish cripple was upset that all their handwork as for naught as it seem Clintons and Bushes need the other and can’t beat anybody else, as Barry and Trump have proven. So, Happy Saturnalia dear, as Id still recall that, I was sure was beachside they didn’t want to catalog the maladies that that marriage has left her with, but a smarter Brother thought it was a last ditch effort at vying  to sue the pity for a fallen hag to get to closer to losers demarcation of fiddy percent.

Once home, I gave my elderly mother the pocketbook as an early gift, this made me feel as Roman as I ever have, as wished someone would have made a movie with a dying old hag like Vanessa Redgrave used in Italia as the English bags have ever been--, no wait take that back, she is and was a wonderful actress, who like me said the word Palestinian to much for rabbis who wore no cloths, and called you vulgar between the pie fights held all with kosher whipped cream. I wished someone had made a movie about the italics which  have gotten even with gross northern barbarians, since  that barbarian trash whiz at upon a Roman throne was soon dead in the mezzagiornio to the Romans had come from, look it up as like a Christmas time chirping daytime Kelley, barware italics named Kelley or Scotty I was warned by sister Cecilia, one of the ones who detested women who weren’t pregnant , serenely, and martin Luther who they saw got rid of the berka wearing nuns that predated Mohammad long ago, who revels in her Calabria-hood, as so did Remus after all. Now the sad panoply of the Romans have been reduced to backdrops on star trek, where even there Jewish Vulcan Leonard Nimoy says to an ambassador, cleverness a word hurled against me though can look Jewish, is beneath a Romulan, a race even in fiction thankfully never became a federation stooge, like say Klingons and Sejanus did.

17 DECEMBER 2018.

So, enjoyed the Saturnalia as much as I could, as now the curia has yearned to a seemingly endless funeral, where a Lethe flows and Rachel Maddox can, for a stipend, pretend that she never heard of crime bills or Willie Horton, when mere American plebes were targeted, as they soon enough be by niggers playing with drones.

The days of the holiday were shown what was what when Trump stupidly, rather decently, tried to bring solders home from their incessant Hike, Back from their hundred years wear, that it seem slag sides are willing to buy into and commit, as when need be, all thoughts of human brotherhood can easily with Jewish aplomb, or is it effrontery…?, be reapplied by again towers on a loop burning down. All of which got less of a shrug and certainly no interpretation as movies now try to blame Chaney for everything, which to my Machiavellian lent ear is worse than had Bush just been vicious himself, as he heads for a limbo for never having fought for anything that couldn’t be installed while he still in the gym.
Again there’s nothing about the bushies I haven’t seen in Cornelius Tacitus, or better the don is dead. As saw the youngest son so distraught about having kept the Principia down, we almost had a Hillary Regime, because of his fathers mean need to trash everything connected to that vulgar, Roman adoring, President what dared raised a hand to him, who gets weathergirls like Nora O’Donnell to weep for tyre Leader, ITS WEAR WE GET Tyrant, who made it to the elaterium all true to his graver robber ethics. He is a orphan and alone now, fittingly, as the dumber brother seems with a weight off of his shoulders as the earnest Santini dropped dead and demanded a train carry his body through the hinterlands as a one term Lincoln who fell to a conspirator who heard either too much, or not enough, plays about Caesar.

Take him away, Charon, a little travelling music Uncle Sam, a cartoon image I used to beat them all too years ago when again televised yentas didn’t even hear about UNESCO defamation, much less cared. So, burn in hell, Savonarola, where you belong for giving us Clinton as much as anything, as Willie Horton showed a little schemer with delusions of Sallust that any conniver= err with confederate flag pin, could be president, and as my brother told me, the Jew York times isn’t about to let you make people remember when Maureen and Howell were duping yeoman’s work on that Virgiless black ship of state. A gal told me some hag there called this remark racist … want isn’t now that Gandolfini is dead and somehow we laugh at a crying Jordan for a black Brutus more than Jesus who still calls himself the goat when not speaking of Jew cash and little Harve’s, on the same said as Arrc Baldwin, all hands on deck, ouch, asks openly and shamelessly maybe Le Bro didn’t understand the hemorrhoid like sensitivity Jews have to being called everything that Jason Alexander is willing to pantomime. This was about the time that I got forty years to the very almost day that Mister stupendous was accepted by gals who don’t like marriage and a guy who revels in pin ups, another thou shall not as priestesses of war  lectures us from the war nest, but it shines my charms. I Placed a curse on all the anti Trumpeters when received that colourful paper back in shards, meaning what exactly,…? Forty years later, and am still having Romances torn up by Sapphic overawed and not washed enough hands…I put a curse on you then, and as your curia fall apart, shows the Romans understood magic more than any barbarian in Roman drag or a brooks brother suit ever could.

In the week of Roman Saturnalia, no less, a self censoring temple of middlebrows called Tumbler made a point that like circus, art of women naked is verboten in the new Duchy Reich, as somehow the 46 percent of old wives who gaited for the stargea, as ma calls her, thinks it is Go time ,as losers always do. I did get a girlish image censored, done in 1995, I’d try to forget these days too, but did defend myself, as did Albert Brooks, and go it back up, as censorship is big talk from the people who gave us the flicking Star report like a newspaper insert, like vulgar version of the Spirit, or comics, as art and circus and all things Roman are to be excised, which is funny coming from a place eager to have perpetual war for perpetual peace.

The bodies of Venus are now verboten at one of your upturned social media rocks thanks to you know whom and blame, I mean, remember to thank Gertrude, a pejorative I’ve sued since grade school for a hated nun,  for being the ultimate bad loser despite as I said. Having lost, as she has, since her wedding night. As did see already the season marred by a bag woman at the times pretend their crimes weren’t her own, or at last, as the Italian playwright would say, admired for them, which is just as bad. So the body of a Wendy is to be censored, as the bodies of men being blown to bitts are ignored as they might show up and make false note during a late night drunk who is playing twister and reading tweets as free material with Mila Tunis, and somehow, that goy is beating the seething Cassius Pinky, as not long after a mea culpa about being too much like Jack Paar with Nixon, and decorum, Lil Stevie awoke to a full page ad in that rag in Medici gold leafed thanking that sweaty rummy for beating the Saul at his own loaded dice. And the sin was again Oviddian committed, he is a bore as all true believers always are, ask Daniel Shorr, showing again, you ignore the Roman playwrights at your own detriment, as again, just like the Clinton marriage.


17 December 2018


(TOLD BY MY BROTHER TO CHANGE WORDS HERE AND THERE AS HE IS SURE the swells just love thinking we all talk like that anyway.]

As opposed to things I blizzard over the INTERNET , like 5, the death of Ritchie Brockleman and The Plautus Project, I only sent the previous post to three people, two of whom turned it down. Including the new York times as a shocking email I got in, which a I presume black, or mixed race, editor as the TV gumbaJews call them now that their’s is no need for a Sopranos reunion. An editor named Lauretta, like a first grade nun I had, sent me an email asking if I could send in something to remake their stance on race, there been the sneering articles of ex sportscasters, the unread gist quotes from Aquinas from priests like Brooks, and of course the Bulgari ads I noted in a from hunger Xmas that Barry couldn't be either with ever to care.

I had a Xmas album a nun gave me as a prize as a kid, in which Peter Paul and Mary who I’ve seen everywhere lately, even reruns of Jack Benny, did that sad song about hay pennies and Dickensian, yuck, squalor, I prefer Manzoni’s poor girl taking a gaunt cow to market with a  ragged rope, which as a carol, if it can be called that, that was taken out of Barras golden age Christmas rotation when something called Guido the Xmas donkey, of course, was not. So this was turned down, all in  all, a gal I was dealing with, who I prefer to deal with, as have no intention were I on CBS to get coffee between a head writer taking out his dick , as would look for the next Susan Harris before firing a  woman for early telling me warning, will Robinson, don’t become Mort Saul if you can at all help it. They sent me a follow up email, from what appeared to be her husband, a joke above sued to some disdain, but there you are, in which he said I had a distinctive voice, a good style and all, but too many grammatical errors and too ,many typos made it un-publishable, but send more, as did the same refrain as an Asian gal who called me an anti Semitic for showing in Ocopillars, I had Shelley rather be dead at the round fleshy knees of a Mullally Doppelganger, than leave his Kim Hunterish Lois lane gal for life in the warded Jews invaded Westchester with a cigarette voiced Blythe spouse, and all her guttural interiors.

Actually, most of my typos, but not all, are purposeful, as the nuns who taught me English better than any white woman do now, commas alas, they told me are for Lutherans. Still, I did get some, as do each Christmas, get a nice booklet of acceptances, as Mention of Saturnalia goes a long way, and do get Arabs and lesbians, Jews and other trash to admire me, not despite, but because of the Roman-ism I show, as some are starting to think at least my brother as right when he thought all along by the way, since the night he saw the Jesuit on scholarship, no one demeaned gathering menace was his uncle, openly sandbagged Micheal Dukakis for the now dead Savonarola, that my brother thought Clinton was a big fat pig. And no none that much of a coward does anything but die a 1000 times, this time, next to a wife who he wishes had died first. I did get something, somewhere always a triumph, including the story Other cities other pillars, decried by another husband who wasn’t impressed, but said send more, to which my brother said, a Jesuit student better than I was, first send a retainer, bitch.

I did refInd Works on a disk again, where I do my best stuff, as was writing eulogies for Biggy that night that almost got that prissy bitch's attention that day in August, now with a new senator, aren’t they all…? As again my brother was not shocked we were taught by men and women lovers of Boccaccio, that now dead priests of imperia didn't at the time notice were dying as much as I did, that self appointed Lois Lane-ish, the gal senator for television magic shows, Kloblashar, some self inaugurated queen of paradise island, was instrumental in making sure that Senators wont  have to pay for any intentional groundings, clippings, holdings or another infractions that would be best drawn by Jack Davis for magazines long gone. She, still after so many episodes on Raquel as our national scold, makes a rapprochement now that the senate doth cleansed itself of a comedy whiter, who showed no respect, at all,  for the people whose mausoleum this once was. Or like Ozarks pigs ran against them, in mid marginal pandemic, ala GIOVANNI’S ITALIC COMEDY, as no extra rights for dying fags was a Hill they were once willing to die on, if you’d be kind enough to recall. Never idle hands the old bag now writes to little kids telling them at this time a narcissus thinks mostley of themselves more so, Yes Virginia, there is a Lucifer, and I married his brother in law.

I did get accepted into a  magazine purposefully looking for satire no less, as my hatred of Colbert, pre Trump, what isn’t…? reanimated with some, as get Mister Stupendous again as cover called “Bazooka Joe” in, a variant I haven’t scrubbed  here, a Venus, and a bunny, with which I’ve done well, in a land that portends its Salem, but with a dying Livia and her finally leashed husband having to slash prices as they do one last wild west show. They shoot Trojan horses don’t they…?I did see Maureen Dowd, no less write a sad little eulogy for the Lunts, the Clintons as they live out their act to the end, as even she now admits again I was right and that a cleared Monica, as even Peggy Noonan is amazed to  think what thief house everything’s like Wrangle, and others that Barry get in jail, would be so willing to decry a woman, ah but by now all the bribes that cretin got, no more Roman Bill, as i vow, it means something too me, as my brother said and finally agree, this is no Roman, even that bribed Dowdy sees now Monica seems a victim and more decent than these tow pigs, who she now admits, their largess and corruption is a stain that even she cant wash away, as they had in a Beatification ceremony for dead old Buuuuush, that as the essence of American Plastic.

I got a picture I have scrubbed away from all my sites, admired even at the New Yorker to the point their cartoon elicit-or sent me a website to go to and find out what they are looking for, but as the person passing on Vanities said, its not the time to be a Roman mad man at the only triumphs the curia has left, the funeral where the paid mourners grieve for a pace between the detergent ads and the weather reports they snorkel through. People shamelessly weeping for old Cosmo, our Savonarola, allowed to die of old age, the fire as a schoolboy me noted, befits him, as was draped in the flag he portended to be the champion of against Greek hands, so eagerly and shamelessly. I was to know from one if the people I sent it to, that at its posting it at 9 o’clock the day that cretin died that beat the Times to Willie Horton, and speaking of shutting off microphones at a debate no less showing a  shamelessness I as an Italian have seen since time imperial from stable boys who have stolen their way to decency. I wonder if such could happen, can one imagine what the coming feared and resented  death ceremony old Billie  the kid be like, could you even do that Beatification ceremony, the kind that made me bristle as a boy that refused confirmation, as you all didn’t, with a straight face, but then wonder  if anyone would even bother to go. As I read both Livy and Levy and thus am shocked by nothing, after all.

I got my Patty bunny cartoon in, nicely in a magazine devoted to satire, so f you, that hag who thought I didn’t know what satire meant, as that’s not what the Jesuits who made me read Juvenal thought. I got her in, as if my Venus is Wendy Fiore, my Vesta, as in the goddess, who doesn’t speak her name now that the sissies have left Ovid for the Hoppa, ouch, how Clinton, double ouch, had been accepted, as she glimmers with italic sexuality, as that italic fleshy goddess did as my boyhood Beatrice, and she speaks to a fat bloated senator I made all ermine and fifty cent cigar, was he wears a sash that says a truculent, ironic, Et Too…? I’m glad I got that all in, as when I get ten, fifteen, twelve, dollars for art  to me it’s a triumph, and not pennies I’m getting from Gripuon. This old bag Mother Mo as I’ve called her, the nerve to call it a tragedy, what the Clintons are doing, its just more of the same old lady, this time, they are out of wire transfers to send you to make you think its still a comedy, as commedea past long ago, and that joke book is been censored admiringly after Brother Bill memorized it. It’s a pity she said. No, Its, Like, a pity.


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03 December 2018


A Patrician is a man whose grandfather stole much more than your grandfather ever did.--J.Caesar.

1. Given the importunity to write about race,and Christmas and connectors therefor, I have been told I do that well, as write well about Xmas but by reducing it back completely to the the Roman Holiday, Saturnalia, as too often one in power finds,a as Caesar said,the Romans are ungovernable. And priests of all manners adopts can always rethink things with a Nicene council saying,did we say VIRGIL must be burned, …? Shit, Negroes , WE MENT OPEN IT AT ANY PAGE AND REAED your future,as every con job,especial those with angels have a floor which must be scrubbed by maids and or presets,as the case maybe.So,every Christmastime, I say here in a line have been told is beguiling,reminds me of Rod Serling.

That’s cute,a gal told me,but it is true, as each Christmas has been a better or worse reciprocate if not pale imitation of Christmas 1974,that annus mirabalus I have been unable and unwilling to deal with,when I rued the fork in road as one of your navigable dago clowns said,I didn’t catlike take it, and just sort of stayed where I was,over and over again.In1974,Rod Serling,off of his pompous and dialectic Twilight zone,like an eldest brothers beloved EC comics, which molded my disinterestedness as much as a Virgil ever did,each story ends with the reveal of a black man -pretty girl,it was earth all along, or the pawn ticket was in a coat the wife gave away to the poor.etc.

And on that Xmas, when I was somehow as a boy,merged onto a difference part, soon made worse by a German nun right straight out of Manzoni,and me without a Lucia,as did Roman Bill,I ado-rated the Roman Gide known as Lynda CARTER, and when  SOME cartoon hack took umbrage at a Greek amazonian,called that by me,Gods forbid,making her look Greek means unattractive somewhat, ouch, is she Greek,I asked…?,where exactly where is Paradise island,cause I don’t thinks its San Torini,I sniffed back,then don’t name her Diana in the books,as again,roman affiliation is the only ones you all really believe in. I haven't heard back sinze.

During that Christmas, when the interloper me as a boy being told to go to the church to fetch things, as was bigger than most of the ninnies of that semi private school, nigger than all but the polish girls, I had found myself, as said,trespasser and transgress-er, inserting myself unawares into a crowd, into a requiem for a Sicilian stooge, American dream come and now gibe, the true-ley Manzoni-esque, middle-ages, death Holiday for a doge,a funeral for a villain,in which a mafia don was being laid to rest,days before that Xmas.and THAT  EFFECT one was hard to calibrate, as all the crown vics and double parked Caddys and black sedans outside and all these hanger-ones of a fed-oared, still double breasted,soon enough to be the last American film Western nation, the American dream I was goated towards,  despite any future acceptances from Georgetown, where now George Will wrests his death ledgers with a pissey pen,  and extras in a Scorsese movie made me chilled. And atop that had just seen a first marvel comic, in which the scenes of new York as a dirty un- Capotean place, and as I recall daddy Green goblin had to reprehend liked Peter Parker,because the son of Osborn was laid dying again, or so some such flop,well if it wasn't for John Romitas brilliancy would have tossed that edge of night shit away,as sorry none if it is really that Good. Undesirable frigidness came over small,well big for my age,me,and I never quite recovered,even as to a father wondering the rest of his life, what happened to me in 1975 when decided I DIDN'T MUCH CARE about this Constantine horse shit anymore. 

Then,at that season, saw a show called Night Gallery,even more to the venial and vulgar than twilight zone had been,as believe me no one of the thievish hoorers had Gore Vidal as a patron,as in my boy days,Rod had left indebted, and behind the gaudy world of Requiems for heavyweights,around the corner from Marty and the drunks of wine and roses, and left Reginald Rose and his capt Kirk as defender long behind, to do this mush, now seen on a free television station.Back then, saw during Xmas, a story about a boy who could make it snow or some thing like that,written by Bradbury, I think, who'd have his own imprecation to stolen green laureateship. It was narrative by the beloved Virgil of mine of film,Orson Welles,as with so much,again I having to just stay there not in what was soon enough to become a cesspool pale imitation of Pompey, where cone the meat-heads survived the pandemic I would all become first willing and bale to put the airways through hand picked sissy and nance ‘s where early bombing Roman ruins,not that anyone ever cared.

So, soon enough had to deal with what I had to deal with, but that show had its effect on me, with the grand voice of a one time Brutus,at least when that still mattered, giving our thesis slop a heft it didn't deserved as saw better twists in dc comics then recall owed to refrain how a sanctimony is everything but seeing the cashola that those Warren comics made,imagine if we do the blood in living red comic book ink, a color page, a joke I made when I met Marv Wolfman, I think it was, in a sisters office at an art school, which to this day is credited in a site begging for apists and tracers of Jim Lee, who still says to the misbegotten ,don’t tell us about how you cornered Stan Lee, they say ,in the men room at a con.No, I did email back,it wasn’t Stan lee, hes effectiveness is not on my resume,as the associated gent who was merely there tiding as a DC recruiter ,which by the way once was advised by sister Barbara Ann told me about abortion and its vacillates would mean that sorts like the Clinton's and catechists whose father was beating them, and faint Legacies now they give three hours funerary Requiems to with limited commercialism interruptions, long last Carnal knowledge as play eucally againg junior miss anchorwomen in duding television, had fathers who beat the Mercury theater and Caesar in modern dress, there on the radio, by being a ventriloquist…on the Radio, that-is…Oh,they ,she told me as a lesbian Sybil there by the blackboard, again why I dropped various Rachels as a friend and not vice versa  despite the overfeed Bologna screeches of fat chicks, will bother us forever.As their duding scenes of Cammile, if not Cammlius, will be unbroken to their end. I took the aide of a little boy making it snow, or whatever it was that what I took it to mean, and made a conciseness attempt in which a little boy finds a spaceship and a magical Phlibobium, some macguffin bottle thing said is since the Decameron, hell since Arabian knights, and recharters Stan, and his comics in his own image, as I was doing, meaning a roman clearinghouse and a Venus in all of jack Kirby's dishwater anti communists. 

[Bazooka Joe. Originally drawn by me in 1977, one of the pages torn up like so much apostasy by a Germanic hag lesbian nun, who my Jewish yenta neurologist, Auuuudddreeey, told me i should have busted that hag bad, but left it as so much go. A gal noted that an interestingly similar image is sued by the decrepit and decedent, i love when can use that word about white people, DCU, a Shazam Movie, to explain a boy hero. Looks better when you did it Tony, she said. Tell me something I dont know, dear. Captain Marvel was a name come up with by an Italian immigrant named Costanza, ah remember the Golden age when even Tuscans were clowns, as opposed to serous as tooth ache now. Captain Marvel, now renamed as the magic word, was cine a chunky, stocky, everyman who had the goofy masculinity of Fred Macurry, and has now become a vapid, frigid, blond hag ready for warfare, a;ways. Humnnn, its what you couldn't do to the term President Clinton, thank God. ]

Along with Rod Serling as a father Xmas comes natch in that vein,Charlton comics, Shazam and the story about eating jello and cape man, a whimsy unwound and even disdained in the upper crust comics hack world of today, I fell sad to think there such a thing as that. Where Captain Marvel, ah the Marvel who lost, whose outfit story and name comes it as good as any heroes by and Italian immigrant named Pete Cosntanza, a name now forever tarnished as somehow a buffoon and Tuscan, Jerry did Yo-mans work in a show about nothing much, an Oscan is our latest whinny Jew,wow,is now in Stan's bestiary, is a cold frigid blond woman, arnet you alll…? and not the pudgy, affable red suited comic hero he was,which thank fully as a metamorphosis heh,that wasn't taken to the title President Clinton. Oh, girls, I can be a bitch.

And, I usually take off much of December , trying only to get things already done placed, as did last year with a Venus, old enough to have been a pen and ink of Patty Fairinelli,a breathing of life and aromatic color into a Nagle, as Audrey called it, done by me as a fifteen year old,  and a story about a witch called “On the mount of the moon,in which I tred to return the eggs of the hypofriff too the nests of Ariosto’s, away from the tamperer who was eager and willing asthey have been since fairy Queens to take the songs of sunny Italy and try to reprint them in barbarian un roman language, on that middy unhappy, island.

2. As with my own father, am glad to see that the Patricians can lose a father during Saturnalia, Roman curse perchance…? As like the poor Neapolitan peasant I was, the first of the noble savages the lace curtain cowhands with belief in, and admired as they blued gates around the Villa-novas, the Bush crime family ash to deal with a Patriarchy death as did my own.So happy Saturnalia to you all,Jove bless us everyone,as said found it tacky, a word from boyhood I’d like to bring back, as the lesbians start their page burning, to know a man,an interim pro temp one term nobody, an interregnum, yuck,was on the shores of the Styx, working the phones for Trumps appointee to the Supremes, staid there as he was in the deep water warph for Charon. Something tells me Virgil wasn't there this time,and the greyhounds frolicked as the old coot stood there,as said,hope as I did with Mohammad Atta,buzzards of a feather, a Minreva was there to kick drop him into hell.Hey youre not the only people who can spit on graves, as recall almost broth to tears Chris Matthews the day Gore Vidal was dead and on cue, our anti-Jessel,as he will do for Poppa Bush, will be there to say I spit on your grave.Although power is all to a patrician and too a praetorian,by definitions,to say nothing of a vaulter of a sheepskin from a shithole that openly abused Bruno, so maybe hell hope we don’t recall he said of the now ex-mendacious and beautified Bush poppa, that maybe  nobody will note who the taller one than he he was, though i dont trust our best Lucius will let a corpse go unmarred.

May I recall that still un-cold daddy,pro-generator of praetors as well as any Flavian,that I was,as a true Jesuit student and maybe not the only one,horrified to see a ninny run for Caesar who was beirn with a silver spade in his mouth, someone all wised to somehow not know anything about Iranamuck, or Boland amendments, shit even Barry the god HAS THROWN AWAY THE findings of the Starr--no wait, that's Billy the kids, ex Patrons and A AND E,  Church report, as we openly now seek and say about regime change, finding Herod's where we get them,and twats it, a slur unidentified by the new midnight Tommy smothers on no less than morning television, so Fuck you van doren! And yet, despite his deliberate fog,a  Cicero lie like the kind Goldwater likes, still able to run as some Reagan helper and who knew, why voodoo economics,that's would be racist now, you know that the Sopranos is off,all now somehow squashed if not cleaned as his the triumvirate is laying it on thick, least until Trump goes, and all goes back to a comedia dell arte substrata and cons, was better than he thought it was,exactly  after he wasn’t planning in any more uppermost Catchers in the rye.Well I’m not Bill’s pimp or an imperial in law or a morning weather-girl so I don’t have to,as its been since the country field mice of Umbria, machines of Horace , I don’t have to pretend anything. 

May I recall how horrified I was to know that an on its face throughout illegal ideal,making an amendment to stop the rampages of standard burning,wow,obvious unconstitutionality,but in comedy,its only what doenst get a laugh,Orin politics a bribe,that makes anyone boo.Can  I recall a first perpetual war against the oldest cultivation one earth,bombed to perpetuation,whaling for looting to fill the coffers of the Moma, and other black marketeers which the beehives of Kennebuncport have called a core demographic since Himmler,a family friend. Mr. Vidal, Howard Cosell and Stan Lee upon their death's may I recall the unfull incinerators not ashed to the ground as the Bushes they make Consiglieres of us all,and the unregulated Genco, Jim Baker, fixer popery extrodinarre, always had with rapacious  Monsignors smile, why my elderly mother loves Stewart and hates Colbert is that fantail grin as opposed to Jersey lost-ed-ness, he always had 4 and twenty buzzards ready to pounce from the pan. May I recall today as our  eternal funerals are for all those who start wars and not who fight them, ouch, Roman I am, so eat that girls, Willy Horton no less…May I recall that name, or has he and his spit been cast out of the tweeter Purgatorio by now too…forget him  did you gals…hey, I learned at the knees of masters, hoo boy, may I recall a black face as sued as no  Nixon ever did, race bath-rooming as aloud as it always has been at Yale, as when the rich do it,  it must be okay,…Nixon once got 40 percent of the black vote, explaining the impeachments of men, Billy you see only got like forty percent and these tenements cost money, or they would cost more if not Blockbustered well,…anyhow,continue the requiem,boy,as a priest dead by the time i was 18 would say with aplomb and stadium admiration haven't much gotten since aids made white women of us all. 

Who needs larger voting blocks…?,Bush thought, as hes been against making that tent bigger  too palais for an tactician him since Reagan got the ethnic scum that first time, as there are alas ex hags and lesbians like Hillie who want to get into the DAR. That all telling little Richie Rich Bushie although that is ever done,they Venetian gentry hadn't stolen as much as they'd think,to his own dismay about black sheep Bill,he and his paralleled lives low rent crime family didn’t steal half of what Germanicvs did in less time,but then,he has lace curtain attributes that barefoot Marius never has. May I recall he tarnished a first ethic man running for a Presidency, you Barry did leap frig a lot of Jews and wops,well that Cheaney blood will tell out, really the Greeks and Poles and the Italians will hold Barry the fairy against you, whether you like it  or not, as Machiavelli said, there are real worlds and  then the fake topography of Dante, which is noble and thus false, or as Tennessee said, what if on the other side of the moon and then the cener  oif the earth, what if there isn't a noble Comedy, but a couple of joke books. I hope Minerva is there old man,to drop kick you into the ice like a Italic gal,  a mix between Wendy Fiore and Ray Guy. And heard some are saying already in our everything must go fire sale of a republic, even saying this is a tad much with the retailer imperial  deathbeds,not done for Reagan,Rosalyn nor Nixon,though Billy did bill for a sermon for that one,Jessel lives in him,still,when Major Garret now cleaned of Foxiness,and like a blond hag gotten to a “three letter network”,as she said before the fall, well when that cretin is your Antinnny,it seems this isn't a Roman tragedy as much as an old coot finally died of consumption. 

I felt as a self appointed Roman satirist amid the creeps who brought coffee to broad jumper Louie,that should say this in a land where I’m not certain George Will will dip his squalid anti Jesssel fruitiness, as his poisoned pen, like all kitsch quills aint as mighty than the swords  whose bidding it does. But I did see, as Saturnalian nights as in Lucian and Seneca apparitions, as roman and Italian tale predating penny dreadful hack Charles by millennia, ah, the curse if Italia, did see prideful anti Paar Colbert dancing around as he does in lue of writing, and I just had am inkling out was all hollow and empty, sound and fury signifying here’s a word from our sponsor, which can be it n hold as I know as an Italian only so long before the bills come  do and then, well, your sanctimony is less than nothing.

I had an inkling or a entropy,a loop repelling, and don’t know why it was all hollow and mouthy and shrill and empty, words no a white woman like Colbert can ever be called , more so than ever, as it bored me to think was living under the end of the republic lives over a fat bloated pig and his husband Hilarity, a sissy ninny who bombs Roman ruins, really Bill, I’m not kidding youll have to take a side on that one,sorry,you said you're True,as if…I didn't…as grandma or uncle Dick would,and the erst of the lace curtain,I find they hate that, patrons up o from graves they robbed like in unknown and thus un-burned Manzoni seem to be be en masse returning to hell by the week. I juts going the free channels,I like many haven't given a dime to the Brutal Caucasus of theirs, through to watch enterprise as I do entirely for the girl Spock,as such thinks they know jyts by how they utilize her who them are here to see, as they have Roman since the dancing girls, saw this fool who now that the Cowboys are getting pre Pa-trot numbers,all cons are time limited until  no one cares or wants to anymore, numbers that are pre Kapernick again,maybe  CBS wont be allotting him to do anything after the Superbowl as I told his patron Jewvenal, the American credo isn't something in creepy Latin as stall-wort lesbians on war TV would say, she now bigot of course ,she can't be, is anyone at NBC…?, but is in fact, what ever it is we aint married to it.

3. Now I don’t say this burnish my cred as an auger,as to do that need merely say as a hunch player in all things, especially betting, when got a 10 rimes qualifier at a bear-ley attended betting site, asked if I’d put some shekels on a weeknight game, saw, through a natural interactivity , that I just knew Gongaza was beating the dreaded Dukes, who like the Patriots and not the more Americana Cowboys, is a team you hate to love. I put five dollars in it, told my brother it was two,cause it is Christmas I thought,and fallowed my hunch that Gonzaga was kismet am,was absolutely sure that the ass kissed K was going to lose, as if saw it in a copy of Roman lives or ATREOLA poems,again predictable when trying to burn it, ones pasts really wants to deal with and thus as it is said,queer the deal,and being a bagman entails knowing when like a Clinton democrat when things are to allowed in.Hey, Im not the roman schoolboy who now has had an affair stripped across a week like Rich man poor man or Masada,now am I…?

So,Christmas reminds me of old comics,bent and colorful view-masters,four colors inks and toys that at least to me didn’t need to whirr and spin and light up as those got in the way of a lower middle class boy never rich enough for mafia princesses and chiropractor brats in a Catholic dungeon,that made me think as dc could come to allege its all true.Suddenly,Fred flint-stone is real, or realer, no whimsy of a laugh track in a cartoon, much less a Henry Mancini cool track, somehow, as maybe a father was right, and Hannah Barbra is getting it as all wops will. Meeting with Monoliths in the Alleghenies suburbs,sublime and satirical when I did it, is now just another crisis moneybag.And Stan-lee didn’t deserve to be sliced by one of the imperial  hyenas now made to sit shiva as your anti Trump programming does have a stunk of vendetta and Sicilian death as the Jew York times latent crisis, much like declare the Clinton's, has to admit that this was the best black Friday in 18 years,when that other pig as in a now dead Mars perpetual sites. So, old Cosimo is dead and good riddance,as I wont cry on command as some papergirls in new Judea media where hard sell is our only devotion.

I will remember that Old man Bush acerbated racial distentions that weren't even there as bad,facilitation of an age of crime bills and race besetting that he seemed to affiliate,and which brother bill found as easy as pie to get throughout a senate alleged as Democratic, ha. He was deputy sanctimony from the pencil sharpeners and stuffers of envelopes , worse than any Trump ever did,see to the Medici its always the Italians they look down on,as Juvenal,as you should have read it,Dr.Evil and Jonnny, was always on the side of the proletarians that Ludmillas and Bars always distemper, as the sonny-boys pit on German armor always recalled by the trash that kick them out. About American blacks,he didn’t care, they were worse than any immigrants now to cry for,so don’t overwrite this epic I saw with my own eyes, im not on any drone makers Christmas card list. the duke and duchess,wont get into that, as he eyed an opportunist in alas trashing the people, Americans and others like Willie Horton,showing again,you don’t need a wall at any boarder when you already live in the cul de sac as late in and Sicilians are fine with mops and rags,to the Bush in laws, its juts the knives that scare you-so.Sorry,not as poetic  as I can be,as find people like me as a Juvenal more than a Virgil or dare I say an Ovid,as that sound you hear is in another requiem witch dottoree cure from Areezza Garbulli,as the white women try to now schnoorer Charlie Brown,good luck, girls, not this  banquet of rancid eggs and hard bread from liberals who screech about the deficit made me get achita, and I  beg off.So,bury your father in a land of saturnalian and tinsel, and booze in colorful fifth boxes,as I did,and I am too Roman to send men unto war without armor, I dodnt bomb a divine and exquisite roman ruin like an ISIS Captain, or throw men in jail withhold parole ah what Willie was about running against parole,how bout that girls, because my masters want something else.Hillary is a bloated idiot,but Bill,ah there's the rub. He fears the ice of the in inferno as has always seen incoming.Take the old coot and hurl him into the place where the dragons lay their eggs,and leave us be with your perpetual old man stink needs to be vindicated, as you lost to that dancing pig,I didn’t. That sound you hear is a roman schoolboy twinging rock salt at the wall with both hands,a s a  money moment of green laurel might ahev bene the best and all he was looking for to begin with anyway. As I wasn’t being thrown off anything or censored when called those two Ozarks pigs, the Duke and duchess of Syracuse, which got a like from the Daily show,showing that I got Jon Stewart to look up the Boccaccio, or he just figured the reference out himself.As I wish Donald Trump well, as he has never seemed to save his flailing,flaccid, regime, like more noblemen, by presiding over a mass grave of plebs. All I knew is that in the redux that all is now, that Attcius Finch was once played by a man fresh off of being Audrey’s consort in beloved and yet sprawling gray Rome, hero to at  Holiday and now Is a fat chubby fuck who was Olbermann for Sorkin ,sadly, showing again, maybe a cleaning fre wouldn't do this stage or the Clinton marriage real good.

Earlier than ever has,my brother gave me a Saturnalia gift, without wrappings one never being a stolen day,the 25th from a barbarian Mithra's,but for the gods of our Roman thoroughfares.It was a copy of a Mad, filled of Don Martins and marginal drawings that we all loved as kids about Xmas.Decently and with  a kindness, he was certain to keep the saturnine holiday well, as will try to do as best as I can a lovely Roman Holiday amid the barbarian fires as barges send out decadent mens bones alight in to the cold sea. They were pages meant to stoke, fires burning in me as when our father died we didn’t begrudge anyone listening to jazz as Snoopy ice-skated.