25 December 2008

TALK TO ME

1.HAIL TO THE VICTORS...HAIL TO THEM ALL....

I saw where the usual bullshit lefty nudges came out and made a proscription against ''Christmas lights'' even, as being harmful to their precious Gaea. You know as opposed to the giant halogen 5000 watt bulbs which walls of such illuminate the winter nights, from now till past twelfth night, when Nobel savage, ie, Toni Morrison, indigenous types loving colleges give way to Roman stadiums filled with jeering mobs. During Roman minded gladiatorial games, the lesbians and the indigenous shaman fall silent, and Roman games are held rapturously, where npr is recalled by espn, and black men need not apply to head coaching jobs, as amazingly, the love of niggers and tolerance and quotas never seems to get all the way to the athletic department. The games of winter and the commensurate waste and joy of waste never harm mother earth, and they end eventually with the yearly sacrificing of a Ohio state slave to the gods of Thor, or is it Florida recruiting,...I am not sure. [A note; the recession has taken a bite out of the gate receipts to their joyous bowl games, bothering the communists of academia now no end. I heard a line in the always good for a sucker punch to the wops Simspins how America was worse than the Romans, well, you got that right, Harry and Hankie, at last, as see, The Romans Paid their gladiators actual coins, cash money, both Roman words by the by, and didnt just use them and drop them back into the ghettos.]





























2. THE JOHN SIMON OF COMIC BOOKS ISNT ACTUALLY JOHN SIMON

I was deleting many pages of saved sites from the ''favorites'' column in a hot to the touch, now less used, old laptop. Its a Milton Bradly, I think. So, I started going through them, like saved staples pages for the best pen ever made the Pentel sign pen, whose black luster helped make my first pages of MS better than these I have and tear up now, and Boob sites, A Shazam book I probably wont be getting for Christmas , some comic blogs I have tired of, etc, etc...I saw some comic blog I asked for a link , stupidly, and got no response, but he gave like, 50,000 words to some comic queen bitch who does reviews of comics which have an overuse of the word Fucking as an adverb in it, about every conceivable silly magazine. It has the ''I didn't read comics as a child'' shtick, really, then you have no excuse, hun. Wow, I thought I could commence... Jesus H, dear, does this come out in a leather bound edition, Mister Churchill...I swear I thought this thing had chapters...Christ, their just comic books, you hoity toity fruity bitch, I say when you have to put on airs about being superior to comic books you may be sinking faster than you think you are. I saw a saved blog which a woman comic book editor said proud fully that her mother never encouraged her to believe in Santa. Mother of the year. Well, dear, you certainly made up for it with your Obama posts...Stuff like that.





3. THE BURNING OF A ROMAN EFFIGY

Then, I saw a girl's name saved as a Google search. This was the girl-woman from the perspicuous dream post. The pretty, awfully sad, bruna sympatica who still haunts my early morning fit full sleep, handing me dolls amid revelers. I had tried to look her up previously, having heard things like she was fired from Disney after asking for a raise after a month, and such things as that. But, clicking on this again, I saw this name with a new link at the top of this meager paltry list, at least concerning her, which soon went into her similarly named Italian gangsters and opera singers.

I clicked on this link, and went to a site I have avoided called face book. Here was a barebones page with a small picture and familiar name, though Hyphenated in the awful way of blond married local anchor girls wiggling to use either a grandfathers of a husbands semi Hispanic name as a way to get their over shampooed essences into affirmative action hiring practices. It was obvious she had her own life, which was fine, I hadn’t expected her to somehow wait for me, Big Tony, to come and save her from what I had heard things about and which her sullen grace, placed atop a sizzling lithe prettiness did seem to corroborate. I conjectured all of this, a belief in a deep sadness about her, as I am Something of a armature Psychologist, --Freud, a lover of Machiavelli as am I, called most the Italian books I read a more important fixture of psychoanalysis than was Jung. I had sense a deep abiding sadness in this girl, and made a kind of silent prayer of devotion that if I could I would somehow save this girl from a Genesee constant winter of the gloom of Elmira. If, and when, you know, I could save myself first. So, I was not surprised she didn’t wait for me to save her from whatever horrid towers she was encased, I have never been much of the hero type, and every time I had a chance given to me I squandered it, for it would have been, really no fooling, ' Irroman' of me to be another Imperial gumba nasally whining and gesticulating for imperial peanuts, or be another Stromboli, or be another silly, smirking wop fool an then have the temerity to save someone whilst I myself was drown in middlebrow, minstrel show, spike lee buffoonery.

The Galatea I recalled, so slathered with almost heart wrenching insecurity despite the pretty face a thousand blonds would have carried to their perky male finagling and dominations, was now older, but actually sadly serene. Or, worse, played serene. The corkscrew hair which I thought was some gypsy woppish remnant of a roman gal --which her envious, racist, fish wife Celtic Mother had made her cut off, oh, how Calvino’s folktales cane you get--was now strangely docile, and pulled back into a widows peak, the sort sported by older Italian women in the old country or say, Richard Nixon. Her face, once a sculptor’s masterpiece of Italian catholic Gothic southern art, art, a face of shining beauty that held a profound sadness was now contorted into a more max factorish pretense of happiness, and she smiled becomingly, but seemingly falsely. The prettiness of the recalled girl was now retaken and reformed into that awful dream of suburban bliss which even out more perverted of dancing imperial parade road side faggots is told by their masters is there to want to get. In fact, where before had been a pouty, sullen Catullus’s Cynthia, there was now a barely recognizable ass spreading, glasses wearing housewife, with that strange squint of the suburban morass, and she went from being a beautiful tall roman girl, who walked with the agile of a goddess but with a seemingly perpetual balling of her fists, to being a pretty variation of the average Hillary Voter.


Beatrice was gone, recalled with the sort of woman, at first glance, who actually looked like someone who would be married in a ceremony in the woods to a big nosed natural blond, the barely attractive sorts admired by gay talk show hosts and honking wops for hire on CBS family hours comedies, as a fat woman or a San Francisco mayor would preside, reading out of little known, and frankly un appropriate, letters sent by Herman Melville, as mixed race women with vestal mustaches looked on and threw un-sweet, sugarless, natural honey candy at the fat woman and her pretty now available thanks to state wide legislation Obama is against, Bride. EGADS!


I was stunned and felt an electric charge go into my ample guts, through to my back. On some level, the Calvinoesque fairy story player she seemed to be, or which I made her into, seemed devastated as I was. I was alone, looking at the computer on a lull in Saturnalia, unable to sit through the film which is a retelling of Jean Sheppard, as for some reason this year, I found it all indescribably sad...perhaps the Darren Mac Gavin father reminded me too much of my own, or the Child's play was different this year of living stupendously. I sat there, dumbfounded, unsure at all why. I had told Audrey, my one time Yenta-fortune teller- astrologer-German hating one time jewess dancer Brooklyn sixties car hop now surgeons wife thank you very much Neurologist about her, and how, one time she dismissed me as an oaf, then would next crook her pink little finger at me. 'FEH, ‘’ Audrey said, waving her off, "Drop this gurl, dont play her Gahmes, Toneee...I have seen dis toype bephhaure...She’s playing witch chew...she knows yur a suckkka, no offense. She has come gumba, again no offense throwing her aroindt like a rag doll and she uses yew to be a sap who buys her cheese...[?]...No, Tony, dis broad, from what I gathah needs ten years of active therapies..."


I did not really care that she had moved on, though I was not that sure from what, as I had no real right to expect anything. But I thought about it and her, as I clicked off from this fall of Rome image which saddened me as much as a scene in a film about Michelangelo a few years back, --also a Christmas pbs special, like the one on Rome, too instructing and too entertaining to ever be seen again among the victor borga specials and the day long marathons of backing cookies-- , when the protestants used the Latin written in thesis’s of their great Luther as some excuse to all come into Rome and burn art and rape women, of course again, for Christ. Luther, though to give him credit, was amazed and apposed by this and strange into action, burying the works he had acquired in Rome and hiding his own copies of Ovid's Roman Festivals from his mob of dirty, awful, German Moonies. During this scene, Germans, as they are want to do, busted the famous David, because, really, who knows more about Christian Carita and Christ than a bunch of Germans? A boy named Sandro, that Sandro as a kid,, took the arm he saw amid the rapists and the revelers and the soccer thugs and the barbarians of Jesus and carried it in a red flyer like wagon back to the Vatican where it was reattached and the line can still be seen in this monumental image of more roman republican than biblical art. I felt a flashback to that scene almost immediately, and thought of how Turan, the pretty wavy haired brunette , busty, smiling image of Roman Love was replaced by Aphrodite , a long stomached red head who smelled like calamari by invading Greek fags.








But I thought, I didn’t much care if she went on and lived out her Buffalo lowers cold windy show showers life, there in the Circuit between Troy and Elmira. To yearn to get back to her was much too Gigi Marquez for a rational Ariostolian like me. Still, I wondered , if she were so gung ho in her suburban upward mobility, what did mean then the fact that she had been calling me, at first incessantly and then sporadically, since 2000...? Hmnnnnnnnn. What did that mean, I thought, if she was building a life, as Coriolanus said, ''Out there somewhere''. What did that constant phone tag shit mean, what was she doing again crooking her little finger at me, and which finger was she really using...? I begrudge her nothing, I stew for nothing, I yearn for nothing with this broad, as Audrey said, but still, if she was out there finding her bliss as the heinous, awful Campbell said--and by the by, if you actually want better cartoons, ixnay on the Campbell and pick up some Mortimer Adler kids,...if she was out doing all this Buffaloed like middle class life, what meant the constant rings and hanging up after four of them, or the long breathy stays on the phone after I picked it up , or the quick hang ups with giggling heard before the click...? What did that mean, if anything.


But, it was Christmas time, like now a few years aback, and I didn’t have a computer yet so it was 2003, at this very time, Saturnalia, when I sat down to watch that years game of the century, a night time Football game on Saturday night, which , I guess is a boon to the owls and the bats and the critters of sainted tellus meter, the roman deity of of mother earth, if not to ABC and the ncaa, who , I guess are their prospectors...I mean protectors, like say Anderson Cooper, who now emotes in high def. The phone rang and I heard the usual tones, and how they signaling this perpetual caller, how they stopped at four. I had taken the phone out of my makeshift office and used it as a house phone since another broke and now I couldn’t so easily call her back at 1 am anymore. It rang again. Yes, but see Beatrice this is, like, football. I wasn’t in any mood to play, as after a while being so dismissed actually is straining and can take the fun out of you. It was amazing how eventuality with each click and sometimes harsher hang up I would feel worse and worse ...So, I decided to bring it all to a head, and demand that she either deign to speak to me or go fuck herself, finally finding thus her beloved and her soul mate at last. Well, when I called this time, there was a prerecorded message waiting for me, as gruff but possibly lovable poppa tiredly spoke to me and said…’ If this is Tony, the girl you are looking for isn’t here we dont know who you are looking for, you have a wrong address, please make a note of this, etc, etc.....'At first I winced with anger, Uh, Guido, its your sad lonely bitchy daughter who started calling me...SHE STARTED CALLING ME, ME...see as a Machiavellian, I know first second and third person is everything, pop… I was finally broken, as Audrey had warned me. I stood there, as the vibrant colors of a bowl game I had waited to WATCH ALL DAY was being played, as this droning old fuck was acting like he was doing a version of Six Days in May and was talking to the pentagon. THAT’S IS HOW SERIOUS THIS BAUFALLONIAN STOOGE ACTED. [I might have that wrong But I think Baufollo was a famous Italian clown in Roman post war films, and it from where we get the variety term ''Boffo'' box office and the like. ]But, even then, even deviated , Machiavelli boy thought at his Jesuit best, If you don't know who I am looking for, or who I am talking about, how do you know my name is Tony....? My private phone was a hand me down and was as a phone thrown aside and paid for , of course, by my sister, which she had brought from her home, so her name would be on any reverse number lookup, where in fact, I had found this number itself. I had moved on from her, really, then making time trying to pick up with syrian girls cashiers who chewed gum incestantly, and with cute, glasses wearing, blond chicks who worked at the local mall at the nearby rehab, no fool.ing, there is a rehab in the once Busy local mall, and who sat as we waited for the bus togther, who smoked like chiminies and who told me about how Indian drunk tank doctors were comming on to them. If this Brandy I seek, I called her Brandy, is not there, fine, but how do you know my name is Tony, I immediately conjured...? Alas, Daddy Anti-warbucks, they were I think hippies once, is another dago genius. They don't teach you how to think that fast in a madrassa, as you will all find out, soon enough.

But standing there was hurt me, stunned and quiet, and not only did I feel trapped into this by a few actually this time distracting rings, and not only did I lose any enthusiasm for watching the unfolding game, but that this was made all quite more sad to me as this day was the cold lonely anniversary of the death of my father. It was the anniversary of the advent Christmassy day and the season in which he died, leaving my mother pretty much to cancel any Christmases for three years or so, and which she has never felt joyous in again. To this day, the trees and small houses and railroads of cheap plastic and little cheap figures of precepios do not even hint at going up at least this day is past. I felt a similar physical reaction of charges strewing through my lard at being so bothered, as along the game, I had tired of playing in this road company of Sleuth, as being a roman, despite what Fellini thinks, such bullshit as faggy Greek sexual games are beneath me. Be Roman, you battered little girl, and tell me what you want, or what you dont. I had an awful Christmas though, as only days after this, a woman art school worker standong there with my sister the art school administrator, when I went back to the art school for the last time to go shopping for beer and wine and such for the Holiday , informed me that she had a call from someone who alerted her that Ciotti had given me a strange recommendation. He had told someone that asked for a recommendation about me that I was ''almost as smart as I thought I was, but, in actuality, a waste of time, lazy and they would be better off getting someone less inventive, less creative, and more a muddier like Dorian." When I TOLD THE VIKING LOOKING ALAN OF THIS, HE LAUGHED A BOOMING REDBEARD LAUGH, AND said, ''But you are these things, Tony...espaissilee lazzzzzz-eeey, ...Still...'', he said, ''he is on your recommended list on a slip of resume paper, not your priest ...it was none of his business to say such things...'' Oh, and this was the Dorian Clevenger who Poppa Giotto didn’t want me to draw like, by the way , only a few years before, when he held him up to me as a exemplar of slob art. The next time he saw my sister at the Christmas party , oh, Ciotti went ape bannanashit over board with such a admiration of me that she told me, snidely, it made her sick.

But, I thought, what had I done to merit this treatment suddenly, ...did they like it better, both of them, when their openly disliked and defamed by the fat assed, greasy pit marked skinned, black Captain American t shirt wearing comic creeps...? As both often had been…? Then Fine, I thought, go find roman allusions among the Comics crowd, or better be free of them entirely, be free of art as anything even remotely romantic, or creative, and watch your creepy buddies and creepier fellow students draw there incessantly sculls an drape and call it aesthetic. Then go to the among the Kirbyites as I started to call them even then, go to the pipe smoking , green haired, goateed, myopic, thin necked, three chinned, dirty t shirt wearers, then, and leave me be. This season written of here, only saved when I got a computer so as I could find jobs myself and not rely on anyone else, was more than any Scorsese or Princess Copolla or sopranos what stopped my being so dammed polite and sensitive and thoughtful and over concerned with things, and which started me me throwing punches and word balloons and roman epics with the abandon of a southern Italian anarchist, which I was born to be.

After the father droned on and on about this ''situation'' the beep was heard by me, as a signal to somehow, I think, apologies or fumble some answer. I THOUGHT, Now I WAS THREW WITH HER FOREVER, and have never parleyed into such silliness, again. I am actually quite good at that, vendettas, constant blood feuds, anger which never diminishes , etc etc, I think I get it from my over dramatic and operatic mother, as my father was more Romanly stoic and didn't really care about such shit. In stead it was a mark of demarcation to me, I recalled as I went on this now Christmas day and expunged her name from this blog as deftly as Prince Omabamabala does to mention of a black a family member, and I recall then saying as absolutely distillation of my new found attitude and belief system at the tone for all there to hear , ''Please, Call Me Anthony...thanks for nuttin, dear.''

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23 December 2008



THE FEAST OF SATURN
or Yes, Doctor Savage, there is a Bauffanna.


I saw where a bunch of comic faggots seem to have some sort of love of the first amendment when it comes to their previously, I guess, un-prosecuted love of cartoon weirdo porn. In this world, THIS, perverted cartoons, is what they get angry about. But it doesn't shock me that the same people who so virulently so hate things like Captain Marvel and big titted heroines, except when raped by green lantern of course, seem so at ease with such images. Yes, I was pre law , kiddies, I know the bullshit about your fake admiration for free speech and your defender of the defenseless creed shit,.... Without money involved , I was taught by clever, Ovid loving, Roman minded men, ididots only defend what they believe in, and want, and defend nothing else. But, as the smiling faggots proved, like bribe taking Frank, the anger at bishops suddenly near the queen, when suddenly saying things that YOU don't like, suddenly opens a floodgate of anger and dyspepsia, proving how full of shit you all are... Take a hike.






But then, the first amendment has become as fluid and as jewie as anything in out weasel lands, and so, as in other empires, the powerful, or worse yet, their adherents, make it all up as they go along. One minute Hillary was championing black girls in a basketball team,....the next, she was lauding ''white working people'' as a secret handshake to the bigot democrats, which didn’t really want the nigger in power, just as they suddenly seem to be angry at ''associations with priests'' now, so suddenly it is almost whiplash inducing or maybe just BARNEY FRANKIAN IN ITS SHAMELESSNESS, after saying things as that certainly didn’t matter. Thanks to the Romans and the their believing priests, and my own Stoic Pop, I know that behind every dancing faggot, behind fake every gay marriage, --no, this empire has no Virgil or Botticelli, just a sea of hausfraus--Behind every death mask of the joker like Micheal Musto, or Musty as we call him for short, behind every sneering lesbo, behind every burning flag, behind every dirty little picture of comic book weirdness, behind every blot of decadence, behind every Gandolfini, behind every perpetual child murder case on cnn, behind every foot washing baptist, behind every staggering old man who once lauded the roman senate and now does shtick with Leno, behind every Gergan, who is caught between his secret Hillary duties and his inherent love of whomever is Praetor, behind every Koozie, behind everybody's grinning nigger queen, behind everything which is low and base and senseless and vulgar, like niggers, wops and even dark haired beauty queens being arrested with their controlling suitcase pimp lardy scummy Mexicali stooge boyfriends, behind every Scorsese smirking in a busted usery outlet commercial , behind every Tina Feh who does somehow allowed masculine cheesecake, as the great brunette living sex doll, [yes I love straight sex, it seems to wonderfully filthy as sex should be as opposed to lauded drawings of little girls,. or next to domesticated fags and their sanitized sacraments of cum] antidote to Marilyn and her little girl creepy sexuality dies ironically at the same time, there is an oligarch, counting his money.




[''Cato"' Published by far left magaine 2006]




A good Saturnalia to you all, and Pruscutto for everybody. In Roman days, a giant pig was cued and cooked, and even the poor around his land came to eat and be festive , which is where we get the idea one must eat pork on new years day.Merry Saturn day everybody, ..!I recall, as the Spirit is getting lambasted, oh, there are Roman gods in Roman heaven, that one of my first reviews of my comic work, the first done in at least ten years, or at least since Jim Shooter said I did hard stiff well and easy stuff not so much, was from a nice woman called the Comic Queen. She said that interestingly, though I was dealing with obvious take offs of wonder woman and Superman and Captain Marvel--Vundergirl, Ubermench and Capt. Magnus caught in a triangle of ''love, lust, and Hollywood or dc comix Babylon'' to quote Tarantino loved ''the bad and the beautiful'' like fifties trailers, --I never once submerged the book into comic stereotypes. I proudly sent the review to some friends, including a Jewish producer who said I always went ''too far'' with things, and he emailed be back, and apprised me after a cigar no doubt, ''Tony, now Thar is your fucking problem in a nutshell...''. COMIC BOOK BABYLON Hmmmmmmm, ...NOW THAT'S A BOOK TO WRITE! So, Give me your hands if we be friends, and Blago shall restore amends...

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10 December 2008


THE WORLD WILL PARDON MY MUSSSHHHHHHH....


A couple of parcels in the mail came for old Sweet ol' Tony, me, as I was rewriting, and cleaning up, as best as I can get, ''Saturnalia ''. I had been removing a scene I have been told was superfluous, where Virgil-Sinatra, Terence -Sammy Davis junior, and Ovid-Dean Martin , as saints were watching over a young man at a cross roads in his life, as they play play dice and sing various a Capella songs. I liked the scene , almost half the play, as in it, the character is caught amid a strange place in his life, and so Virgil, though more ring a ding ding than he might have been, is asked by Terence-Sammy to show his immense talent , and he proceeds to quietly sing My Funny Valentine, with a devoted couple of rats behind him in awe of his gifts. I don't know why I removed it before sending it out again, for I rather liked it, but decided to keep the flying winged Sinatra-poet to a minutiae image this time, as Virgil as Frank, amazingly seems to bother white women who have been given their jobs due to the black death of creativity called Aids, and , after all, seem to hate both Virgil and Sinatra, as much as they hate Romeo and Juliette, the circles of hell, Sad Aeneas, or anything else human or palpably honest, or even alive, and instead quote -badly- Ovid and call it Shlepspeare, without knowing it. As both V and Frank are much too sad for our Disney channel, Hanna Orangtanga , how doth I love thee, let me jump the couches sort of perpetual grimmest fairy tale. And so, placed together as one entity of italic, bee keeping, only the lonely, wee small hours of da murrrnnin creature by me, almost sacrificially by me, is almost too much for them to take.









But, opening the returned letters to me, I got a quick nice note from the art editor at Hustler no less, who told me in blue ink, ''VERY Nicely done, but not quite what we do...'' well duh. No, I collect accolades especially now like a fat girl eats ice cream bowls with chocolate syrup...and a second letter response of a cartoon sent out by me, said again, the ego salve of ''Lovely work, Sir, but it may be ''too early'' to start publishing anti Barrack OBambi cartoons...'' I am not kidding about the spelling, as I am getting a sense of real backlash among some to our white dwarf of a Star...and, I was glad to see the mistake, though I am sure such will soon be a hate crime, right after Hannibal of Kansas, pays back all those millions he got to become Americans fairest, thin lipped, African president....and the note continued with the level best, almost Roman warning, ''But, Anthony, DO check in with us later...'' Ha,...around March perchance...hehehehehe...the more things change...

See, all I know about 'Bam,-- as this dumb nigger couldn't even make it to Roman Ordination day without showing his ''inner'' Chicago Pol., to quote his new Virgil, Oprah, who actually, i liked better before this cult started-- is that he scrupulously avoided the congressional black caucus like plague of black bugs, look it up. And so, the Roman in me, always with a ear to the winds which whip up when Minerva yawns says, oh, a first black Persian king,-- they also hated Niggers terribly--, was less afraid of palling with cop killer, bombing, WHITE of course, tied dyed racialists than he wanted to be seen with Jesse Jackson Jr, or even Guido himself, Charley Rangel, the congressman from Brooklyn, ...? What does this madrasa creep know of Romantic ideas like vetoes and quorums and assemblies and caucuses and even the word ''black'' for Gods sake...Oh, this guy is a house nigger through and through....

Although I am much enjoying the lasting circus of Governor Cha Cha Bogdonivitch, as he is definitely my new political hero man. He is bringing the high yellow messiah back to the corrupt molten infernal center of every dying republic, essentially now the original Guidoopolis, Chicago, Caponeisium. A blogger I enjoy early on noted how this bagman is a lovely figure of almost comic book buffoonery at evil, and I love it all. But, I would say he is much less Marvell, or kingpinny, as the look alike for Christopher Guest is less like the crappy stan lee villeins, as much as he is a guest star like Victor Buno or Vincent Price, or Liberache, stealing the chapter of the serial from square and Ernest Obamama, and revealing a nation from the now fully president --watch what you wish for-- of his, in the words of the Great Frank Gorshin, ''that Disgusting fake goodness'' of our snake hips Bruce Wayne....Oh, and my man Bogdonvitch was actually shaking down children hospitals,-- Great Caesars Ghost!--This is Max Menchen, abc tv taped broadway show cartoon musical show stuff, and duder was wearing a black turtleneck which should have said HENCHMAN on it, like he was working for Burgess Meridith........and the guy who looks like Hitler retracts statements as ''misspoke,'' though they were BEFORE THE FACT,...Oh, This is too wonderful.

A note: I actually feel sorry for Jesse Jackson Junior, but then, did he think that they placed this nigger Obambi into the Jew clerked, white trashed owned praetorium without it eventualy redounding to the detriment of Negroes...? Nigger Please, Junior, we Italians have called such as that, well, that the filmography of FF COPOLLA, AS FOR THIRTY YEARS, AND IT IS THAT REASON, HOUSE NIGGERS OR WOPS, AS THE CASE MAY BE , IS WHY THERE IS STILL NO ''FENCES'' FILM MADE, NOR HAS ANYONE EVER MADE A FILM ABOUT THE ROMAN REPUBLIC, OR THE INVASIONS OF GERMANS IN 400 B FUCKING C, AS OPPOSED TO MEDEA MOVIES OF A BROTHER IN DRAG OR ROMANS FROM QUEENSLAND DEALING WITH SCENE STEALING MAD CAESARS. But then, the destruction of innocent men, AND , I Sweet old Tony, Roman boy sniffs that Jackson is more innocent here than Erkle, is the biggest reason Empire is a bitch. See, as the fagging viscous sneering turds and the white women apparatchiks and Mumbles Gergan already start their Clintonite era bullshit, and as jew baby nightly fake news Herman will start destroying the DA he applauded in the Plame case--Empire is always shameless, too, --I say, you want supported , you nigger pimp bitch, you want supported, stick with Kozzie...or better yet, send in Bob Gates, or maybe the whole dlc...yonder Cassius.....






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01 December 2008


ROMAN BEER

But Good news Peasants, ...

As things unravel even more, our THOUGHTFULLY bought and paid for press finds opportunities to act like its a travel channel, even more blending the line between sports and politics and blood sport tv, by continuously talking about Erkel's Triumph. The number going to see the great nigger queen become a roman priest--hardly--grow even as his cabinet choices are to right of Richard Nixon. BET YOU DIDN'T SEE THAT COMING, did you Kozzie, or you white trash geniuses. And, so what if the Constitution--hehehe, Im kidding, there is no such thing...--so what if there is a a conscript father written law that a person may not leave the senate and take a job in any cabinet if they voted for a pay raise for that position. The least Hillata expects to steal in this farce is few shekels as a apparatchik, dead old, Caesar fearing, white men. And....? So...? But, it is there and it is law, still, Oh, you try stopping Hillary, It cant be done. Certainly not without a cross, garlic and Bill's tacit approval. 'Wink, Wink, doll, call me at ''This'' number'.... So what if the new treasury Secretary was a bag man for Lex Luthor...?...I mean, Anderson is busy renting out the hall and its Lupricalia, Gaius, have another Pruiscutto, or another pig leg, tap a keg, and did you know that the Romans loved beer more than wine, despite what you may think, and that we still use their recipe for it, as the German drunks loved that Italian spirits were everywhere, in more ways than one. And so what if it was Robert Gates and not Jew boy rat hated Gonzales that signed off on water boarding...? So what...? Does it matter..? Arabs are evil now, Anderson Clark Kent Poopy told me so. Does it mean a damn thing, why of course not. The twelve year old is now Praetor, and is waiting for angels to save a now newly made as noble, Christianized, boring, self righteous, and doomed Rome, and lets all watch what happens, wont you, sure...? See, the Romans, having a lot of Sabine Oak and Tuscan barley around, were the first to use these things in the making of wine and beer....













Now, our Prince Erkle smiles to the point of buffoonery,and ''Old snake hips'' daps his way, uh huh, Don Cornelius ways, down dee new Tyber sho nuf, as his Geffen rewrites come by whirring fax, filled with notes to squeeze any humanity out of this grandest of tent pole attractions. But, one thing that the Jewish Senates of Hollywood, neither their Aryan girlfriends and sometimes Italian wives, no less, as I was told by a snide producer who loved tha Sopranos so did his ''wop wife'', how lovely, or Erkle and his own hidden plebeian himself understands is what made Bill Clinton beloved by me. The cult of the goddess. The idiots like Harvey Weinstein , whose life and whose import, --no life without such a thing for someone like him-- fell apart seemingly right after he fucked over some schmo, some bar fly cretin, the overnight Tarantino wanna be, and has been repaid by Fate by having the real Tarantino and his spic bag man make a supposed ''grind house'' movie. Oh, with an act of constant business and constant motormouth activity which is grating and which is harming, I think, maybe the closest thing to a genius film has right now, Quintin was to make another cooooool movie experiment in hipness. Now, there would be made, by this poor man mired in ''what is cool'', a death race 3000 movie, with a Romero knock off preamble, which coast Harveeeey 300 million bananas, ie, dollars. See, wop I am, I would have said to the great Quinton, that's a great idea, --menza menza actually--, but I , a born mogul, would have tossed him a manila envelope with a million bucks in small bills and said, Knock yourself out, Quintin. I think it would have given him a perfect starting point.

But, Adrift by goddesses he doesn't know exist, and would only vulgarianly refer to as ''Lady luck'' if at all, for having brought Overnight boy up to allow him to fall, Apollonias would crush the smarmy Yiddish Haveeey, now made to pay for fucking over the poor schnook no buddy, who had no power and whom Harvey, the gelotto eating Shnooer king, screwed though he had had the power all on his side. The deal, Harvey, is the clsoet thing to medieatreans like we, that is scaroscant. Jesus, what kind of jew are you, reformed...? He didn't understand that the goddesses, Talia, Ceres, Menvra, Uni, Etruscan all, which now it is being shown in Tuscan graves, like spaghetti and Trinities, even, predate and preclude the white great moments of history as taught by Larry Sumner's to illiterate girl- women, and the Goddesses in Ovid, will always win. Tarantino's death race movie, though to me brilliant in spots, didn't, as they say, Click , and was considered less than that ''make up'' travesty by Rodriquez, and cost Harvey 3oo million for something which would have actually had more warmth had it cost 6oo, ooo dollars, as I would have thought. Then, Geffen, our new Virgil, tried to make a studio that actually was more insufferable than Pixar to no avail. We need Virgil on the deck of the ship, we get a puppet to man who made Kung Fu Panda. Even prince of wop hood minstrel shows, De Nero, after demeaning the Italian government for not giving him an award named for Garibaldi, you know for all the glory he slathered on wops while walked around by his own Jewish handler, you know, Roman honorifics for all the cutthroats he played in new Plautus Land, and being the voice of a wop shark doing a now played out gumba act, suddenly found himself as a pirate in a Neil Gaiman crappy movie, he another of the threadbare conic book geniuses who cant quite get to the folding money, and finds his Leopard print Sicilian life, deos DiNero, reputation and career in the toilet. Even Scorsese went from being un-Oscared, like Tarantino, Orson Welles, Richard Burton, Rossellini, Peter O'Toole, Alfred Hitchcock, to now having won a need and desired and good housekeeping seal of white peoples approvals gilt Oscar, like the guys who made Forrest Gump, The English Patient, Crash, or my personal favorite bad oscar best picture, The greatest show on earth.

Next: Batman, Rest in pieces...or How the middlebrow plies his trade.

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