23 May 2012

RISING STARS, FALLEN METEORS.







If it wasn't for Bill C, as our last Roman figure, this bitch slap fight between these two imperial goons would be untenable. Like how now, Clintonius has let it go, --one a day like vitamins his besmirches are--, that one year before the election of this nothing, why, Bammy in promotional packets for his own Commentaries said for all to see that he was born in Africa. Well, that we are told was a mistake. Like Polloozi as speaker. But this came from his own camp, signed off by his own hand, or at least power of attorney given Tom brother number 2, Duvall Patrick, who like the author of the Alexandrian war found himself --punching it up.

This revelation, more along the sense of a punch line than a dreaded Catastrophe, it wasn't something which came from not birthers, red necks, or even Eddie G. as puritanical gonniff henchman, no, this came from his own hand. So either  he is a sloppy narcissist stooge who thinks he can do anything, be anything, or worse, he is an idiot and the back bencher con that Roman Tony caught wind of early on. Don't you love farce...? God bless us all. Like Scipio at  Zama against another narcissistic African general whose only dream was becoming a European, in a tent in the night, Bill melds a classical edge to what is a horrid buying of the Republic, which Caesar said was every republic's ultimate doom.


Then, a lower level high yellow Bagman apologist, always  looking for Tacitus like gravity as the hacks always do, made mention about how it was evil to bring up Bane capital as a campaign marker, probably thinking, having been on NBC at the time, he was a good little nigger and was towing the existent Company  Line. As the Democratic  wing of the propertied party  has been made  a wholly owned subsidiary  of General electric years ago, and we must now it it lightbulbs or its nothing, is the credo of our patria decline and fall. He was waxing eloquently as his ilk does on the Meet the Press, which has never gotten over the death of its Mike Douglas like show host who at least fained a certain middle of the road ability now an anathema  to what Cardinal Imult is paying for, as again showing Italian genius at its best, cardinal Este, of a rich Jewish Roman family we may not ever speak of, were disappointed in having paid for a book called genius by even the Germans, that being The Orlando Furiouso, by the great and playful Ariosto. I haven't read Ariosto in years since I had an Italian  reader by Paolo Milano and might look up a cheap version on Amazon, as have bought so many marvel comics, my recommendation page looks like Stan Lee threw up. I might have to start looking for Ariosto and ate last the LBJ book, as to not be seen by Amazon as a comic hack, entirely. But, political minded cardinals know what they are paying for, and do not ever like it should wit or God knows satire gets in the way, and although such books of Italians genius must be dismissed and even trashed by wops who are always looking for inclusion into the blond hosuefrau world, still, again, The Italians and  the Romans are better than you, and no one at 30 rocked DARE EVER bring up a wayward Turnus or a hippogriff amid the boilerplate, as after all, the differed between Ed Schultz and any Italian worth his Salt, is larger and more gaping than he as a bigoted leftist would like to think. And too, Ariosto and his Shakespeare beloved sonnets, really like Bill Clinton Willie had a soft spot for the later trashed Italians as did Hesparian loving Chaucer, would be put to sue by a conniving and upwardly mobile lover of boys as witches.

Booker merely said a pox on both your houses, the least controversial of plutocrats ideas, we know its all true, Nancy at the IPO just proves it, a sort of retort which has been trustily sued by politicos to show  at least pretend love of the patria since Romulus; Ah, but in our pushy days of interregnum, when all is important and all is an perceived  insult to our delineating queen of tarts, no single mention may go unmediated, and Booker was pilloried, mostly for having brought up smiling American Pig, Reverend  Wright. it seems that fat bloated dancing coon  outlived his usefulness, that only attribute Omaamas allowed YOU to have, as interpreter to the nigger filth of the street for our Erkle did need long ago, and is now a pest not quite in the Turnus category, but a Hector at least none the less. Boy, can you imagine us using the what if machine, what would have happened had we had proof that Bill like Obama thought of bribing a irritant from his past, oh the Subpoenas which would fly, ah but this nigger is worth his weight in gold, or much more than that since Shine, he is a bantam weight at best, as somehow the more vulgar transactional money    attitudes of his cast of criminals has never sweepingly bothered the Tinas and the yentas, who made Bill's cast of lovable rouges into a weekly series of news alerts. We can only imagine how much Susan MacDougle would have enjoyed the peace of a Rescko life, as he is unencumbered by being in any rouges gallery, and Mo Dowd goes to no pains and or machines to craft fat jokes about him. And too, worse was often said about Clinton, Mario, Newt, Gods knows, and all there men, lovers of Rome and Romans, shrugged it off, if not met it head on, if not didn't bother to notice, as these bulls were in the field of verdant empire, whereas our black coated scarecrow nigger what, sur, he dun notches all what is said about him, as rainbow halos can at first be apparel and then trashed, as his Purell stinking essence can find an insult in anything, as he has been after all trained by the fat white women who are now expected to carry him like Marius to victory. As if. Today, all that bother about Contraception, a stink bomb thrown by Puckish Newt to start trouble, has Erkle the Good only Losing to a empty bag named Romney by two points among women, showing again, the Jesuits were right.








And of course, a mea culpa was demand of Booker, that loveable saffron upstart, showing  that Tribunes of the plebs positions are highly sought after by the nigger's and the thugs, and within twenty four hours, he dun tap danced to the Rachel Maddow Show, YESSAUR, JAZZHANDS!-to adequately explained how now brown cow, even the usual boilerplate of both sides do it, a apostasy to the church of Imult, is no longer acceptable to a count made king as long as he makes the issuing of Sylvanaia light bulbs a major Felony. And I saw this ...hostage seige as this yellow kid sat there with all the grace of a bank hold up, seemingly reading off  TelePrompTer, if not Bushes Brain, Bwana's soul and again, on him all looks good, as if he had been shot down behind enemy lines, as the adorable Rachel, who like Sarah Palling is looking esthetically Brunette Sympatica these days, fed him cues. It shocked  these two, that the Republicans, actually went and sued this to their advantage, as again, they must have studied politics under mister Limpit himself, Shlep Smith. All this goodness from the star child called Obama, it makes Machiavellians thugs like me Newt and Bill rather queasy, like Daffy in the audience begging his stomach not to flip on him. Ohhhhhhhhhcccchhhhh. And Booker , showing  all rising  stars in that party are merely meteors had to come out, really it would have been slightest less emasculating had he dressed as Uncle Ben and tap danced about in white tie, as Rachel; she is the only Leftist able to get that Caesarean audience and so it as decided by GE masters that he go on there and beg for forgiveness having spoken his mind, from the Keyboard jockeys who think themselves quite the liberals and champions of the poor and the weak, after of course taking a cut off the top. He had to beg for forgiveness from a frankly Blase Rachel, who again had to tell us all how the Republicans  don't like Romney, in fact doubling down on Booker's own reverse of the theories of politic, but alas, Darius the cup holder is never quite sure of time and tide,  and placement and as Cato said, Caesar must ravel himself at triumphs incessantly lest he forget who he has made  himself into. Again I heard worse said about Bill, but then, as I have said, Billy has broad shoulders, as the great  Mark Shields said of the sadly destroyed Mario--he's Hamlet, Dowdy informed us, which no scholar  in Roman Shakespeare, is a better caricature than Brutus, but then aren't they all.

This lipped thin necked thin spade Erkle cant take what was seen as mere innocuous political bullshit only a few years ago, as his maidens rack John Edwards, another Mother Mo victims of pretended open mindedness of an Imperial  hack, over the coals, lest any one in the dark, where Nora's fans and or detractors all are, might think the taking on of this back bencher stooge might not have been the Mitzvah he predestined it would be. In a use of past perfect well done by an illiterate nigger like Oboy, he is castigating John as having had the temerity to have come up against the bribe stalking hack who he can not allow himself to think that he is and was, again issuing the Catonian rule of perpetual Triumph, or at least triumph fatigue. As again I am for all my scurrilous attributes, I am not the one refereeing the detracting of a man being force fed his admiration and his mea culpa by unseen but insinuated hands because this nigger cant take a punch,as yenta women, shadowing again Bright Tony calculus was again fine tuned, they had to have a Mormon as opposed to Catholic Newt or even Ricky in there as a way to all as they do with everything, call for a moratorium on anyone saying  anything about anything, as both stooges here are prescreen attuned and aliens to the other. As 'Others', which in fact, dear Saloon hanging, fan waving, white faced, mole man David " Who is your robust friend, Lucian...?" Korn, was the prefect word, as Oscar would say, to explain by weatherman emeritus Tom Broke jaw why Mario Cuomo, he of homilies as opposed to the reciting Bammy, was unelectable in those halcyon days before Darius came into the room. So, yes, "Fulvius I must go to Padjua", David, yes, the other is what Tom Terrific Broke jaw called Marius Cuomo, I think on a temple of middlebrow called the David Letterman show no less, but,  of course back then, we were Flush  with men with Brando shoulders  who could take punches, and this lying little thug , this woman punching, dog eating bag was still in the ghetto as radical chic tourist, asking Reverend Wright to give him bona fides, as he was collecting technicality votaries all the ay to being the sun god...or at least  his son. I'm sure Rachel gets that,  and certainly a street thug like Eddie Schultz does not. Oh yes, Its an Insult, you'd think a politicians would show he has a good heart and like Bill , take it ...like a man. Not an amazon.

You see, kids, our Roman Bill, having studied law and politics under the works of Terrence, knows the farcical aspects of both, and has been tiling farce as art against his enemies for years, having found in Newt the only man willing to go along, if just for laughs, and because Roman farce to these boys is incessantly better than Greek tragedy which no one wants to be. As, there is a lightness of spirit in Roman plays, whether done by African Terrence or Cambrian Ennius, as they always had an inkling did the Italian, that gods don't come from machines , despite their terminology  for the hated Greek affectation, as much as came out gunk and oil and soot. So utilizing Saturnalia poems white trash dismiss as never art amid our African primitive straw gods, Bill knew that foreshadowing is everything, and now has Obamas own commentaries and promotional packets, not Jewish henchmen nor red necked fox newsier blonds, but his own need for petty triumph fuck Obamie over, as he stipulated to his own scurrilous lie use to demean others. BEFORE running for president, before the term of derision  Birther was coined by GE R and D division, well, here they are--Barrack Obama. Aha, he admitted to something later sued to make others despicable, something like Nero's emerald eyed Veronicas on torch walls, gets into the ground water even more than the blood of his slaughter enemies. When it was shown that Nero was making ugly Greek--he loved them so, like Hitler--friezes of he as conquering hero admired by Lori Lamaris like mermaids of the street, well, wonderfully in the later riots, those walls were stripped of their rubies by the trash Nero always looked down on. But then I am tired of always translating  from the old Latin, or the Byzantine to say what is going down in our imperial ghettos.The birth certificate thing was never about where he was really born, Only a one man Narcissus band like Bammy could do this much damage to his own party, as the other always does. I leave you instead to following David Brooks off this cliff, forwards being the only logic a lemming has, as he leads you in crises using a torch of burning debt cards and old newsprint from the weekender edition.






As I thought Id be a bitch and recall that the first time I ever's saw our God , still in Immaculate Ova, he was a mere back bencher looking for Love, and Oprah  or signora Fortuna and for thing to break his way. Well, It was during Terry Sciavo I believe and despite the best efforts of the boatman like great Ape hisslef, the man for whom a leadership position was made up to make a buffer between she and always calculating Stenny, Pollozzi's henchmen the black caucus, imagine that, didn't like the idea  of matters of Life and  death  being like so much in the hands of yentas with hair flips. Like Polloozi. And the Black caucus came out and  said as much, imagine the temerity to not merely  rubbers stamp  Polloozi accepted arguments, she having crashed the tribune status her Sicile  kin had dreamed of since Flamminus  found them all useless. My Spidey  sense tingled than though as I saw literally a string bean  back bencher idiot arterially blow out an acl, as he turned and un-spooled so fast, there was a wind sheer, as he feared being ever photographed too closely  with all these house niggers, the senate has no need of such a boys club, and he swerved as it were, so quickly to avoid belonging by these broad brush that he pragmatically danced on silver strings and or went careening into a marble portico. That's the man , arms and all to whom a demand is made now to show white knuckled devotion as Opie the Czar and or Signora fortune, with the petulance which comes with women in high commands, gets tired of you, as Niccolo  agreed, you are quite done, as hell has no fury like a woman bored. And suddenly his devotions such as they are are as sacrosanct as he is, but to him you must have semper Fidelia, while he pivots and  turns and gives in at the drop of a stone. A Blackstone, a cabal of thieves to whom he, after the insufferable Sinatra  of now, Olive Oil Clooney, nigger Jimmy ran to asking for dispensation if not for cold hard cash, without wish a man of the people is left holding an empty bag, and crazy eyed black clerk  school teacher  union thugs demand a fidelity to De Prezzi--dennnt, which he may never be forced to give.

If someday someone has the guts to write of this last campaign of Clinton against the rubes, it will be a textbook in power politics, and worthy of being on a shelf with hated books by Italian lawyers about how horrible politics really is. Bill and Newt and Mario and all those destroyed sorts, they took it like men, and unlike these two losers didn't take things off the table as unassailable like Caesar's wife. How about this, instead of telling people not to bring up Bane and Reverend Wright, --come up with an argument...after this long. Boy, I sure hope we don't get a constitutional crisis out of all of this, now that Billy has made ObamAmok dignify the argument by his own stupidity, a Jesuit at work. Id hate to think all those capitulations were, like, Illegal.






A Note to post: Going through the channels, as I try to really swerve human spittoon Matthews and his merry band of daddy less sejanuses now, still, I saw of  course, purportedly msnbc foremost authority Mother Joan, umphhhhmhhhhh um hummmmph umhummmphm, in her toilet water, feminine hygine as a devotion, freshness and again bringing up Birtherism-- as Vile. Nothing on that channel is done by accident, as it means again this unmentioned spice of Clinton propaganda about him before the act admitting to something sued to defame others means those others have to be defamed worse, as it is a simpleminded calculus sued by her type. Harder and louder and faster is the Uncle Milty creed that that tower has brought to politics since Ge Theater bought the host of death valley days. And so this is vile, mere questioning of Dee prezz-i-dinettt, which makes one wonder if such can be vile where does Rape fall into her continuum. But of course, as I have noted with the American all stars, that'd depend  who is the rapist, doesn't it...? But a line of Machiavelli's, mute to her and her handler Chissy comes to mind. That man, he said, you give impunity to shall be the one who destroys you,-and yet,  it all beyond her as she is oaf, a cutthroat a sort who is shocked by losing seventy seta's in the house as everyone at the saloon at least says their Liberals. But then, Resident Romany owning more shares in GE INC., than Bagman will give us interesting programming, as the bribe giver is by definition a higher man than the mere nigger bribe taker.

And later again, Rachel is doing her shake your tail-feather best to attach Romney to discharged President Bush, as there are many Bushies around and among Romney. You know, as opposed to Bob Gates, Tim Gaithner, The Bernack...ah but that is different, and if you don't get that, or understand why that is, you have no future here at General Electric. And she was pow wowing with the fat bloated pig man who seems to be her Virgil, the henhouse Fox grinning, stupid eyed but Jewish presumption mixed with all American counter jumping aspects, bloated human jowls, Frank Rich, who is now playing protocol thinker after a life of going to the Theater. And who they giggle and snort, and hope that Bush is a name they can damn and desist all the way to Barrack, and the day when he wins again and finds out the Romans had a Eagle god, stolen from the Tuscan, Larsan, the war god, while the Tuscan's treasured a small black mallard, the pet of lovely and bountiful Turan, a Wendy dismissed by the closet everything's. How shocking the man willing to at least sign off approval of his being born in Africa in his own promotional attache cases, but see, it was in his interests then--aha the Clintonian point all along!-- incompetent he is, that he has done all of this to become a lame duck, which when that happens will be a destiny no one deserves more. There is another ex president, out there, the one she should be watching with her always about to start crying cow eyes,--God I love this girl-- another whose tepid elevator endorsement wasn't so lukewarm, it was as we jabbered towards Juvenilia on this good Roman year 2012, since the 46th year of the reign of Augustus,  --not to sound like Newt you know--, still, the ex praetor called the sitting praetor of his own party -- AN AMATEUR,  as that word itself caused  Machiavellian Bill's spit fiore, as mere Nigger didn't encapsulate his disgust enough. Bill, Roman lesson at the ready, sees Junior Bammy as a disaster, literally under a bad star, and undeserving of a seat he warmed on a Roman chair, which he had to do somersaults to keep. As this coon shits where he eats and doesn't seem to priggishly mind. Bill knows the Standard as we know it, not that long car wash flag as seen in Ran and other Kurosawa classics, but the standard we still speak of a Praetor as holding, and the weather vane are both Roman accoutrements, and Clinton, lover of the Tyberians, knows, what happens to a weather vane in a tempest as Cato asked. Sorry,  he is going to cut Bammy a thousand times and make him bleed from a thousand cuts. Its not only the smart, but the moral thing to do.

And that Commentaries that coon wrote, or had written, again plagiarism is a sin for the hicks and the thugs, never for shining Queen, still it is a Tresor  trove as Bill stands at the vista, K'metrer at Dawn, looking out over Hannibal's  troops,--it wasn't  until Constantine demanded the Etruscan works held in the achieves be burned that Rome fell--hmnnnn-- and knows, as Hannibal himself reckoned, what good is an army of half a million men when there isn't a Roman solder among them...? But then, Barraca said at his meeting with Scipio that Saturnalia, That would have to include me too, wouldn't it...? He laughed at this, as Livy describes that moment of realization as African Cleverness. Something as gone today as those Etruscan  pages. 

14 May 2012





IT’S RAINING MEN!

“How many times can one wipe the slate clean…without causing the palimpsest to break in half…?” Dore Duvall, owner of all star Comics. Rag Comix:  The Crisis of Infinite Pages.

 I don’t know why I have been reading old Superman’s and or Crisis comics, buying them used, if at all, at Amazon, but I notice that Marvel comics seem better than I ever thought, better than Dreck Cartoons, as I since I was right in those things I was doing in 2004 making fun of them Crisis comics, that would soon paper the earth. In that, despite lips service, the Marvelettes have eschewed and deserted Kirby’s inferno for the more lightness of touch, not quite Binder world of wise cracks and jokes, and that DC of all towers, has become devoted to Kirby’s gutters, in ways almost sacrilegious. As when I was a boy, as they wont admit, Kirby was seen as passé anachronism even then, ah but these were days before aids and bulimia, when goddesses like Jayne Kennedy and Lynda Carter and an even still gorgeous Raquel strode the earth with the gates of goddesses.
As then in those days of the ABC Tuesday night movie watched by all, his books were dense and ploddingly, his strange marvel apparitions were unsellable and we kids were right. Kirby now hangs over every DC comic book I see, and have read, an anti Virgil of feeding gasoline to wayward dogs to watch them die, Rag comic 4, and who saw that as the way empires die...? Me that’s who. As the Man, DD, said of the Acrivesre Kirby, ‘Shirtpocket note’ Arbuckle, “He hates cats, Captain Marvel, Tarzan and brunettes, as they seem untenable to this fraudulent hack…all are signals of Life and joy and anger and vitality, as he dreams of humans as Coffeepots.” As they are hated to his priests. Every few pages a brunette must die, while Power girl shows her busty pluck by merely being beaten with sticks. It’s a fan boy’s nirvana. I was right, and Kirby is the key to all of this, as he was the colonial Kurtz in Rag COIPAGES, making Anvil comics heroes burn in the sky, and found himself, like Orcas with a previous Turan, his black magic was useless against Vundergirl, who was a Veronica saved from a Jughead made mad by Arbuckle and his Nazi—what else?—hero machine. —I do note much of my shtick shows up in these things, but not quite the way I would handle any of it, thank God, and Jackoff is sentinel in a company who he hated, and who, an old Jewish man told me, hated him. I take it that in the end of this crisis, that the universe is split apart, and Superman is left to sue some Kirby machine—ha!—to somehow replace it all back together, ala Butters.


Ah, but I sued something similar when the universe was pulled apart by death seeking Kirby, made God, and an ideal intoned as early as Giordano Bruno, even captain Magnus to use a string, a clue, like in the Bruno experiment, as it was he who may have actually intended the pendulum as Galileo perfected, but still, uses the twine to pull the universe together from falling apart, issuing something just then speaked on, which Bruno theorized of, called Black Matter. I can show the pages if need be. But then I have been told my work is NICE. Just not____, nice. Still, I can not find myself actually even shelling out 5.99 cents in used paperback for this literally putrid rot like Final Crisis, as I save up to get the Lyndon Johnson biography for my mother’s later birthday. When she got wind of this, she exclaimed, no lover of Luciferian Johnson, --don’t you fucking dare!

After making My Ma a mothers day dinner, we all sat and ate while watching Mob Wives, as it galloped to a finish. It seems that translator white girl Drita, has been told to make up with the woman my Ma calls with distain, The Salami, Gravano. Of course this was to make the way for a much better in the Weinstein ways, villain out of the more perfect villainess Ramona Rizzo, who is pretty enough to be hated in our thug life Murder of Crows.

One could see this coming up Fifth Ave as they say; as such things owe more to Buck Rodgers in storytelling, than one would think. Sadly, the thing ended with a kind of celebratory dinner where the wages of either Walt Disney and or Martin Scorsese were on full display as one could see the camera, which adores Ramona, more than any one else in this stable, was being pervaded for her role as wicked witch against our Orange Dorothy, Drita. And, then in coming attractions, Ramona was shown in perfect Italian Folktales finery about to hurl herself at the rest. I would have said Grimm’s above, to show how our fairy tales have decayed or what they had suited as archetypes, but Grimm’s actually paid their debt to Neapolitan fairytales, and looking at famous old Mother Gooses, not everyone in them was blond, as this was something more excreted by later hacks like Uncle Walt, Our Stalin of the anthropomorphosis animal, that anti- Chuck Jones, that closet everything. Who like Michelangelo, his love of drawn blonds hid something as it would far more deep seeded and dastardly than either would admit to, lest commissions go out the door.



above, cover for Crisis on infinite pages 12.

I almost wished she would say, Feh, and walk away, ass bouncing like a perfectly tuned metronome as she learned her black arts of feminism well, as she looks like one of my heroines, enough of you, hopeful that she, like Wendy and Leslie, a cartoon of mine come to life, would have enough of a circus and walk away as some of my own goddesses have, if only to escapee to Malta rather than be a cog in some Harvey Weinstein farce. Ah, it is minstrel shows like this one which allow for the fat gonniff to play bloated Plautus at the opening night, as his hagiography of stuttering Princes, again like so much, done better by Romans, or by at least the less pushy less Automat Cicero English. And there is Joy C. Scott, old Mother Baher herself, who makes a point of walking off sets when someone mentions ARABS and terrorism in the same breath, but showing she has studied ethics under Warren Ellis, will show up here, with These Borgias of Staten Island, where the jewels are more likely paste, and referee with horror. In America, I was warned, even sanctimony ahs its limits, usually the edges of A Bigger Check. I also felt bad that these hags –something Estrogenic this way comes—has used the great Four Tops song, ‘Ill Be there’ as the background to this Bacchanal they were having under Jewish auspicious, as that song famously and greatly was used at the end of a film called Cooley High, a film I saw as a fifteen year old kid with my brother at one am, and which I was devoted to then to make an Italian American derivation of, as that film had been a gleaming jewel among the nigger shit. Easier said than done.

Although, I was the one who wrote a play for three guys in film looking for a movie satire, a play called Glissando, in which a Harvey Weinstein Figure wished a Martin Scorsese figure dead for his new found love of Romance, its always the way, and in it, the rat faced little Martin figure is seen in blue suit at a Latin Quarter big band sixties swaree singing “I love Paris in the springtime...”, then finds himself transported back to the dingy alleyways in which he lives, a closest thing to Innominato, and or conversion, that fink could come. And within a few years, he showed my prescience by, with all of Roman and Italian panoplies about him, races to make a film about Film, and like Woody, had to sue Paris, the Jews and wops closet Rome. Like a married Faggot, Paris is a sanitized Rome to the middlebrows, showed in how whether witch boy writers hags, or from pirating Praetors come dancing to be champions of Faggots, only after the last book is out, and or the polls close, showing having a champion is something Virgil and Machiavelli, agreed upon is something to avoid if one can help it. I certainly don’t mean to be a bitch, but do recall kids, that the first King to try to demand that queers be enslav—Enmire—matrimony into wedded bliss, was in fact Augustus, look it up, at which a true society laughed at him, and his needs for restoration, as it would take a much stationer and or weaker Constantine to close those particular bathes of Carricula down.

And I was taken how a perfect an Acriverse heroine this Ramona is, as she sadly, prettily, played at a deck of Calvino like tarot cards, One button undone making her more sexual and alluring than all the thin gaunt half naked angels in the incessant perfume and beauty ads on this show. And how she exacts a scene from Arms and the woman, a unsigned book in my Ages of one Italian family series, showing no matter how much soot Jew and wop gonniffs spread, especially with a  pretty Venus like she, there is something irrevocably calling all Italians souls back to the meteor which fell into verdant fields, to which Roman Hajjis were committed and demanded millennia before Mohamed, as this latest lovely Italian girl is meant to play the witch, and of course, Machiavellian, through to any Italian worth their salty dicks, neither is really a term of tire diminution, as it would be to any mere house Jew or Sicilian hack. Of course on cue as Women think, over fed hosuefraus with double chins came to the page for her on Facebook I looked up and as sun follows Creation, these Joans of Arc, umpppphmummmmphhh, just hate Ramona so, as they were weaned on barbie and wally, and thank god for gals like Ramona, or else the Blacks might know what the gated community henna heads think of them. But unless you work for GE, the distaste for Italians that they show must be telling of their un-Kosher Ham Sangwitches, eh...?


Different well meaning people tell me different things, one woman tells me to do one book, and nature it, a man says AR is getting more note than many things, strike while the iron is hot and flood the market with my shit, like tending a fire. Or an Eternal Flame. What was it that made me actually see any of this through…? Was it the great Recession, I am asked…? I never been that well off, nor that bad. It was, I think, being censored by Hack-Auteur Scorsese on face book, which I didn’t take with the artistic aplomb I did from Zoetrope, as this got under my skin. And I must show the Roman etching of graffiti and walls to this hack queen, who like Copolla, aren’t that better off than I, despite a lifetime of a head start. I plan perhaps a placing of Big Bertha on smash words, again not for money, or a prelude to AR, if only to know that the gates as that Martin and Joy and even Harvey think they inhabit, are rusted and broken, and swing in the wind, and they aren’t the Imperial censors that they convinced themselves they are, or for that matter sold out stupidly to become. I think it is funny that that slew of suddenly discovered Fairy tales on tv and movies is doing badly, and most will be cancelled, showing when some venture into those deep and dark woods, a certain Romance must be adhered to, lest it become a Cimmerian forrest, full of blood eagles, ugly trolls and or lead you to a road back, not to Laurentium, the Tuscan el dorado I first heard Art Bell speak to a old strega about in 1998, but instead leads one right back trod an exit to Bayonne.