30 October 2012


1. I see that every time I merely go through the channels that Anna Maria Albergehetti in a taxi honey Cox, is doing her Huck Finn act on Democratic television, but I never see her with Rachel, not that I am watching too closely. I hope there wasn't a spat. See, I have never been above insinuation of marvelous Me myself in a what I call Saffic Di-ad  giving either the honey blond or the raven haired tempress a masculinity Man soldier upon which to cry and wail and bite and free themselves of their delusions  Lesbianism only sticks when its priestess is ugly, it how hags date. I am not above tap dancing to a real marriage to undercut hubby and save a gal from a life of drudgery--I wish I could save you all girls! --I was taught by pre aids queers who thought marriage was animal husbandry and for breeding purposefulness for what Jew liberals in a life in the theater call the crude, goys. As much less the gay parody shit and freeing a woman of their shackles.

2. This posted  picture was almost thrown away, as I made a mistake with the word balloons and started tearing the paper. But then, I went to the paperbag I sue to collect comic papers, and fished it out. About five years ago, I sent a mini comic called Rag to some truly horrible people who then gave me the nun like wont apply myself routine  as self appointed praetorian do when not self appointing all over themselves. Go key some cars, bitch. A truly awful one, Cliff-face  made it a point that my work was too awful for the grand Pantheon known as comics work, and advertised destroying it, not the first time I have been given this request causally by those cant draw as well as I can. This reaction reminds me of thugs and scum bucket masturbatories who make a point that a lovely woman named Wendy is beneath their pornographic contempt, A similar Styx runs through both comics and porno, as both become savage and violent and self assured,  their usual love of watching whales with blond hair and double chins eating crullers while diddling themselves is making Wendy beneath contempt. She is supposed to then...what, go away, as not to bother your plaster masked personalities and mesmerize attitudes ...? Do F off, weirdos  When I didn't how the prerequisite viciousness to be in comics, their dream, who knew it was a given ..?, I to be a bitch, forwarded an email I had gotten from a Marvel Todd, who wanted no part of my work, but did say it was like Supreme  too, this I learned was a compliment, and will take whatsoever I can get,  suprize! , but, thanked me for not being a complete and utter ass hole to him. I got a laugh by saying Stan LEE WASN'T MY VIRGIL. 

So, I saved this comic panalia, and re did it with new pages backing its tears  new word balloons  as here, MS returns to Krane manor, having saved the world from a spinning out of control sky lab that Eaton has tried to hijack as was made by competing armimentarium AND RIVAL Leland Becktel, and the toy cricket he found at the monolith, Guido the grasshopper, jumps up and down with joy at his triumphant return. I aint throwing away shit anymore, which might be worth all the links to posts --i have asked three times on general principal, at comics reporter that I have never gotten. But then I have seen the affable editor there say he doesn't like or get Pogo, so what chance do I have.

3. So shameless has the Bagman Barry for alderman perpetuus campaign become that a version of the daisy ad, so don't worry, with Bagman involved it loses all its charm, and or efficacy, has a bunch of school children singing a rather workers utopia Chairman Mao sort of song, about how voting for Ronco brought about a dystopian future which only the great Pharaoh could avoid, one bribe at a time. This was pure bullshit, even for politics as Calvino could have told you that politics like most fantasy needs a hard good rye bread upon which to be spread, or see it all clumps apart and falls to ruin, and again, the roads ways leads back as it does with our Narcissus to some demographer idea that things are a golden age now, which Bill did sign off on, but which was bracketed with his true feelings, both of which were made into ads by the opposites, which polled odorously well, with even Bill's smiling face enough to make Rape such a non issue when it could have been, Hey every buddy look ober hear its meyyyyyh, Bill, I am bahhhhck--eheheheheeh!, -- Kemeter is here--to the point that within a month Bill screwed over Obnamna's lead with the over fed women set, better than he ever fucked Poor Monica, making sure this time that penetration was full and complete. Don't call Jewish smiler's on television Juvenal, gals, unless you know what you are dealing with, don't be like Obama and not read Sol Allinsky--which is amusingly off limits as Ayn Rand is not,--and just tell everyone that you did. Like I said, The Prince and Selected Discourses, it couldn't have hurt. This Banquet has been closed down by the board of health. And such small portions, after all.

But the eery-- and this is just me, try to avoid Eeriness in a campaign that happens this close to the Roman feast of playful death November the first, which again like so much the white women try to make into some pagan IE German thing,--Children, in a shameless act, sing about the Distopia disturbia that voting for Ronco has let lose. As again Its Caesars or its nothing. As we are still like Homer at the black jack table and saying hit me at nineteen, again, showing Lethe black arts of Stephanie and others at work recalls and reminds some of more glorying days for Pharaoh when he was indeed himself causing children to as if at the Reich with less stringent laws of whiteness, causing kids to sing Patriotic--hail Caesar, I mean, songs about the coming imperia of Obama, which after all, turned out to be a disappointment, what with it eventually looking like a GE corporate summit. Our paychecks are white money. Our meters are Running. The kids sing of being children of the future where the cartoonish-ness always goes back to the idea  that actually things are not so great now, which again tells me whatever army of Moles Hillary has out there are in overdrive--why there is our Roman credo, our arms and the Man, itself, as Hillary, ala Cheney told American troops again at a crux, to stand down, like Romulus at the bird cage, sure like Glenn Beck, that the baptized Romans wouldn't be let down by the new Son God now. Don't count on Jews not to bug out or at least apologize to the Truman Library when the going gets tough. But they were singing in a creepy children of the corn way, always nice to see politicians who know their stuff, that they were the "chidden of the Future" as the cartoon president tedious DESPERATELY to save his cartoon imperium as we exit the Praetor, as bad enough he didn't get the gist of Machiavelli, he didn't even get the basis of Stan Lee.

It reminds me of another flawless perfect commercial, which this parody of campaign with two faced Cutters jiving about could use, and that would be the similarly titled Chefs of the future, indeed. Why who knew that the handy  dandy messiah was cheap tin and held together with spit and dreams, hope and glory, are you In, forward march, were on in five seconds, mister Norton, hummamamamamamammamam, it does all of it...I'm daaaa Chef of Future, hello again messiah of the fuiurrrrre, as this campaign is so undercut and Swiss cheesed through with vendettas and senators giving bad advise to get even with a man who promised his benefactor the Secretary of state job, and then pulled the rug out from under him for an avowed enemy, that I say this gambit couldn't be happening to a better guy. And wondered at Bill having made sure that he stepped on his own punch-line by saying 'nothing is fixed', at the perfect remorselessly brilliant moment, Bill and a thousand dead Jesuits laugh at the slip sliding away boychick of empire. Oh, with a viciousness unseemly for men of the people and out of place  for Onbama, I certainly wouldn't go native for some goon who called me the 'professional Left', not with the bribes you have taken, bruther, suddenly the vicious among us wish to speak of Catti-line like uprisings of the poor and the weak which will happen, but they wont, as Blacks have never liked this stooge enough to raise a finger for him, much less an indefata, as this aint Sallust, and Bobby Rush and I shall studiedly be sitting at home. As the last time you tried this, and I saw death threats to hated women senators like Blanche--oh I remember that-- and others, --my my, guess whose side Bill Took when President Romo, Onama tried to cleared the senate out...yes even GE human appliances saw that, as my man Roman Bill decimated, a prefect word, the house and senate of anyone who was devoted to Obama, leaving him alone and disjointed and now at eight O;Clock in the morning I get calls from Captain Marvel Jr , Legacy Casey, drunken Irishman  II, who tells me in somnambulist voice that he loves coal here in the Allegheny Mountains, and he has  been bucking Bagman from the beginning, when I thought he was just napping. No, there will be no Romantic fires and midnight riots for the Un cola Bipolar Cattiline that is Bankable Barry...he doesn't deserve it, and two, the least time the comb over wookies  spoke of furies, Uncle Ed Schultz gathered up all the name and handles of people of his ticker, and handed  them to the FBI, such is empire when the Eternal flame is seen as pagan and goes out.  

Remember this is coming to you live, and not on Film as is an example of better living through television. And, we now return you to Charley Chan theater and the decline and fall, already in progress. 

Next: Mister Stupendous Lives, part 3.

26 October 2012



On Christmas Day, 800 AD, Charlemagne crowned himself, with pope along for witnessing, as Imperator Romania. or Prince for the Empire of the Romans. When he was asked by a vicar why he took this title and not the title of the kings as was done by the Franks before, because aren't the Romans gone, Charlemagne responded the Roman will never be Gone.

I thought of this as isn't it funny after all the rape and woman shit, the tap dancing and the falderal, that this year, as I have never seen before there wasn't one whopping liquored up injun, not one golden eagle feather seen  not one Martial Rain dance, yes the Romans had rain dances, and sclaping, who knew...? There wasn't one nigger not giving common cause to one noble savage this October 13th, the ides of October, not one. I heard nothing of the JEWS OF MEZZO AMERICA, this good Roman Year, but did hear the Old Cosimo of Medici Tower old Jack, wonder of drones and melotto honeys and lipstick lesbians and human bratwurst Pollocks, on parade, I did hear him bellowing for R and D to work on their accidental Presidents better. Someone is ascared of losing New Jersey. I would take a victory lap in that it took until Thursday, October 25, 2012, no roman front numbering for them, the New York Times to see the snake in the marble who as Bill Clinton, and how he desecrated poor Jimmie's assault on Parnassus. I would but cant. AS I DO LOVE Bill, roman irrevocably vulgar snide smiling Bill, but still even I cant find joy in this, as after a while, someone please do tell president Romo, you know something wolf who cried Boy, maybe its you're fault, as a few weeks ago the cowboys, beware  the dogs, lost a game in which they ran for over 200 yards for the first time ever. And Brutus is an honorable man.

I went to a localish comic shop  and was offered the box of the whole new fifty two by an affable bear of a comics man, for a dime, 10 cents a copy. How much is that, I asked. My Brother, sharper than I, rolled his eyes and said 13 dollars, thinking the box was marked like the others, at a quarter. No, the bearded looking boy man said, even better, Five dollars and 25 cents! Omnibus, indeed. If you want  it, my brother said, buy it I'll put it in the trunk. It is kinda big I thought...and looked inside and saw all the comics had their indicia torn off and that there was copies of Superman number one, allegedly, with superman in a unitrard, a gay wad dream , so unlike MS who is busting out all over, less Hercules and more Baryshnikov, eccch, at least go Nureyev, and that he was holding a globe atop fire, and the block lettering of superman there since 1939 was ripped off. Quite telling, don't you think....? I took some floppies out of the box, sited, including cat woman and Demon knights, as am thinking about the medieval in my Italic panoply having done Cold war rust belt Buffalo, and Eturria now, and I bought some Black hawks, which seems to be about pilots. But I didn't buy Superman last Sunday, I found I couldn't.

2. My Ma asked to go to bed early, but didn't want to go to sleep, just lie down as is tired. I stayed with her, as she asked, and when I put it on Fox for her as I leave it till she falls asleep, she disgusted waved her hand at Hannitty, and said get rid of this shit, in Italian. Rachel made her sadly turn up her nose. The voice of the people is the voice of God, everyone, again that isn't in any Bible, Glenn or Keith it is in a book called the Annals by the last Etruscan Writer Ennius. Why wouldn't you have listened to these people, the Italians, as I did. Why in gods name would you listen to Jews and Irishmen, one who cant stop CRYING and chosen who cant stop laughing. Reedi, Palllacchooo.The GE apparatchiks hope another night of Rape politic and ignoring emails on Hillary letter head, sent to Fox as she doesn't quite trust Anderson, who is on the intent looking for those who had their wee wee's played with as inspector Gadget meets the Onion news network. I am not so sure. I think if you don't have the yentas and the over stuffed double stuffed blabbing hens on your side yet, Rastsus, I wouldn't tap dance anymore, but then dignity is nothing I have always sadly demanded here in Ebert Land. Maybe a few Rape allegations of your own, bitten lips, your own and others, perhaps a few trips to following girls to the toilets and you wouldn't be hemorrhaging women, Erkle, as like children and Arabs, they appreciate the strong horse.

My mother said something I never thought id hear her say, Isn't South park on...?, she said, Do watch that and tell King Muhammad -[Obama], to lesse lei pache.PERHAPS THE State Department could often sue the Dante passages about Muhammad to explain their perpetuous Arabesque unease and violence, of course that would be a story of their imperia in Sicily which the poet recounted, which wouldn't go well with a group of people who sue Catalonian Seville Spain as their Quinticentimo. Of course these being just Sicilians who Dante said built a school of poetry which was his impetus, would anyone in Coppolaland even care..? I saw in the Halloween parade that is shown on TCM, a movie called the Raven, starring giants of Hollywood horror, those who use poison oak as mistletoe, the snide and sweaty Peter Lorre and the urbane and slightly queer erudite and laughing Vincent Price and the almost senatorial and baronial baritone rock faced Boris Karloff as three wizards having little to do with that dreadful poem by that awful death cult English writer and like lesbians aren't they all...? There was more verve and vitality and magic dare I SAY in their technicolor movie than in all the harry potter bullshit I have ever's seen,which  Alan Moore, a student of Kemeter it is said now, and bishop of that preclusive Roman equated Snake god saw was a dreadful thing. Why would one go about the trouble of being evil if they had to be so goddamn trudge about it and joyless. But then why would a thug like Obnama have entered politics so worried about running out of Purelle. Ah, yes, the bribes. Well, now the bribes are all you are left with as you continue to never dance for your father.

I watched  Charlie Rose, and he had a he had a requiem for Christopher Hitchens, who as I said, I was glad could get in before  the wire and hurls some invective back at both him and William F Buckley before both dropped dead, just to show my Jesuit training as immutable and absolute. I felt bad, not for Chrissy, but for me, as usual. Roman to the bone. I felt bad as it all, like Miles Drentell, and isn't that an analogy which would make the god hater puke more, that Christopher seemed a complete fraud, not to speak ill of the dead and dull, but this Halloween perhaps that isn't a ghost in Roman Lybia, but he who trod the earth to arson the cape lest anyone forget the Spartan war dance is perpetual, to the end. It seemed so --fraudulent, his boy school Harrow chumminess with Final Netted white haired Grayton, it seemed so fraudulent and I thought of how he admonished Gore for not being willing to almost like a Jew burn every lesser Arab down to the ground, that will show them for having the temerity to have written Monotheism eons before Abraham in Gilgamesh. It was his dismissal of Gore, that Gore as the first or last Roman, --and against world wide wars on Terra, imagine that! That Gore was somehow doing  shtick, a con, as the conniver sees conniving everywhere. Ah but we don't have a Roman, only Bill among the chickens, and the niggers, but cable television is lousy with English schoolboys. And dosent fat English boy Piers look leeringly nervous.And bad hair day Grayton made a point damnnt that, like the Comics journal, ouch, damn these blogers, they are legion, and not one could hold Chissy's Cliff Notes, as he remembered the ghost of a past when bribes and being bought as Ovid would say, Meant something.  DIPAADIPADIPPDIPPP--AHHHHH. Its Christmas day, Mister Welch! 

And then, a light moment, as Charlie, who I like, asked, didn't Christopher, now eulogized as a Casear among men, by an Antony with very important hair, and sadly a wife who maybe shouldn't have had to be put through this, as he contributes still Live from Golgatha or at least from the Lethe, his march of time and pub even from the bowels of the inferno were he important enough to make that cut, and isn't just floating about looking for another White washed flag to spin about madly at, beaten with sticks by the hobgoblins of little minds, or universal ones, which Dante showed like heaven and hell; sue a similar opening. Charlie asked, didn't Christopher who was a boon to all men, Harry Potter with portfolio and OED at the ready, say "Not only must I achieve but my friends must fail". No, he was admonished with the fake laughs one would expect from Carter Grayton or Grater Carton, or whatever this soloist is, as his nastier witch woman Tina Brown was on Charlie the night before and said that Obama had several built in advantages in this contest, as did Arod, whiff!, and that as the bald one said from game change nothing is over, as Obama still has many speeches to make. No, no he asides with Charlie as the skunk at the wake, that was Gore Vidal, as again Virgil's Roman wholly Roman, Neapolitan by nature and by feet if not by birth, but Mantua is closer to Africa  than England, ghost enters the room with smirk and wink and a St Anthony finger at his sauced lips. That's was Gore, Charlie was corrected, and wasn't that the truth.

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19 October 2012




19 October 2012

This is a cartoon done a while ago, back before 2000, kept in a black mead five star trapper keeper I showed to diaper man who ran DreamWorks, no wait, Fixar back then and was looking for artists in his Lucifer ian act of trying to destroy Disney. I made a copy of the old page and pasted on some word balloons to make it seem in the flow of the narrative. Yes, that’s shows how bright I am, bringing the pictures of ancient remade Tuscan-Roman  gods to the man who has Randy Newman do heart of gold songs about his heart-warming plastic toys. In what I saw, in my research of the Tuscans reading all 5ooo words left to their society on a lovely devoted website, which is a hell of a lot more interesting and Human and humane than any Leviticus I know that, I saw that English translations of Tagus the boy god shown, were made into  G as the third letter, as opposed to an S, as they didn’t want to show a similarity to their beloved later Jesus, as if anyone would compare that first century Jewry Jonny to an Etruria boy god who made all the snakes willingly leave Italay, there you go again. Don’t want no Roman people round cheer.

But then to show that in fact smile, You are on Google Plus, and I do like it better than the quickly faltering new my space Face book, one too many censors there, Zoid, is really watching every move you make, I saw a quick post on what’s hot on Google and many little boxes from people I do not know, as they haven’t taken to me as well as even Face book or as I had taken well to it. I saw a post made by gal named Lesley, and clicked off the page before I could read it and went back, couldn’t back thorough and looked up the page again to read this strange ironic turn of fate. I saw the pretty girl in the picture and she was speaking of how she is a put upon mom, good lord, I thought, can Turan really have been made into a dared step ford wife, a mere brood cow, could the veracious lovely ethereal bitch goddess be merely a hausfrau now, that thing which I give no quarter to as neither did the nuns, as the decline of all civilizations, the suburban yenta in waiting. A parent number 2, what else do you think wives are…? I was taken aback. I carefully think I made a sound like in the comics which is written out as Tsk. I felt immeasurably bad. The sight of Venere as now less in the spray pf the Ionian sea and now merely wet from a broken Maytag dishwasher…it is to weep about, as Billy would say of Jimmie showing again, its later than we Romans ever knew. One day after I had heard on John Batchelor that the Obama campaign had wised up, always vicious Bill made sure that all knew exactly what he was doing here at all and might as well have painted a blood red K on a white marble wall, that he wasn’t done yet. There is a gorier movie showing a Goth gnome woman demon walking past  a white wall streaking blood across the wall angrily. I don’t mean to be a bitch, but it had yes more impact when I did it, as a man in a Brooks brothers suit with my usual down turned down cast face, which ash made it to the last boy of Krypton, a local comic fan acquaintance told me look up the trailer of this Superman shit, oh, he said, knowing my problems with Superman now, You’ll Lovvvvve it. So, as if one is going to do that blood wipe, use red, be a man, not black, as don’t be jewey about everything.

I couldn’t bear it through, so I looked it up, Lesley not Superman, as someone in fate or Google or some watchman somewhere seemed by accident wishing to turn the knife in me, as yes though its been alluded that I am a selfish Pig, the idea that she went on with her life and married and had kids almost seemed an insult to fate herself, as I found myself feeling bad that she would be so…what is with word, blah, so middle class , so middle brow, so Ge consumer, so unromantic, dear I say. I was ver klmept that the lovely creature had been domesticated, and had her wings clipped, and was made a mere member of the league of woman voters, the sort who help out at rummage sales and political election days and who are what older once time radical commie sluts turn into whence on the lam from having once shot at cops like manic Pittsburgh Stiller’s. I was dispirited.

What did I think, really…? Did I think that somehow the lovely Half breed Italian girl was not going to give into her Mothers various frying pans and her need for acquiescence. As she told me in confidence, all bets off now, that she is continually fighting a need to be liked by trashy awful wholly American women, and avoid her Neapolitan wants and needs for the adventure and the verve, which is baked into all of us touched by the goddess of the sun at Apulia, even those who have oafish fathers who think a Irish wife will make them acceptable to the white trash who now festoon themselves with poisons Oak as if a an Augustan laurel or a grass crown. She told me, more thoughtful and more open than I would have guessed, that her stomach churns where she must smile and be affable, as It wasn’t in her nature, as she was a gloomy, if lovely, bitch, and I can see on her various web pages, she still seems unaccustomed to the smiler aspect, as perhaps is afraid that it was seeing her pouting face as she looked out there at that world Coriolanus knew was out there, and therefore not here, that all Italians dream of, that causes such fools and oafs as I to fall backwards at the sight of her amid the grinning cheerleaders. So perhaps I taught her a lesson to stay clear of a lovely three quarter face pout, as it has impact and instead to be bubbly and friendly and suburban and all, as niggers, spics and Jews just dream of a batter tax bracket, and we Italic souls, we dream of Ovidian Parnassus, which is always out there past the grey water of various poisoned northern rivers, where here as in Batavia the sun is a mere rumour of what its Jovian Power is at the Bay of mother Naples.

Did I think she was going to--what,…wait for me to what save her as I wished to, from what...?, a mother who berated her constantly, saying, as she told me once making me keep saying don’t cry fatso--this bitch cuts your heart out, don’t cry like a, pussy, as opposed to later when I did cry dodging a con worthy of Aida, so brilliantly that we were come upon by various Asian classmate girls who had to see this performance of mine, but was fine with me, as of course again, as long as it wasn’t true. She told me that her mother, Mama Goulash,  she called her with a pretty girls laugh, as if she knew her own mother as a barbaric interloper into the italic from which sprang fully made, and with a pair of legs, not my favourite part, like a church pew. Her mother had told her she had the corkscrew hair of a gypsy, as it was from them she stole the girl with the bright Pyrite colour eyes of the Etruscan princess, drawn before I had met her, though Ciotti  made sure to double down on my admiration,  though I didn’t draw her as much as she was a drawing of mine found and come to life, abet without the prerequisite titties I draw as a calling card of my Italic predilections. Her mother was a piece of work, who she told me didn’t like the ‘idea of me‘, she said with a  smile, as Italians are to be avoided, as she would know, as all italics were trash, like her daughter's father, showing Irish compassion at its Soddy best.

Did I think she was going to pine away until I was ready to catch her when asked to jump from the burning, or worse yet, boring tower…? Did I actually think liken GG Marquez against all better Roman inoculation and think she was going to bide her time’s and wait for me until I wasn’t again attaining an acceptance as a insult, and got the empathies truest success, that I think of as success for real, and unadorned with a million strings attached only I can see…? But if not, then, why did she play at my own queer concepts, and why did she call me 400 times almost every other day, especially on sunny days, from 1998, to hangs up a matter of days ago. Where are the moments amid and among the suburban life hum drum gray lives when she must call out to me, to say what…?, a dial tone, after a moment of her breath, meaning what…? What did it mean, or was it as Audrey told me, that how far back this game goes with her, is it always nice to be admired, as she explained the crazed eyed cute chick, that all women adore the idea of having some fool out there who isn’t making them a wife and an owned thing, as all women love the day of knowing someone adores them and fir whom she told me with Jewish Aplomb, they do not have to be brought down to a meagre earth by the demand that they wash their socks. What did that mean…? Does anyone speak fluent crazy chick…?

There is a  song now played often on far band off the main band  Rock stations by Mumford and sons, a bluegrass like rock group. Called Ill wait for you, it is a lovely mandolin and Italian guitar like heavy song about how I thought deep down I felt about things all along. As while in art school,  pretty and curvy Blond girl, who made marionettes like something out of Manzoni, a pretty girl, during a snow storm, when we got out of the stalled bus and walked across the bridge, looked up at me thorough the snow and asked with shining blue eyes, Tony, she said, I think you’re very sweet…my Mother is meeting me at the hill with her car, we can bring you anywhere . No, I begged off, as being out was new for me then, and I rather liked the snow drudgery and liked walking through the cold air and the heavy snow, as the sky as turning indigo. She and spoke and I made her laugh and she was a lovely girl, and as her mother waited to drive her home, as she also lived in the town, she turned around and asked me sweetly, Tony, would you like to go out with me. Sure I’d like to I said, but I’m not sure I should. She smiled. You’re in love with that Brandy chick, aren’t you. From this I took it that the tall drink of water in the other class was named Brandy, and I sort of shuffled it off, but I did in fact feel that should I have given in and tried to get with this voluptuous blond gal I would be somehow being vulgar and was being a cad to Brandy -Lesley. I am after all a Romantic. And a sap. Just something else to add to a list of things where I made caution an only virtue.

She wasn’t just another Hooted at waitress who I would make laugh or ask out as I asked out so many it made them all laugh. She was , this Lesley, an everything girl. And I thought it was --meant to go a certain way. And if I weren’t,  then again why did she call me constantly, keeping me somewhere between close and hands off, tethered to her silences as the best that I could hope for until the Calvino fairy story came to a head, or began to as he said perfectly, go from scratching dry dusty pens into dry paper, to pages turned with vitality, which made each turn. As in the song played on the X and Duq, intoning  the aspects of Love and admiration, there is a time when the sad baritone ode is shaken and the blue grass strings start to ignite and the Machiavellian clauses of there chords start to unwind and freeload about each other. It is a lovely song, almost an…  anthem …for the broken and the devoted… and the saps.

The effect of which I have spoken of here the edict upon by the Bruna sympatica has made it to mirroring back at me from the larger culture this time, from of all points, a beer commercial. Here one would think my way of thinking would be, where one would think my ideas an apostasy. In selling Guinness of all things, yes I have had Guinness it tastes to me like Rye  bread and all beer is a pale imitation to and of the Roman Variation, is now said, which is now frankly illegal to make, as somehow it had the same alcohol content as Burbon, imagine that. In the commercial, ironically shown in fact on espn daily shows where the Blond and the purposeful concussion is sacrosanct,  seen on late afternoon espen games shows, a bubble blond is shown hee hawing and accessing her ass about, and the beer in question is shown to be more like the quite smouldering Beatrice of mixed race in the shadow.  She burns with sexuality which isn’t in need of 72 pica type, stooge, my Ma would call it, in that remains of that most perfect language Latin, as Chaucer called it. She exceeds sexiness  in the darkened corner, she who doesn’t need to go through a gyno exam to look the least sexual. Ah, but its a queer world now, and like I said, the ven again say no thank you, as all three cards made were made for Lesley, Leslie it seems is gone, from the way they are described. There is a time when the Romantic can just become pathetic.

[A NOTE: It turns out shuffling and ho deed doing Erkle did go on JJ's nightly show, but is such a incompoop, even the knob jobs that Jon-boy gives to even Newt, we must avoid the tracks to Poland no matter what, that and Goldman Sacks prosecutions, still made news. You'd think that softball girl Jon was trying delectably to do his best cup holder act, and yet, one is who they follow and Erkle is such a fuck up, he went on a comedy show, --really his timing stinks--, and said that the killing of an American diplomat and navy seals, suddenly his new best friends, was "Not Optimal" to his needy, hollow, campaign. Brainiac's here, Lex, should I show him in...? Eeeeech. Bill got out at again the perfect time, showing compassion for the republic made a single tired man, which Narcissus can not even bother to do. Fearful as Fox that the grand bargain between Erkle and Uncle Rupert was for nothing, as Gallup implodes, I am not schooled to see Eddie Grinder start nighttime afl cio pollock falcon international brother hood meetings of pipe-fitters. The Miserable are back, tent cities and Inspector Javere, Andrea's coming to interview you as we cant get even Sister Batrille or Shedlin Brown with offers of cash prizes. They beg Mitt to save their Jabbbbs. Ask your Nigger to save your fucking Jabbbs, everyone, ask him to do something. Ah yes, MSNBC, the station that got almost fifty percent of union house holds to vote Walker. Nightswimming. Juvenalus strikes back! ]

As I was putting the glossing touches on MS-1, as shall explain more in the next post, I received another of these spoken of phone calls. But this time, thinking they usually come at similar times on similar days I answered the phone, as had irascibly earlier, when my sister was out and getting em supplies as I had to warn her above all else, avoid Subway and staples. I am at the dregs of everything, strange in that I had horded so much. Hello...?, I said, almost angrily. A pouty voice quivered on the line. Uh, Mister Pillerburbere, is mister Phillerburdber there…? Who…?, I said, again thinning it was my sister fucking incapable of taking simple orders again. Uhhhhhaccch, a discombobulated voice said and hung up. It dawned on me who this perhaps was. My ma asked me if it as my sister. No I said. Ah, she said witch that she is, Questa e tu Inamoratas, eh…? I told her none of this, but again, she is a witch. No, I said, again, meaning it. I wish somewhere along the line she would have just said Hello. I see that Superman has been in our greasy nation been given back to the gonnifs who stoles it, though certainly the Kirby hacks shall soon enough barnacle themselves to this, as that Jewish hack’s ghost can never let any one else be or own the spotlight, even a tragedy. ALL I KNOW IS THAT perpetual fan boys who think of them selves as comic scholars, I believe it is edict from Grandtiepoo, that Lois and Clark as I have said, are now no longer an Item, but rather unmatched, as would befit a character falling from grace from Teri to the human tuckus, as she has been now. Like a lesbian, Christopher Nolan has a thing for vulcanized Rubber. Sad. Everything’s Seems irrevocably sad. Then I smile knowing that Bill has gone Native, Tyberius on Erastus at his less than weakest Point, tres Aeneas, and Roman is back to his name, as Roman Bill couldn’t take it anymore and made it apparent that he has walked on broken Marble before. Even the wrong door is starting the close. Ask now human clown Jerry Jones. Cut me down, ass holes, you could hear Bill say, showing there are walls with fake blood with detergent in it by vampires and there is Antony with real blood on a Roman wall. It depends what the meaning of Romantic is, as he had had enough, how about that! No more I love yous.