09 December 2013



I certainly dont mean to be the skunk at the perpetual garden party where all the SANCTIMONIOUS come and bleed for us all how wonderful they are, but like more than cnn would think, I too started to feel esoterically triptifaned by the Reqium Mass for Mandela that was going on. None can do hagiography as well as the fraudulent, Father Gore taught us that…after a while I felt a bit, what was the word, well wherever it is I always feel which causes castigation to come from over feeded white girls. Mandela…ah, to me another house coon, sorry, who made sure to throw the Tutu pitch, why it was said of him he made sure that he fought even more against ‘Black Domination’ than white, isn’t that always the case, I mean to be beloved and all….? But then democracy has been a con since at least Claudius or at least he noted as much. No Sallusts here, no body here but us independents, son, listen to me when I am talking to you boy…the saint painting, literally what hagiographer means, is thick as thieves, and I recall again some white man saying Joe DiMaggio didn’t belong in the top ten of baseball players of the centary because he was just a one man ante defamation league for Italians, and who needs that….? No such anger at placing Yogi at four, as he was a lovable idiot, the way we like you wops.

But as I shall say more later, who has given us more one man saints than Assisi and Padua put together, than the good porch monkeys hoping eventually to be as human as their white masters….? Makes you wonder what this sports drivel writer really thinks of films about 42, no…? Or is it servants…? Make mine Cattiline sorry, radicals who die in the bed at 95 years old don’t twang my Roman heartstrings, sorry. Though it is the ultimate in white admiration, sorry but true, the idea of civil disobedience, which as the Franciscans taught me, leave the police in their perfectly made perch, and thus unsalted until the niggered, trash filth, Spartacus sues for peace, was tried by a giant named Cato against the Ultimate monster of the STATE The stoic senator shown in hbo anti hagiography as a mad man and as a fool, took his men and staged a strike at the armamentarium, causing Caesars beef eaters Germans and Sicilians to beat the living shit out of a seta senator, in ways we could do better now with Franken. It got so bad as the men were beaten almost to death, Caesar himself had to come out and call off the dogs of war off Cato’s neck, as the sad people of Rome looked on, realizing now that even a patrician senator was to Caesar just a another victim, if need be. The placed was quiet , as now shown I think as there is no turn of events that the Africans can not turn into a Paul Simon performance without the Jewish cleverness and the plagiarism. All civil disobedience, the fathers taught me is consistent upon Caesar calling off the dogs, which to them, is wholly unromantic thing to do, as a beaten and battered Cato is to have said to Caesar as he was dumbstruck by the stupidity of his men beating a senator no less in public before the rabble. Cato is to have said, famously, like so much stolen by Christ JEW BABY INCARNATE, --I AM LEGION, ABOUT THE FACT THAT MORE WERE AGAINST HIM THAN HE TAUGHT, AND THAT WAS JUST THE SENATE. All I know is that the fat bloated pig man TV crotch Tom Shales is the one who called Virgil propaganda, upset by a bbc teleplay about that book, a womanish heart is doom, as Niccolo said, and loved the sopranos, as to say if something is honorable and decent and human and poetic it is by defamation propaganda while those human bags of Jersey grinder farts and shit gumba minstrel show niggers were somehow not...? Oh, please, there is no winning obviously, as so I don't weep for Mandela from the land of Salvetti, who to be fair the Obamas have never heard of, and wont post a picture of themselves to in their narcissistic tribute. COEAMUS, YALL. When Cato did off himself, a feeling begrudged Caesar is to have said in tears, what good is Rome without a Cato in it...?, showing the always there anger at dismissal of the poor by their liberaltine godfather. When Obama finally does break down, unromantically as usual, it will be for himself.

I wanted to take Christmas off, as much as I could, feel put upon already, but got a email from Tribeca, telling me that my work was in MP-4, a turn which as has been with me since I first wrote Ancient Romance on a brother wp, is unreadable in this form. This gives me the chance to recoat, redeem rejoice re-- everything. I can now take out the clownish parts for real and send that in. And I noticed as Mandela again elbows others out of the way as the sort of saint that is made and seen on TV, as a lover of Rome, anything that happens to Africans and Germans or to to the other, is fine by me, and I do recall when he’s freed from jail, all the cbs cameras were devoted in, besides their self made love, was getting Arafat out of the picture by all means. Some freedmen fighters are different than terrorists, as Machiavelli showed us with clear eye, in that Evil is the word after all for those who don’t take our bribes, and Negros will take bribes from anyone. As how on Columbus day I toast the Etruscans, I recall that Sacco didn’t get to be 95, and we still await that film as Netheyahoo is willing to say that its about ‘costs’ that keep him from attending the Mandela beatification, probably worse than any Borgia funeral would ever be. The same day that Mandela died, a lesser saint, Gandoilofifi was to have part of a Jersey cause way dedicated to him, vacated by the requiem for a bantam weight. But to show my righteousness, I noted that the crying of the saints didn’t stop a pre ordained marathon of fat bloated mob wives, sloping again the wops always seem to have a knack for showing their Sicilian creed at all the worst times. Mob wives without Ramona, fuck this...click. Having had enough of their modem frescos, seeing the stream of midnight ice, I took my Roman cutlass bought from a Halloween costume shop and packed it in a frigid glistening ice covered brush, me in nothing but shorts and a red tee shirt no less, hit by the moonlight, as a scene needed once I saw the snow fly, for whatelse…?, the still unfinished clip called Cattiline.


01 December 2013


1. It was 1970, and this is a true story.

I was 5 years old and had already had it imprinted upon me to be something of a student, quiet and shy, my father waning me of the lunkheads I WAS SURROUNDED by in the Sicilians he and all Italians had always hated, who had come to America and saw the golden door as anew place to pimp their sisters.

Sorry, but true, the underpinnings of the comedies of Marty and Frankie have a savage truth that their pratfalls hide and do disservice to. I was taught early on to keep to myself, and be polite but not be too friendly to any of them, as being them born niggardly cowards they would kill a thousand Italians before raising their hand at the white trash who paternalistically abused them wilfully. Early in my father had the stupid idea of my advancing in the Mistake of Columbus, as he called America, showing not everyone was a flag waving wop, as made famous by that Italian hurriedly waving the flag in kinescopes at the new coleuses, and for which he as his kind would never be forgiven for it.

2. As a little boy, my Ma made me a red little Christmas suit, and my father, one Sunday, took me by the hand to a severe white stone gray faced not quite mrable more like granite, fittingly, church, on whish the cross of Christ, I noted, was blank, no tortured El Greco thin weakfish Christ, who Roman booked me I had already taken a dislike towards and his love of sado masochistic tentacles as his sacrament, as funnily for Romantic me, I found the bloated Godfather esque pastiche of the mass as heinous, the mere left behind cross of the local goy thing episcopalism who were friends with my father to be worse. I had no early love of Jew Baby Jesus and his platitudes stolen from Roman Senators’ who died without coming back, the way a Roman or a man would, and his bloody splintery revelations of eventually rendering unto Caesar told me , even as a boy, this was a man and a conscript father to avoid.

Jesus means nothing in Italy, to the laughing distain of half Jew Catholics like jackal Bill Maher, his greatest fear is someone who believes in all he distains smarter than he, that, and a crack wore who is HIV positive, but as a Jesuit could have told him, when you dance for the devil, don’t be surprised when you spin off a cliff, or words to that effect. So as my over coated, fedora wearing father, who up until now had been my Virgil and beloved by me, took me by the hand and walked me towards as humourless without out honorific building different than the volcanic red church he had introduced me to a few months before, as this was as Greek, and thus, the sum of all spites. This was the Greek church, for whom the Lutheran bells didn’t toll, their strangeness was unremarked by the mad monk, their own strange Achilles toned sacraments like dipping children into salt bathes and ice water as was done by their forbearers to push the soul into the flesh, as seen in Homer, or ,more humanly in the Achilleid, I have mentioned by Statius, was still done, as were other things that Luther didn’t much mention as a good German seeing the Greeks as Irredeemable and parochial Arabs in ways that the Aryan Greeks like to preened they are not. The most Aryan blood as in a unescao survey of eugenics still there, maybe worse now that Doorman Barry is here, shows that the most Aryan Blood in Italy isn’t in the north, still a prerequisite of he shall not be named in February…Hannibal, but is in fact in the Medusa island of salami, Sicily. Ah, the first and the jewel of the salt miens archipelago. So, as I feigned even then, the Greeks high flouting preening, which I noted the moments we walked in, was worse than nothing.

At this Christmas party to whcih my pop and his family had been invited, I was the only person still a schooled child out right in 1970 and so He brought me, as he had known the Patriarch…?, the Primer, the head poser, since they had been Americans, and was friends with the Greeks all of whom in some way seemed related to the local crime consortium and crime families, in ways even I, an Italian was not. Ah, but as I said, my farher was the essence of the stoic Roman, AND TO HIM THE YET TO BE TOTALLY EMBARKED BY JEWS CULTURE OF CRIMINALITY AS BEHIND AND BEYOND HIM. Silly wop, didn’t he know what was brewing in the Jew Hills of Hollywood, …? A rancid Jew bay, slurring and myopic was making a script called Mafia!, …I love the Mad Comics like exclimation point, very Wally Wood, no…? , soon enough to be recanted the Godfather, and was having a hell of a time, getting anyone to be venial enough to make the mafia into out and out La Bohem Mimi’s, as one great moviemaker after the next, Altman, Wise, Peckenpah, even eternal snitch Kazan, passed on the grandiose sachets of Puzo’s play, which would later tell me that everything that unmoved me about Catholicism, Judaism, and especially the white trash who bankrolled the whole thing, was right. This is important, as it was my fathers demand of respect strangely which off put me, but then despite my love of a meaty ankle and a bosom and chicken fat, shmaltz in every way, I have always been too Roman to well insurgent myself with the other American coloreds who take what I love and turn it into Extremis. Perhaps, that my father was short that gave him this constant demand of due notice and respect, I am not sure, but anyway, we had steered into the strange environ of St. Georges, what else…? And we came out of the bright December light into the dark carpeted red and green and stuffiness of the church of those whole who have been ignored as much as anything since the fall of Rome, see Luther above

3. Men who looked more Italian than my father, who was small and brown and like a bantam chicken, all sinewy and tight fists, perhaps explaining his admitted to love to me to read Popeye comics I bought mostly for him, came to us and invitingly called us in. They looked to me, like great Italian actors of that day I loved, here was victor Buono, king Tut from Batman, here was Joseph Bologna who my sister adored as an Italian Sid Caesar, marred of course to an awful yenta Jewish woman--what is point when Italian to marry a Jewish girl…? That I have never gotten. Dom DeLuisese were everywhere soft hearted half Greek Wops, human and funny, all with perfect timing as has been taught in Italy since Plautus, not as a craft, but merely as a way to keep ahead of things.

There behind them was a Greek, all again infinitely more Godfather etcetera looking than my father, the real Italian here, by real of course I mean non Sicilian, but if you think this is racist, it isn’t, as the Sicilian kings, there were of course more than one, the outline of the later commission, haled Hannibal as you’d figure they would, as they helped the invading Americans millennia later, so in a way, when thanksgiving gives us another marathon of the Godfather, I figure the mommies boys of that unhappy island arte getting what they deserves. In spades. Near the door was Father Francis, old friend to the clerics here, Monsignor Fisca, who admired me as a boy, taking my hand and being sure as I was told by many not to become like my brother, who they all decried for a smart ass lack of due respect. I have printed before how he as a boy was closer to my father in sinewy Bantam wheight club figure, more than Rocco Marciano me, who thought there was the dignity in the dago Rope a dope, before later doomed Negros loosed the ropes and their brains at the same time, my brother protector once demanded a priest return a five dollar bill in 1962 to an old woman who had given this priest money …Apostasy! The money as for God. And brandy. Or something. That priest was now a monsignor, who had actually forgone a mission to Rome as a cardinal as why would he be one of 750 Roman senators, the original cardinals, when he could be the big less than red cheese in a town he practically owned, you make the call. Still, the old man, friends with my father and more shady Italians was here, and he petted my head, but saw alacrity in me a spark of Roman adoration, which wash more important to them than even the Boy love that such things had been predicated upon since well, Achilles.

Men who looked like Victor Mature in dotage, ex fighters, were there near some who looked like the wonderful James Coco doing Pirot as he would later in the Neil Simon comedy. They w re all friendly and giving, my father seen as one of them as much as anything, they had all known him this whole century, and he was friends with all of them. I was sat down, after warnings of being too much like my Shaper no bullshit taking brother, and sat at a table with other american ethnicas, including few from my Roman catholic school, a pretty young girl named, what else, Beatrice, a lovely little girl and her stage Jewish mother named CATHERINE, important later to me, and other Greeks I had never seen before. A prince of the city sort, as I said they were all more friendly with my Pop and my brother more than me, were came up to me and had his Greek-American, half Italian charm on usual display, in ways that made my skin crawl. He told me the joke, I would love as an Italian, he figured, about the solider, and its always a soldier then as a reminder of the then not as distant great Punic War, or watch on the Rheine whatever, about the dumb wop who could proudly count to five. I sat there stone face as usual, but my father seated across from me, took off his fedora and shown his white hair that Anderson Popper would have been envious of, and rolled his massive apricot eyes at this. Despite the fact the place was dominated by Brunettes, still me and pop did stick out strangely, he being so old and I, well, being so, what shall I say…Robust…? The kids here all had a wiriness to them, the girls seemed healthier than the boys, all of whom seem thin and pale and gaunt, not like roosters like my father, not like dago thumb breakers like me, but frankly like what the stereotype of Jews is, some almost sickly, McLobvings were everywhere, deviated spetiems, glasses thick and black, long noses and mouthed breathing, but frankly, as opposed to saint Peters, I didn’t feel as detachment or as distanced as I did by the goons at the catholic school, as being with Greeks I was free from the Sicilian creeds and kinds that frankly I have always despised.

This was a different sort and was geminately more able than the goons from which I had been misread this whole fall. Still, I was out of sorts, out of place, and even then in the cold air of those early days year had enough of a Virgilllian heart to distrust gifts when barring Greeks. Ha! I will not forget the Father Saturnalia that each table had a centrepiece, not the coca cola Santa I had seen as a master of the Aristae moon in ways of romance distained and hated by good Arians like Tolkien and Hitler at all, but that this Santa was stern, Greek, which we still call Greeks for the Etruscan word for Cross, so put that together, and a Santa here was thinner, in green and blue even, with I shall never forget the heinousness of every iota, he wore white shoes, white belts, white cap and after Labour day no less! The priests had their cannon laws.

4. As I have placed here, 1970 was a strange time for me. The school was not filled with boys who seemed to be like the fathers, in that, the schoolboy experience was not here, that Jo Rawrings would make good use of, and get her castalo if not in the sky, in Scotland like a steel magnate, showing to what we have sunk. Early on, I noticed a queer in ovo named Albert Curia, who preened his Blond hair at all, and his superiority -- hehe, you wish, faggot,…and too, there was the fat bloated gumba boy, bloated little Kowalski he was, Lomardi the goon, who had already figured niggardly that there was a way out, as if this was a barrio, through sports. He had some in-law of his, some thick knuckleheaded goon fuck I had never seen again, accost me at the lunch hour of the first day of school I recall, telling me,-- I was 5 again to show Sicilian toughness at its best, as he tried to intimidate me by telling me that If I, already bigger and smarter than the axis between Albert and Nickodemus, good lord, thought I was going to play sports, there would be trouble. Especially for my old man, I thought too old and frail to go against the next in the round robin of ethic thick browed men in blue collars and names tagged on greasy shirts who were their still able to throw down and hurl wrenches fathers. This played into my fathers warnings of etched faced into sides of beef that he despised and hated, these Italian Cimmerian Franco American fed monsters as so, throughout school I avoid sports and let this goon have his way, a truly stupid thing to do as I have said, later would hear bout the brothers on fifth avenue giving it to both sissy and gumba, to my delight, boith wops, Scilians again were both prenning and then victims of doilemite, whereas I wonder aloud why no movie of mad man Cattiline. This showing that as the Jews had made sure that the Italians had to go to the back, as they yearned to caret Shumah clerks of ‘the street’ and the banks, the brothers had thought theirs, temples the hairs to Yogis and Markettis long since gone.

So it was strange time, and sagely dutiful to the winsome creed of the father, I went through all which I thought I had to go through, not admitting to a love of the Cowboys, as Nick saw this as personal assault, you see, and just allowed myself to not play ball at all, averred of what some Goon wop was going to do to a frail, and in my eyes, ancient father, who looked like Dante, who I even at 5 felt I had to protect in the Romans ways, more than he would protect me, and so never told him of the warning given to me by some fat Sicilian Lombard, looking back I think of what a fool I was to believe anything said to me by theses Sicilian thieves, though to be fair knew they would kill another Italian for slights that they would willingly take from white men, so my appihendtion wasn’t without merit. Like the equally worthless niggers, the Sicilians are, as the Romans thought, born snitching. What happened to the black girl blown away who was almost made a cause celeb by always now despirate and at wits end Praetorains of Slanins and slates and light bulb...? Did Cardinal Imult tell his black beauties and white chicks to back off...? Did she have too much blood alcohol to be a saint in the moor church...? But Travon was bludgeoning someone when he was so beatified, so what was it...you can tell me, I have seen it all before , that is part of my charm.

But worst of all, playing one day with a toe headed kid name Billy, I saw this miscreant take a little cat who had been around, and watched stunned as he took this stray animal and beat it to death, smarmy little crew cut shirtless bitch, into cinder blocks, not far from my house. There really were monsters in the hills as the Romans I had already an affinity for warned, that the forests like the closets were dark and deep and filled with vampires as in Pliny, and worse yet, the mrs vampires, who used and were used by them for suburban place and who frankly were attracted to their lugubrious power. Just as I had heard that Albert was some thing of a sexual predator among the boys, this cruel fuck killed a creature for the fun, and I, already of Jesuit at heart, and realizing the words unindicted co conspirator was something only women and house Jews could understand, felt implicit and said nothing again, which I took as noble surrounded by Sicilian trash who if they speak at all are ratting someone out, as the less feeble at high art Romans said. So, I was already made a bit skittish by these goofballs, and thought then of the world somewhere out there, as was said by the already I noticed hated by black swaddled purists, as I could tell even them thinking of the tomorrow world of 2000, like Conan O Brien or Adam Strange, as a sadness came over me that very day, that the world of 1970 was slipping away fast. Soon enough those priests would be dead and gone, my father advanced age did bother me, as I admit his agedness and grandfatherly ways embarrassed me.

5. A Pretty girl, who had the look of a Kimberly Guilfoyle came up to us, in a Christmassy outfit, not quite an elf-- but Elfish. She was pretty with a Greek look, NOT to sound like Puzo, BUT in that she as white skinned, big eyed, thick lipped, and dark mane of hair. Her smile intoxicated me as a first of many Beatrice’s that enflamed me. We spoke and all had fun as the Primate of the church [?] looked over all of this, as I recall, a fat blond--I immediately hated them all seeing THEM ALL as Lamebrain savages--, was stead there back in his chair rocking, reminiscing how a snake would try to make himself look bigger like a snake at mongoose, that most Italian of stories I have recalled in AR. To show the Italians love of egging on and vendettas even the last thing to escape the bag of Thalnia, the Etruscan-Roman Pandora, who allows the snakes to inhabit there breach, is in fact, the mongoose always willing to kill them. He seemed to be um amused by anything, looking like local Radio blabbermouth Mike Pinteck, a real bloated blow hard, or better still, Harlan Ellison. I mean I love Harlan, but…you know. He had white blond hair, glasses on a string, always a giveaway to me, and I had asked if my father thus I were related to these Greek people. Unasked and yet needing to give his reaction to this, the fat blond man had said with outpour, “No, boy, THIS is a Greek church…we don’t have no Wop blood here.”

This was said somehow because my very being there, was somehow an anathema to this fat Greek, as I was something bothering him, again to show the touchy guys at their ethic best was a five year old with a seventy year old man. American Hokum at best. But what bothered me most was my father reaction to this human growth.

The place was amazingly quiet, the Kimberly looking girl had a look of toothy distress on her face. As I SAID, half the Greek creatures in this room were related if not to me, worse than that, to the Mandarino family, they wished they had anyone as decent as Me in their fagot slave ship called Greek orthodoxy, these people shithole to the beloved Aquinas in ways that their frienimies as the Lutherans, are merely dismissive. The man who looked like James Coco as Hercule Pirot was aghast, as the papal looking vestment man called out  what the hell is wrong with you, to the fat fuck. Ah, someone has never heard of Magna Grecia, I said a first time, eliciting a laugh that was life changing to me, an an elixir of ambrosia better than any mere admiration I had gotten before. My father though, always the stoic, always the stick in the mud, got up and gestured to me, he was leaving. The men who all looked more Italian than not were upset and told him not to, but he did and gestured for me to leave. The pretty green dressed girl, probably fifteen then, waved goodbye and I was sad to leave her, as beauty, at least this type has a calming, soothing effect of healing bettering than the effects of enriched uranium called blond.

We walked out of the granite, a perfect choice church, as I figured being called lower by a Greek does have a hassle of irony connected to it that could make my father angry. Like women who founded the Planned parenthood, there love of their peculiar barbarian race of superiority they tell themselves lest they fall back into tree dwelling, never has any of those Susan B schoolmarms open their thighs, to pop another supreme out, as has been the case in dark languid cold Milan since Roman times. Their Greek love of superego, well , this was the beginning, wasn’t it, caused them to drown children of their own race, as sometime you take that shit seriously, and thus have to drown kiddies in toilet bowls so as their souls aimless wander forever, and Abortion escapisms a Eucharist. Then after 2000 years you get men who look like James Coco. And now, a city of 7 million in Athens goes bankrupt as does Detroit as circulation of money, named for a Roman goddess, is affine art as The Romans taught us all.

6. My father took my hand, but I took it away. I was a smart kid, but a bitchy one too, because of it. Unlike little Billie’s here and there I had no desire to impose my will on anyone, as found a truly Roman ethic as they are distorted into communists by Grouchos on cable, looking for anyone who will pay them to stare blankly in the camera. I hadn’t seen this sort of dismissal yet, as this was before the Godfather and Martin dear was a young sorcerers apprentice learning his black arts. Into the cold we went, though things were different. Now forever. I found my fathers preening to be more heinous than anything that fat Greek had said, as after all, a part of me, that lover of the road of least resistance to which I have always given in thought, who cares what You think, as even then I had an italic Machiavellian understanding of second person meaning literally Not me, and therefore at the crux of things, unimportant. The lovely Greek girl came out and gave me a small box with a batMobile in it, as a gift given to all the children and gave my father a saran wrapped Christmas plate with these strange foods I had never seen before, everything fried and packed in powdered sugar. She said this was for us, and she was sorry about what happened and said he was always welcome in the Greek church, but I fumed and was ver shvitzed.

I stood there, as he took my hand, but I didn’t let it stay there and walked a bit off, as we went through town. I was quiet and he knew as much bundled up and he smiled at the Greek Athena, she was tall but broad, busty and long legged, the epitome of the Tony girl, seen early and seen soon. I, course loved the Batman reruns each day and took hold of the batmoble graciously, but saw my father give his crooked smile, he was unused to smiling, at the girl, somehow thinking he had done something noble and worthwhile while going away. A sad lesson I'd, learned despite myself, which is why maybe I saw it in him and disposed him for it. The word Wop, though allowed as you apply your No Prize N word games, seemed more like a sound effect than anything, but I knew exactly that on some level that was what I was. I had heard Ma call men Quapp, but it meant amazingly, self carried to the point of snob, self appointed and self demanding. Wop. It allows sounded speaking of batman as a kind of pow, bam, one of the funny words they sued during a fight. I resented my father that day and each day after until he died, big tough guy who had to play A soldiers story all his life, not quite thankfully a great santini, god knows, but still too close to that bald dick on everyone loves Raymond for me to admire him at all.

7. We walked through town, as I have placed in my memoir of making Mr. Stupendous, and he said we should buy a Sunday paper at the local Murphy’s still there and as so much soon to fade away. He said if I wanted a Pasquirilli, a comic, cartoons, and I was not devoted enough to my anger to walk home. I walked into the sun drug, steaming hatred for this parent man, who allowed some blond hair bloated queen to allow him to walk off, leaving the party and early Kimberly to these boy Greeks, who if histology was any judge had no reason to find her as appealing as I did, far too ensconced in boy love were these students of Plato. Or Pluto now. I bought four for twenty cents a rag, just to irritate him, mostly Superman, which I had already known he hated, but am a bitch at heart, and he offered as much, though a new magazine called national Lampoon somehow he took from my hand. The word Lampoon has didactical and entomological aspects that my Latin speaking father knew couldn’t be good for a five year old boy as again you’re is a bar bar language which doesn’t understand the full measure of Italian words, like fandango and Senator. I had seen after we left the blond headed Greeks fats and his malevolent kids, as by now the term blond was intractable to me as evil, as it was to the Sabine's, whose walls show only blond as demons, as does the Talmud, but don’t ever mention that to Stossel or any of the others engaged in Jewish welfare, as things are tough enough as it is.

They were kicked out, as I guess they all liked my father and liked me in fact more than the goofballs and the pompous asses of this blond head types family and they all hustled into a green car called a Dodge duster I recall, and slunk away with a bad muffler showing sometimes racisms is hiding something much deeper and darker than he merely that. Or as the parsons told me, a patriot is someone who doesn’t love or isn’t loved by his father, meaning why the Virgilllian scene of Aeneas carrying Anchieses down the hill on his back, as to Roman us, the father is everything, the mater too, as opposed to Jews an Spanish anything’s, who wish deep down, like Greeks that they were somehow like blonds, bad poets and chicken hawks, hatched.

8. I recalled this all in a lucid dream half awake and woke pasimato and sad that I recalled it so vividly out of nowhere. It was early November, but besides lifetime and hallmark Christmas wasn’t yet in full Syrian merchant swing. The next day, in fact, showing I am the auger, me and my brother, who Fathers left and right told me just was not any good, looked up as we were early shopping at the grocers, and he said, with his affability I cant feign though he hates everyone and all leaves me scarred, Hey Phil how are you doing, he said. I looked up. It was Phillip, the now boy man mentioned before, in his Greek pose, black kinky hair, white skin, a male version of Kimberly doppelganger, older but still a vital young-ish man, a boy inspired by Bruce Lee as so many then were to adulate the dragon as a martial artists. Oh look, Kill Bill is on again. Yawwwwwwn. All I know is that Lucian says that Sabine swords, an regent of ancient Chinese invaders to Italy eons before, snapped like twigs in the Roman snows, and were worthless. Still, he walked past us, and smiled, Hey V, he said, to me nothing as usual, as I was always seen as interloper here, but I was quiet as he walked past, dumbfounded to the point my brother said, what are you stunned…?You have known him forever… say hello. But he walked past friendly and noticed my Blue Pentagram of the house of Landry and was stunned himself thinking probably since I hate the stealers I was a fag. But this was the next full day after the recollection so I was silent and just walked away, realising like all augers I could read the winds like none other. With sureness, I wasn’t shocked as I told Keith when Barry fell to 35 percent in the cbs poll as he has, as that is shocking that anyone didn’t see that coming.

It is Saturnalia time again, and I am always schooled when a good cheer or well wishing turns strangely as it does. I sent out some emails to various acquaintances, only to be openly sneered at by some, that usual Merry Christmas as I got from the zoetrope polish starlets when having posted Saturnalia before they could lop it off. Now even Local Jesus freak television admits and admires to Roman saturnalia being Christmas as an eventually, even the new chosen chirpers chaff under Calvin's love of gold, as sorry to tell you but it is to a Roman soldier that Paul wishes to explain to his new Jews what being a Christian and being a man is. Unlike Peter who thought Christ a fulfillment of Jewish cannon, Paul, an axe man laterally and a praetorian knew that without the Romans, its wasnt worth the bother, on a crunching the numbers sort of way.


I really don’t care anymore and maybe only pretended to, at all. Its been ten years since Zoetrope called me clever, as showoff Coppola’s bronze doors become the I see the ads, as a loop played as to give good white folks a day off. You wont really hear the usual white effeminates of slave labour bowl games trash thanksgiving the year, perhaps it has gotten out there, like bullet Bob Hayes not being in the hall of fame, or Tacitus dismay at Jewish bankers , or other things I have brought to the fire, that Thanksgiving was a favourite of a previous lunatic with delusions and words play, Caesar. But this year, too many people are aghast at seeming made to work or that Jewish Christmas comes early this year not later as South park intoned. Wait didn’t I do stop tickling me Elmo like eighteen months ago…? Ah, but I was just glad to see our exempt Juvenal paperboys trash the turgid, phallus smelling game of thrones. But in the words of The great Howard… I NEVER PLAYED THE GAME. So the lectures from those who are the farm teams of the nba would fall even more hollow than usual. And I saw how spooked Baba O Reilly, cog in Obama inc, as much as anyone, was when devoted Foxes decried his book Killing Hercue--oh wait, no one kill Hercules, ah killing Jesus, was called ‘Catholic’ by the Den of antiquity already suspicious of his braying of fairness, and so, like Jews on the payroll, deceit to make sure all knew it was a Roman hating creed, despite his using Roman historians as a bulwark against his usual ham fisted tipsier bullshit, so you are demeaned if you do, etc, etc,…I saw how he had to make sure all the little white trash, his core audience, knew any pre ordering preaching about Roman historians and thus non magical and thus not good enough for the Christers, and so he got on the stick and promised to be a good Irish fuck. Still nursing gripes against Agricola. The darkest age in histories…? Rome…?, not as dark as what harpooned to the Canaanites, Herod, and not as dark as what Plutarch thought of Germans, though along with aliens, H channel has been trying to put his castigation of the middle times between Rome and Florence as a dark age, in womanish quotes.

9. Almost ten years later from this Greek party , as put in TMOMS, a German nun made a cause out of my Roman hero, you see I have dealt with my Oreilleys before and can see their every thought before made, as Laurence Taylor like I can always emerge unblocked. She had used words about a cartoon no less like pagan, so I know what that means, calling in my father no less, who was so defraying and so quiet it made me sick. Go ask Thuggish Lombard to stop raping girls I said, aloud, something not unheard in the Stealers offices. Lately. When she called me a disappointment and Roman trash like all the rest, my father realised whet he had been dealing with as Father Francis now the headmaster, said enough, and that I was not going anywhere after ten years and would be allowed to finish my sentence at St. Pete’s. When I told Audrey how much this hag had bothered me, tearing up a cartoon I had made, not even the best one I had , I felt put upon and vexed, as she had wanted me too, Audrey the Jew woman saw and knew, her skin hardened as a Jew in ways mine was not. I should have , she said, took this to the local dioceses as this nun had no right to call any student of hers trash. Ah, I said, showing the difference between Roman and JEW, that the lawyers still sue Latin for a reason, and I sensed played aggrieved victim and made sure all knew what the head mistresses Sister Gertrude thought of Italians, and thus Romans, as trash, leaving her with a school full of Italians which made her stay unstable as the German interloper I had seen her as since 1975. You know that the man who makes Rome fall doesn’t survive the Calabria from which Romulus and Remus came, this a sad and hateful facet to the racists of kept history, as he is said to have died of an infection as he tries in vain again to Germanly take over Rome, he is said, by those seeing the body as another Hannibal crashes on the Roman spine, infected he was… about Fifty times, especially to the eyes. This after the Lombard’s hid in trees to allow the Vikings safe passage to Rome. I made sure it got out to all the old women in black what the nun of Monza thought of their sons and dead husbands to the point, lets say with me gone, that that didn’t end well.


So, this Holiday scene started with a strange sad recollection, but then as I told someone dismissing “Saturnalia” as sad, that Christmas was only not sad to Atheists, Saturnalia upped Jews with pink tinsel, the fat women they made sure to take perceppios to court with, and Chinese restaurants between them all doing a brisk accounting. I recall that I never spoke Italian for my father again, after I was fluent in at least Calbarese as a boy, as I found it beneath me, American me, as he wished so heartily, which caused him much achita. He tossed the top, not me, as Roman dradle had thee sixes on one side, and thus Venus’s roll and the roller had to take a noogie from the pit boss. Isn’t it funny that a commercial for bottles of Jack speaks of the devils cut, only two years after I mentioned such a thing about Etruscan wine called Kemeter’s fill, the wine kept in the wooden casks, again not taking credit, its just interesting no one mentions these things until after I do, how they catch up is all. My Roman love of the paters was busted that day in the brisk late fall day, as I have told Ma as much, her eyes tearing up and the old lady now ninety telling me my hard assedness was a hateful thing, how much this old man adored his child son, but it means nothing to me. Still, late at night waiting for Brother Olbermann, I sat through a toxic spill called hardly questionable, highly unlikely, highly something, a sports game show filled with just enough salsa that the whiter women aren’t put off by the implied black haired lovelies they intrinsically hate. A black mahn does the bald chick in Ohio players thang, and a spic buffoon named Lepetomaine or something like that giggle like schoolgirls, those closets are dark and deep, as I warn, and in the middle an old spic in short sleeve American retiree, is made clown and foil by the always wincing always Americanised sonny boy. I was taken aback, and thought, no matter what, I could never present my own father as a clown for the white closeted queers of espn, certainly not at those prices, both sentiments an caveat proof positive of my Roman worth.








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