1. Saturnalia brought with it, as it usually had for me since 1974, a bittersweet quality which I have been told I can use in my work. Though this was the year that Bleeding cool actually had the audacity to pour through someones private emails and publicize them for entertainment, ethics found at Chris Matthews salon. Its not that I should have really cared, as was told I dont sue the fake faces of Virgil's defining , much at all, and that in fact, I pretty much say as I believe anyway, even doubling down on occasion anyway, so they didn't quite get the gotcha that they had hoped for, as like their owner manager they try so lionheartedly to hold on to some elites position, spitting downwards, as in this lapidary empire spitting downwards is in fact all that they even have.
I did receive a shit load of admiration's, however, though, even from those who wouldn't use my work for their own compilations, and yet still they were moved to send me a note,as the Asian girl in magna did, that I was doing something other than the shit that comes from people who think Tarantino an auter of the Wellesian sort. I spent much of the Holiday in a stupuer of sorts, not drunk or high, just sat there as said and imbibed in the Harlequin Mona Lisa lips of the vavoomy Kat, a new beloved, and even enjoyed the game plucky Cato like Caroline as she appeared willing to do almost anything, to galumph and clomp, and spin and fall all for a laugh, a lovey turn from a type of woman whod you figure was afraid to mess their hair, and is a attribute one hasn't seen on television since the equally pretty and yet willing Elaine on Seinfeld. That New York seen then seems to return even in the names of clerks here, as Elaine was like them both now, as women have became as dull as fags have become, so good and decent it is almost off putting. The two thigh centric dressed woman who too, was loveley respite from the Lemonade made by barley pretty woman like Tina Fey, who amusingly thinks deep down she is some sort of pin up doll, a Betty page with that Roman joke book I have seen before, the oldest comedy sill known to man if one doesn't include the Jewish bible.
2. I sat there most of December watching these pretty girls sashay and lumber and gratefully pratfall into each other as they have a true chemistry, which of course, like love itself, is based on chemistry, but then what isn't...? I never went back to that drug store where I was somehow targeted, not wanting to bother or be bothered again, as again started to grumble and resent the various bleeding cools and others who have always been at def com one when dealing with me, as if I cared or worse should. and thus left the tree for Christmas in ways it was, which all in all wasn't that bad, as arranged the balls and lights to fill up the front and pushed it up against a plaster wall. I started to feel badly again some EFFEMIATE who are always seemingly there, the Jesuits warned me of the femmny as my natural enemy, that again, like in 1978 dealing with Cretins and weirdoes, sissy and queers, like the sissy who tore up my cartoons, no Matt and Trey situation could I ever find, and some ninny write all over images of Mister Stupendous, with a horrid snide inked pen and accrued me to break from the Jesuit TRAJEORETORY ALMOST AS MUCH AS COMING ADIS DID, WHEN I GAVE INTO MY THUGGISH FRAME AND THREW HIM INTO A BLOND MARIED WALL.
A few days before Christmas to show who these low renters do “roll” in fact, a favorite phase of a sports geek who has a commercial on in which he describes, in this environment who'd he kill first between Greg Hardy and inexplicably the greatest defensive figure in the NFL since Ed Reed, affable lunkhead JJ Whaaaaaat. See Hardy is a nigger who isn't given the cleansing power the Lethe called the north side in which somehow rape allegations magically go away when Old man Rooney starts pealing off fiddies, but JJ is a superman lunkhead of sorts that this ninny has always both been attracted to dangerously and fared, I know this as have seen my share if such sissy's since catholic school. I recall how one of them thought I wasnt a beast like Lombardo and his ilk, and this when he took a copy of my work, again none of his business or concern and drew all over it, this queer boy thought I would take his desk and shatter it and throw him into a crucified wall, which of course, I did. So, again have seen you all before, just not as intimately as Anderson Cooper wouldn't like to have in his tawdry, turgid, outlook and his electric New York Examiner, but have seen it all nonetheless. Therefore when I received again on the 21st of December the email back from the low rent low tide pub house which asked made me jump through hoops since Halloween I WAS NOT SHOCKED.
3. AGAIN, I ANSWERED AN AD as these ilk use to get submissions they don’t really want anyway, as again, circus is an anathema amazingly to the nation whose only theater seems to be that of war. War and thus violence bothers no one, but again the sight of a warrior princess drawn and writ in Roman walls in ancient days is something professional nag Samantha Bee is wholly against, as again, you're next winged victory, take that! Listen hunnie, being the poor mans Tina Fey, married to the poorer mans Chris Parnell is no way to go through life. And Double Yoi! So, these hacks got back to me, again, as I was watching again the masterwork, the Wilder like the Apt. Truly a great film I watch each time I see it in whole, a master piece of making unseen now in a decade of mad men, era Christmas party is such a term is allowed in the pompous egregious high propertied valued northwest. I received an apology from a like firm, who had sat on Rag for a while. They read it through, one of my best compliments I am after all compelling as have been told here in twitter land and its biblical flood of one liners and limericks, and they said, they like to keep their pulp to only 180 pages or so, but more than that, my work, especially the chapter called CITIZEN POOH, about a wayward Wonderland, about Walt Disney, as much as anyone, was better than several of the books about Disney written by connivers and haters, or hagiographers trying to make a cartoonist without discernable talent but doge of huckstering into a saint and or monster.
Twerent Nothing I said, not a big fan of Disney, still, the t about Pisneyland was a best work I have done in a bit, I was told, as he, Arthur Pisney at the end, surrounded by plastic junk and plush cartoons made alive, toys as the as last Gheppeto is accosted by a senses of end, doom, a hanging Pinocchio in the old Italian image and not his own Swiss boy, as black haired lovely pixies and sharp blond anti Tinkerbelle spirits tumble and spin in the air. He eventually as signs his wonderland over to the dry, German, waspish bloodless Eisenstein, a money man from New Amsterdam, commits suicide as surrounded by his plush toys and pedophilic hidden cameras and super eights of little girls and suburban mothers abused in the police state in Van Nyes.
AS HE SEES ON Closed circuit television, a rued commercial, a real one, one starting Tiffany Amber Theissen, a lovely girl woman, who because she was sporting breasts and was a clear skinned brunette wasn't allowed to hold Tippytoe, the fairy as mentioned in the book, as it was Peter Pans handling which when the old man wanted to do his magic kingdom routine on Charlotte’s web and Peter rabbit, caused both writers to run in horror. As in that awful world the brunette wasn't supposed to hold Tippy toe, even if her mother was being pestered to buy it. This was the last straw for Arthur Pisney, as it was against his inclusive idea, where he would sell his delusions and fantasias to anyone, even dark haired little girls, with childish pre pubescence, eclectically so, and I think I gave him a humanity that that Nazi admirer may not have had.
He is thus killed on Christmas day 1969 in the book, as Dore would take over Rag on January first 1970, as like the Colorado load, the small comics book company owned by Pisney Inc was bequeathed to the writer of Justinian, a play like one of mad man Howard Hughes I WROTE AS A TEENAGER, beating Scorsese to the punch eons before he left the Jersey shores, and why I posted AR as I had, though may rewrite it, not to garner reviews, I could care less, but may make it a pamphleteer if only to sell more copies, all that matters to Jesuit minded me.
4. Again its why I enjoy seeing Max Black , like a Madwoman without the peroxide and the strange sanctimony that comes from the embalming fluids of max factor and suburbia huffing, having to placed where I notice her pretty face smirks and stands and sneers above liens Ala a busty Chairman Mao, with quips and sayings. Thinking I'd post a picture of Beth Berhs with a disturbed Ugh under it, I noted no one memes, I think the word is the blond chick, whose only line is that 'women are funny', which right there shows me she is drunk with television city power, and is best when tumbling across the floor at which she has a Vivian Vance gift. They told me in a email which almost sounded sad, like an apology, that they did pulp fictions they were meant and I assuredly did not, as that Pisney thing, even the cover sent in of my Captain Magnus before a fascist banner of Mortimer mouse, was a bit touchy with some, especially the woman there, who have bought into the princess creed of uncle Walt, as have the fags, hook line and vail as it were, and again watch 2 broke girls as much as anything, as does now my brother, as in both Max and Caroline see the types of girls we recall, he even more than I , girls from that Playboy PATTY FAIRINELLI age, of girls prettier before they all even non Italians, as the jokes must go, be shaved and plucked into a strange wet dream of those who like their woman infantilized, always the secrete behind most of what passes now for sexuality in our world where the bathhouses have finally been closed for repairs. Too late. I emailed back, thanks probably unwanted, maybe not, a beginning out of a strange depression for the wayward nigger thinking, that effeminate G, who thought I was able to be accosted by some nigger in a Mike Stivick jacket and sadly for too long he was right.
He was like the queer closet sissy with his own beard who bothered me over having drawn a picture for a girl whose asked me and gave me Five dollars, like I was after that skinny check when I was busily fucking a wife who found joy with me driving me about named Trudy. These queers, like bleeding cool , everyone is on their stinking stage, or is it open house closet...?, when we are not, and thanked them for even their considerations as I did to all who sent me a kind word which meant much as watched Kat bounce across the a roman farce state as she was born to do.
This other north-eastern pub house was moved as some have been to tell me that this was a lovely scourging of and yet nostalgia for the Disney Empire and its tomorrow land of Googeyism never found. It was a better twenty pages encapsulating the dying Disney, the sweaty aging man in the Technicolor blue business suit, this combination of Gale Gordon and Claggart as I called him, as he signed off to be bought by Palladium studios that would gut him of all his fantasia, an actual Italian word, the beginning of his end as it always is when one goes naive and graceful and italic. I was told this was better than other tomes that had some axe to grind, as I neither love not hate Disney and just saw him as Roman writers had seen others as subjects did before the fall, a story was what it said and nothing more. I’ve gotten this sort of accolade before, and though that spurt of admiration after dealing with the locked door of cartoon networks made me feel bad, this was a lovely wolf whistle to my well turned ankle as it were which is despised by the Queen Bees who never get it and can always make the full lips of a Kat curl with ambitious, vivacious, joy.
But this second dealing with the publishers of Seattle was different, was different, like the horrid legalistic worlds of the bombastic Tuner Watson, all is a writ to them, all art is eventually found in the spreadsheet, a is politics by house bag men like Barry and the pussycats. This was different. I was cartel led and advised, with sneer detected even in pixlated form, that this cretin couldn't even finish the book, a scant 250 pages, as I don't need a tome when I write this way and the pages can become thick with adverbs and or faber castle pen. Oh it was just such achore for him, who had in fact asked to see this book when sent originally another, but he saw it somehow and made me resend that Mafia story, and not Rag, which I had of course mixed up in the sending.
Such as too much to bare for him, as parts were good, ah my best intention and compliment that parts are good, which parts they never say, and still, he had to stop reading. But funny thing was again, dealing with sorts like this who are desperate as Myles Drendell hit the nail on the head, wish to play at adult hood, wish to play at business, I thought tats whet editors do, especially when they ask to see something anyway, essentially when they ask specifically for the book. Also, I had had my computer crashof the fall, again strangely considerations to dealing with comic hacks again, humnnn, there have been four of these in ten years of comic work, and I had said when he asked to see BBATMC, that in fact, the perfected and edited manuscript of the story sent to a woman editors A few years back was by me, never saved as had an HP, right there that says it..., which had no tower, no floppy disk and no CD drive, and had to buy a DVD maker juts to get wlm out as I had. I said, as plain as day, chat in BIG BERTHA, was the mess of Word all strung together had had on a floppy I had to go to Staples to get onto a thumb drive with all that old work like the original ARE and Sabine girl Capitoline, and Saturnalia and Beggilimini a mystery, and original RAM, and Saturnalia 2, that this file was a merest first draft, a thing done in 2007 as much as anything again a genera picture of the Max Bear kind, a woman on revenge picture in which I, always a sweetheart, made into a cop show that was the history of Italy, down to a busty waitress, said in a fictional Buffalo suburb I named PATAVIUM. I had told this editor as much, that if the story was okay by him, that Id like too see if could get it published even there, even by him, as all is about nothing more really now than just any wall I can scrawl up, an old Augustinian joke, which when Jewish clerk of the world Marcus Agrippa told Augustus that people were making graffiti ON THE WALLS, HE was placing up as his legacy, and told Augustus that he must white wash the walls to show his power, Augustus, too Roman for Jewry Marc, who'd be fucked over soon enough. Blessed Augustus waved it off with a usual eggggghhhhh, and said, he was a Prince, not an editor, and had already wiped out the words of Virgil Ovid and others who he silenced, eventually, and that getting rid of Graphitti was a beatification project he found he wouldn't want to have too bothered with.
Now despite the hoops I willingly jump through despite people thinking I am a bastard who looks for fights, this creep had the nerve to tell me that he was tired out by everything which I had told him from the get go. The thing was again, I had had a computer melt down right after dealing with bleeding cool, again cool and bleeding seemingly doesn't go together but what do I know, in that don't have the prerequisite love of violence to be a hagiographer of assassins, which is either ironic or demeaning to my Roman esteems.
'PATRICIA.' c. 1982
I explained when asked for the manuscript, again, I had sent them Rag comics at first by accident, that in fact, wished to chase each opportunity so unlike me for so long, and that in fact, this was not the finished polished ms that I had sent into a high level publishing house in 2007, right when they started too realize things like readings fees and paid for copies and all the things that they looked down upon as Jew tin an alley acts were in fact, now that they thought of it, not that bad at all, as in fact, the age of Barry and stealing all you could had come. I was dismissed as a script writer for Rm, unless I took out the part about Brutus' beloved Roman wall, no really, all the violence I wanted in this film, I too like Tarantino have my Carlucci and Bava admiration, a part I was lauded for even by people who didn't like the idea of the killer banker, because they were doubtful to figure out how to do it, as building and painting and aging a wall, which if it looked fake would even be superior to mere old wall, ala the ship in Amacord. Somehow in that VIOLENCE THAT IS AND THE IDEA OF CLEMENTINE , AGAIN I WAS FIRST BEFORE THE GOOFBALL SUN-DANCE TWERPS BECAUSE THE FIRST ADULT LEVEL MOVIE MY AND MY POP WATCHED WHEN I WAS LIKE FIVE, WAS ‘MY DARLING CLEMENTINE’, A JOHN FORD CLASSIC, NOW DEMEANED AS MUST IS BY OLD MONGO THE INJUN [ a poor mans Scorsese, ] OR IS IT ITALIANATE PECKINPAH, WHOSE STAGE COACH SEEMS TO BE DYING THESE WINTER DAYS. A wall was too much fro them to do, and I got a scent in the wind that glass Stiegel and this Clinton had done their jobs as no one ever mention Shylock and the Venice bankers when even Savonarola , an Italian gathering up Jews and hurling them into the Po, and when a race is that good and decent like nigger, no one may recall the first offense. I explained that this was a mere first draft, and as such was just to show my story and my handing of it, and I would again go over the floppy disk version why I keep them unfinished this way must have a reason deep down in my psyche which I cant put into words.
Again as all seems a perpetual loop at times, They begged off, even though the original email from this guy said, that was fine as they were editors at heart and just wanted to see what the story was and my putting of it together, again what the jurists did fir me, and to me, wanting to see a mind at work, but then like all the fags and Liberace they are dead and thus now we have a gaggle of school marms who in English and math adore all the grunt work that the Jesuits demeaned as woman's work, and which is lauded now at amazon. It did warm my heart to see like ESPN that Christmas was from hunger for the temple of middlebrow as it was for all, as unabated that ninety cents out of every dollar went to the top one percent as Barry was told to legitimate or else. I have therefore come to the realization that writing in the style of Niccolo Machiavelli with clause upon dizzying clause might not go well amid the girls with the dragon tattoos. Its finally dawned on me.
I was told now, in that sneering sissy schoolboy faggy way, the only thing that survived the Boccaccio cantos of the eighties as the fags died off, that this guy couldn't bring himself to finish the work, and that it was too much to bear, which begs the question why keep going at all if it was as I said it was a first draft unpolished and just a remnant to give the gist, but alas I have learned at such a low brow low end the ridiculous who have to face their world undervaluing will take diminution any where that they can get it. But then the truth came out, it in the middle went to far a field, and again a story which as wanted by the pernickety as another wop comedy minstrel show turned into something else, a show of the coming American police state, as soon enough HBO would shutter its wop show the Sopranos, interestingly enough a year before the elections, showing the ethics of Gore Vidal and Columbus day were at work, and go to what these Jews really wanted to do and that and make a minstrel show about various Arabs being outfoxed by so called woman agents being sent out by hated Mandy Potemkin, Now too old to play Che anymore, and like the rest of his jewey arrested relatives settling in for a nice long luxurious warm Roman bath, but please hold the mayo and the irony.
5. I had taken a perfectly fine Cop drama, I was told in 2005, complete with vavoomy waitress, always a fetish of mine, thus my susceptibility to once smouldering and angry now too goofy and shtickie at times yet still adored Max, and festooned it with the political, heavens. And worse the Calvinist, in the Italo sense which this guy alluded too, as what does the fairies of the moon have to do with a cops show about a inspector stinging down a wayward cop , ah but in this one the cops is dressed like Marius the Great, from a high school play in which he played Brutus with the lovely Beatrice as I am above nothing, like a good circus owner politician or artist should never be, as Picasso said, ladies and New Yorker hacks, good taste is the death of art.
This was again an idea purloined from my brother who saw a wop he knew from school, dressed in black face trying to escape town, when he said, sharply and succinctly had he been dressed like Cassius and not Othello, hed have been shot dead. And this wasn’t the first time I herd this, though this time was not lectured to about how The Inspector at first kills a black kid openly and honesty based pretty much on beloved behemoth Ray Lewis, still damned as much as he can be by stiller fans who have forgiven not only the German lardy rapist, but Mandingo wife beater, great Satiny of the year who wont give his rats a participation trophy as beneath Hannibal ethic, But will take a younger mans roster spot as sure as shooting when it was about America and I didn’t even sue the Minerva of Jersey island AS A COLOSSUS TO MAKE MY POINTS, the first dime is dropped. I went to far a field here, as was told before this was a cop story, not a political bent, as somehow despite it all, the cops were yet to become villains in a niggardly whose con brio would turn into measures of rest once the Jewish, boarder state democrats and other masters were too close to the barking dog.
I felt not so much angry at this as in fact was invited to send in a book I dint originally send, as much as was fatigued by it as like so much I had seemingly seen this before. And right before Christmas, no less, this hack felt, at least the cogs at Tuner Watson hid behind boilerplate and form, this guy seemed to go out of his way to try to live perpetually at the man girls table they all do as looking back I sent this in not long after Halloween and it took this long to say you couldn't finish this book, which you should have learned after ten pages, though said it was a first draft just to get a spec of what I had done, afraid again had I taken even the week I took in 2007 that again another slightly ajar door would come crashing closed.
For ten years I have been perpetually trying far too hard, harder than I like when I find my brother comes back with art that cant be mailed at the PO, mailed out as their is no such address and the city is called Astoria, who knew...?, and not what I had written down, I wonder what fuck is wrong with you low rent, as a good Roman I have always lied the threadbare, the rustic, the millue of the two broke girls and its comely lovelies, but this is ridiculous. But then I released something I think like all great realizations, knew all along, the Italian word is revitrovi, meaning in fact, no one can be born again, there is no such thing as Epiphany, the lovely ante placed by Italian against the mercantile bullshit of Greeks and Jews to keep their cons going, that in fact, like the cowardly lion and the scarecrow, you had a inkling what was true all along.
It wasn't going to make or break me to be in this north-western low ebb low rent mimeograph machine small press as only want the credit, as did Dustin Hoffman in wag the dog, it wasn't going to make me, being included n some low tent Simon and Shuster which is only surpassed in barrenness by the real Simon and Shuster, as the old biddies and house Jews promised the America of my youth with them as big shots is disappearing by the day. Those days are over, and realized I too often play into the needs of these people to full important, as when I decided it wasn't fun or needful to go to battle with the fat ankles Rachel Maddow dancers, they amusingly all shut up at once, though that could be too that when Pollock Eddie was fired he took a whole mess of canned laughter vitriol with him.
6. The idea I fell again for this, even the admiration of the other publishing house, or apt., as the case may be unnerved me. I do the same things over and over, fall down the same flight of steps, and was stupid enough to fall for he same come ons I always do. This guy right before Christmas no less, trying I take it to clear the ledger, made a point of how he couldn't get though the thicket I had sent, when in fact I had told him it was first draft, as putting on airs is our national pastime now that football had become like so much effeminacy, which don't ever mean it becomes less vile or violent, no no, it juts means the vileness has been come sanctimonious and acceptable with enough bullshit.
I wanted to say that he as have before invited me to send in a book I had not first sent in, admitting that they would have have to have it rewritten and the lie. But then too I heard the echo behind each Narcissus out there, as in the half in a book he couldn't finish, I went too far afield of the original story as SHAZAM, a book about the beloved in America mafia and with a Italic police captain they’d like to avoid, the story turned into a examination of the police state America was then becoming. Including a murder by the police ccaptain of a RAY RAY like crip, done almost as comedy, which what with niggeralia in its death throws, and this written before St. Travon, and yet, still, couldn’t be accepted. Like I said, I had seen the third acts and punch lines all before and like the Patriots with America I have grown weary of it and let it all go. When espn like MSNBC has to start whistling past the coach with a black eye, as the ratings are failing, the Roman gods I never saw as the Fox campaign must be by now being upset and feel, like we all do, shafted. When police reports are being redacted, well like it did to the Clintons when they tried it, only the truly paid can get behinds this as it turns to no fun at all.
But in watching Lauren Graham and Alexis in the later Gilmore girl shows I avoid, as avoided the scansion of blonds with too much lip gloss exalting what Conservative means through the laughter, I saw a situation I have been in before. Jess, Rory’s boyfriend, who like the previous directed Digger they should have kept but kept brining her back and losing like a year and half with mother and daughter iciness that broke the magic seal and drive the audience away, rather stupidly. As he returns he had made a book of his adventures with Rory, an had it published at a small press and when he was introduced to the boyfriend who amiss looked like the blond boy in season 1 who she summed to dislike, Something Something Michael Murray.
That too I didn’t get and don’t watch these she shows, but when she reset with Jess who again should have been the boyfriend, he was suspiciously and guardedly interrogated by this wasp queen. There, almost insulted that a man who looked like Jess, a thinner me, in many ways, with that Mediterranean look of sorts, called Greasy by Caroline amusingly in 2BG, still, he was peppered with suspicious questions as I notice all Italian are when doing anything other than wop charm. Well, I don’t wish to be so admired by my mob thug life that my last meal of bad clams becomes a joke on page six. And I have been there, when smarmy blond sissies like this guy try to get there haunches up and angry about the mere fact I think and say anything, which I saw here , never eyeing this show before, that this blond sissy boy would try to demean and intellectually Bully Jess, who did his James dean act which I don’t.
I was in a similar situation where some white woman was upset that I spoke of the Italic roots of Magic Realism, which is true , so true its even been brushed by in Wickepedia, the sum of all white girl knowledge, the Delphic oracle of all herstory gals. This white woman was bothered by this as it couldn’t be true, but alas it was, and in fact knowing who Octavio Paz was, and Politian, Gore Vidal susictly and perfectly called the dreary GG Marquez masterwork One hundred years of plagiarism. This was uncanny to see as in fact the very name Dos Passos used against me as somehow I hadn’t known who he was, or couldn’t like that green haired faggot who thought I had never heard of the awful and formulaic How to draw the marvel way, when in fact my father had bought it for me, when I was a boy, and of course I was lectured for telling this poser off, but I cant abide when the middlebrow think they know something, which they often don’t.
7. As I watch 2Broke Girls and their lovely, funny girl sexuality, both sorts unhallowed here in our more closeted than ever world, too I found Sherlock back on as a lovely respite from the bag men and champions of status quo of news TV, as I like many too a breather from most of it when Rachel Maddow and Diaper man Karl Rove started reading off the same scripts.
Which to be a bitch I could have said started when Barry the Queen brought in Bob Gates as bushes wartime consigliore, which amazingly didn’t bather an radicals who are paid by war inc. There is a fatiguing quality to evil, an Italic psalm goes, which if you don’t believe Machiavelli ask Hillary, who is as I write this crumbling and braying that she somehow as a Governors’ and then Presidents wife is somehow not part of the establishment, as the revolting people, well, their grumbling has made it all the way to the ivory halls of Chappaqua.
I use both Max and Dr. Watson as a way to avoid the last dances of dreaded Maguey Kelley and there Jews and blonds of the little foxes who both adore Trump for getting an audience and too fateful of it, as again as Cicero no less, elites, as he would know, are an anathema to a republic. He had the nerves to say such things as after his smashing of the Roman senate keeping only his gumba jew buddies and decimating it as a institution, to which it would never recover, he was found to have taken money and houses from great destroyer Sulla, or better known as the Julius Caesar that never took. In fact as a old man, with the blood of a hundred senators crucified on his hand, again is Cattiline in that awful movie of Spartacus…I didn’t think so as there are names that good Jews like Trumbo like his in law’s will always avoid. Cattiline would become a hero to later conservatism like Buckley, Goldwater, and others, but secretly as he would whisper to Vidal in their Inherit the wind like Elephant dance that he adoooooorrrred Jewwwwwlian, whispered dare any of the pin heads and squares hear that closed Bill so adored not only a work hated by the Jew York times, Julian, but too about a hero who tried to return Rumen to its pagan and thus unrepentant un racist roots, motioned now openly by a Wall street Journal, which holds sympathy for empire as all the Star wars Rebels’ are now seemingly Arabs, after all.
Cicero though, became hero to the red necks that at his core, Buckley deep down hated and used and sneered at Capote’s black and white ball, AT WHICH HE SHOWED UP, KNOWING THAT Gore Vidal wasn’t there, which GORE AS CAUSALLY WAS MILLIMETER OFF THE MARK SAYING IT WAS ALL IN ALL LIKE BEING INVITED TO A Roman Bathhouse on a dark night. Catalina became hero to Lorenzo, Fellini even wished to make a film of it turned into Satyricon when the fiancing was only for Roman decadence, when is it not…?, and the republicans as they are ironically called here, are they who fear the catlike Locus, and their popular support as like Peckinpah, his very name scares those in power, Cattline my hero, my romantic, my Nigger, hero from a Salieri operetta a comedy we Italians don’t think of such labels as cut and driest, as the white women do, as have said before, that Coriolanus was once Played by the best clowns in Tuscany as he epitomized the Roman soldier to them across the river, in ways even they grand boys of Hector could admire buffoonish as Miles Gloriossus.
Cattline is desisted by middle brow minions to this very day. Cicero also said, which got me a like from Buddy Keith, that when the people are hungry the Gods are mute, but that was said more said out of sadness than anything, as he almost felt a kind of ennui that hungry people wont just sit by and watch other Jewish in-laws like he and say Ohio aldermen who weasel act like men of the people while gaining Shylock bags of gold from Goldman Sacks, a horrid name worthy of Dickens, which shows how horrid I think it, whose even smell or wayward receipt can when found as it was from Poor Soul Christie, make one sink as if a fat man felling off an imperial pier.
8. I ring up Cattline, my favored Roman story, as saw that as was waiting for the mini marathon of Max and Caroline, my beloved pixies, that the aging magazine, Buckley enterprise the National Review, has come out with a whole magazine devoted to one issue, or to one ideal, which is not unlike another national magazine, The Lampoon when I was a kid. Ah, but alas to quote Neal Simon on the differences between Laurence Welk and Sid Caesar, I always found the National Review to be much funnier. On I think it as Lou Dobbs, showing the length I will go to avid the holy cross throne spittoon named Mathews as another of our alter boys perpetually steers the niggers towards the exists they are allowed, remember everyone , I the head of Black lives matter will be here at the apple store settling my bill and will meet up with you later so Slow down….okayyyy, what doooo you dooooo at a yellooooooow llllllight…? The story opened that the nat’l Review was doing an emitter issue to being anti Trump. I think I speak for America when I say II was shocked as were many to know that the Fascist title rage which even my father thought obnoxious trash and he a fascist fascist, not that mere Jew hating shit like Buckley was, that this magazine even existed anymore.
Like the Lampoon I thought it had seen, like America and Disney, its better days. But an entire issue of a Magazine no one sees anymore came out to be a firewall very important both Bush and Hillary as the Borgia and the Medici grind as the Florentines are revolting, as they eye their imperial dreams go ker pluck, as their black sheep Omabaa stole too much, too fast, too gleefully, too often to allowed the statuses quo too stay in tact as anyone who had spent a day of their life in the fields would have known as the Virgillian to me as Mamet said, youd know the first thing is you don’t open your mouth until...The crime families of Clinton and Bush had no idea of the hunger and the anger an the other words with no way to rhyme on purpose, that the people were, and this lasts gambit seemed almost groan worthy to Roman eared Antony, as it seemed to me to amateur hour in the Roman senate, or better the Roman theatre, as I can say openly and without fear of recrimination that when Jowl Baher and Glenda Beck are mouthing these same words, the bag man graft is over, and the commedia esta finita.
This Rag had the nerve to come out as its low rent low ebb low everything hacks mace out and came out forcefully against Trump, as forceful any side that both Michel Medved and Glenda Beck are on, the closet space here is amazing, which they should’ve have done this as ‘against Bush’ a year ago and not allowed Tippytoe, the bloated fat imbecile from that dying plutocratic family to get anywhere near the preatorium, or even the acre around it which I think is called the Presidium, I think, who cares, but then just because they are greedy that doesn’t mean Goldman sacks is that smart at all. Quote here from Mister Bernstein to Thompson about making money, as I have known since a kid, like drawing the marvel ways inst that hard, and fact, seems quiet a bore to me.
And this issue, without Neal Adams Son O God, or Nuts by Gahan Wilson or Trots and Bonnie or Mona Gorilla, or funny pages or True facts of any kind, see what I did there, you'd know if we still had it and not that pale Onion field that stinks so, in our world where the dared ugly Onion get the womanish seal of approval like south park to be the looted as satire as the rest of us must watch our tounges, was called Against Catti—sorry, Against Trump. its an affection I don’t think even Roman loving Buckley would have used. The collected stash here all did their third grade quality essays, also I was alerted though even in the state it was in that BBATMAFIACOPS DID GET A word grade level at 10, ALSO NOT A GOOD SIGN, WELCOME TO New Athens, and Amazon where we sell books by drones, a book here gone over by spell check and washed brains, the trash collect here, in National Review was a amalgam of the useless and the usual, the people Buckley left us with. Here, the Ruckers and nippers, the dying old queens like Cal Thomas, the bearded in all ways like footlights outcast ready Freddie’s, the garbage, the Jewish trash like Medved, who somehow elbowed his way in despite the open hostility Catholic Buckley had to Sinology , look it up, the old dying white boys, the hags, the shrews, the cants who make a career and lifestyle of jetting around telling other women to stay bottled up at home, the queers, the sissies the bow tied and the scummy, the filth who have been mugged into conservatism, the ninnies, the vipers, the closeted everything’s and the mean girls all closeted here, the fat boys and the half Jews, the Jonahs and the wilder’s, the gray hared school boys, the low rent poor mans Warren Elsie’s, the toilet boys, the sissy ad infinitums, the low rent Buckleys, the batman boys, the byline lovers, the nigger haters, the traditionalists, the Lamb of Goders, the affiances, he men bathroom boys, the drag queens on weekends, the Death in Venicer’s, the whole kit and caboodle of garage swine trash, gun nuts, bircher, neo Jew Lovers, healers and Foxxxsees, they call came out to openly dismiss the idea of the will of the Populace, who’d love another loser like Mac Kane to run for two offices , on eyeing president and one not, which always to me, like Gore, Gave the game away.
Ah and there she is, Miss America herself, Glenda Beck, who corpulently and jestingly burps and cries on command in the magazine which was the baby of Buckley, who I recall once railing against talk radio as beneath his effete charms, tongue darting like a lizard, he hated them all in the end, once sent me an email calling me Tony, though I had written my name as Anthony, but still the old fool had I think seen in me the kind of Jesuits boy he thinks he was, that Gore was , who in the end when Gore by passed a sash or legion or merit from PEN some book bullshit award, Gore said That’s alight I already have Diners club. This supposedly went a long way to Bill Buckley saying of Gore that all was forgiven after all, as his son said, as low rent five and dime Virgil, all the invitees of the black and white ball who'd end up making Truman a pariah as Gore said, Buckley told his son to avoid the Stevens and the Jonahs and the right wingers who all nutritiously work for Wall mart, they are no fun at all.
The old man did send me an email though, more friendly than not, as I was bitchy as usual, and Im not even queer, as I think he saw in me the least gasps of the Jesuit boys he knew and saw, as he was supinely Englishmen, bleck, by Steven Hayes offices and Jonah Goldbergs who he told his son Christopher to eschew , perhaps vainly see William F Buckley as the last Jesuit to admire me so, as he was now old and beaten down, and surround by Velveeta eaters who not only didn’t adore Jooooolian, they'd make a point to the slimy and the venial and the poultry eaters and the pin heads that they had never read it to begin with.
9. Thought of old Bill Fisheyes, the last conservative, who like Goldwater couldn’t believe that party had sold out as to had to the cross suckers and the trash that their beloved Tacitus called all the Christers, as again Gore had warned them. It was I think a essay about Goldwasser, the Cicreo from Phoenix said he wished that essay done by Gore which was made mention by the dared Shawn, that nothing like that would appear in the New Yorker ever, and it was Goldwater in the end who , as a hero of my fathers Stern Roman-ism disliked and demeaned by such good nigger lovers like Mathews who spoke wistfully about wishing he had done more with his coon charges than just warehouse them, an amazing admission on national TV, but as we look for slurs, its amassing what gets said openly isn’t it...?
Aging the bringing up of Cattline is actually not just reverie on my part, but a connection that the Jesuit told me I had a true genius at, not kidding, in, which overhauls perked up the dying eyes of Buckley who couldn’t stand as I have reported before having seen the bloated Limbaugh huff and puff his Oreo breath at the old queen, when in the midst of Monica, that will be your greatest sin Hillary, and will herstory you gals, Bill Buckley quoted Aquinas. It seems I recall, and that Napoleon the pig who loses more hair and humour by the day, said to Buckley he wished that Buckley , the essence of effete, wouldn’t be so ‘purple‘ , that’s purple mkids to describe Aquinas whose clear thinking may have done more to melt the snows of a Germanic dark age than anyone, still quoted oft and precisely by Bill, as the other grocery boys of empire all pretended they read Augustine, until I said the in the city of god, Augie walks through the rapes and fires of homey Rome, and says aloud what have we become…? Hurt. Then, in his railing against Clinton, I saw Buckley’s eyes become Googley almost as it ready to pop, more than usual as he shed to look at this blow pop of a human being, blowhard Limbo, and across his eyes came words that the bumbling whore of radio couldn’t even spell phonically. Up from Literacy. When Buckley spoke of Cincinnatus, and the grace of power, Limbaugh, par for the course, thought it was George Washington who the first man in history to eshaew power return to a farm, hes said it often since, but what else would a racist think...? I saw poor Bill up there in oath made Purgatory watching his rag be turned into this mimeograph machine diatribe against the people as rubes, Cicero’s warbling last pronouncement that indeed a empire can be built over your dead body at any time, as much as anything, there goes that shit about the New York city Yellow pages book as the assembly of kings, eh, old man, I thought, and I felt badly that etches closet every things had been so brazen as to call this against trump as that was what Cicero called his diatribe against Cattline, and Cattline to all Roman boys since Octavian to Burr to Disraeli, too Mussolini to Bill to Gore too Buckley to Calvino has always been our beloved, wont be captured, top o’ the world Ma white heat Cagney un captured by Drumbo Roman, and the only matter there may ever truly be is Roman last stands, as Arabs have added the shoot out to the suicide vest, thus taking all dignity way from either.
Felt sadly even noticing this, as a good Roman was waiting to see Jewish Princess Italic goddess Kat bop and be bop across the screen as her voluptuous tenderness and humanity is as I have said worth its weight, no joke, in barbiturates, as she had an effect on me of a jug of belladonna calmative. Ah, and there was the name that sold the whole joke, Glenn Beck, in this last of diatribe assassin arts and con jobbers, the drunken master, id now everywhere, stupidly coming forth just as Teddy Ballgame is crumbling, and now Beck, have another on me guys, well, THE LIFE OF THE PARTY is stupidly attaching himself as a roman would say to a falling star. Stupidly he shows his unshaven Rottensbirther like bender face with Teddy, juts as a venial , too small to be a mere grafter Cruz, the wetback by way of Niagara Falls, showly I turrrrrn, see I am the auger..., and there is Glenn double stuff hack, just as Cruz's bruising has journeyed too close to Jew hate and its a praetor were choosing, Teddy, not salsa. Too much vingeare. He amazingly concomitantly came out to who did this same act before saying Newt didn’t fit his open too open scent of religiosity and nobility, the drunk who made it up from morning radio and his hidden unfunny days of whine and roses four roseses mean drunk batman benders, whose listened to the word of God to follower the morning star to bastion of Quaker oats prairie Dallas, and saint the queer was, made sure to strong arm his straight men to follow him, to me at heart, very much a gggggghhhhhhastly idea, --again like black Pegasus, I thought of Robert Morse first, ill show you the rime stamped posts to Keith, as thought he was the essence of the gray flannel suit--, there was Glenda the good witch dodging his smirking act when not weeping like a Picasso painting, the human tear duct, who of cores had to horn in on this, and act the part people like he have been playing since the awful Augustine. He was after all the one who said that Newt a beneath his temperament a self appointed and lettered arbiter, from the Latin for Tree surgeon once, hummmmmnnn, and then wnet on to give his seal of approval or is it imprimatur, no I don’t think he has one either Bill, to Mitt Romney, who somehow was a best conservative despite being the only republican who believes in single payer. Or wait its not single payer, Barry sued Romney care as a guide, as for this nigger all his Virgil’s are republican.
Still it as a bit much and thought by now the fates would have freed us of that weirdo, as Rodger Ailes did, as the true believer is always an anathema to the con artist, as Paul was detested by peter. And I thought, vainglorious Against Trump like against Cattline, well, you Fix newsies and beards and circusers, with beloved guners and sissies best be careful with the Roman affection, if it is even that, I cant even give them that much credit, the Jews who made it and their in law goons, be care full with the Ram at Masada.
As it was after all my speaking of the sadness of the Roman general at Masada that so strangely bothered the polish stalest at zoetrope, the man played in a film under lock and key with Daffy as the gook bomber and uncle Remus but for diffract reasons, in which Tranqullius, named something like Tranqullius, I could being on look it up, but Im a lazy lazy man the saddened joist told my father, as never had the get up and go of Clintons and fags. Ah, the Roman general asking why he is being brought in to collect taxes, like some damn clerk in some office, see, I know where were heading kids!, as to show how heinous the Principe was the Roman soldiers they ere to become as Tacitus aid mere security guards, and so, if Rome could turn on the Jews, well Id sleep with one light on or a bag light enough for nighttime's egress. That general disliked and suspicious of me at zoetrope was played by no less than the man who played Lawrence of Arabia. It was funny to me that this so bothered the Jews around FF Coppola, and told him perhaps a love for Romans, a hatred for the mafia, and being open to a story about a brunette waitress, God, I'm always ahead and too far back, such would be what I sued as a measuring stick, you can think Im anti semetic but have known Jews just like thetm and who told me they hated Copula for having open the door for a suspicion of us Mediterranean’s, who the New Yorker thinks is a given by now, anyway. But then Im not selling my fathers wine in more ways than one.
The Romans shit, kids, this stuff it radioactive, it will eat you up, guys, and don’t make the same mistake that Gödel made. Be careful with your Roman allusion, as recall in books unread by Barry and Glenn and read by Bill, fo’ Fun and honour, Cattline was killed as I have SAID AS IS IN THAT GORGEOUS book, despised, aren’t they all worth anything at the temple of melded brow called Amazon, Sallust, and when Cicero thought he was free of anyone opposing his Jewish-Stromboli masters and wop consortiums, the Romans bless us, them get all the jokes, when Cicero thought Cattline was dead and paraded his body and his followers as slaves as one would think he wouldn’t, the people, they saw this and as the dusk came, gathered as a mob that the funding fathers feared so. They gathered together to ask the Mars blessing, and they started hurling rotten squashes and turnips and brickbats and wagon wheels at the senators in triumph, causing them to hide and race like rats and Jews, evasively after thinking they made it, always do. They arena back to the senate and bolted the golden cold door a sin fact the acrimonious emirs sod now as election year is here and on holidays tells us who the men in epaulets show is being expelled, and they hunkered down, while three weeks of arson haloed in Rome, lest you forget who is always really in command. Remember with your schoolboy affectation that Cattline was adored by a young man named OCTAVIAN, LIKE ALL US ROMAN BOYS FELT CHEATED, we love a revolution as much as a parade, as we all will, shall, the feel when the Patriots get none of a super bowl by way of bad calls, as Robert Crafty and his ilk use an officiating crew under whim they have never lost. Humm, I still must ask how HR BOB Alderman the Patriots coach got that shiner, anyway, Octavian was a boy and like Antony resented Cicero and his bullshit forever. But Cattline was ignored I take it, as were many Romans who don’t fit the die of Jews on parade and with a mission, as was most of Sallust by the dreaded Trumbo who was of course up the mad academy award nominee for that cat nip story about a Jewish rat who lived high on the hog and made things worse by quoting Marx, but again, Not Sallust, and that knee jerk nomination and none for any blacks has angered the perpetually needy Negros who had their gilt Oscar to that damn slave movie anyway the academy, or is it lyceum, thought. As I always landing on my feet tell you dumb niggers again that Roman fascists got water to people through a maze and a network of aqueducts you Germans always like to pollute, so again, looks like you coons can sue a Roman engineer, Ha. Again, all is connected, And somewhere my poeta and my Auter Gore Vidal, perhaps in Dante’s Elysian Fields, there with Statius, is that Vince Lombardi, Tom Landry is that you…?, hanging over super bowl Fiddy, as Bellechecked is an onion joke of savage per portions, but at least Rothlisberger lost, tank Gawd, eh Rodger…?, and father Gore, he openly, mean spiritedly, laughs.