30 October 2012

I'D RATHER GO POGO.

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.

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