23 October 2011

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I have signed a contract with Angela, and a book publishing house, she, the first who got one back to me, as have decided to go forth with this at Roman cavalry speeds. I am on my black winged horse of Tuscan Pegasus, while and as Obama and the sun chariot plummets to the ground, and am going straight ahead. I must get something done, I feel now, as ironically, MTV is mortified at the sudden distaste America is taking to its imperial Sicilian clowns, as my father warned me the white trash are quite two faced at heart, and they can become very self righteous and moralistic at the drop of a hat, or a dow for that matter.

And now the wop clones are no longer funny to the white gals as the street fill up with pickpockets, leftist devotionals, the hail Mary said in the original Yiddish, and of course Defecation. We get our back into our limits. As, about six weeks ago, with a case of Achita, I was up and dyspeptic at one am, and though do not often catch WGN from Chicago, saw the show called Its always funny in Philadelphia, and a master work called The night man cometh. I was cracking up at one am, in the dark, and my Ma who sleeps down stairs, as a flight of steps is too much for her sadly in her old lady's American exile, heard this and started to watch with me. She likes the verve of these young men, especially Mac. And she likes De Vito, who she sees as a stereotype gone mad. And I figured then I would, as they did, be pushy and uppity enough to get out there and merely make my own mark on this wall. Thusly, went into overdrive to get it done, and have signed the contract, at the end of this year's long and winding road of ups and downs.

I have done it, and have stayed true to the beliefs of my fore paters and the Jesuits, and have escaped being an imperial clown. I am not Scorsese, not with the Roman script collecting dust in the drawer, as Jewish new York Npr gumba-jew liberals sneer at his affectations of history of china and film noir. My Kemeter, as opposed to his Germanicus, is entering stage left, laughing, into the apostolic light, and not hidden in a secondary tomb of Hollywood paperclips. I have been true to my creed, at last. And if perhaps you were all schooled when Hillary took a strange glee at the death of Quaddafi --he again proving do not do any business with uncle Sambo as pop warned me, as Assad is seemingly given indulgence, Islam style,…Well, if that shocked you that she quoted Julius Caesar and festooned a compliant death holiday triumphal Obama with a vini vidi vici moment, her teeth shining and eyes gleaming, as a love of death is all Caesar has left to run on, well, as Rome again pulsed into ragged men screaming against the prince and the street across from the amphitheater, is again filled with howls and shrieks and angry men chanting poetics and old helmets, as the Tubas plays, well, that then, pals, shows you really haven’t been paying attention to me. I have turned down enough. I feel I just do something, as recalled once to my horror that not only did I not show my immigrant parents my placement in a Jesuit scholastic magazine, I barely told them till later.

As tomorrow, I will shave and get cleaned up and go to the local bank to wire transfer the funds from a bank account the way they wish it done, and since it is a special occasion, may even wear underwear. I figured I have spent 377 dollars at least in the last six weeks just on bad commix, cheap art supplies, busty porno, and vulgarization of ethnic foods we then use to secondarily tar the people from whom the American gonniffs took it. I saw going through the channels, as cant take Rachel anymore as attack dog for a consortium that preaches liberalism as its collected Jews work over time to avoid every tax known to man--why else would they, …?, and saw some crap show about Rome. Again, it was all brooding music and Rome was called a spider in the middle of a web, et cetera as they must lest anyone hang the almost end of civilization around Obama’s scrawny neck like another plate of distinction. And as a Jesuit told me, to be fair, if it wanst for the catholic Italians, devoted more to Virgil than to any born again Jews, the lamplight would have flickered out, and we would have returned to being Neanderthals, and this whole muddy earth would be Atlantis, whether Bill Maher with the washboard face likes it or not. This will be as opposed to the coming Caliphate wished for by the house lesbians at GE, WHEN AGAIN SICILIAN QUEER POETS will be cut stem to stern, and hurled into rivers, which is why even the vulgar dancing Arabs do not much mention a distaste of Dante, at least in mixed company.

I do resent that my standoffish acts did allow others to get to make a black winged Pegasus without any of the meaning I had behind it, as do find it funny that suddenly classical gods and fairy tales are everywhere, but like Grimm's, who at least admitted it,the Jews and their love of nondescript Aryans chicks shall get it all wrong. In this first part of AR, the devil is blond and the goddess of love brunette, which would have more imminent meaning than any whole American nigger would know. And it didn't take forty eight hours for our MOMMA ROMA TO QUOTE UNCLE JULIUS, to now demanding an official inquisition into the death of Momar, so someone do tell our Moslem the meaning of the word 'Caveat' wont you...? Well, now you over eaters are finding out how fun it is when a republic dies, eh…? And, as clockwork Apricot, the italic clowns are losing their ability to make the white trash laugh, as again, another Tuscan Proverb left in the rubble comes to mind, that in fact, a Roman Pacifist is a general who takes prisoners. That’s General electric to you, bitches. Chimes at midnight.


19 October 2011

Reaching par for the course again, I was alerted that my manuscript Ancient Romance was rejected by a “vanity publisher", of all things, showing I must have really said something worthwhile. Especially in looking over the fact that there is their share of gumba mafia low level, drain pipe empire alley way street lives gumba bullshit, and I have crashed a new high in my imperial American life. I was told that the editorial staff considered the sell-able aspects of this book limited,--again this is a vanity publisher, which shows the magic intent in Roman Tony--they do not like novels per se, and 377 dollars certainly isn’t enough money to them, after all, to break with Scorsese tradition, or to speak of a stylized city for whom the standing of anyone and saying I am Spartacus wouldn’t have gotten them dick, and thus never had black balled Hollywood Jews write of them.

As these earlier fourth century BC Romans hadn’t yet become so impressed upon by their legalisms and their own Jewry attributes, which the Italians have always had in spades, possibly from Arabs and Jews having mixed and married the aquiline italics a millennium before the Greeks stopped being snake charmers and preened their invention of civilization already having been done by the forgotten circumnavigating Phoenicians.

I then went back to some collected emails left from dealing with nice women who are at other self publishers, which I called out to do some comparison shopping, and asked them if they would still be open to ACTUALLY TAKING MY MONEY AND PUBLISHING A BOOK AS THEY SAY THAT THEY DO, FOR A NOVEL WHICH HAS NOT ONE SWEAR WORD, NOR VIOLENCE, --and quicker than you can say Barrack O’bama is doomed, well, many got back to me and of course for a higher quote, would be willing to be my best friend once the check cleared. Officiously, this put a kink in my Ceeduual, as it took a while to get the four hundred Shekels, now I have to find a bag of sugar to add to the brick of cheddar. This isn’t the first time I was dismissed as ‘Wordy‘, as it isn’t the first time an almost Medieval aspect of ink as a commodity was cashiered at me, though looking things up, at 315 pages and only 80,000 words it is less wordy and dense than is the Under the Tuscan Sun shit, to say nothing of a monstrosity called Eat Pray Love, and in fact, with all I have together, Tcoigods, Ancient Romance, TSASTROL, TBOTWS, and the Book of Italia, its all at 213,732 words, 555 pages., all of which is amusingly one word and one page too much saved and redone of the only noble savages that white trash cunts and sum bags like fagots like Kingsly Amis do not bleed for, as in this are immensely like Bismarck, famed German socialist who found the Etruscans too unlike the Prussians minded Romans who to Germans eye always look better when compared to other Middle earthed almost Jewish souls. But, I have reached out again and have looked up a myriad of presses willing to publish anything in our ugly days of cable Juvenals as after all, as I said to Coppolla I know why the Romans invented graffiti, after all. Unlike Caesar and his last week beloved minions, I do not, when the galloping reaches a nadir of 38 percent, --and who said that was coming before the ides of OCTOBER, KIDS?, start leaning for the exits and the trap doors.

I have felt as was had again, as was told I could resubmit should I go over it again and edit it down, as was told for all my pretences of being a preening wop, why, again, I spell Italee wrong, showing Chaucer is not as devoted to by his own race as he was interestingly by the now dead Jesuits, and again they love to sneer at me, as the lunkheads did in seventh grade when I pretended I was too dumb to understand how to serve mass hoping I could get out of it and go home and with Stan Savaran and the Penn State and NFL films, show and Blondie and Dagwood theatre and Looney tunes on a Sunday and not have to stand there under porcelain massacred men as various faggot boys skipped to my loo and drunk priests up far too early for their dispositions had to do rites of Dionysus done to even then half full monastery garages. See…? I cant help myself.

And counting it up as I have, do find it is nothing compared to the leggorea of shit like Twilight and or the dread Harry Potter, but if at first I was just Italian soothsayer warning where this was headed, now I am being warned about seemingly taking too much glee in the American autumn. Eventually I ruined enough masses that Father Ginnochius relented, wouldn’t let me out of this, but freed me from horrid things like weddings and funerals of wop mafia thugs, and when I had to serve that horrid mass was left alone on the side, where at least I could sleep.

And the same day I now have to rearm and go back as singly I find time wasters lounge on every street in almost a Mexicali way, the suddenly resurgent Raiders needed to sign a body, anybody, as they lost their quarterback, and so signed a central casting bloke named Palmer. He, whose life and career was changed irrevocably when a rent a thug for the pain in the ass Pittsburgh Stiller’s made a point to roll up his leg in a glory days assault towards a super bowl which no one may speak of anymore, and which the head linesman and referee admitted five years later was something of a con. And being smarmy and clever in the true sense, a local wop on loan from Fan radio in new York, where insufferability is a virtue, hearing the words Bengal, Raiders, and seeing a over dramatic way to ingratiate himself to a crowd who has become more blasé with each game Rothlishbooger barely wins, made a point of haranguing this whole deal, done for utilitarian reasons. And with the Torch song trilogy act and verve always under the surface in all sports talk of this sort, and smearing Carson Palmer as the sort of man this tougher guy wouldn’t have on his team, you know, as opposed to Gentile Ben, who merely has multiple rape allegations each season, spits at waitresses and the food servers, flips off Bob Pompiani on camera, and of course, dragged women into toilets, where he can simulate necrophilia--this guy is top notch, --juts ask Mark Madden, who also vouches for him.

But, funnily, at seven o clock when I was listening, he got more than a few calls in a kind of rolling thunder coming to the side of a Bengal, no less, and comparing him favourable to Roethlisberger, who with each fumble --and they are legion--brings up the same Augustine line which Barrack O’bama, his equal in narcissism, doth bring up--that You, Cicero, backed the wrong horse. And at ten when I wet to listen to some disco music, heard this wop from long island, still screeching at people, over dramatically cutting them off, calling them ‘lunatics’ for saying still that Ben actually wasn’t that good, The Bennies use the same playbook as the Bammies, They are sacrosanct-You are wrong. But, he was certainly not good enough to throw away thirty years of collected bullshit for, as if Bennie has become “fearless leader” and can not be spoken harshly of, with a chorus of always “at least they won“, becoming a anthem akin to Arms and the Man, but then, Guido, he was never liked here, and all these poor mans Jim Rome’s-- edags ! --they should have done some reconnaissance.

Well, I have to now get my hands on a slab of ribs, some ringlets from the Roman Godess of hearth, Moneta--dockets, cash, balloons, hogs, chick peas, wah wahs, mambo, starch, Platt, do rei mee, --and am thinking about going back into the Gigolo game…I might have to accrue some balloons, go back to be a gentlewoman’s boon companion, you know, I might have to find various women of a certain age, of a certain weight, who are willing to play for gentleman companion ship --through the nose. By the pund, and I mean pound ladies. I have a recipe box with various women’s names and numbers that I have colleted being at places like the Saving Nun and the post office and gay cruises,--I AM ABOVE NOTHING!-- lonely loveable older women who need and want and have checking accounts….I have my box to return to--it like Glenn Garry glen Ross, I call them my leads…As what made me sad is seeing that hump Coppolla who now like your average wop, is in a thicket of regret and self recrimination, and says things he will make a film with a flip phone as to…what?… get noticed…? One shouldn’t be a student at 65 pal, I do not care what the white women tell you, by then you shouldn’t be so needy, pal, and the line, of course was mine, which has more heft coming from Roman Anthony than from the man, who as much as anyone crated the day of the blockbuster, though a Jew of course gets the, to my thinking, blame more than credit. There is a true Romanticism in my , at 46, being true to my words and sending out despised novellas as I do, all written in ways more Polizano and Calvino then ever like Gigi Marquez. And at night, suddenly I see Dick Van Dyke, Adam West and Danny De Vito have returned as if the angels in Saturnalia, warning me not to give in. A perfect backdrop, missing only Captain Miller, for me to bring Mister Stupendous Home, as I find again I do not want to finish anything, for reasons I am still unaware. As Galatia would say, Take that! Again I take these as badges of honour, as frankly have been gagging on admiration now since 1977, and the Jesuits then. And like Coppolla, merely wish, as opposed to the admiration of the venial, instead say something which I either believe in, or better still, dont make sick looking back on it.

13 October 2011


1. But, it seems, it shant take a whole ten years since I found a strange distaste and decisiveness from the Coppolla Crowd to prove again, I was in the right and in fact, am the mad man on the steps watching the bloated roman parade go by and asking, who is this fool who thinks he is Caesar…?, an affectation I pretended to the Fred Fuches crowd to their snarling dictates, has been proven true as not, for the thousandth time in history. It turns out that indeed this was Praetorium full of trap doors, shoots and ladders, which no house hagiographer like Doris Kerns Goodwin could have ever pointed out, and again the senate who heard Tarzan’s boy say he is running against “Congress“, of which he party holds the higher house, was said once too many times for the liking of men who wore purple sashes when this nigger from the block, was still trying to commit real estate fraud and flip houses.

So, I saw a similar strain of thought, in two straight days, I SAW the whole of what they believe, what they are, what is expected, just by looking around for something to watch on a cowboy less Sunday, and was quite hearted by the Raiders showing a pluck and a verve and a requiem sweetens to old man Al, the great football mind, who partially with Lombardy, invented pro football, Mister Davis. I felt bad when I heard Al was dead, and in fact he wasn’t that old, but I actually tearred up a bit, when seeing the black head coach, so overwhelmed with emotion, as the great Raiders pulled it out last second, as they might have lost to a team created out of whole cloth for no apparent reason, and though the hinterlands are chewed up with fake team’s still one out of every seven dollars the nfl makes comes from the Dallas Cowboys, anyway. I felt bad recalling that when Al as voted into the hall of fame, a local house Jew, of the sort I hate, no Alan Brady he, a pompous and yet clownish little Al Capp cartoon come to life, Myron Cope went on the air, I recall this, and was gleeful in saying how he didn’t Vote for him, for him, as Al Davis, he said then was “a wise guy“, and acted like a goom--bah, a sin here in Pollock hills.

I felt bad as Al was dutifully damned by the media complex, though his raiders have been shown more often in prime time than any other team, including the cowboys, so they were not, like Keith Olberehncmen, married to anything they said believed in, after all. And I thought of how he was the first nfl executive to hire blacks, minorities, offered Vince Lombardi a coaching seat in the afl when he couldn’t get a meeting in the old NFL, had a first black head coach, a first Latino, brought women is as something other than nuns and secretaries as seen in Woryhelssnbergher land, and again created pro football, stealing the nation for the baseball who was king when he showed up. And I thought of how now this pristine foolishness this quota system the niggers aren’t smart enough to see through, of asking blacks if they like to submit résumés is laughingly called --a Rooney Rule. This from a family who sat back and watched the Pollock mezzanine pour beer on Kordells’s s head, boo him off the filed, as they did to Jefferson Street Joe, to the horror of sophisticate Chuck Noll, and snowshoed, it is called a Rooney rule, --as the kids at Wall street shall find out, there is nothing so American as the divas of Usurpation and under miners, it is our greatest imperial commodity as the Jesuits taught me, selling out is its own rearward. Hmm, whom shall O’bama tap dance towards, the rabble, or his bag men…you make the call.

And looking around on television, after catching the great Dick Van Dyke as if seeing a great book of middle verse I hadn’t seen in years, in two straight days I saw Italian Americans as shown by the great and holy and righteous media as they are meant to, and must admit I do not care much anymore, as any anger the Coppola cages have engendered in me didn’t last as long as say to make me a romantic disfigure my own self. I dream of becoming a Catiline, however I don’t have the feet for it.

2. On south park, as yes, Juvenal in constriction paper, and its always sunny in Philadelphia , the usual dago images were shown with almost boring glee, with a lovely turn of the knife when it is discovered that in fact the red haired yenta mother of the awful and almost insufferable Kyle is said to be from, horrors, New Jersey. And I thought., it is obviously that Italian people work for these shows, how can such things be said so eagerly and openly by a media which slathers on its sanctimony as nigger jimmy does the hand sanitizer when the faggots appear …? I still think I could not do it. But you know what was even funnier than any of that, that across the golem river, in the emerald city, it turns out the house hold Jews of the metropolis in Little Jerusalem, wall street, took from the raiding of the Fisca by Tyberius, hell Matt Stone is onto something, not thirty cents on the dollar, or 40, or even a half a buck, but got from their bald headed raider 100 cents on the dollar for these swindles, most probably illegal, --now that’s funny. Like Bill Clinton, I read Machiavelli for fun, and Juvenal for profit.

3. So, I am on my reclamation campaign and thus, have taken the play called Saturnalia, and replaced it back on a place called trigger street, as this was about the time, that so fat and happy and with dago morons placating their needs for minstrels shows so willingly, I found that the thing should have been re-posted in this wall of books. Just on general principal. As after all I have finished my book of the Etruscans, the only noble savages you do not bleed for, the only indigenous people the white shickas and the fat yentas do not make common cause for as they bundle rich fags cash to O’bama the way Minerva spun silk into gold, a myth which became chemistry as the dark ages made people look for anything classical, even lies, as they seemed realer than anything any Martin Luther had ever said. This was the play about a local man named Jonnie Gammage, who was murdered in a traffic stop by the cops who do the dirty work for Czar Rooney, while good old nigger boys like monsignor Pig meat Shapton didn’t know nuffin about dat sur, and went chasing after stories about niggers sodomised with plungers hoping to get his cut after he sued for peace. No body was ever fired for making asides about Kordell on epsn, but then, he was a little too much like a victim to allow the bald head niggre and the smarmy Jew to keep laughing. Always, kids, -- keep laughing!

Do recall as now Peanut eaters like Kodrell West are suddenly everywhere, as they need to be as a kind of academic Indulgence, lest anyone notice that the ncaa uses its share of slave labour, they have to play off the occasional nigger who you know cant run and is Erkle like, --they will be our Florentine thinkers, as again Passolini was right and Jews snicker at Sicilians sent in by the doge to disperse the Bloomberg hated crowd, do recall my as yet unmade play, wont you…? Do recall Jonnie Gammage, who amusingly didn’t make it into August Wilson’s Pittsburgh fences as a kind of exemplar of imperial victim hood, do recall Saturnalia nights poo pooed by, of all things, a LA theatre trope who at first didn’t want to pay the royalty fees for The oldest established floating crap game in new York as sung by the ring a ding dine angels, but then when I happened to have a satirical redux of this done by myself, as a parody of the great Abe Burrows, it turned out again, as Cicero said, and he would know, the first casualty of censorship is anger at the powerful, and masters and servants, and all of that.

Therefore, do recall my lovely little play, as eventually they owned up and told me Race was something they lied to avoid, the fact that a black quarterback was trashed with fake police reports by a piggish espn clod named Mark Madden was too “provincial” a thing, and who wants to be sewed by the stillers anyway, and we are alas, as Gore said, an empire without Satire and all we have are faggots soldiers, who cant take being booed, much less spit at anymore as even a liberal now is expected to wave the flag, while doing battle with waxy yellow build up. And, still, Virgil is the only fag allowed to be sneered at by barbaric morons. Remember, dikes, no body lost their jobs at espn for making Charles Nelson Reilly like asides about Kordell, and no nigger hod dee doed into Pittsburgh when a man was beaten to death with maglites on a polish hill street, as Cardinal Rooney made sure the naggers got the trinkets and the nickles for which they live.

So, I compiled that all, and recalled Saturnalia there, as who the hell are you house Jews and white trash to tell me anything, Sweethearts…? I am the mad man in withered leaves piss tainted toga on the Roman street. I guess when aids having struck as it did and taking away as many Jesuits as it did, Tray Parker is now the closest thing we are allowed to wit. As Today I ask, recall the Etruscans, who didn’t live in sticks and deer skin houses, but built towers that the Romans couldn’t even try to emulate, so much so, that to this day we still speak of ivory towers livers as a pejorative, showing there is always a way to smear anybody. And I bet you do not know why we speak of yellow streaks down one’s back, I would guess.

05 October 2011

Dear Mary--,

I would like to avail myself and my work of your company and would like to have you as publishers of my book. I am sending you the manuscript of the book, Ancient Romance: The catalog of Italic Gods, an historical novel. In this book a beaten weathered sad old Tuscan Senator recalls as he narrates a faded, scratched up old manuscript of Tuscan fairy tales, his life, his recollections, and his career as an Italian doge, and also the fall of a last Italic Tuscan King who failed against the Romans. I do very much want this book to be noticed and made, as an antidote to the myriad of Italian diminutions and minstrel shows seen all over.

Thank you.

Anthony Acri.

Now, as of 3 October, I have sent Ancient Romance to the printers who will be my best friend and publish this book for 400 American kopecks. That is a lot of cheddar in one envelope, and I found myself cringing having to get it all together to make a cashiers check to make out. And yet, found myself more devoted to this than any cie la vie catch as catch can, half ass attitude, I did for any word conglomerate showing I am a better person at heart than the pacifists praetorian Sejanuses, who what work for drone companies, like GE. But, when I was recently poo pooed by no less than the editors at Berkley, --such phoneys--I then knew I had to at least make my mark on a roman wall, as better men then I did, basically telling Caesars without iron poor blood, as opposed to the ninny we have now , to fuck off, as is recalled by C.T. I found myself willing and wishing to collect money to get this done since May, and even used spell check this time, as found in ways this was irrevocably mine, and not somehow hack work.

I made a Italian sign of horns to ward away the evil eye of smiling President Romo, when I saw this Erkle call America soft and weak, --as whenever is the filth ever as good as their Caesar…?, as our badass, sweet sweet back, cold stone, dropsy, dead solid prefect, lead pipe cinch, iron clad bullshit artistry faggot nigger shoots American citizens in the face with smiling lesbians doing a cheer worthy of a neo con, showing again Ovid is right and there is no winning ever, asshole. I am now going to un-like, oh such an imperial high school has Zoidburgh wrought-- and unlike all those phoney television performers, as occupy wall street will get instructing wont it, when all The commie symps actually are paid by GE and have Goldman stock wont it, though...?

As Pope Pius the 3rd said, coming back to Rome and seeing the people, there hungry, wanted no part of him and his silk slippers and ponytail girls, when the people of Rome protested, and started to the revolt against the papacy, when a Italian hero undecorated upon by Stanley Kubrick hagiography, said they were going to occupy Rome’s Vatican hill to keep them out, Pius said, famously, Tell the rabble-- its already ours. He eventually executed a third of Rome, men women and children as heretics, in a land swindle even Mussolini was appalled at. I thought of that when some vulturous Jew was godlessly praying, cantering nimrods repeat every word he said, and thought again, this all sounds better again, in the original Latin.

With this done, I am becoming also frighteningly not only unawares but uncaring of a whole host of various internal frightening qualities that I have been at the mercy of since 1977. I am continuing the assault on the barbarians who even Michel Savage sees collecting at the various gates, me with Roman Marius Aplomb. Once, in Roman lives, a chieftain of the Gauls damned that land in cisalpine Italy be seeded to them ,as the Tuscans had done, as welfare makes you sue for peace, --soft as Hercules president bullshit queen dido would say as he glares at the waking foetuses in his way TA GALWEEE! That the Romans would actually do as the Tuscans had done, well it boggles the mind, and Marius, the Clinton of the bronze age, the man with bare feet, two names and a bushel full of Roman arrogance said, that would be fine by him, as there was whole plots of land in Italay he would make sure would be the Gauls forever. It took this Visigoth a few moments to figure out what he meant, and then, as they turned and tried to retreat he burned them all alive. After a while a capitulator gets on your nerves. I did as a flourish, a grace note at which Scorsese is incompetent, and at which I am a true Ball-er, as Audrey told me, I downloaded a free mp3 of Night swimming, and hope at least I have made the Jesuits proud of me , as they never did like my lazy streak, nor for that matter the fact that deep down, I wanted to be liked more than even an Italian should.

I liked my use of “faded, scratched up manuscript” which was what Manzoni called his masterpiece, as again, we do not need Rodger Ebert to like us. It isn’t what it was to begin with, Not with Turan mostly gone, still, but It is better than most of the shit out there, easily the gumba shit and the Spartacus crap. That little felippio in the letter was just for them. And now that I have discovered Wendy Fiore as a guide to recapture Turan, Tuscan goddess of Love, I’m sure I can attempt the least part of Turan’s loveliness. You Jews, white trash, and various niggard O’bama in-laws got what you wanted… Rome fell, indeed, --kiss goodbye the water softeners. Under the Apostolic Tuscan sun.


01 October 2011

True story.

In 2004, I had a first draft of a thousand page novel about the Etruscan, a first great society on Italian soil, which found, as they always do, Welfare and democracy don’t work well together, and never does, but raiding the national bank is worse, no matter what the Jews think. I sent it in, and got a mess of ambivalence from spamming big fat ugly white woman yenta Jew bitches, who didn’t like my use of certain terms, like Diva, Opera, cartoon, Welfare, consortium, bribery, senate, liberal, chiaroscuro, Sottovoce, and others, sure that before the Greeks, everyone, especially you colureds, were somehow lion cloth wearing nobles savages of the sort America had come to know and love in various Indian and cowboy fare, the history channel and an occasional Tarzan movie.

She sneered at me as she felt allowed to, good liberal she was, that I sued words like steam engine, dome of the Rock, Hadj, welfare cheats, military advisers, The Fog of war, domino theory, preventive war--in 2001, take that Bill Kristol!, rapprochement, --I think I blogged about that one at the time, as if your later Metterniches explained or knew anything the Romans didn't, --puhlesse!, as she liked thinking the Italian were savages before the Romans and probably after them slightly less so, and allowing for the occasional cable television show about gladiators, possibly the least interesting aspect of Rome, and after all they, unlike at the U were at last Paid. Openly.

Mostly she was ver Klempt, if I am using the Latin correctly, and its all Latin, that I used the erroneous, to her words, 'Pasta machine'. She was sneering even in all blue, all lower case email letters--a dead giveaway--that thought I preened that I had some erudition, --how did I miss Marco Polo and the famous story of his bringing noodles from Cathay, and all. Well, I asked in email back, did she miss that in fact, in 2000, in just trying to build a Euro mandated subway from Rome to Umbria, that was found a treasure trove of Tuscan graves, which sort of kick started me into this. Did she know that in one of those Etruscan graves was in fact found a sliver metal pasta machine, as is seen in Italian homes, and various Mario Battali cooking shows, perfectly formed as it is to this day…? My tone back was seen as anti Semitic, which is why since then I have tried to be about as circumspect as Himmler when it comes to racial matters. Since this discovery, Spaghetti as a diminution at all has gone unmentioned, lest anyone know that the original Italians came from Mongolia and northern China, as Scorsese was a dutiful little House nigger and made his termite terrace, on command, an opportunity turned down by even Coppola in poverty, showing someone at zoetrope read my emails after all.

She was snippy back, of course, as I got the scent in the wind that somehow I as an Italian in America, was “preening” something, as opposed to say featured player rent-a wops like Joe Peshi, who are somehow iron clad, and thankfully allowed to say nigger at least then without it even being a slur. I think I started to become more like Paul Mooney that day, and decided since I wasn’t covered by political correctness, white mans civility, using the basic traits of Italian banking and Semitic religions, I wasn’t paying anything into this. But, I did see where this was headed, even then I spoke of the often raising of the Fica, their central bank by the venial overlords, and I cant wait till O’bama the magnificent realises that his sun chariot came crashing to the ground near an off ramp to the jersey shore. Its never primavera in Palestine, kids, and its always autumn in New York. The Moma tried sending swat teams of Jews to get the golden Etruscan ruins, but alas, the Vatican sent in its Jesuit hazmat units in first. The Etruscan ruins are under lock and Conclave.

So, as I have finished Ancient Romance, in its first best, and older part, I took the chapters of Sabine astrology and saved them in a file called SA on a thumb drive , but also, kept the pieces left of the later finished book sent to Amazon. I was going to throw out the rest away, but found a real customizable admiration for praetorian Pope Marcus, soldier cum pontiff, a Dago Beckett, as still in the state of disorder he is, it is in is a better more fully formed Italian human character than ever seen to jump off the mildest brow of Coppola or Scorsese. AND unlike them and like Dante, the admiration of barbaric toga wears like Chrissie Hitchens is almost an anathema to me. I and my works do not want your admiration, save it for Petrarch until you realise too late, that he coined the term Dark AGES, as its those smiling availed I love English literature types eventually who fill up with bile and break apart, as my Ma would say. And as I continue my assaults on Parnassus, the floating rock in the sky as Ariosto mentioned it, as am so willing to utilize the low brows against the middle, I do find it funny that Signora Fortuna does take her rubes as she so pleases,...What with Ben Rothlibugher at this writing, after the stiller fans have thrown away thirty years of sanctimony for him, is at 10 turnovers and one touchdown. Wow. The Red Socks, the poor mans Yankees, lost a game seemingly too overwrought to have come from the pen of the un-Natural, Malamud. Obama is at 38 percent and has cut back at the eyes of the people not good enough for his blazing brightness and glory, are they ever not too soft and squishy for the hanging messiahs, Cassius...?, as he has become all alkaline and pissy as Mussolini seething from the ropes, and best of all, our venal, whooping coughed audience Juvenal, Jonnie Libovitz, the satirist is losing audience to Storage wars and American pickers. How wonderful a time is this, after all…? Night-swimming, deserves a quiet night....