04 November 2013

THE BLUE STREAK.


 
 

 

 


 

With Halloween having been approaching, though this time, I was not as toughly against it by general principal as I had felt before, thanks to the tcm channel having shown some of the best of the grand Vincent Price, who had a cad’s way of parlaying a monster, but with such a over gloss of almost effeminacy he was wonderful and brilliant, and was the immoral centre of the enthused films. I received the email I had been waiting for from a movie site, paid 70 dollars for a review and a critique, which was merely as usual strung together snide remarks, a bitchienss that My Brother caught in to before I did, and some gorilla Tactics hurled as pearls of wisdom, so, I was asked, why not rent the local stage at the highs school--yes I shall at forty and 260 ponds hang out at the high school with the Coors light t shirted dregs, and there I TOO can put on my play of Ibsen, there is a play about Cattiline by Ibsen I was told, again my brother picked up on its meanness before I did, and I can put on between spring shows of guys and dolls at Valley, when I wasn’t there when constitutionally mandated, but we all do our part. I keep and save WOP LIKE ME, But IN PARTS, like Superman, the monolith, part four, Wendy, and course, Cattiline. I shall slip into them the people I still wish to find and place in, as I’m not on any clock.

Seeing Vincent’s great Rodger Corman double features, it made me recall that I wrote a play at 16 a first called ‘Belladonna’, in which a mad scientist takes a later seen Wendy like vavoomy starlet, I have been on the watch for that sort since then, and places as a catty sarcastic lesbian’s brain in her, and made it a satire of Hollywood B‘s, but also who was agreeable and how and how not. Later I took an Italian folktale in 1995 where Satan takes a plain nun and makes her gorgeous to tell a variation of the same story, each time, as in Boccaccio, the Covert Jew clerk, or ugly now beautiful Venice woman realises that it isn’t really worth the bother to be so admired. Id like to make that a real film with actors, and black and white, maybe call it Frankenboobie. It would be like taking Wendy and somehow placing in her body the living brains of Danielle Corsetto, sarcastic cartoonist, who I both like and have both been kind to me. It was a dream of mine, …until I thought, who would really want a gorgeous cupcake like W. to come with the sarcastic comments and eye rolls that come naturally to drawer of Lesbos Danielle…? Still, it would be funny, as placing the brains of a unmitigated vicious snide bitch into a goddess-- who would win…? Who would lose…? I think my brother is right accentually now, as again it inst what I say, or how I say it that bothered the geeks, who after trashing me wonder why I do not go tripping back to their websites to see this pollution, where have you been…?, tell me about it. ITS THAT I AM SAYING ANYTHING. As again the fat girls take umbrage again, as they usually do. But I noticed that this week a Cowboy by house everything’s in the queer closets of espn game shows herald infective as he, a cowboy, because and as a cowboy, and not a redskin he had to be a diva, as opposed to RGCOUNTRYTHREE, who undercuts his own coach, or another spook waves a mean hello to a defence which had been smothering him all night. Act like you’ve been there…once. And of course, big Moron as they call him at fan-am, a man who hit 50 home runs from 1995-2000- then ‘sploded, then was almost mentioned in the anti Yankee diatribe called the Mitchell report, and when went on drinking human foetuses, HGH has been around since Grimm’s, or at least the Italian Folktales, and this year hit .7oo in a series at forty, overtaking the Iron horse, Lou Gereg, whose numbers its seems are not sacrosanct to Bishop Costas, who is silent and gone until the next invective during the next Cowboy game. Why Romo’s failings have become at nbc, like Rankin Bass or Bob Hope, a Saturnalia tradition as much as any. Funny those atricks that blow like dirty snow at everyone causing ball players to have had more contemptuous grilling form Hennnnreeee Hneeereee Vaxxxmannnn than any Obama apparatick are suddenly put away and no one dares throw at Big Poppy’s melon sized head. Sometimes I feel like the luckiest man in the world…no wait, that’s not the credo that fits here. Oh yes, ….sayyye Helllow too mine little freeeend…





 

So the pregnant pauses of political theatre make their way to sports, where somehow a good and wholesome and decent gorilla has made his way to the steroids and the blood poundings, again, like Elmo, nothing to make vibrate Anderson Cooper’s magic twanger or make his antennae’s go , uh, up. Cue the flood of tragedy porn for the Basstan parade, unlike the Romans, and more like Greeks, tragedy is what we imbibe in, until we don’t care anymore, and Mike Webster is allowed to die amid the hub caps. Now, little kids in ICU’s will with full on American wretchedness, ask Big Pappy say it isn’t so when he says he’s clean, and bald facedly explains he invigorated his T zone with soy milk, being glutton free and some Anabolics that grow naturally in test tubes. Yes, that’s it. Another Katrina Bowl that the Nero’s of now adore. New York, Dallas, even usc and Penn state, they just won, and who needs that…? Why, high saffron Alex Rodriquez is such a phoney, with that bronze handsomeness and almost effeminate prettiness, and speaking actual English like that, why our sportscasters were weaned on the Pittsburgh Press writing Roberto’s attempts at a language not his own like Tarzan, or the vaunted Gunner calling him Bobby, even though in Latin that name is saved only for girls, ala Roberta. Shades of Sopranos…? But despite even the nfl films coming out to exonerate Dezi, the oafs and the ninnys in the cocksucker all sports morning still, between sucking old jocks, still refer to the careerisms and shamelessness of Bryant and the insults to Tony Romo, who Cowboy haters just Love, in the same way you love many Italians willing to shuck and jive and gumba for their dog dinners and American Italian food, which after all, is swill. Da Ditka cubs explain no youz cauint win wid a nigger like Bryant, though it appears according to the film, lets go to the tape, that Half Witten started screaming at everyone seeing Romo fuck things up again, who told you stats after a while are less than filling…?, but the fox cameras didn’t care to look until Dez sho’ed up. You cant win with Bryant, as opposed to Romo who had gone 21-25 in four years. A retraction from the Jew and the negro and the making copies guy,… no they learned their toy department trade at the paper that brought down a President by using a black bag operator who had been sent out by J Edger, because when push comes to shove, or in Roman, knife comes to shield, you know the fags will stick together. But usually the Mud bone and Caphius show they are never so overheated and their beady eyes never shine as much as when Trashing a Cowboy, place Plautus bromide here, unless Weasel Tony is gleeful about a brunette starlet being burned, wishing the fire was real as he has, really, when not sending the maloccio to Mitch Album with the Jewish incantation of ‘enough already‘.

2. But who was it who said, back last year, when the bright and shining face of Keme--Im sorry, Bill Clinton, came out of the fissures of the earth at Mantua, said that he was going to destroy Queen Dido, brick by Brick. Slowly he turned. Now a book comes out that the usual suspects at WAR-TV have to trash, the Capote boys without the masculinity, and the lip gloss lip smacking Mulatta sluts, have to poo poo, as their own consortium polls show God at even lower than the Fox Poll, showing Zippy Kilowatt needs as a new employee of the year. I’m waiting for the commercial where the autopen examines how republics die. As Christie prepares Kramden Yards and he prepares like Lou Costello to meet with ghosts as his NYPD hat is askew. The poor soul as President …I don’t see it, but he has signed his name in blood on Obamas book of the dead, voter rolls, and thinks the Papacy is now his. This causes an Italian woman democrat, no less, to be dismissed and unnoticed by all those women lovers of Jet engine liberalisms, again, whatever they say, they aren’t married to any of this shit.

But silence is golden for only those who charge for it, as Roman loving Bill knows, silence is nothing more than a precursor of death, as Ennius, a fascist made good, thought, using the new Latin to save as much of his saturnine poetries from Greek censures as he could. With satchels of Romans ethics, their own word, and Plautus set poses and Caesarean reddish sonnets to power as a virtue, Brother Bill emerges among the filth and the trash, the women and the coloureds for one last time, to get even, that greatest of vices. And suddenly Terry Mackulluff, bag man to princes, sees his own lead magically evaporated, --how the helll….?…to the Italian that good lesbians have trashed, as their cunts are their only sacrament, sure to bring up their needless love of abortion, which they utilise about as much as the fat republicans get close to war. But then, all of American politics is a death cult, as with the smiling buffoonery of a hee haw hick, still, the student of Bruno makes small mobiles spin of their own accord, as the snake charmers and the left be hinders didnt yet learn that there was a catholic, a lover of the boy sun god who in Roman’s mythology survives and doesn’t in Greek, but then who does?, has entered the room again, all the whole you were all emptying your bags on the table and counting your paltry take. Still, I find it all beneath me, as to me Bill purposefully tempts fate, not that She is in love with Human Dildo Obomo as her favourite but still…yet vendetta will out, and he must truly despise all you all.

Its nothing I didn’t foresee, as Jesuit trained Bill saw Erkle and his proud black man pronouncements, and his penchant for having periods as beneath his own Franciscan credos and beliefs. I tried to warn, as now Erkles very honesty comes under assault in things more important than a concubine, that Bill would get his revenge on the human pin ball, who bumbled from disaster to disaster while the Machiavellian, by definition, was competent enough to bring peace and prosperity. The Miles Gloriousus had entered the Koran addled mind of Erkle and as the Koran has no Roman in it, much less Allinsky, I bet Jew baby doesn’t know that Marx like Freud was a Roman buff, but then aren’t they all…?, as opposed to the new testament, and even predicted by Homer and Gilgamesh, the half breed was floored. The epic had turned to Farce, as Nicola warned, and the star prince didn’t know how to play the parts as well as the ghost of Caesar Clinton. Too bad. I could mention names and legends unknown to you and William Shakespeare of Roman vengeance, the art of which is beyond the wops at the macaroni Co. that white women television loves so much, of fathers and son, brothers and brothers, and just assorted soldiers who always get even, as getting even is the best thing God ever reinvented. A lovely man named Bruce Kiden who I met, an erudite ante Cope in Pittsburgh called God the One Great Scorer, AND IN THIS KNEW, AS HE TOLD ME , the Romans Myths, all superior to Greek shit hurled by Jews and women, of Jew-Pater re-named Italic and his daughter Fortune making sure that getting that forth Nollian super bowl for Bellicheck has been excruciating, though he thinks he got away Scott free. A woman said of my ANCIENT ROMANCE, like so much an insult to the white women somehow, as hate the EMPIRE of the land of Vestals yet love the Judean stoners and the heart breaking literally Incas and berka fitter Arabs, that I somehow just took the stories of Shakespeare and remade them in my book. A book about…Romans. You mean like Paolo and Francesca, I asked….silent. No I said, hunny, we just fish off the same pier. Like marriage and soldiering, Shakespeare is something that the appropriate and corralled filth are expected to take as sacrosanct.




3. With this knowledge, still, I spent 50 dolll… sorry I just had a mini stroke. I spent 50 dollars to join Tribeca and send them a re cut of WOP LIKE ME. Why…? Because I have a bit of the Terrence in me, too, and can play out my part on a farce as well as anyone. Tribeca is where by the Jewish woman handler who told me Italians don’t fall in love, and as with Zoetrope, I know that fifty dollars, Jack Benny jokes aside, means more to them than it will ever mean to me. Their usual American need for money, will force them to catch my camcorder sonnets to and against the men my teachers loved and hated. With their shabby need as usual, I force my way in, as my love of Romans poetics is both anathema and too, necessary to the self appointed front men who see their imperium dwindling and now there and shown, in ways, I storm the boards and make my plea, as Shakespeare lover Bloom tried to pretend not, and not a sanctimonious Bard hater black or a woman to chide him for this one, it wasn’t Shakespeare who innovated speaking to the audience, but Cambrian farce. And what number film festival is this for Tribeca…? Lucky number XIII. Watching TV, I thought was watching Giada, granddaughter of Italian starlets and porticos, walking towards some little Italy cheese shop in one of her Holiday adventures the great Anthony Bordain seethes at their ability to get numbers. But it wasn’t, and was a a horrid, horrid, woman, a yenta in staining who has a show, there’s a show, that’s a show, where she speaks to women about Motherhood.

In this, a poor mans Tina Fey, ouch!, was doting late in the run actually, a show about Italian momma boys. This Jewish hag was sneering her way through this, but had a bit of the edge of wetness to her as she openly was salivating and not only at the Pancetta. She seemed to eat constantly though this miasma of New York stereotypes, but lets not get Freudian. In this, the wops always willing to plotz for food…really like Jack Kirby the jewishness and new yorkism is so thick it becomes its own organism like V’ger, easefully even the wops realised that shyster hearted Andrea, like various lawyers in the family, had gotten them to say things like they couldn’t cut their own meat, to her Kornheiserish delight. But I’m marrrrried, she would say in mid slack jawed laugh, a high pitched squeal of possible insinuated delight …please….don’t….stop….But to me, the Tina Feys are to be, like shameless, avoided. If I asked my Ma to cut my meat, shed probably hurl her empties of Gin bottles at my head, as I have been washing my own clothes, cooking various meals, and cutting my own meat since I was at least 20. As, the Big mouth I have been, loudmouth emeritus, whatever I have been and am, I wasn’t this, the giggling wop, and that was something. Wop like me…? You and Erkle wish, see, I am never blindsided, and wouldn’t even flirt with some of these white women you love, as read enough Petronius to avoid the leash. A Jewish man told me I am better at being a Romantic than being a cynic, though I can get off a good line, its in my Romanticism, in which I do my best, if not funniest, stuff. But in our Empire of queer house fraus , the hated Cowboy is right up there with the ‘dumb brunette‘, catered by those sentenced to write for newspapers to have, like the Gumbas, someone to relieve their correct and hidden build ups of steam. Better get to the dollar store and stock up on just add water food for the coming winter, as Julius Caesar, mr. I always win, somehow just allowed 50 billion dollars to be cut from food stamps, again him showing after all Bill knows the Romans morals better than you do. After the confetti starts to falsely spin to the ground and needs to be swept up we find out what Victory, as opposed to Is, is. I came to draft the dvd, or at least a first cut, if I cant find anyone for the scenes in AVI the movie maker doesn’t read, and thought about taking out the seventeen minuets or so minutes of Cattiline, the parody of those mgm movies that Wop opera artists saw as a holy writ, if not as the notebooks of LEONARDO. I save it as is. No matter, Bill, for whom Sallust’s Tome was a high up favourite book, would perfectly understand.
 

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