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.



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