09 June 2008


I have ripped open a scab on an old wound by remaking Mister Stupendous. Now that I have scanned 100 pages of it since dec 1st , and kept about seventy in sequential storytelling order, I relive how deep all those wounds really were, and how they can bleed again so easily.

I miss my father. I miss my art school buddies who I used to anger by deliberately calling quintin tarantino a fag. I miss Lesley, actually, though I never much spoke to her. Her lemony sweet tart sensuality was a pleasure just to be close to, i didn't have to do much else--amazingly for a swine like me-- as I was never a wop or a nigger looking to shtupp my way to some American dream. I miss zero mostel. I liked jews better when they were communists, as Doc Savage screaming about repentance out of the old holy writ 'tween the commercials for gold coins is really more egregiously stereotypical than the sopranos. But then, he eagerly does that what is respected.

I miss Eric Severide, my fathers voice of god hero, and all of Cronkite's boys, especially now, as a wounded baloney grinder salesman, jock licker Oberman seems almost hurt that madam wu and hubby seemed to turn on his ass, after so many fat jokes he made in their defense. They really don't make roman comedies like they used to, and Barack Trimalchio Obama, and John Miles Gloriosus Mac Cain have no real idea they are even in a comedy at all, which can take most of the fun of it anyway. I have a feeling these two credits to their races are going put the bullshit, self righteous-o- meter into teh red as each day passes. I miss Gore Vidal, who was shut up finally for being a roman historian and telling America about crying goats when the yentas of the senate were waving flags in everybody's face, and we got more hagiography about the previously ignored john adams, who took the place of the fallen jungle fevered Jefferson. I miss Patty Fairinelli, the aptly named Italian playmate with big tits and black hair when such wasn't seen as apostasy, now that this cadaver old pervert in a captains hat tries to convince us he is fucking a few meth head cunts between blood transfusion's.

I miss Capote on David Susskind. I miss Tom Snyder and Johnny Carson , especially as tv degenerates into fat little kids slapping their mommies who are incredulous that they are helping build better sociopaths on doctor Phil. There is nothing wrong with America a few nuns with rosary beads cant cure. I miss Dick Cavette talking to Mortimer Adler. I watched--studied-- that like a holy writ, and the few friendly people I had known in middle school asked me where I was running to at three in the afternoon each day, sometimes just skipping the last class to get to watch Cavette on channel 13 talk to , as I called him, Virgil, and I taped it on a cassette and kept it like a holy mass. Now I have to have faggots throw that heinous hero with a thousand mugs in my face, cause St. Georgie of Napa told them what mythology is. As, he learned it from Hal Foster somewhere along the way.

I would never have imaged that they aren't going to leave everyone alone until we all become flacks like doris kerns goodwin, but then, you dimwits , so anti Rome, so Judea in your self righteousness , deserve it. Stupidly, before the fags and the housewives and lesbians who cry out of their great big stupid glassy eyes about dogs and candidates and then cross picket lines like a fucking Carnegie, and before my Psuedelus Bill became another mommas boy breaking my roman heart , and before every horse faced woman with a bad dye job and a skanky look started to think they were Lynda carter, I actually thought that being funny was going to be enough.

01 June 2008


The crowd at cnn , a round table on 360 with Gloria Vanderbilt jr, was actually taken aback by a almost horrifyingly vain and venial self centered speech given by Hillary. She seemed amazingly graceless even for the Tonya Harding of politics, declared victory as taught by her husband so many years ago, with the populi ,voxless, as a Caesar might say, be damned. It was almost vomit enduing as she called out for a ride of the Vaulkyrys...?... like a flight of the lesbians to come save her deluded dream before it crashed to the earth on wings made of pancake makeup, gin, polyester crotches, feminine hygiene products, chaffed bras straps, concealer, and fried Chicken wings, as carrying her husband stag ego was too much weight. She spun and danced and was gracious enough to declare victory, and danced wildly again, as she Antoninedly praised her own dying carcass of guts.

But, I am more saddened for and because of old Bilbo and see his demise as something heinous and atrocious, mostly his own fault. Now the man who somehow conned himself that he was a roman hero is trying, according to Carl Bernstein, to become second lady, or chisel some cabinet seat under Barry when he wins. One should not so willingly and eagerly praise the romans until they do realize what is Roman and what is not.

Still, as he lets his wife squander everything he bled and worked for, stole, I do think back when he was in the midst of Monica, so to speak, and he made two statements which were brilliantly sad and which gleamed like diamonds amid the shit he himself had thrown against his imperial walls. As the Monica fiasco broiled and bubbled around him, he said that his political hero was a roman, always and forever, named Cincinnatus. For those of you from public school or just plain illiterate lesbians, he was a roman farmer who was called into the praetorium by the clever, proud, fearful queens of the stone ancient city, as a crew of horned helmeted Jew hater white trash was doing their historical dance, sort of like her. She always has seemed more barbarian than her roman husband to me, as she liked to crumble, break things, knock down and rape as much as piously available, where as he loves rape too, but sometimes thinks of aqueducts and Apollo’s made of bronze and falling in love with Beatrice , too. With the cum still on his hands , he compared himself to the old stoic, Marcus, with a straighter than straight face, which caught me by surprise, though maybe it shouldn't have.

Cincinnatus took the job as the ultimate scapegoat and available moron stooge, but, fate, --no wait…FATE, THAT LADY LUCK, THAT BITCH WITH SMILING EYES, THAT CUNT UNPARALLELED, that bitch goddess with a Mona Lisa smile and a pier angeli tuchus, that thing with tits and black hair and wings from her curvy warm arms, who flows in robes of purple, and who no Semitic mommas boy Jew baby bleeding God can ever destroy her really, came into the play. He won over the Vikings or whoever they were, and beat them as a roman did, and he was poised to be named king of Rome, a job later flaming faggot lunatics, like Hillary and the more effeminate Brutus, would literally kill to get. When the fearful senators and generals came back to the town, now saved, they offered him a crown. And, Lucius Cincinnatus was the creator of modern politics, in eschewing fate and god as an excuse to take the reins of men and of power, and he saved the town and didnt become a son of god, or a pharaoh, and turned it all down, and famously wanted back to his Sabine ranch. Still, according to Plutarch, around here somewhere, that didn’t stop him from sending out his newly devoted men to cut the throats of every general who left him so high noon and Gary Cooperishly in the lurch. See, these things that you all think are fake, like the films of Italian immigrant Capra, like the honest man who shouts at the senate until he is horse, Bill and I know, are amazingly true in Rome, which is why we have the word Romantic in the oed to begin with at all. I felt bad for my equally schoolboy fallen Jesuit student, my good fellow lover of Virgil, as he was surrounded, I guessed, by the same ministers and operatives and hangers on which had their throat cuts by the old stoic and decent Roman. Maybe like his equally as me adored Captain Marvel, --just another comparison that made me grudgingly like him--there was a bit of pagan and roman and Egyptian wish fulfillment to it all too.

As he hung like a pit bull by a rope to his power, he brought up this farmer king and Marcus Arelius, in the very pits of his personal imperial hell. And that made me admire the bloated bastard king. NOW, THE LOVER OF CINCINNATUS, THAT FARMER WHO SAID HE DID WHAT HE DID NOT FOR GLORY OR FOR PLACE OR FOR POSITION, BUT OUT OF DUTY, is busy making a damned fool of himself on television, a WC Fields- ish figure without the bloated warmth, as their circus dwindles down to a calliope starting to wheeze. She tried to vainly take the spotlight from this poor black man who made history though you wouldn't know it, as all was about her again, despite the history of a black man to be given a place as a nominee. Instead, old saggy psycho Nora Desmond, SHE HOGS THE DAY AGAIN, [Im ready for my closeup, Wolf...]THE CUNT APPROACHES, YIKES AND AWAY, EVERYONES FIRST WIFE, AUDREY MEADOWS ON CRACK, BOY, SHE CLEARS THAT TABLE AND PUTS IT AWAY LIKE A HURDLER--SHE STEALS THE SPOTLIGHT. She is like all great fictional creatures ,like Godzilla and Erica Kane and Batman, and Christopher Hitchens, as one never knows what on earth will happen next, like in all my children or the acts of the apostles. We must again think of them, these two who always perpetually need and want and devour, and have and take and spit it all back up again…Oy, enough already.

I am so tired of their needs, their wants… You bitches know…they both have had it pretty good, as men who like to show their dicks in public, not only do not usually become president Dears, but they often go to jail. So, as they crazy it up now and wail the incessant cries of the over fed, calling out to the Germanic parody of crying lesbians to do her bidding like a helmeted Elmer Fudd in Whats opera doc...?, as they tackle with both hands in the back, and do that most ancient of cons, this pair of thieves who act put upon and as if all goes against them as they fill their pockets with stolen coins, I say….I hope the gods of old Lucius watch all this and learn from this unromantic wailing at an unromantic wall. The fall from Livy's Early history of the Romans book I-X and Virgil's unfinished opus sad epic to Bugs Bunny in blond ringlets wearing a tin brazeer and Elmer wearing horns is steep and savage and cruel, old man.

I hope the ghost of Cincinnatus will come and visit you two kids when the fake epic is over. I hope the sky becomes dark with that particular Roman Vaulkyrie --I’m not a Nazi, sorry--of shimmering dark hair and purple sashes, and who carry swords and sensors to aerate the bloody soil, of the sort you rabid dogs leave behind you. The Roman variation of the flying woman messenger of god didn't take the dead away, they left them there to be thrown into old man river. I hope that Thalia, who you have never heard of sweetie, but who your husband still prays to as a hopeful penitent, ie, Lady Luck, and her sisters of pouty lips and long curvy stomachs and Michelangelean thighs come at you like beautiful bats of the empire of the first heaven moon. I hope they give you a cause to cry and bitch and whine as you both eat and get fatter by the day. I hope you get yours in that particular style of roman karma, which is epic, and as the red faced, red dicked Hubby Praetor turns around with a smarmy leer coming to his fat bloated overfed lips, and the blood rushing to his dick, as it always is, when he sees that large green eyed, black haired, earliest Eurasian mixed blooded dea, mongrel as Edith Hamilton so lovingly referred to the Alba's, this roman goddess who he has been secretly chasing as you have been chasing him. And, It will be among the faggots the broads and the house niggers letting this day become her anti climactic moment of strange contorted triumphs, I hope she gives you both something to seethe and cry over and about, dears…I hope she gives you and hubbie, an excuse to cry tears not so VERDIANLY stagecrafted. "I will give you something to bitch about, bitch ," seems to me the closest thing the romans ever had to the Our Father. I hope she gives you the old roman business, as Romans demanded of their goddesses, done before Junior turned them into Jews. I hope She takes her half Lucan, half world of warcraft--no too germanic--cutlass and tears them and their suddenly apparent unmarried women --so quiet when she was queen of the middle class in Ohio, --both to their petty, detestable, mommie boyed and spiteful core.

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