07 April 2009



It seems again, poor grandfather Rome has been hurled into the latest go round of its existence of being smashed, and then revitalization ,then smashed yet again, by the great Aryan sky God Thor of the celestial heavens, who, sadly is a Lutheran replacement for the more vital Masaccio Father God of the first great work of the reawakened Empire. The Circus and the loop of rubble to facade back to rubble again, contends in Italy as no where else I think, which is what is so fascinating about a land not quite as ancient as some, and yet, much more modern than most.As, well, there is no Etruscan Liberation Organgization, and yet, no Tuscani live in waterless slums and neither are they scalded with phosphorus, despite being so adored by the caring world. There is a moral in that.





Perhaps It would have been too much to ask, to think that President Gidget could have made mention of this disaster , or this most late destruction to befall the land of Tesus, and Romulo, both of whom have eerie similarity to both Jesus and Mohamed, but why be a bitch and bring such up...? The world has its newest golden boy, and is now held by Semites who fight an incessant war over land the pompous centurions thereof wouldn’t be caught dead within, as it is, as Josephus showed us, so easy to be a Jew in Un-kosher, Pancetta laden, Rome. Or in the case of the Jews of the phony Joey Reynolds show, be so observant on Broadway, which means I guess picking Sarge’s deli over Grossburghers, though Audrey told me a few years ago she would not buy so much as a paper in Sarges deli so , well, untidy a place was it. And with them is placed the insufferable Arabs, as they can find sharia a much more palatable thing in Ann Arbor. It was stupid for anyone to think such a catastrophe in Italy , or third act, would even be passingly mentioned by always spinning bullshitting dervish, god knows, as he is now our reverse Aeneas, returning to fore bearer Turkey, again showing right off the bat, that passion , at least Josephus wise, is catching. Time and tides and all. Hell, if I had to be an Arab , or love Arabs, or laud them, shit, I would do it in the rubble of the first Roman colony of sorts, Troy, too. I thought of the commercial I saw for Turkish Tourism after nine eleven, where they made it look like a new or really first Rome, so much for the brotherhood, I guess, and after all, there was a Turkish version of the Iliad before old blind fag Homer, in which there is no horse, only an Atlantis like destruction by angry Gods, but then, a Greek epic can not exist with out a moment of jewing down conniving, later found to be so upsetting to Romanian Aeneas. So that all makes the Koran really look like a newer testament, after all, and Turks like Persians don't let Arabs ever forget it.







Now with that pompous horses ass act which comes by being so lauded by a constantly fake smiling Olberman -really pal, enough with the Mona Lisa shtick, it gets tired when when people are losing their jobs, as At least I , Roman boy, recall you carrying water for Hillary as late as May, bitch,--Dear Stepford Caesar has discovered what a contribution Islam has made to America, ...? Since when...? This scummy fuck punk ass bitch waits until now to allow his Madrassa to show...? That sound you hear is Bill actually wincing in horror at this boy queen. On the day after this quake in Italia, as again, Italians are, as they have millennially, pulled humans looking like Pompey victims out from saffron colored rubble, I saw a email in my box. Re: The Color Purple. a essay by Anthony Acri. Jesus, that's weird even for me! No, I don't open it, as I unlike madrassa boy know all about the Malocchio, and wouldn't dare be as nonchalant and smile hipped and affable and thoughtless as my countrymen breathe in dig up soot, as perhaps it is an Italian thing of shared sacrifice, as shown by Rudy, which you sneering. always laughing Semites seem to gallantly miss. I leave it be, till later. I don't really care what some white woman says to me about that which I know is true. My Ma was right, Erkle, oh he has the malocchio. I sit down with a grapefruit like mass in my Tuchus, and wearily watch something called ''Stardust''. Obviously, I am less enthralled than it is I cant find the remote. Not to be mean or anything, but its is egregious, English magic shit, as usual, and the fact that Clair Danes has no eyebrows is even more disconcerting than its suburban middlebrow magic. My mother looks up at a point where many glass walls are breaking and says, ''Rosalinda'', as a shorthand to some Italian fairy tale which the Englishmen not only pretend to have never read, may have only read in the translation where all magic is lost, but gleefully act as though they never were even written down. I thought of Calvino, enraptured with the dago folktale as a antithesis of this Neil Gaiman shit, again, no offense, in that as he said, amazingly, all the archetypes of such stories were turned on their heads, princes who were corrupt, princesses who were clever and pretty, who could often save themselves, etc., to the point that if there were several examples of a Italian folktale, like Snow White, he often collected the ones which were least like the ones known by Grimms, to the point where Snow white is suddenly taken in by seven robbers rather than lawn gnomes. Robert Di Nero, now suddenly struck ''Irish as folk'', appears as a pirate. Of a different sort than his patented gumba shtick which even Gene Siskle was weary of over ten years ago. "Mara Qua...", my Ma says with disdain, as if to say, ''Lookie here'' in Calabrasean dilect , the one Calvino called the most enchanted of the Italian tongues. I thought about if ever, and not just in a way of self aggrandizement, if ever any Wop would be allowed access to the ancient books so vinegary stolen from and defamed by the English Homos and plagiarizing white women in castellos of boy horror, or would the race be forever damned by the Jersey Barrier fairy lands of Scorsesean gumbattas. I thought of how an editor was amused at my RM, in that he said, the most Lyrical parts were not the Roman myths at all, which were quite dry and factual, but the lyrical and poetic parts was the wraparound story taking place in a fictional Battavia, New York. I had read every thing of Galileo I could before starting it, to get that rustic feel of assurance and even verisimilitude which all Roman work has to its core. But what was I thinking, writing this and reading Galileo no less, around this time of Easter a few years back, what with soon we will all be acorn Niggers, anyway, praising fag killing Castro, hiding our hiddfen from dee taz man and the poleece un-taxed money in mayonesse jars like Uncle Gumba Charley Wrangle, and all be socialists anyway, seeing if getting a gold tooth is somehow in our national heath care plan. Sheesh, Romans...what was I thinking, with smiling Erkle just on the horizon of his endless wars ...? --Oh, well, The city devastated in the terracotta ruins and crumbling volcanic walls was named L'Aquila, which is Latin for The symbol of the state, the Golden Eagle. I am not touching that either, as Menvra whirls signs everywhere, with a ten foot marble pole.

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