25 December 2010


I have completed as much as I can get, Big Bertha, Pow Girl, The centrifuge and the hippograph, The Return of Mister Stupendous, Saturnalia, am almost done with Mister Stupendous, and placed Ancient Romance into a semblance of befittingly various shards and excerpts of ruins of things, which I guess makes it seem like the poly novel fake memoir that bothered some white bitch. Still to be made are tarantella, King Italius, Rag, and Imperiumata, and some others. Yes, perhaps in a world where marvel does Iliad, which both assuredly deserve, I can remake King Italius.

A happy feast of Sol Invictus or the indomitable sun to you all but Arabs communists and puritans, with a lovely exemption to the Jews, who have always been willing to , despite the pretense, enjoy a roman feast, as they've always known Roman feasts are better than Germanic fasts. The rest of them are all who have the nerve to thing that the truth is ever reveled and harden been apparent all along.

A cup of Roman beer to all, especially to the dear Dirk Deppy, who finds now the essence of all I write, there once in a essay of captain marvel which he took pains and the extra effort to amend, discount and demean, as that again, as the Jesuits would have warned this queer, no one really is in the position they think they are and only a slight motion of two degrees is the difference between the high tower and the plunge below. I should stick with blogging he said, as if his pompous magazine was some sort of middle brow monument to the fact that white trash, an sadly even faggots now, can make even Comics, like Willie with the beloved Romans of Henry , dull as dishwater. I was merely looking for a quick few liens of some kind of resume before meeting with a lovely woman producer, as was fearful she would think I was as lazy all this time as I was. This admission seemed to bother them worse, which , frankly, anyone who is going out of there way to make sure you know they are more thoughtful than captain marvel proves , well, they aren't. Perhaps now, he will be doing the blogging, after all.

As I said, just to be a bitch, a lovely essay I wrote about dear Corsetto's genius and her Faberge egg of a strip, though starting to smell rancid with bitchy vinegar, GWS was called one of the best thing a magazine had read all year, but alas , they don't do Comics. NEITHER DO THEY SELL THEM, I WAS ALERTED AT BARNES AND NOBEL, AMUSINGLY, AS THAT IS WHERE I RECOGNIZED A COPY OF THE DOWER mush, SORRY, HUSH FOR A PREVIOUS CHRISTMAS PRESENT SO LONG AGO. But, they are, I was alerted, always looking for pompous types to sell diatribes and fashion magazines to the Liberals who nurse croissants all day. A happy Saturnalia indeed, a swig from Father Christmas, I mean Bacchus jollied head, but not too much, as that would be too imperial, after all. As perhaps this will make Dirk happy to know that should he able to buy a racehorse before the end of the year he might get a tax credit for this band of merry communists who have taken over the republic. Ouch. I have received a copy of the Essential Nova, and the Cowboys are on tonight, a happy Saturnalia indeed....!



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