24 October 2008

Mister Stupendous rebirth, or re-incarnations, and working on it 's restored pages again, has made me recall that last great time of my life, 1977-1980, before epilepsy and a thousand rivers of boiling mud to cross would make me fearful , dirty, wet, and have my feet singed.I have taken to not using cut and paste as much and merely take pages where I have parceled panels to eventually cut out, and ink a thick el marko boarder around the disparate images, thus calling it a page, gluing in dialog being done with it. I rather like the effect.

One time, almost with exasperation, and not meanly, as one time in my life I was actually liked and befriended by phds and other smart people, but alas now, we are in the dark ages of Mad Magazine, where even the smartest among us dont know from nothing, my yenta neurologist Audrey once asked me a question. "Tony.... Tony, you still bitch about some German nun ripping apart your cartoons, which happened, [-then-] like eighteen years before. Have you ever gotten over anything, Tony, god, you're the one with the Roman stuff...have you ever gotten over anythin', have you ever overcome , or gotten oveh anything.....?Why do you care so much, why are you so damned wounded, Christ you are built like a fucking tank, why do you care so much...have you ever stood up fer yourself...?"

I THOUGHT, seated there wearing an Emmit Smith blue 22 jersey , and cheap Genovese pants truer to the creed of italic sailors pants than anything Levi stole and made a fortune with. Now I read Sardinians are selling these same pants I wore as a Italian sign of protest for MORE than levi's cost, as they have become fashionable, as the European union finds the selling of Italian things, like chesses and sardines and even southern coastal wines, are the only thing anyone really wants from their messhuggina COMMON MARKET. As a producer told me when I said I found a deal for a Prussian panavision cameras, said, he wouldn't trust the quality of cocaine or whores out of that Untermench dump, much less a movie camera.

"A few times..."I said...having stopped the comedy routine I did when with her that made her often jolt forwards with a laugh she didn't ever emit....frown lines and all. "When I graduated eighth grade, or left that Catholicism school which the priests had let me in for free, and never made me pay tuitions because they loved my dad, and came to adore me, I was invited to the rather small, but airs put upon casa of a supposedly rich little mafia princess who had a pool in her backyard, this being a pre fall sign of riches. I am an epileptic. I still avoid going anywheres now, and didn't want to go to this ago bitch's dump, wherein her mafia hanger on father had been castigated for leering at the under age blossoming girls of the seventh and eighth grades. When I got there, I was presented with a pair of trunks to enter the shallow end of the pool, as I had never learned to swim, unlike my siblings. What they brought me, a big kid even then, they brought me tiny shorts to make me stuff into them and stand in the undeep end with her boyfriend ,a wop thug killer in ovo who she would be with as boyfriend and girl friend until he would one night sexually abuse her, which , I, Machiavellian boy, smiled at, as she was a perfect Italian American who dismissed and disdained southern Italians and even Rome, and was somehow unmeasured enough to go steady with a wop thug Sicilian who put on a pretense he was a Lombard, yikes, who managed to possibly rape her. Sorry, It made the Roman in me smile.I am an Apulian more than not, my own self, I have read Ovid, and I ain't never raped no body. But then, the Lombard's were the geniuses who made crowns out of lead and toilets of Gold.

But this night, I recalled, they handed me these shirt small trunks, as I was to get in them , clown around and stand there in their fucking low rent pool and make a fool out of myself for their woppy amusements."

I recall a light went on that night, though too late smart, or to early, and I refused, gaining their girlish disgust, which would inflame in the black lagoon creationism of Maureen Dowdy and Tina Fey later, which were harbingers to me, a young auger, of a falling America. As much later, I saw it coming. " I refused to play wop clown then, and demanded a ride back home then, and said I was getting driven out of this shipowner's type dump in some way, either her father, or the cops after I busted her pollacks mothers dinette set and clay Jesuses to bits. I was driven home. The father , a wanna be wop thug admitted to me, he always hoped this wop shicksa of his, Violet [--as I renamed her in my then comic] , would find a nice dago kid like me who read books and shit, rather than the wop creep she had found. The father, whom I hated as a wop slob, told me he was a fat kid too, and purposely starved to lose the weight and then, bang the fat assed Polish chicks were his. Wonderful. But, he drove me home, and I certainly hoped never to see him or his scummy slutty daughter or that sansabelt slacks boy friend of hers, ever again."

"Well," Audrey said, making a frown face of almost batman quality sneer but in a way denoting admirations, "Good fer yew." Despite the use of words like Fag, nigger, wop, kike, dyke, gook, bitch, cunt, yid, sheeney, hooknose, ginny, never Guinea, Dago, Fairie, cow, hassa, yenta, shicksa, negro, coon, retard, and the rest , every so often, I was admired by these same very people meanly named here, for having a Roman Ethic somehow in me, which, seems to refuse to give in completely.

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15 October 2008


My financial planner, Milton Goniff, has told me to take my nest egg, as the great Albert Brooks would call it, and place my money, almost 1,000 American duchets, into the essentials, which are depression proof. Pharmaceuticals, Pesticides, canned corn, bread, salt--I have heard people are centurionsly having to horde salt--and of course, skyrockets. He is a associate at the firm or Merrill Lynch Perice Fenner and Ziggy, and knows his way around a spreadsheet. I mean, he should, he keeps like five of them all going at once.

Alas, Our beloved Awgustws has reeled in horror at Madam Pollozzo's Ode that the congress at least throw some cakes and some candies at the Plebes as they do the bidding of their masters, a democratic strain she inherited to act as a pretender that she is doing Pro Bono Publico work while handing the keys to the bronze doors to bankers for later smelting. But, showing the type of befuddled arrogance which he has eagerly shown since, like Old Caesar, finding hisself unable to conquer Rome in any thing other than a coup, Aguie has rescinded this idea, finally having become a fiscal conservative. Certainly only after the snow job of last week when his banker buddies divide up the empire. Please, all this election and government needs to be complete is for Tom Brady to be sacked, fumble, and somehow the Raiders get a penalty assessed against them for lover boy's incompetence...well, that was before they left his helmet on throughout the whole game and all....oh, wait, that pretty much exemplifies the Obama campaign to a T. The heinous house, kotex patrol, praetorianne, pious cunt Maureen Dowdy, I was alerted by my Ma, wrote about how similar to Rome America was, but this was only something which was jogged in her memory I am sure due to the Italian American parades which her buddies in congress, specially the liberal nigger lovers all attend, --even though they pretends a love of indigenous types. So, bad news, Peasants, the bauble of Caesar, your assemblymen of queens cant find it in their imperial heart to toss even the most cheap imperial candies at you from their Benito like, faux Roman, ...OR IS IT GREEK, BALCONIES ,... and now perhaps a second sacking of the Capitoline is needed, who knows...Well, as The Italians could have told you, though I am sure not bumbling Berlisconi, Empire is a bitch....

I am starting to feel a bit bad for Sarah Pallin, especially since no one deserves to be looked down upon by a human growth named Tina Fey. She, much like the comical book queers who disturb me, has spent a life being probably dismissed and demeaned, and so, gets even with everyone, you see, but by screeching at walls, like telling women to vote for a woman who coined the term bimbo eruption and who was openly trying to steal an election from a black man, but just to smirk and watch things go boom reallll good, thats all. As I said, I don't trust anyone who smirks at her own jokes. So, she smirks and screeches, with a gin soaked voice , meaneing and belittling like a HAL 9000 of broken dreams and made up boyfriends in school, and having to recall being disliked and made fun of by the types of low rent scummy fucks who ended up having to become wards of whatever state would allow them. Tina fey is , to me, is the type of girl who did her clothes shopping at the army-bavy surplus store. Tina Fey is the sort of girl who though she seemed smart, even the other parents hated. Tina Fey is the kind of kindergarten teacher who would take a kids crayons and bust them all in half to teach them frugality. Tina Fey appears to me like the type of girls I saw only briefly in a hellish stint in a slave ship called public school, who came to the prom with a biracial retarded kid. Tina Fey reminds me of glasses wearing dyky broads in school who used to run intro the woods with the unmarried typing teacher, smoke and sing along to Pat Benitar and over romantic Foreigner songs. I wanna know what love is.....Tina Fey is the kind of woman you read about being killed by an in law on thanksgiving. Tina Fey is the kind of gal who the priests warned me of, and whom they hated, who would be most likely to be married in the woods on Halloween.


Sometimes, in my attic apartment, I have to allow for some expending of energies. I will place into my 90's era boom box, some of my Techno pop stuff, real fag shit, remixes of Wham and such, ...d0nt leave me hanging on like a yoyooooooooo....and I fag out, or have a fag spasm, in which I wear a Lycra tiger print body suit---whraaaaaaarrrrrrroooorrrrrrrr---and I prance around in ways which make Peter Allen look like Burt Lancaster or Mitchem. But, I was dong just that, fagging out like a Kansas City Faggot, leaping about to 'What is Love, baby dont hurt me,..' when I realized I had missed most of Columbus Day.

I guess I am supposed to forget about Columbus the way I am also too forget about the fact that Injuns, loved by the Art Bell crowd as somehow close to the earth, used to cut out the hearts of women so that the sun would rise. Why, these people understanding of the universe is almost semitic like....I felt bad because every Columbus day , as the air gets thick with the lamentations of the jews of the newest world, I recall it was about this time, in October's, when a Tuscan City called Larentium, and another too, and another called Veii, were raised to the ground by Roman troops. Out of 30,ooo Italic Sabine, Tyberain, Latina, in the honest historical sense, and Tuscan, the Romans saved 860 as they were young girls to be raped and make the roman seed more capable of taking the mezzagiorno sun. I recall, too, the city of Sagentium, and the famed Cumae, when spoke of at all, is called a great tactile maneuver, though Livy famously records that buzzards has feasted on some much human carrion that three day hellish siege, that they started to barf. But as a Roman, what did he know. And I THINK, THIS VERY YEAR ACTUALLY, I did battle with a wop nigger Korell West ,house wop professor of Calimari and Terimisue, who got on his high horse explaining my essay about the prescient Manzoni was unallowed in his precious book which dwelt with dago poetry only, you know, like Kafka. And I think, why bother...who cares, the Sofia Copollas of the world and the Awgustws of our land have taken possession of their baubles, and what I am supposed to do about it....? And still, IT WASN'T THE ROMANS WHO STONED WOMEN AND CUT THE DICKS OFF OF FAGS, AS THAT WAS MORE ALONG THE LINES OF THOSE GOOD RACES LIKE GREEKS AND INCAS, WHOSE BLOOD IS HIDDEN AS MUCH AS ONE NEVER RECALLS THAT THE SAINTED RED SOX HAD AN ALL WHITE TEAM AS LATE AS 1968. Why the indigenous were leaving fags to die mercilessly as late as the one named Castro.

But, next year, lets finally take Columbus's name off of the day, since it bothers red skin drunkards who seem to cry more than Sabine girls ever did, and call it Turnus day since you love indigenous people so much, and he was king of the Etruscans....and in a way Aeneas cut his heart out so his imperial sun would rise and Virgil would never be forgiven for that moment of Italic adoring weakness, God knows, ....Si, si, lets call it Turnus day, ohh, you house niggers wouldn't even have the balls to say such a thing.

[But, I was wondering, as an edit here, why did Pollozzi, amid all the fag tribunes of San Fransisco, as Mike Savage reported, be at parades of Italian American heritage, at Columbus day festi, when they , the rest of the year, cry incessantly for the Jews of mezzo-American empires, as they do....But then, I thought about it. The Italians aren't just being jewedly pandered to, as Israel is when later secretly un-allowed to bomb Iran--which is ancient Persian for Aryan by the way-- by its godfathers, at all.

The Italians, bless them, are better people than the red skinned garbage and the priests of our collage of cardinals know that, sense that, feel that, to quote Pete Townsend. Our princes and such seem to know this. They, the Italian, dont weep over garbage, they survived their Hannibal's . In fact in the divine WAR WITH HANNIBAL , which I suggest to every wop and nigger out there was a primer in pride which no Erkle would even attempt, speaking if house niggers as I was...In that massive book, , as he kills himself, Hannibal says , "The Romans I knew are Gone....", for they have then thrown in with the awful dowdy Greek fag king Phillip, who in fact had instigated the Punic wars all along as a way to weakening Rome, and to obliterate Carthage, the Greeks always hated mellottos, as he knew would happen. And now, he was a senator. Hannibal Barca killed himself, for he knew the race who wouldn't give him an inch , and whose little girls no less threw stones at him tinted with poison to smash into his legionnaires faces ,--no Palestinians they--, was gone. But they survived their Hannibal's, the Italians did, a lot that mattered, and the mama Pollozzis know that , and you didn't, and you don't,... they didn't lose, didn't get land 'swiped', didn't cry , didn't bitch, didn't moan, but did that most Roman of things, fought back, possibly to the last man, which is a inclination they have which has always made them more suspicious of and less coddled than the races of Gandhis, , Kings, Malcolms, and of Tutu Pitches. And, ultimately and romantically, there is honor in that, and even fag assembly men and old lady yenta wops who are giving away chalices with both hands to conniving bald headed Borgia's, at the end of the day, one has to respect that, whether you coward victims like that or not.]

a note: why does Works Word Processor, the only word application I now have, automatically seem to change all plurals to possessives...? ...just wondering.

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05 October 2008


1. I did like going over my essay about Calvino, was was actually a poly- essay broken up into various pieces. It was the INNER, SUB-essay on Calvino's loved Alessandro Manzoni, saint of writers, which I called 'The Sacrament of Pity' , which I liked redoing the most. Manzoni, in pure unadulterated Italianism, showed in his eternal reworked Tuscan, that he was no left behind, crazy eyed , Lutheran windbag, he was not some phony artesian saint, collecting gold. He was a champion of the faith in its most extreme stoicness, the faith which was stolen heartily from Virgil and especially from Aurelius by Jerome, and other saints, always at first looking for that Roman audience which a later, discredited and hated Luther decided was somehow impure.

I liked writing , or organically enough in his style, writing as rewriting, the original manuscript there before me, as scratched up and faded as anything can be on a computer disk, and as a oligarch fool, a Yorick, a bumbling twit clown, named Bill Mahar, or May-har as the great Howard calls him, was out there smirking and giggling as some sort of cross between Julian and apostate and someone doing bad Carson. The latest jersey boy clown-poet warrior was everywhere, as he hates religion, as someone told him to possibly stop jacking off once. Such is the Summa Theologica, --which my father had much memorized--or this twerp. And, to be honest, what else could he be with that perpetually stupid look plastered across his possible Jew face, but someone who tried to come off as some sort of expert and 'Americans foremost authority'. Sort of like a guy named Irwin Corey when I was a kid, except Bill Maher isn't AS COHERENT. I say possible Jewish as he is a practitioner of the sect of the "I might be Jewish" faith, one whose Perpetua is Saint Beyhar. As this crap went on, and of course, as the assembly of queens got around the ideals of deficit hawks by bizzerro-landishly spending More money, I say, it was lovely to recall the almost Leopardian, no nonsense, virtues and qualities of a catholicism as practiced by the reciter of silent Rosaries. He was decent, this anti-novelist, this starter of the historical novel, uncredited, of course, not having written in English, or engfish. Decent being a word, so unlike the smiling , grinning, goofball jersey asshole who rails, like a giggling Caphius, at God--why I don't know--I cant imagine they made this illiterate chaser of crack whores actually recite and recall Aquinas as the Priests did to me, Roman boy---like, id quod visium placet, yall.

I liked recalling when I was at the summit of my own bad assedness, around 1999-2003. The lessons of Monica, our Ligurian Girl, much of which was spoken, or at least depressingly echoed, by the God hater, the Power-man felletrix from Jersey #2, were not much lost on me. Especially the 'Tie deposition' episode, I wont recall it here, but which made its way into both Calvino and Imperiumata, so was it beguiling compared to singing dicks being given voice by modern Livy's who previously made Showgirls. Maher was the vox of a body part of Clinton, well, with friends like you, as the hungarians said...But, he said Clinton was one of 'Us', or 'People like him'. I could almost hear my man Bill, lover of Aquinas, say, "You wish, ASSHOLE". I liked rewriting this essay and its more Italianate qualities, especially as opposed to the dimwit Christers and their enemy faggots who dream of suburban wedded bliss. It was nice to reread my essay about this monolith of Italian brilliance, essentially as the bloated Senate was being true it's Venetian banking creed. The story of poor poverty stricken Lorenzo and Lucia was not only a perfect representation of the past, or then Rome's future, but perhaps befits the future around these parts too. The sadness of the poor Italians is clear eyed, un-romanticized --is there any less romantic people than Italians, I ask, and say that as a compliment...? The saint writer is unable to gloss it with gallons of shalack that GiGi Marquez would for his later romanticized poor schnooks, and of course, unless one is illiterate as a Dowd, that spic shit, and even Carlo Levi, lacks the power of this Franciscan monk of lake Como, which now, sadly, is merely a Clooney star era retreat, and a place of fr rent palaces of long dead doges, where Bill Maher couldnt get into.

2. Calvino is a master essentially of the essay, like his student and adorer, Vidal. And in the essay on Manzoni and The Betrothed, he , like Pompey in the Roman lives by a Greek, finds a man so amerced in tragedy that it is only the agronomists scientific eye which can reveal its depth, for all else would be the sort of melodrama adored by tv critics, who hate their own papers jewish Cosell wannabes. In fact, shoring a strain of Italian disgust which would lose him a Stockholm prize, which Gigi would greedily wear around his neck, in fact, Italo speaks of the giantism of Alessandro by saying what was great because of what he didn't do. He didn't, Calvino shows, with his medieval material, turn the story of Renzo and Lucia into a 'GOTHIC NOVEL', as was so prevalent among the Englishmen he ,in later life, started to dismiss. No, MANZONI HAD THE BARE BONES OF A GOTHIC NOVEL, a vicious gangster, a corrupt rapist priest, a nun with a shadowy past, a pretty girl taken as prisoner, a handsome wop lead on the road, and could have made a type of groan inducing, middle brow adored, Siskle disliked, Masterpiece theatergoing Brideshead revised, or, a Kiera Nightly vehicle, a Queen and country bullshit romp. Not in the summa of this champion of the poor, and the weak and yet, not their hagiographer, either, despite the bodices and the duchesses and the Napoleonic wars, there are no Sofia Coppola's moments of preposterous desserts, and Napoleon, a hero of sorts in the dreaded Tolstoy, and his battlements are far removed from the wielders of local power, which are worse. [If I were the new Augustus I would make that Copolla brat make this film of this book, which I am sure she is unawares of in her own castello, as Augustus made Virgil write his bible to stoics, and I'd watch her as she was at her wits end, not being able, as it in her linage, to make things so fucking nakedly operatic, constantly.]

Calvino admirers the great Latin Teacher poet- writer for his inherent self censorship, and his not having made an --ohoh- Jane Austin quickie, he would imply, and instead , --dare I say as I have mimicked , --he tried everything but. This is an age when the gothic is all we have, as it was then, but Alessandro refused it all, and his book is no Anne Radcliff, Smith College, Dyke reacted from and to, Cliff Noted cheating bullshit. He could have made another Weathering Heights, another Jane Ehyr, another Nicholas Nickelby, complete with gruel, -- watch it, Italo, the Swedes and the lovers of Eng lit, such as it is, are listening, --but the great headmaster doesn't do that cheapness , ergo making literacy as near the act of piety. He could make a pot boiler, but, for Calvino says in a lovely turn of the phase, He had an allergy to this depiction of Evil. He took the story of Renzo and Lucia, and of the nun of monza and of the Unnamed tyrant--like those we now have on wall street--and made a masterpiece which Willie Shakespeare himself couldn't have created, with a thousnad angels filling his pen. Such would be similar to Willie abandoning the similar life of Pompey, and feeding his favorite scenes into Caesar, which make it two distinct plays, but and I rather amdire him for it, He doesnt seem to care, desperate to get that last scene of the life of Pompey, the last roman at the Cesarean triumph, in as the beginning of the play, no matter what. The Jane Eyers--how do you spell that, anyway,... of literature are ignored, made silly, but the simple country girl and her wish only to marry, becomes modern. And thus, there is no 'The Betrothed' film being made by any Milosh or Sofia, for just like their own saint, the circusy Frederico Fellini, when presented with a script for The Betrothed by Pasolini, NO LESS, SAID, I COULDNT NEVER EVEN ATTEMPT THAT. A bawdy script from the Decameron was done instead, emphasis of course on the bawdy, so, hava chianti, sooprize Speggetti, bueno sera Missus Cambell, and chow, chow everybudddy!!!!

3. I liked rereading and rewriting this, Manzonianly, and recalled when I wrote at full tilt, unaware or even much caring of the hooligans around me. That was when, like with Manzoni, and Leopardi, and a line unbroken of roman red and bright Tuscan green going back to Machiavelli, who gave both their credo, that human action must have meaning. Alas, being told you are an idiot by the Warren Ellissi of the world, so conferable, like barbarians, in their swamps of warm mud, one gets their back up, forgets Roman phonetics and starts tap dancing with sparkler's to make shitty ephemeral points. But, that program I downloaded to save erased material from a disk of script,s looking for something completely different and finding CALVINO RTF, made me recall when my own meager art had a lovely fresh scent of rain to it, and I am glad , though that first thing fell threw, don't they all, that I recovered this, Imperiumata, and some other things all in a horrendously unedited state, but worth more to me than anything presentable to magazines with Snoopy on the cover.

Manzoni has reestablished himself to me as a Godfather, dare I say, and he, like all great Italian giants, is again proven right. Our Inominatos, our supreme gangsters, our white haired balding , Saleri Dressed--dont wait for this scene from Milosh--tricornered hatted Dukes of Ferarra, they don't have moments of rosary induced falling to the ground in a Pentecosts of redemption, for such would make smirking Bill,-- though not my man Bill, God knows, who keeps waiting for it--laugh. Our Innominatos are not so moved, and instead, after a lifetime of supposed hatred of pork, sit silently and even vote for giant bloated packages to bankers, showing that Manzoni, mute to the book clubs who would hate it anyway, was right. There is a sacramental effect to Pity, as he said and intoned, and our Great Tyrants in ovo, both nigger and coot, stay in their Castellos, as their praetor waves and gets outta town, and both and all feel not a twinge of any of it, for anyone but their open and brazen demanding masters. The same week I reread this essay on an essay of Alessandro and his ideal of the pitilessness of God, on Drudge, nested near to our smiling, self congratulatory, Sister Gertrude, Pollozzi, there is a story of a ninety year old woman killing herself like Cato, --our senators now find things on the ground change, thus along with their so gracefully held and easily changed devotions--rather then lose her ancient home, and be thrown into the street. But what do you all care, and who really reads Manzoni or Ovid, or anything but that womanly shit anyway....go watch your Sopranos and ugly little Aesop hating comics, and dancing faggots. Empire, ahoy.

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01 October 2008


I don't usually post this late at night, in fact, am not on the internets at all, as there is only so much bullshit I both spew and absorb in a day. But, I , Roman boy, have juts seen our vaunted senate at work, and have watched the watchers as they prosaically tap danced for their vulgar dinners.

I just watched Larry the Shnorrer and others, as the vaunted Senate, so powerful, so dignified, went and sold america by the pound. I watched, as this lovely crew, threw such pettiness as partisanship aside, and even old man and Erkle came together in a political bliss, one might even say, oligarchical bliss, and both danced on silver strings like Cagney, except without the life or joy. I smelled something in the air when our town crier, often literally, such strength, such Badass Roman ism, more eastern Mediterranean maybe, the ubiquitous Caphius shmendrik who coquettishly laughs like the always smiling contestant in the miss long island contest was now less, what is the word...against this, and suddenly spoke of the 'senate' having to go back and due the will of the people. Oh, you rat fink, go take that shit to the woman folk who are duty bound to watch you slurp every powerful man willing to come on your stupid little show, Shlomo. I have been called anti semitic, but, if you think after the Sopranii, and their greedy little lifetimes movies, and women being placed in woodchipper's for the delight of the klan nations, ..., that I am letting a senate breaking and closing freaking for Rushahshsshsoahauna off easy, fuck off.

Some one asked me once, not being mean, why did I love the Romans so much, and they were not being mean or vindictive as some have been. TV critics with greasy hair and greasier minds, fat cunts who just love Sardinian rats, seem to swallow hard when having to sit through Roman stories, as much as any are told, or heavens to betsy, Romeo and Juliet, which Ebert , no less, called , uh, contrived. By the god, Willie...contrived...? See, thats an interesting use of the word, 'cause, it is in actuality a true story as true as any thing is. I answered, actually, Who else is there...? I then was Utilizing the same Roman curtness which rings in the above line and others like, Who benefits, What is truth etc, etc, including, I guess, etc.

It was so overt, so phony and so lovely to my Roman eye, the bloodshed and the corruption and not a Tiberius among the pimps. Not a Cato, not a Pompey, nobody but white old men and yenta cunts. I loved it. Oh, after thirty five years of hagiography of pimps, and of illiterate middle weights who beat woman, and Gandolofini and credit card shilling rat fink Philippians and gumbas and maraschino capos and pizza makers and such, to see that Sicilians creed come true tonight. As My mother warned me, A thief can only steal less than the doge has, and when the thief is the doge, well, he will never see the prison he built, where the pimps and the pickpockets stay locked away.

I watched something that laughably calls itself a 'senate' tonight, yentas and jewish and dago grandmas speaking of how the people are too stupid to know a gang of larcenists when they see it. Oh, it was warming to my Tyber heart to see, after a decade of Soprano bullshit, that the old line was true, the only difference between Greeks and Sicilians, who the Greeks then conquered, and who the Greeks even then put down as pirates, actually they were poor and starving, was nothing more than the size of their crimes. But, ce la vie and god rest the soul of the American republic, as now, the empire calls , as this whole act is so fascistic, more than socialistic, I cant wait to see what it brings. The yentas and the wops, the matrons and the farm boys, the Jesus freaks, the ginnies , and the dykes and the faggots and the commies and the bathroom cruisers and the little boy lovers and the money grubbers, all joined hands and sang in the words of the old negroid spiritual, 'Always be closing ' AND THEN THEY JUMPED OFF THE MILVIAN BRIDGE WITH A DOLLAR SIGN BURNING IN THE NIGHT. They had to, as they had made it a toll road. Oh, wait, that inst a spiritual, I am thinking of...its Mamet, which is better still.

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