STEP INTO SATURNALIA WITH ME.

1. ... I had a sense that when football players started falling to the ground like they were, and that complicities Fox news was suddenly demanding apologies from all, as was trying to wash its hands of the disaster maker Obama, sorry, like Clinton, you are in, all in, like Flynn, and tangled up in red, no matter what, I knew something had to give, and things started to seem strange. And to show he is adept at the disastrous masterstroke, while children were bleeding Barkkie poo made sure that even Eddie The Shultz and anyone else knew, not only was he going upwards of 500, ooo dollars as a benchmark of what is rich, on wards , no forwards, to a million, as Gonniff Senator Wall Street Shymah would think yur not really rich sees, untils you hit yur first million, ah Jewish sanctimony, almost as virulent as its cousin Arab sort, and that too Social Security is on the table, as we all must change everything. Except of course him, I love that we will be getting a few days of head shaking from Ge appliances come to life, then of course, they shall eviscerate his enemies for him, knowing never to bite the hands that feed. I’ve read enough Roman history to know that all will indeed change soon enough, as Mario Junior awaits his turn of the ge light bulb spotlight.



I went and put up the saturnalia decorations as I am to do, and it made me sad that some of the cheapest oldest and thus most liked trinkets were GE Murphy's doo dad’s which like so much of America couldn’t survive the death cults of abortion and Reganism, lets call it Thatcherism, to be a feint point, and was sad they were gone. I hadn’t yet watched George C Scott's brilliant and perfect version of the dower and awful A Christer carol Scrooge yet and still, I think just sight of him in Victorian finery had an effect upon me in the way that angelica shit gets into the drinking water as it does. Perhaps too many strange brown images from The hobbit are out and about.



2. But in mid December, at four am, I found I had a vivid dream of eth sorts that are made when you take too many Seconal like barbiturates to get through the Capotean life of mid century liesure, though I do neither. In the dark dank black and brown topography --this a remember of Hobbit commercials I am sure, I found I was in a no , not a cemetery, different than that--ruins I guess, the kind not yet ore ever sanitized to make them tourist traps, the background I would guess to a Halo game, or a dystopian car chase movie. As here, in the silver leafless trees of abandonment, I was alone and in the dark wood, and there, puckishly, that Puckishly was sometimes Dream girl spirit guide Wendy herself, who bless her heart I see has made it to various actual big time model sites, where fat chicks eating crullers while nude in bathrooms, is beneath the slick and manly clientele. As She was nude, pacified, sculpted as she looks, an hourglass gal as unseen anymore outside of Valerie Bertinelli on TV land, which is based on Nostalgia.



A rancid writer, a horrid middlebrow named Michel Chibron made a point in the Times that my family reads AND I only peruse, still smarting from their strange love of Scorsese, also following their love of Mussolini, --Italians they think, like sniggers must be corralled--made a point that he despised dreams. Coming from someone who made a career out of loves for Pittsburgh and comics books, well that isn’t shocking. I say this is real, that it is a true story, as true as a dream can be, and who knows what that is. Anyway, I was in this gloomy dale, the She, The Wendy, was flamingly beautiful a baroness of these trees, italic woman par excellance, gleaming within the bare twigs and the mud.



3. She wore red ribbons, elf shoes, was striking as she was princess of the woods, black hair like whips, and too, she had a pair of Wings in the Turan manner, that sort of angelic that low brows, as here the word fits, like Bill Maher who think a visual representation of a spiritual idea must be, like all things, taken at face value, although the internets start grumbling with anger at a president who is using gun control as it always ahs been, a cover for capitulation about to go down. Don’t Blame me--I voted for Newt.



There, before us both was a white wall, a monument, a headstone perhaps, but long and thing and white marble, on which in gold leaf was written Vincenzo I, like a wedding cake monument to a gone Italian king. She stood above me in the trees, heroic and sensual, wearing bells and wings coming from her olive arms. Like I said, I hadn’t seen the only Christmas carol worth watching, the Scott version of Scrooge yet, but perhaps the sadness ingénue seen as a basic ideal of in Christmas time, so missed by so many, had an effect. Then, soundly the walls rated giving away, crumbling, fumbling, as Wendy laughed. I started to slip, as the marble wall snapped into, and although there were no horror movie affectations here, and just a kind of mudslide, somehow that was more impressive, and worse than if voodoo masks and other more Eli Roth affectations started coming out. Nothing came out, it was just mud, and thus worse, a feeling that the wall was going down deeper into the sulfur, and the land was receding with it and I SCURRIED, like a Clinton startling to save my percentile, at getting away, to which a bemused Wendy, showing a strength that her Magnanimous era body could exaltedly by thought to show, pulled me up and out of the crumbling land, up and away towards the yellow gray light of wintertime.

She, heroine like, pulled me over to the infernal like cliffs of the overhangs of the set. I stood there, tired and beaten, as she shone there in perfected prettiness, more like something off a Tuscan wall than a whitefish cunt in wings as is seen in ads for stores that sell extra large teddies to housewives at the mall. I told her I thanked her for her graciousness and she smiled, a doppelganger she was for the beloved Lois, as seen in reruns on Sunday night. Winsome, I believe is the word If I am using it correctly and though she was naked outside of her bells and ribbons, as Michelangelo wood say whose body type she seems to have perfected and readymade from the various models that Italay gave to men to make Italay a preeminent nation in Arts, she smiled with a sweetens and a not so overtly sexual or dirty aspect, nude in an artistic way if anything, though I was surely overwhelmed and had a raging –anyway, I had read in my Google metrics earlier in that that 366 people came to the blog on the week past by entering Wendy Fiore as a search term, and I thought, try doing that with the brunettes even score girls who acutely pull open their cunts on demand. I told her as she stood there that there was a toy soldier, a small trinket, but as bought on the old days gone now, and it was lost ins a storm, like Americas future, and I started to tear up at it, strangely. She smile and from her lovely French manicured fingers, always, red nails are for faggots, she produced a silver twinkling bell like Pegasus, saturnalia real and true, the undercurrent that Jewry Jonnie knows not from enough to hate. I then awoke scared why I don’t know as I stayed asleep through the falling ground in the monument, but felt scared at this lovely woman giving me a silver bauble, go figure. --[I note in editing I mistakenly placed  Would with wood, which is a Freudian typo.]




4. Now this seems to reek with symbolisms, but if what I am not sure. I know that at 4 am or so I got up telling and screeching and gasping, which caused my brother, less concerned now that I have pulled this as often as I have, to say from the other room, Shut up and go to fucking sleep…! I stood in the darkness alone there, wondering what this vivid dream meant. What did I guess at, and now about on December 13th the night of this dream...?, really, can Ed Stutz now make a point in his Soupy Sales like cartoon funhouse to show tweets of over fed woman who cadre to ask now why is O’bama capitulating....why does the sun ride in the east, why does Phaeton leave the Gobi desert in his incompetent wake…?, ...because. I thought of how in the last four years by Saturnalia, I have made good a check I wrote in the past and didn’t cash, Big Bertha 2008, the return of mister stupendous in 2009, Ancient Romance --the catalog of italic gods 2011, Mister Stupendous and In the golden age, only a last capitulation left to catalog, no Kemeter and Tuan in that one, this year. Perhaps this coming year will be the year I devote myself to making Saturnalia, the sad Christmas story that seemed to be replicated in this dream, down to Wendy as Signora Fortuna, with I as befuddled Marius afraid that the death cults of Pittsburgh would engulph me.



Perhaps that was the meaning of the dream, though not sure what it means, other than my father is still an open wound to me, that and that Wendy is built like a brick Proscenium arch.

5. Too, It was being censored by Martin Sorease, now looking for the roman stage all Sicilians like him do, on face book which ignited me as much as anything out of any lazy, downwardly doldrums. He thinks, does Ebert’s Giotto, that one can actually censure the world to make themselves seem to themselves which they wish to seem, as opposed to a true artist like me, who, as Gore taught is not supposed to care. The tongue is red with puss and blood with him, and so, it was my snide rejoinders to him that made him aback, though without the hurt should it have come from a man not like him, why Jews allow blonds to mistreat them so and are always quiet in ways they would never be even with a Wendy, or anyone with their mothers hair color. It is all very Freudian. Does Eddie and the criers have the temerity to actually show twittervesre credos and snippets of ballyhooed thought coming from Rabbi Krygman, --not to tell me you bought this nigger was selling, kids.



Ah, but even Augustus wouldn’t as Marcus the Jewish banker abide go about and make sure that graffittied walls were white washed once having been marked with images of father Gus with his pee pee hanging out, as Augustus, the name is literally from the Tuscan word for Priest, why we still have an inauguration day, it will be a small affair this year, in private, away from the south bound sun, and how!- patron saint of empire and no communist knew, whets the point, I am not eh said, afraid of scribbling, no Kim Jong anything he. And to be fair, Marty couldn’t take it anymore like Obama the triumph the way things are now, lest as Cato said, he forfeit his own self told lie, and my temerity at comparing Scorsese to Nathanial Hawthorne, and his marble fawn after he had sued MANZONI WHOLE aspect to make his dreadful puritan book was more than even that illiterate gangster squander could take.



And mostly what caused me to get on my stick like a witch and fly madly towards the lovely girls in the bathes of the moon was that hump I thought I didn’t hate as much, Copplla, who had said to get his later crap made, to be snarled at by all, that he would if need be, sued a flip phone to make his images seen, a kind of perpetual anarchist student thing more like me than him. Ah, but when I said it, I didn’t have a vineyard at my disposal, and neither did I double booking trips to the Colombian as a money making scheme, and neither did I create the idea of the blockbuster , nor operated I had invented things done by Jerry Lewis since the sixties, with editing on tape, that our Leonardo of San Raphael pretends he invented. Do again, it looks better on me.



6. I had heard that intellectual giant Robert Bork died. I felt sad about this, as it was the destruction of Robert Bork which led us to the where we are today, much like the Roman senate never quite being the same vaunted placed, after Cicero got in and made it a passel of thieves, he selling bad meat to the Centurions as an only creed.



Things were never the same after Cattilina, who has hovered over this diary here as a sentinel, a beloved icon, a word dear Rachel used in daily news black and white 72 pica type to give it the éclat oomph of the police blotter, but I admire Bork, like Cattiline, and like Bullet Bob Hayes, after I started to mention got his just due. One must I guess wait for smarmy little Copasetic Jews to wheeze their last wop jokes about Danny Marino and croke away in a terrible shroud before anyone can get a word in edgewise. I do , thought glad he in ways got to bury Teddy, our bloated Irish pussy loving mic Pig, hope that It is Ted and not Bork, who stews in the hottest paced of hell, as to me, standing for something is no crime, and portending to be a champion of poor and women as you berate and rape your servants, and swim laps while unsearchable seceraies drown, yes, is a egregious fault, See, dears, nothing that Bork could have done to the nation couldn’t be undone by a senate willing to vote, its as Roman as the Spanish steps, and see, its all very ratio-ed and balanced, and frankly it was that senate of yours which could make your sacrum  Abortion, and anything else you wanted legal toady, but alls learned when Pelosi was still learning how to keep two sets of books, that why actually vote for things out loud when you can hide behind Praetorian Black silk…?



7. I felt bad as I admired Robert Bork, as I do Antonin Scalia, as I do Newt Gingrich, as Keith Olbermann, as I do Rachel, as I did Daniel Patrick Moynihan, the ultimate Jesuit priest, Irish drunken division, Donahue, Tom Landry, Jimmie Johnson, all also willing to tell blacks how empires die, sorry, all, as I do Bill Clinton, oh bare feeted Marius, I cant stay mad at you, fats, you are our last Gleason, you run that table like a dancer. As too I admire Father Gore Vidal, even Truman, Mortimer Alder and Patty patty Buchbuch, and most all of Brother McLaughlin students, no where now to be seen.



I felt bad for Bork, because his destruction was a triumph for the middlebrow, giving us the decay we have today, he just a Cato without the Roman spiritu to commit hari karri, to mix metaphors, and I felt sad that this giant somehow was too beneath the men who voted later eerily for a nigger named Clarence Thomas, showing that when dealing with the Men Who Bilked America, no sanctimony in the gutters is too unseemly for they. I felt badly as saw our Chirpping Vanessa, Rachel made motion of Bork's passing, with almost John Dillenger like rat a tat tat, Walter Wincell for some gangster Squad persona, as he committed the worse sin to her, he didn’t agree with her. And had the temerity not to agree with her while not having the imperial veto to do it neither, as Caesar, knew it is amazing what the poor let you get away with if you are holding the stick for them.



Ah, the fascia. Think we are not Fascists at heart’s...? See on the wall at that pre death Mausoleum for Lahee and from where Teddies carcass was carried out’s, now past the purple and yellow draperies mimicking exactly Augustus mantle that was hung up on the wall for the reminder of the Empire that he founded and destroyed, see that ax with the juniper around it on the marble wall, see…that,…anyways, It saddened me that perky giggly Rachel reduced herself to this sort of strange ad corpus attack, as this after all as they say, that the answer to all your prayers, Our Nigger Jimmie is like a thermometer, paid for by Goldman sacks, going up and up in his floor, as his ilk does, as we are now passing 500,000 for the untaxed rich and never think a house nigger is going to be a vendetta holder—to anyone but Mom, dear, even a girl should know that.



8. I think too of the story that made it into a play I wrote years ago called head over heels, and it is a truest story which I again sue easily in my Clay Romans. When Machiavelli died, a rival of his, I think Giucciardini, his equal as a thinker, to the dismay of those who believe such shit, but I made it my fictional Italian mastermind, was a story I have sued before, as no one can as Anthony Bordain said, beat the fucking Italian for anything.



The trashing of Machiavelli’s very name had taken hold, not from women and Englishmen yet, but by the Medici family, as the rich are behind the caterwauling always, why in two days nigger’s and polloks went from pants shit fear that Blamey would abandon them, to quoting Glenn Garry Glen Ross, always be closing, and Shiva’s come down and said, sign the deal. Take the pen…! And when he, Niccolo’s rival was asked why he was inconsolable, he summed to hate Machiavelli, and be his rival, Giucciardini, I think, lashed out at the smiling step men, and like Inherent the wind said, A giant is dead here, you small little fools, you bought and paid for nothings, a giant lived among us, and we, he said, before sir Isaac speaking of Galileo, and History shall stand on his soldiers now forever, as things were changed. Maybe a healthy admiration for the amoral is not a sin not a a crime, when a tap dancing nigger can use blood baths to drapery his inclinations to giving in. Lest play Imperial Plinko! And the Italian lawyer’s requiem for that Italian master, the man who changed the universe forever by saying that even if the sky was filled with angels, what that they even mean to men on marble steps, …nothing really, and that signora Fortuna is raped by no body. She like, an italic girl seen and admired in Ariosto, can ht back. If you don’t believe me, I was not the one, like leather face Rottenburger who threw an interception and came up small again, no matter what lascivious smirking faggots and fat men say as they blame some nigger and never him for losing a game, that had even middle America strangely rooting for the Cowboys. It was Machiavelli, patron saint of priests, who said when the woman in the sky tiers of you, and tiers of your act, like so many people at la scalla, or the Apollo even, they sweep you off the stage with boos.



9. And By Monday, desperate for cleaning, desperate for place and needy of position, our Augustus Mallfoy of the way we live now, always hungry gonnify Harrr--veeeey, pig man Jew spender and bankroller of equally con artists Quinton, and really I hate neither as I do the pervious mentioned con artists, still, but Monday, it was said, quietly that Jingo Unchained was pulled from circus owners Weinstein’s cache. I love when things work out in the end. I expected to help Ma make, of all things , something akin to a sweet ravioli and, and I just know like everything deserts she makes, I do not like it. And the house stinks of a slated Viking cod , too I hate. So, happy Feast of the indomitable Sun, which the Romans celebrated in December, no elss, God Bless them, and a happy saturnalia to all, I take the remained of the end of time off. I say, fuck whatever these middlebrow priests do in the snow and gloom of incessant rains storms, as I saw even dick lickers thought it narcissus like when Balmy made all of Roman government cerebrally seem like all was about him, as what else is there. Ah, Tranquillus comes to mind, and If Saint Joan dares send me social disease bulletins again, hopeful of not a bloodletting of cuts against the untokened blacks, I hope a sock of manure hit’s her in her yap.