27 June 2013





JUNE DIARY.

Collected here is a page of cartoons, and shorter off the cuff quick takes on things. In mid summer, I become wistful, tired, disdainful of various things, as I feel off put, with human gargoyles like Weiner and Obama, those who studied ethics under Milton Burl, who won’t give an inch and wont shut up, all makes me itch. I think of endless days spent in warm room,s trying to insert into my work the ethics of Boccaccio and Manzoni, drawing figures cribbed from Castelfranco only to be told by over fed white chicks that Italians are one step above the niggers they prattle about loving, as they clutch their purses. Now, Bammy uses the stage like a Ed Sullivan plate spinner, one can hear that piece of music under him, babababbababababbababbbababbabababaddaddaaddaaddaadaaah, dahhh dahhh dah dah….bababababababbabababababbababbabaababdbdbdbdbdbdbdb—an on in this manner as it is always a variety show with him, as the awful NBC becomes now the new york Enquirer of old, doing the usual tricks, lots of rape, lots of woman’s issues, lots of abortion, you know usual shit, so no one notices they read from the Dick Cheney script before they acted like June never happened. Its always winter there. Now its all twitter posts, smiling tap dancing, iPhones on live MSNBC broadcasts, or as close as they come, they have a seven second delay lest anyone come too closet to mentioning anything. And the tribune of the plebs again provide their scummy creed, and Bill Clinton, the man who signed the defense of marriage act now acts as instrumental in its being repealed, but then with him, all is a Chinese box and all is a gambit, as again he strikes me as unseemly as he seems to be torturing for sport. And as MSNBC sues both fagots weddings and occasional summer tempests, to never have to bring up the fact that sudden patriotic light bulb paid filth is going after Snowden, it seems that the patriot act being not only kept but escalated might be the last thing that causes the calliope to crash to the ground. Instead of central casting queers and lard bottomed Lesbos who now keep poking their dead parents in the eyes with their lifestyle choices, to me a married faggot is akin to a German dressed as Roman Caesar, it makes me antsy, which once, like an anathema to marriage our Liberal Virgil Meathead pointed out to us, I instead think back sadly of the priests, and again with anger at the fat white women who once, before fags were sanitized for their approval, didn’t want to drunk the from the same water fountains as queers, lest they catch their cooties. I hear the echo in each faggot telling me they cannot be hated for what they are born as, that the sottovoce implementation there is because, having studied well at grandpas Klansman knee--they are white. You know, not like Sicilians. As the Jersey state police are afield that the requiem for a Sunday night TV wop might start trouble as the dago versions of crips and bloods see the death train of Gumba daddy one as an escape for another riot, I warn the queers left behind, that having the assembly of queens on your side might not be the best of things for anyone, but then, as I recall hearing that Gonniff Shumare who like his cousin Bloomberg will speak incessantly about everything but banking crimes, who would show up at any Columbus day Pita Freita Booth, once declined the opportunity to show up at an opening of an Italian American museum in –no it wasnt Batavia was it...?, where an instillation was made not to the Mafia, but to Sacco and Vanzetti. And, in the late nineties, no less, the new man, new American, closet Jew still feared as a comedy team name he would rather avoid. And Hillary did go, as I recalled in Roman Mythology. Hmnnn….


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