10 November 2012



Julius Caesar once said that if one has a Greek as a champion, then, de facto, they have none. Its true about Greeks, and truer about a leftist, who are always willing no matter how vituperative they have been, to turn on  dime and do the opposite always willing to  show their patriotisms, as all married fags are, much less Germans and or Greeks in Roman clothing.

There is a scene in that Play, written by Willie from the shards of the Tragedy of Pompey, which no Elizabethan aged passavante wanted to deal with its republican tones, where a mad man in the Romans street says as he does to the glad filth seeing a dictator as messiah, as they lazy do, lest they have to work, you niggers are late to this Roman party, you stones, you worse senseless things, in that something evil had accorded just here at the other side of the Rubicon, and that it as no time for this, triumph as insult. And God help me, who has called Mitty Bob Hopeless, and Mittcompoop for a year, a wasted year, a meaningless year showing the jig was up, I feel bad for him, as I did for Newt, that this nigger sold his ass to his masters as only a nigger can, and that we are struck with him, no matter what. But as Crassius would tell you on she steps, they aint stuck with nobody, not the purpled grasping sash wears, and it shall be fun to see just how much of a Becket we have in Massichusex from our new Pocahontas, another overcoming by the filth and the trash, another incarnate other, but with thin lips, and Nordic fold. How sad one can legitimately compare befuddled mitt to Pompey...I think that says it all. 

I find myself feeling badly for Mitt, as he had a election sewn up, until it was stolen from him, not even by his lacklustre worthless opponent, but by a fat man with mean eyes and double chins, who seemed to grab the republic as if it was a lusted after Turkey Club. How sad this is. But Erkle did find a brave new world on his true grandmother’s God, Thors-day, which wasn’t here on Monday, still Roman moon day, when he wrung out his mantel and tap danced, and perhaps his royal, nay, divine tears, have like an Ovid’s  poem, given us the strange darkness and gloominess which has seemingly taken hold during this two week restoration. As no fooling Kemeter says his brother Tina, Jupiter, in Ancient Romance available at...anyhow, he says after the flood, a trope in all Mediterranean lore, Yes, old man, you can make it rain,-- but can you make it stop...?

Perhaps soon enough, hopefully, the master of disaster has so cursed the patria that we will all be up to our Tuchueses in rain and tears, as he becomes a Lake, Veronica or not, but cries incessantly none the less. Was it worth it boy, I ask...?, as have never had the disease he and now Brother Virgil Bill have, was it worth it to be transfigured again by boyishly, and like a cunt, souring tricks beneath even Roman Bill, that is still in flux, like issuing a ballot instigation for weed backed out of as soon as that Thursday, sorry, Cheech, and by, as they did to Iran, listen up niggers, as they did to Iran, tossing a stucknet virus at the rnc, proving there is no depth to which he shall not go, as long as ironically he doesn’t really have to take a forward step.

Was it worth it, nigger, or did the crying make it so, sorry Roman gods like fate are paid in Blood, not Jewish tears, not like Yahweh, who seems to eat them up, …? Will the women on leashes who laughed at Newt for crying for his mother in the mist of a campaign be back again to say a word about Erkle crying for power...no that's what they all cry for. Did you become a whole man yet, does the paper bag stand up yet, or is it still a pad…? Dido, did the paltry victory, did uit salve the open wounds?…is it a Roman triumph if the Germans help out by not voting, or by killing Pompey…? As, are you a victor now, or a Roman, as Marc Antony’s said there is a deference, strangely enough. Did good old dad, like Hamlet come and visitation sonny boy in the Dark, speaking of foulness, did Dido stand silent but have eyes that screamed for someone to avenge African she, or Mother …is that you….? And if Dad did come to haunt you that night, would you have even recognised him…? Ouch. I hated my pop, deep down, more on that later, as  I didn’t seem to get from him the free to be you and me Marlo shit of fraudulent parenting, which would eventually devolve into sons killing their mothers over Osaka game-spheres, unbought, or women dying from having to bust their bladders for their good for nothing spawns. But, for all my angers, Vincent Acri, he didn’t abandon me, not even horrid and selfish and angry and taking me, he didn’t make me, even as angry as I was, make me chase the winds ala Bill and Rush and Buckley Junior and dear Obammy. Unlike the fathers of monsters, my father never hit me, not once, not with a frittata skillet as was Lesley, and he did, I must say here in a post I shall not ever take down, as opposed to the rest that have to go somewhere and be bundled like Obama devotion, he did, proudly, take pictures I had drawn, and sadly and sweetly masking taped them to the wall of his place where in he played pinochle with the Wops, Jews Pollok’s and niggers he knew all of whom were never allowed in the Wasps and worse yet Milanese run sons of Italay and elks clubs, so he made himself a Garibaldi club of his own.

Was it worth it, Barry…? As funny but he had to come out after the loss of a trillion dollars in economy, all bribes are contingent, well, skip it…, 3 percent of the stock market and 50, 000 lay offs from no less than Hughes Aircraft later, it wasn’t the triumph he had hoped for, and he had to gather together in the perpetual campaign, --don’t take that shower too soon, jewey, that semen may just coat that tongue of yours‘, bitch, some one do tell Erkle he cant run again, even though he still feels the challenger, as Antony said of Senator Brutus, and shall be the challenger until the end, a tabernacle of white women cunts, one of the pillars of his Islamming, as a Eucharist of yeast infected lips, and said--he wasn’t “wedded” to any of this, precisely rates. Thank god the narcissists in all empires can be bought. And are stupid. So Cry, Clown, Cry, don’t waste laughter as that is just for others pratfalls, which are coming by the bushel, and a happy Saturnalia, in the air. NOW we see devastation, now that the cheap infanticides are available to the wicked women who are ugly too, you know the ones who hate brunettes too, out of jealousy, as Anderson Copper has been literally sitting on stories for weeks, lest they cause Bammy to fall from his allowed slender silver strings. Sitting on stories if we are lucky. But alas now, he shines amid the ruins again, as all is decided. Ah, but even in Empire, all is temporary, all is fugit.

A republic is dying, and we have a man so incompetent that he believes lisping queers like Ejay who tells him he is in a better possession now to allow the Bush Tax cuts to expire something he never found himself capable of doing, as a lame duck as opposed to a president with a fresh start at 75 percent approval ratings. You have caste your die, kids, as when Fat pig Chrissie thought himself a Clinton, although were I Mitt, I would use my money to trash him good, maybe even cut his fat throat…as the Roman would say, the deed is all. I hear that he cried when self parodied, once Elvis and now Woody Guthrie Spring -Stein, hugged him out of grateful ness. Ah the oligarchy, perfect together. Also, after a decade of diminution remember it is a fat bloated Soprano like cow man , a Gandolfini doppelganger clown from the decried and dehumanised land of a perpetual Columbus day, that has fucked you over, as we wouldn’t mention again the tea party, again, seems to have come out of the same going concern as pays Rachel, but we wont get that circumspect, and that a fat man being badly and inopportunely Machiavellian, as a fat man or a woman would think it so, will be behind every hurt you feel. And I enjoy this, as a line of Seneca’s comes to mind.


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