14 September 2014




I went over the few pages of Rag left to fill them out and connect the stories, and saw the original apes were fine in themselves and don't like the forever childhood of the Lucas sorts show, as Trey Parker said, lets watch all the charm melt away. I rather liked these pages, and only did some cursory changes to refit, found them fine and lovely in their starkness, but have gone onto the b and w wash of the warren comics mentioned before, and have boned up on all the Mort Drucker I had, the Gregg Toland of newsprint, which again I miss terribly as dreadful comics now are printed on phony baloney white papers like shitty news magazines that couldn't survive Obama. Who shall...? Veronica as is Kemtere is one of my favorite creations of italic arts, a Dan De Carlo vixen invention given life by me, and stripped and how, of goofy smile and sneer, Betty and Diasy Mae need I say, are dead. I garther it together like it and as with AR wish I would have just done it all when with first blush of satirical mojo, as look back at some pages as is seen by phony baloney's now the saturnine poets, like Neavicus, the snow man who appears in both, you see somehow the Italians having their indigenous genius burned away,  and had to be forced to rewrite everything in Greek was their fault, so Ill buy Bounty towels anytiems I want, and poems now seen as masterpieces, decried and dreaded by English watchers, now stuck with Homers and Shakespeares, aborted by the negro schoolchilds they mist remedial teach before allowed in Harvard, or Florida state. So I get back to work to make this 88 page four issue comic as I wished it made, everything with me turns into a  freaking clone saga and then comes the whittling back down to the first inclinations, in which again i was right. As I had an inkling that night when the human spittoon thanked Leapin Hera for that thunderstorm to save Bra's imperium , I call it the march of dimes, that way, and I knew that everyone on that dais would pay for it, now they are all seen as prison snitches and amazons on the pad, and mostly pool soul Chissy and of course, Generalissimo Barry. Too, I saw in the Incognito fiasco, speaking of which that door is opening again, Flavius, that giving this blabbermouth sissy thug so much compassion would backfire when the brunettes started to fall out of the closets with welts and broken jaws, not that the witch council ever notes  anything but Ovids flubbed liens as the play moves on ...wait the dogs bark, but the show must goes on or something like that. And even with all that, and even a week from hell for the less than Roman gladiators, who are exiled if say something wrong to a sissy scrub, but allowed to play again after the pistol whipping, even with all of that, I saw that Tony Romo and his stage almost enemy within swerves to thow a ball at the two on first down while everyone else is blocking for the running back who will never be and all pro as long as Signor ding dong is there, is trending with the most negative comments, the most on social media. I find Roman wholesomeness in this, as we have known what Rice and the others  were all along and the women of the senate, egads, merely do their act as this stage is about to be struck, and that Machiavelli is true than not again and that once you are hated, worse than loved or feared in a line unspoken by coeds, you are finished. I shall watch 'the wolf of wall street' tonight on free Epix, as he isnt in the cat bird seat given over when cobbling together minstrel shows as Gene Sickle said, pompously called art, making gumba commodities, and now Jersey Disney hisself censored worse than I ever can be, and the money runs dry. I shall catch it, as the Roman senator said of Petronius' life of Nero coming out amazingly and stupidly while Vespasian was en route, I wish to read his suicide note.

07 September 2014

SAME HOBBIT TIME, SAME HOBBIT CHANNEL!

SAME HOBBIT TIME, SAME HOBBIT CHANNEL!

A mistake was possibly made by me in that with super season, the last post of summer I had 300 people a day at this blog. But I noticed that with the Boys Room, which I admired for its sweetens amid the political hackdom and cleverness of now , I am at drip and drabs. Of course, with Roman Graffiti artesian a forethought, it was the scrawling on the wall and not necessarily the Plautus ethic of audience that matters. Still it was perplexing to me. After all I was mentioning police brutalism before they all woke up the usual Negros on TV and told them that some thug was shot, as again, I DON’T CRY FOR CRIMINALS, MY SAVING GRACE, AND WONT make common cause with any by rote black folks, as was forced to read Metternich as a boy, by a staid German nun, who hated the priests as that ilk would hate men, and despised their love of shady and yet brilliant Machiavelli. The decent ways put on as if greases paint,  unnerve me, as told Keith why didn’t any of those good teams that Mud bone praises bring Michael Sam on, as at least a loss leader, but then Ritchie Incognito ahs shown what you are by Gore Vidalia credo, whatever is said in America is by definition the opposite of what is true, if anything is true at all.

So, instead of parceling out my words continue with a kind of Roman rag tag decency of my own, a s I said, cant quite care about things I brought up when Tom Brudder 2, Duval was showing himself a credit to his race  by executing un arme , even kneeling men, something the kabuki blackout folk never seemed to make a cry in the tar gassed night. I still expect Sallust like race riots, but alas we are still encroached  by those hacks who even as looters, have more tighter leaches than the regular filth, shown by how they all yapped on cue when told, then dissipated like dew, as when we found out that men of people in the party of the cheech, had signed off on militarizing the police, as I noted around Christmas time’s, meaning two investigations into something they’d rather not talk about.The walls have eyes.

But, I notice having take some time off of the box to complete pages in black and white Orson Welles attempt and third man noir, recalling their pulpiness and Spirit occasionally bought when all the mads were bought up, that the virulence of the good hacks continues unabated, no matter what is going on. Now, at Google Plus, the same voices must discard and detacher, and speak of Klan meetings, when anyone dares notice that Villa pricier Barry is falling apart and now in fact as usual, has seemed to take his dictation from chicken hawks like Mac Kane and Gramnsety, which is par for the course. Heh. I spoke of Romulus playing with his birdies, but even I thought it would be more decline and fall and less Bob Slurm,-- from way downtown, Boommmmmmm. I thought can I note that Barry the wizard boy, that he now in a spin and waiting to get off the stage in an undiva, lackluster way, twitchily without the aplomb of Roman Bill who plays Plautus to the hilt for all it is worth, still I sometimes miss that miscreant, who at least understood Roman drama in ways that droning, see what I did there…?, Barry never can. Can I mention that Barry contradicted  himself there 3 times in the same barely memorized screed and love of war and capitalization without being called a Klansman, need I mention the Jesuitical line about your grandpas, speaking of Metternich…? Can I notice he is not so much above reproach, but beneath contempt, as he is our Jennifer Lawrence pretending she is Claudia cardinale, like her, he is wanting in every way, and we now know that this nude picture fandango may have been a set up as Apple wont take the fall because you cant find a Wendy amenable to those who love batman too much. Can I note that he said the exact opposite of what she said before within breaths taken,, without being compared to the Klan, cause don’t take that white woman’s attempt at Rachel Maddow refereeing with me, toots, as my forbearers were by definition  not allowed in the Klan,  as opposed to Barry, whose Klan teas where spoke of when Hillary sill had a punchers chance…can I mention that he’ll say whatever comes to his deceitful unraveling mind, sometime at wits end and with the bad writers sonnet of making it up as you go along with no outline ven to diverge from,…? had Barry gone from fearless leader to Holy Spirit, are his droning homilies now Nicene worthy, the wholes, sorry holes left to be filled in by later bites at eves apple, hoping no one notes that it doesn’t add up…? Of course as she bumbles about we must hear of how decisive he is from Ge tower as this is what they have been paying into this fund fir all along, as we pinball now to war, as somehow this is always Congress fault. But it never works when the senate thinks they have a bagman, and now to show how emaciated he really is, with another mud term that always seem to catch imperial Barry by surprise, any talk of floods of immigrants again as usual was just that talk, as the annals of America a now cut up into two year stages as Poloozi redeems her green stamps she has been collecting since signed off on trap, as men of the people  must be fed eventually.

I stayed up watching free hbo, not what it used to be, and saw the Hobbit as coming on. I would watch Ian McKellen read crap like the hunger games, if need be, as he can bring out the core of anything, by I think treating it all like Macbeth no matter how fill of shit it is. Also, infinitely better than the boy chick of that last dreadful go around with dread Tolkien, Martin Freeman, a great actor, was playing the role of Bilbo with some heft again, with the English bells treat everything is like I Claudius, except I Claudius, which is like Brides head revisited, as the truly great Roman movie combining the profane and the Romantic has yet to be made, and wont be it seems by Martin, who can kiss that barge goodbye. Still I watched this movie, not again as queer as that sambo and Freedo shit, as was saved by its excess by the good actors, and of course, Ian makes Tolkien’s dread Gandalf back into the Atlantae, from where eh comes, to Tolkien heirs dismay I read. Que es kista Arist' machinatta…my Ma asks, watching herself a rather cheesy looking premeditation as the days of Ivanhoe Technicolor  are sadly gone, and now we hear in fact color has been important throughout history, in even the Jewish signed off on middle ages. Why does this previous middle earth look like 1300 without a Dante,…? Just because. What is this Ariosto warmed over and re fried?… she asks, but I shrug, having out in three hours by the times we meet a shaky again chinsey Smaug, a dragon that sounds much like Ian. I am lost as often am in Anglican literature,  as it seems to me to be Roman sonnets with all the oomph taken out. At the end of this it breaks off strangely , like a Flash Gorden serial, what else is the hallmark of post Lucas film making arts,….and the dragon flies towards a depressing little Ohio town that has sprung up in pre post middle earth, a little town, to wreck havoc. Wait…after three hours we get a  "to be continued"…, not even with one of those respite moments where we have left hell and the purgatory moon backing us, as we take a breather not even that, or is that asking too much…? It is after all a 96 page booklet that must be contorted into the needed Saturnalia trilogy…how many free hbo days will kit take to see what happens here, or next, will I much care…? And there as a writer is Guillermo del Toro, another Spaniard who has made a nice career out of white girls not knowing the name Gustavo Dore, who a hundred and fifty years ago gave us the short hand in books of Dante and Ariosto leaves the vocabulary in images for fantasies, not that JRR would ever admit it, like CS did. Its like how I liked it  when I read that Alan Moore after having heard this cretin Grantee poo demean and sneer at him for having had the temerity to be better writer than this poser was, go off and tell this idiot to back off once and for all, as I always will take up for ALAN OVER THIS CRETIN,  AS AM SURE THE SCHOOLBOY AND HIS TEN YEAR LONG BATMAN EPICS, has no earthy idea who Emilio Salagari even is. Also I was glad to see the wizard who may or may not appear in Rag as sorcerer Ennius Faulk, told him off as how he played punk all day long but sure wanted that knight hood from the queen mum herself, whereas Alan knows hed rather be a self appointed student of snaky Kemeter.

I return to my pages of black and white to make 64 or so and thus utilize the great images from Italian books but at least admit it as so. Again wont be lectured by the good holders and interrupters of the faith as still await a Catiline moment, when the trash has had enough, and start hurling rotten meat at the senators who barged the golden door and lock it, lest the people get their pounds of flesh. The unromantic conniving mid terms are as close as ell ever get, I guess. The closest come to that is the elections that democratic openly wish to connive to win and keep purple machetes with a strange misplaced fervor, but then who would want to get a real job when you can be tribune of the trash and collect that golden ticket that Nan has been keeping in a pressed book like a leaf from a tree long bulldozed down. Saw a dreadful show called Garfunkel and Oats,in which it shows how fall we have fallen when you tube does your casting, but again, some switcheroo thing was done, as how this jelly fosh eyed bitchy sneering woman saw her only attribute as being blond, and the little dago princess was made somehow instantly beautiful with a  bland, blond dishwater  wig, yes keep believing that , gals! There are Blonds and then there are Blonds, Truuuuuman said. Still, I do love how these how’s have to be done with care, as constantly they demean and distaste ‘Brown’ hair you see, and never black hair, as they would make them all seem too much like racists, which of course you are never, as you marinate your wife’s and gay sons in miss Clairol, as if Commodus. You are never racists, we are cognately told, and now Keith takes a victory lap that somehow red and gold Redskins t shirts aren’t sold anymore to the good white folks, who of course must be told what is racist by blowhards on television, again check those boxes all!, as of it sort of never dawned on them before, but don’t fret Cowboys, never fear, the actually killers in all this, like the Sicilian mob, is always a workable project. As watched this painfully hip show with the two girls I felt proud of msylef that didn't take the opportunity to steal Danielle Corsetto's lovely but a bit heavy on the coven work and pretend it was mind as I almost did, as was told am too masculine and do I have anything about girls..? as it teaks a certain genius to write about a bitchy red head whose friends with a busty and vivacious brunettes and likable, hmnnnnn, and I couldn't bring myself to do it. Not that my ethics bothered me, I have none. As  still it is her idea and she has the voice needed to do it whereas male chavanist pig me, how nice that is to say again amid the decent and the closeted, would have made it into nothing but pillow foughts and feminine hygiene jokes, and still would


have been been better than this. We start a new year in which eventually, Romo The homo, will be glowering and aw shucking his way off the field, lets get small, like a mechanical monster, or rockem sockem robot with head snapped off, if again we are lucky as this year, as  like Obama he may find the wages are severe when Signora Fortuna now detests you for having just killed time.

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03 September 2014

THE BOY'S ROOM. 21 July 2014. BARRY'S WAR PART 4







In our less than Oviddian midsummer,…


Nice to know that while Ritchie Incognito has been sent to the phantom Zone, that poor dumb football queers are compared to dog killers, and to show you don't have the dignity of The Romans, a black running back, not even Adrian Petersen, but a run of the mill General Issue running back, no Emmett he, gets two games over treating a woman like alley oop. YOU CAN LOSE A YEAR OF PLAYING TIME IN A SHORT CAREER OVER A JOINT, AS SOMEHOW THE FAGOTS AND WHITE WOMEN AND GOOD WALMART LEFTISTS BROUGHT US TO EXACTLY  WHERE THEIR PARENTS WERE, OR GRANDPARENTS, THE JESUITS TAUGHT ME, SHOULD  WE REALLY BE FUCKED. Oh, wake ME WHEN THE GLADIATORS ARE WEARING SANCTIMONIOUSNESS PINK SHOES. Well of course Godell looks askance at weed, or even steroids, who said you have the right to heal...?But, clocking a woman just shows you're keeping in gladiatorial shape. It shall be a larrf this year to see both Big Ben and Rrrrray Rrrrrrice fresh from arrrrrrrrrrested is caught wearing the pink, it means something different to them, think Jenkins horrid wool, while Richie Is LEFT BEHIND AS Tarpeas always are, while Keith feels good about himself as there is another word he wont say, add it to the sanctimonious list, in the kind of bullshit theology of null, that without which, the good liberals stinking of drone gasoline have actually less than nothing at all.  It once actually bothered some comic fag who spells it Herakles, that I noted that both Marston’s brilliant feminist icon creation and her sister, Diana and Donna, both have Roman names, as they were putting the Greek shit on a tad thick, as somehow a Greek wonder woman cant be attractive, humnnnn, take that Telly!, but then this is as me covered as Superman’s Boots. But then pointing of such things, such as that appears to be my calling.


As this mid summer seems to be falling into out punitive days of Imperial high school, one ESPN closeted boy after the next is suspending someone for saying something that the mouse, our overlord and crucible Rodent god, doesn't like. Lastingly, the if it feels good do it twerps has devolved into mere slave ship Spartan ploddings, as I sort of knew all along and don't ever, ever, take this shit seriously enough except when I did, both times not a mitzvah to Roman me. But scinz you all now feel it your duty and or even pride to suspend people for private lives, things done years ago, I must ask why this passion, where again, St Anthony of Dungy compared Michael Sam to a dog murderer, and thus being gay to a really yucckie felony, ah the truth comes out as Nick the wop said, well, when in hell is Tony Korneshers expulsion  from the kingdom, or at least the rest rooms of the baths of Caraculla known as Bristol. I realize hiring Keith can go along way towards the cloak of sanctimony, maybe not, still, Id like to know why our Petronius with ladle, who cartographers Ritchie as a cave man and is strangely on vacation the day that Rrrrray Rrrrrcie rrrrrrecallsl hisssss by rrrrrrote rrrrrrrocrimnations and gives his lackluster speech isn't being so positively thought of. As this whole Ray Rice thing happened,-- frankly I miss the Raiiidahhhhsssssss, too tough for a rolling trilling RRRRRR, as they were who could beat up on men, sorry the Roman in me, Uncle Tony Korensier said of attired attractive woman sportswriter Christine Brennan, that she is, as I have heard before, 'Auntie Mame'. Now, what the pejorative means I do not know, really, though have an inkling someone what wanted to eye Teri Hatcher actually be set on fire for real in a Rodriguez movie, not my first wish, Genie, but then I don't work as an attendant in that boys room, comparing  a woman to even an aged Roz Russell is a pejorative. To paraphrase Woody, its Tony K's hope to take My Girl Friday, eliminate  the lovely and plucky Roz Russell, I do love those brunette Russells, and return it to closeted front page stuff. I wont go more into that now, but would like to know why this beady eyed fuck can say of a woman who is just trying to get ahead as a sportswriter, already not hard enough for Rabbi Korney, amid the cock suckers and the bottom boys like ol unkie Tone, Id like to know why that speech is allowed, and frankly what it means when you call a woman trying to emancipate herself in a man world, or least world of Spartan toilets, where you get the impunity and gall to compare this woman, no less, to a Jerry Herman nineteen century matchmaker, and again, am not even sure he know what the means, or just being by now like an ESPN equal water carrier Lesbian Valkyrie, paid by the acceptable insult.








The thing that seemed to bother the comic creeps was my off hand but true definition of Image comic books, these of the dreaded to them nineties, was something I started to study on as if the works of Ovid, as something to emulate. I don't know why, but like Mexican comics, found a poetry in their excess, maybe I am again being semi nostalgic for a day when a Petronius read man didn't leave the White house during cunnilingus, much less crisis that Polozzi seems, like the Strega does, to bring with her. Something wicker this way comes. I have been subsuming a bagged collection called Soul Saga on to a Rag collection, which I admit to admiring as it is poo pooed by the Kirby devotees, and have taken a Gail Simone story and merely almost doggedly trudge through it, no premise of new arts or new styles or sweet steals brought to the funny book by presumptuous me, just as I told a buddy, me as Sam Peckinpah hero, a lonely, tired, given to violence, aging, weary William Holden, say, or Warren Oats, as the American empire was just about to fade. But alas get what I deserve, as I note such films as these brilliant places by Sam, in a world where Quinton plays diarrhea mouthed auteur and Saw is shown when  wor showed Batman and George Reeves and That girl when I was a kid, somehow the wild bunch is still so dangerous to the empire of boys, that its always on at 3 am. I like the summer Turners movies marathons, which I with now play along incessantly as Rachel’s wheeling and seeing the decency in all of Mac Kane arguments, laughed at days ago, and Anderson Cooper spinning through the haze is all too much for decent me, as I eschewed such cleverness long ago, the one part of Jesuit-ism I couldn’t get behind. But then the Jesuit black pope we have here for a first time in the middle of our lives is signing off on jet planes and drones and the sacrament of gunfire, how Julius the Seconundo, showing again I was ahead of all of you. This pope, like popes now, sees no problem in strafing the ghettos with anti aircraft fire, showing again that a strange love of queens always leans towards fascism and not socialism, sorry, and after all, there are only so many Rolexes to go around.

But an encroaching Birthday as usual fills me with resentments and recriminations, as have since when I turned forty, and released all that fear I had, as was misplaced as the world was being controlled forever by the dimwits of empire, and the step men the Romans warned us of, all were now burping on national televisions, when not sincerely silent, as the bags they carried were soggy and the buckets they deftly carried weren’t spit but something else more toxic and ammonia. But as Barry preys on the world who doesn’t get him, as the poet laureate does his Xena warrior princess act and releases the drones, he was wakened, was our thin lipped kraken, between his birdies, and his pricing of the villas to which will Tacitus like abscond to, once his game is up, I felt a twang of sadness that in his rather cool ling summer have to fight my way through the angers and the self admonishing that comes like butterflies in the summer sky. What I thought of was some comic hack twerp, who disliked more than my comics, their essence and argument, my stagy disapproval of his comic game, as if I cared, they get on their hind quarters then for Roman Tony, as have a real inkling I may,as the fathers warned me, be righter than I should be. I was called here 'grandpa' one of three times when dealing with comic hacks, the best reception I got was coming from Comic Reporter, who merely ignored me, but managed to think maybe Pogo was better than he thought. No, that’s not true, some inkers and cartoonists liked me and my work, but then, they were professionals, as have never done well with the self appointed anything’s, as know them to be prison snitches at best. He trashed me from the beginning as seeing Rag as something Marvel does worse than, if you think that's an insult, pal...the left handed compliment is their biggest charm, and etc, but too, that I was an old man somehow, he is in his thirty’s then, who was upset by my bitching about somehow the fall of things,which like Gore is my best argument. I couldn’t care less, though did get a email telling me of his ilness, as if i'd care, take that youngster, Signora Fortuna is a bitch, wheres I as usual am healthy as a horse, and his own perpetual Cicero’s adolescence dalliances came crashing down. A life misspent.




Still, he did trash me for my cult of the past, the Roman scene I ask why we don't have, good and decnet us, of the man in makeup in the decaying roman theater, a sad transvestite wistfully re thinking and missing of archaic Arcadia, sort of thing we have replaced by Jew comic Social criticism through the gumba wop act, at least he doesn’t make Gook noises like his beloved empty bag follow upper, them all being hectored to hire some black woman somehow, and keep the black men on their comic cavalcades from having to do drag, which is not the same things a queer Virgil and his sad epithets. And then on my birthday hurdling towards afternoon, tiring of a then lovely Jane Fonda marathon, she whose family does come from a famous Italian anarchist, tortured by the Medici, as was Machiavelli  for his admiration of the Romans republicanism, you didn’t know…?, I saw the immaculate image of a human and humane Batman. No not that Nolan sissy wet dream in Swat team Kevlar and Bronson Voice, but mod fab colorful Batman, as first saw Victor Buono hardly containing himself in commercial for coming afternoon Batman,  as he dammed batman dance the batusi, whereas now all batman does, as I labeled on Rag, to this miscreants dislike, was beat up junkies for the peace of his Goldman sacks partners. I saw Batman remembered on a channel that is painfully hip, meaning that the people have tired of mean Queen batman as a foisted icon, they have tired of him and his master Nolan making Batman a bigger satire than Radioactive man, as somehow Stan will win out. The comic book returns to its pulpy formatter, there is Adam West, in all his psychedelic glory, and I was assured in the decency of things. Batman as a wet dream of married closet queers is going, out man out, and is recalled back with Victor Buono as King Tut, to the point that comic hacks sneer as little misses that are at the fact that even dc has had to return Batman on unpilp pages to his infantile Infantino roots, as those camp artisans did nothing that wasn’t in the pages of detective comic books then, sorry but no army of Frank Millers can replaced the gay agenda of new Billy Dale, and the mod Batman returns tool belt and all, his cockeyed camera as a daily show as was seen when I was a kid, and I welcomed the real batman back in all his Who era goodness. Nolan instead is stuck with a wonder woman as a pretty Jewish gal, as a brunette in Nolan’s valued customers world, she must be a ball busting dyke, as Lois would have been if not hennaed to distraction and meaningless as they kissed above ground zero showing a ear of tantalum and a love of ruins, As this Jewish wonder-gal was something I foresaw in MS, with Sylvia Schwartz, but mine again as too human, and not in the dried blood colored bodice that dread closet everything  Nolan must place all humans in. They are stuck with the cult of hate and meanness at those dc comics pages, a page can look like a tear, as has since ancient days, and they have now a poll as said of Nikki Fink, that people aren’t crazy about the idea of Hercules, sorry, Superman, begetting beaten up by Zorro, also in Rag and also remarked upon as heresy. Too, Frank millers day has come and gone, he cant keep up, and his menaces, unlike the lovely Alan Moore’s, cant keep pace as now four of his movies have tanked, the Spartans dead fists aren’t so cute anymore, see what happens you fight the sadness of Romanism on purpose…?,  and a Tarantino minions produced vapid sin city is according to Miss Fink getting D’S, or is that DoH’s,  in all impunity mall calibrations. So, good night until you call, and Bill Finger like Ariosto laughers at the cacophony of browns and dread all movies have become in our lackluster blood games summer. As for Jewish wonder women, mine was feeling ennui of her own as she was there when Moscone was butchered in a gay love spat, but then you good libels, sorry, liberal bag folk, can always justify your own murders, and be sanctimonious through the less than Sallust looting's.

I was glad to see the real Batman return, as has Captain Magnus boy hood hero in three different things I peruse, and if must will get Angela to publish, just to be a prick. Batman is back, showing my leering towards nostalgia, once an actual medical term, like moron, was on point and I as prescient as ever, and I see a station will be showing a Simpson marathon for days as we recall the great days of Roman addled Clinton, while his Lucretia bumbles her way off the stage again and Shumah asks, who wants at be Prezzident, gahead gahead… this veer toward the Simpson’s making me recall Lesley in her Bart Simpson t shirt swaying me to watch a show, the first ever I did, the vacation at itchy and scratchy land, and saw those shows were at lest then brilliant. To give credit, something they liked about me in art school, unlike comic hacks I can give credit to anyone, l stopped watching that show when Conan then Brad Bird left that show, as  it lost a soul and a decency repealed by Homer is an idiot jokes, but then they did give some acknowledgment to Saliari, as opposed to Amadeus, or as I call it Ill spit on your Venice grave. The television itself has become the gay actor in the dusty fallen orgy, with running harlequin make up, recalling the accordia and the Hesperia of then, as instead of noised to vulgar vapid political bribed now, as I figured you couldn’t keep it at bay for ever. We are the mods,we are the mods, we are, we are, we tha modddddddddddssssssss





I really don't want to go into Barry's Imperial summer fighting season, as we pinball like Tommy from one disaster to the next with Barry singing See Me feel me, touch me, and of course always meaning money. I really don't care, but was glad to see that aids has made that spike I was hoping for when the perverts started registering at Barney's, as read enough of the Decameron to know I make a better Juvenal than a Youngman. A pretty girl starting a daily show knock off invited me to resubmit some jokes, as don't really think in joke form, and she told me if I can stick to truth Id have a spot but the National Lampoon fake news I do is passé. She wants truth...or as the priests would say 'Truuuth' ...from me...what is truth as Bill Clinton said, and what told me I couldn't do it was I thought I was being true all along. I am glad though to see that despite the good bleeding hearts, something more cesarean than Christian when truth be told, see...?, that they made sure to not send the human without paper filthy to districts and parishes controlled by superbly mobile 100 year trash like Polozzi and DebLasio, not given a inch for beating the Jewish man with his prick hanging out, imagine that, still, the trash without whom the tribune of the plebs becomes just another shlub,  was not sent there, but alas the mosquitoes were not so controllable, as we devolve the new Sicily down to the malaria used by doges to clear out the woods of fairies, hoo boy!,  when America was still a bloody injun forest. I thought you would have known that this wouldn't work, learned from Yenta Diane keeping the bathhouses open during a pandemic and wishing to be admired for it, I would have  thought by now the party of Galileo wouldn't have figured that the Jewry Borgia middle ages are over. Cie la Vie, Levittown praetorians, as I am glad to know supinely these good spic chidden, cried for by national tear duct Glenn Beck, every so often he shows his humanity by canceling out the fires he set before, but I am glad to  see the unintended  consequence of so many Catholic sepsis of opus dei inclinations, might be giving more cooties than a thousand baths of Curricula now.

Again, resubmitting Big Bertha, an anti loveable gumba mafias story has allocated some praise,  but some anger too, how dare I avoid the Jew York times and its homilies of what we all are between their rain dancing for war, sorry, as priests of Mars did. Some house boy  at this site trashed the great Father Mars, saying White people beloved in mars, hardly, and he didn't. You mean as opposed to Mohammed then...? I think what I was looking for was my say, as again burned a bridge when asked to get a comic below 200 pages, as was told, got it 197 by massive cuts at it, just to be published, and they then sneering at this, and me telling them to drop dead. I do not have  the whiney gene that would cause me to kiss Hillary's prick so. I think what I wanted was my say, after all. I sat and watched some toxic spill called Halt and thwack fireflies or some such thing, about the apple revolution I recall as a kid. In the Jesuit high school where soon enough they fell for me --wink wink!--and admired my work of a yellow paged edition of King Italus, the Greek for whom Italy is named, shush don't tell the Oneida nation, about Italia, things are tough enough with the coons and the yids! A kid I started to become friends with, told me the computer coming was changing everything. I should have listening.

As AMC continues trying to trash the fondly recalled past as is done in days of fall, and we leave Jersey for Jerry Della Finiminas ad rooms, now to silicone valley. Here a pretty Texas Brunette is in usual suburban guilt morass, as heard on the sopranos Jew fuck's fear Martha's vineyard becoming Amalphi Coast, as if, and she is again the age of Jew wop nightmare, inexplicably  to a every Jew of always bounding need, who I take it playing Dore Sherry in the daily's room,  it will be with by acclimation of a call in campaign like a breakfast curial ad, made to join up with a bland boyish blond, see batman ethics above, and all of it is done in the cooler palate of the missed sweat hog seventies,  which would have  served Watchman better, had not its peter principal director  learned cinematography from the covers of warren magazines. The coders here, like the men in gray flannel suits our last go around in the e Empire as Marcus Agrippa imagined be his. they are all humorless, joyless, and without empathy for anyone not in their immediate circle, as I said to a Jew accessing Coppolla, no crying Romans at the foot of sandstone for them. The pretty Brunette is exemplar of the Levittown past,  the past to of chosen, reformed, of course, menacing please don’t bring up that in bible men were killed for instremmarge, no no wild and wacky Romans amid the Sabine girls for Yahweh, the Jupiter without balls, always as they utterance for purple sashes and the sortie for women Ovid called bottle trash, no really look it up, he hated blonds, as all Italians do, and there is a reason that the Tuscan walls, like the Talmud, showed demons as blonds like Fletcher Hanks did.





She is amid the Texas instruments consoles, the push button telephones, the Atari’s, the baseboards and the kitchen cabinets of then, in the paradise of freaks and geek's land, from which a new set of Woody's would emerge like Seth and James and their master circus queen Judd. I already empathize with her, as I guess I do the Palestinians, as the strangely the antiRoimans, the Jews and negroes wish to eat up all sympathy themselves, in Ovid Trench form. And this is rather  unseemly, as more Italic looking than not sides of beef in suits ah we have become eagles since the food was forced through slats,  demand a strange validation from their sugar daddy imperial Augustus hicks, stagy and unnecessary unless they actually believe  this horse shit  which is hard  to believe in eland of Imam Swaggarts,  and their Rolex faith, showing this Earth everywhere,  is more devoted to Oprah than Aquinas. The circus owners now,as was in Plautus time, to whom no play of Hercules is as big a sin as a heresy if it is a hit, show themselves now as somehow wish to admired for their vices, as their shock troops bust up teenagers, they re perpetual victims still, even when in kevlar like batman and his minions, always hurt always scratched always better than you, always chinsey, always accepted, always now czarists having survived the long winter in the backboards fir a  reason, unlike Sicilians who are just out and out poor thieves,  no, they perpetually wish to glom onto Empire and steer it like Shumah and Fienstein, Polozzi and Barry all are filth prolonging the Roman creed of back benchers as they never could have if they tried, as the wife from fat ass king of queens and a show about the Saddams's boys showiest the Jews are always ready to do their part in the televised wars they will take part.

So bored, and tired of another CNN plane, tired of Barry tap dancing from one bag of money to take it from here to there, as a bag man lives out his senate boy chicks creed, this found show is latched with self righteousness,  as if the making of a computer is somehow stalag 17, and these hacks are William Holden. Two commercials, a pair of brunets, nether appealing to me, the black Russian and Tina Fey fey. Its amusing who they let in. The Beatrice’s of Mudville, where the Jewry guilt never stops, except  to tell us how good they are, as they pair up in twos with blonds , the American dream, on Rupert circus. I feel swindled, as a saw a few years ago, the polish mad man this was based upon, Woznicak, who crated a computer in a garage as I try still to make films, unwanted and unwatched in the unbroken string of remakes and bullshit that like the bund rallies and the political circus without joy, a Cirque if you will which appeals to dumb white girls,  are attracting less and less, I saw Steve Wozniak, fat and happily, rich as a doge, and doing shtick with Olivia Munn. Why did I know this is crap, why do I think the Steves had a ball...? All I was ever looking for, I guess. As one italic hebegeebee after the next goes in televising to explain why the percentage of Palestinians killed are civilians is as high as the number of pennies collected by Plutus' old men from each dollar, I say enough, I feel badly as this time unlike dreaded  madmen recall these days crystal clear. I recall the days of THIS APPLE dawn, before Reagan emerged from his crypt ala Dracula, another I am sure is obeying Merrill Lynch Pierce Fenner and Ziggy cues and notes, built like the circus maximus and the forum, and neros palace Charleston Heston, as we speak, this time without a Gore to hector him and no Johnny around, As Jimmy Rockford is dead, and the male is reduced now to queer in bat suit and a bullet proof fag outfit. And I recall the RCA LAZARDISK, bought for me by a disappointed father I eschewed and cast aside, too old, too Fascist, too italic , too classically minded, I do put on airs now though no...?, I cast aside as write B movies about busty vamps when Jesuits thought I was a born Vidal, and should write another Julian, good luck to me. I recall the lazar disc I had as a boy, and the giant floppy of Citizen Kane, and the real Planet  of the apes, and how I went over selected scenes of these films over and over, the brunette that heston  discovers no ape wouldn't have  fuck ed as Jefferson would once say, --he's a hero due to his Democratic heart--as I would watch that almost wonder woman over and over as a mgm aged Beatrice of 70 mm,  and too, mostly would watch a certain cine of Citizen Kane, over and over , as the magic of Welles causes a page of an old mans diary to turn to snow.

















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