20 February 2013

IF WE CIRCUITS HAVE OFFENDED….




I am sorry about any pushiness on my part, as keep getting a page that turns white when I try to post anything. Still I must show that two years ago saw where we were headed with Ed Schlitz as a Sejanus, as eventually even the sacred words of Roma are trashed as everything is. I do think it is funny that the one time Erkle actually did something without strings, sequestration, the Latin abounds when one is an illiterate, attached he might have sowed the seeds of his own destruction, showing again, once thou start capitulating you have to keep at it. Too Jesuit...?

Personally I have been busily reworking the chapter of Ancient Romance, called the Life of Canniolinus, a perfect noble backdrop for the sorts of nimrods that this nation comes up with, using the backdrop of a failed senate long before this one. When I was a boy, the priests taught me well that there was a sadness to the Romans, that this toilet nation couldn’t touch, and I am trying to endorser that in my booklet here to be offered up on smashwords as an addendum for free--sorry I just had a mini stroke--, but again I know what I am doing, as I can make vestals better than any two bit nigger queens with gubs, who like the earlier sopranos cant get off the snowy mountain, showing again I might have been on to something. The 2000, not kidding, page views each month that I engendered in late 2012 seem gone now as have stalled back into the 700s, more or less, fine by me. And, as I have spent a few days with computer travails again, someone seed fit to castigate me that my blog came up when the words “Obama, half breed nigger” were placed by her in the computer and going to stats, a struggle as what isn’t on this box anymore, saw that I got 22 page views just by that. In that being Jesuit trained don’t trust when a gloss of decency is packed upon the venial and the political, especially by the GE boys of the chorus, so much is for sure, as on Charlie Rose saw the heinous Tony Kushner, the bloated transvestite who wrote Lincoln, who has to now apologise for his hagiography, though God knows that this dying Yenta who seems to be changeling a bad John Tutoro imitation dint take it on the chin as did FATHER GORE, who dared mention that perhaps before the transfiguration at fords theatre that Lincoln was a just an Augustus admiring lover of empire and a Politician to boot. Augustus has been since sanitised into Percales, an uncared for Shakespeare play, as his crimes were done in Africa and Sicily and thus in mob wives land, unimportant.[Bering a shmrat ass, I used to think I knew, to white women achita, what play it carefully was that Tony-boy stole his angel out of, though as I SAID, BEING ROMAN, it wasn't Meryl Streep, who I don't dislike, but still, as signora fortuna, I don't think so...,and she didn't come to see self hated Jew Roy Cohn, who was evil to twinkle toes in ways that first chair advocate to Senator McCarthy, kid brother rfk was not. But having had enough Jim and Cokes and gave up enough that I dint recall what Terrence play that was. Maybe it was all of them.--edit]






If this was meant to bother me it did not, as I said, my grandma was no jay hawk, and though that is a punch line, like most punch lines it is true. Or True enough. I recalled here as a little boy, being hand held by my pop who walked me downtown, and some fat monstrous Pollock woman telling him as a dark skinned Italian to go back where he had come from, this pollock seeing America as a lateral recreation of Warsaw, insert joke here. Or maybe all in all its more an recitation of Dachau. Again, Bammo is no Wendy Fiore when it comes to gathering eyeballs, or anything else, now that I think of it. This was to upset me as the caterwauling of white women, like the page views have gone down as I have treaded to Ancient Romances, and the life of a true martyr to the state, not fooling, like Kemeter I put a lot of my blarney in this, but too found just enough to ignite things too, and you know things are sad when housers start killing folks because they cant get the sort of tin praetorian Sejanus badge that white women have been giving Sicilians and injuns for millennia, as honorarium, that’s bribes to Obama, and his ilk, are everything. I have had a nice time away from face book, and the computer more or less, as have been trying my hand at the sort of Sallust like writing I have been enamoured since Christmas 1974, when those fairies in black, seeing their own aids up deimise as much as anything, told me to keep the tatters of all thing Roman sacred. I almost emailed the white woman back, well, Hun, why are you goggling "Obama half breed nigger" at all, and my keyword brining me 34 views was 'killed after standing behind Obama', in this last week, showing perhaps people are figuring again, I knew what I was talking about when I called Bammy Darius, unable to keep his blue flags of Persia from falling to Alexandrian queer fire.


On the net, some have remarked to me that Jingo unchained, a post for which my first 7 day dismissal from face book took place in Saturnalia, --one can only hope the sec isn’t so circumspect, --seems to reflect much of the four swell guys disliked Roman Mythology. Down to the bounty hunter ally of Jingo being a dentist, like Imperial Vito was in Patavium, as they try to save Clementine from the roost of the mafia don-plantation owner, Philip in RM owned a candy store-bakery based on a place called Gabe’s when I was a kid, and was called in the book Candyman. But then Brutus was a banker and not an honourable man. To quote Calvino about Shakespeare, concerning Tarantino, he steals from giants and always gets it wrong anyway.



But I was taken at how much better the mad dash of house negro praetorian wannabe smiler with a gun Dorfman or whatever Fat Albert name was. seemed to mirror a book I did a few years back called Big Bertha and the mafia cops. It down to Marius the mad man having a vendetta against the police and killing cops leavening inspector Beggillimini with a few loual cops, as the corrupt sergeant took a pretty waitress hostage. In the end, ala Hannibal and Scipio, happy black history month yall, the derailed cop asked whey so embay cops as corrupt as he, ran to help Ennius, the inspector and not him who as a brother in crime and bribes. As the inceptor tells him, I think rightly in one of my best scenes, no Italian worth his slay actually likes the mafia or their on the pad cops, and when push came to shove, they died with noble decent and incorruptible Ennius, no one will die or go to jail or kill for Marius’ right to be a tin badge holding gelding, praetorian guard who hashed out. I know one thing, maybe the lapd had a point when Fat Albert was crashing into call those cares into walls, a bit jittery are we Cattiline, …? Or wait,  was he was more of a Spartacus, tiger type. Ouch. All he had to do was steal a car, hot wire it and slowly go off the mountain with a three day beard and a coming in afro, and slip into absurdity if not the happiest place in the world, Tijuana Mexico, But insted was slamming into trees like Sonny Bono. What are you, in the free Poland movement…? You from the Polish wing of al Kida, tough guy…?



But what told me again I am correct again, as on a right side of things, as as the winds whoop in sequestration, as the media starts to turn, lest king of sequestration, don’t sue the Latin if you cant do the time, bub!, bring them all down, I posted to Bill Clinton’s page knowing he is up to something, as chess piece Carvel the ice cream man was sent out in the Wait until dark his entire life has been. Again posting is tight, and the three computers I thought I had turned out to be two burned out husks and a nice HP which is not pimped out as it ought to be, and I packed a link for Veronica, a part of Ancient Romance: life of Canniolinus, to Bill Clinton's page. But by fate, the picture that was posted in the link, as always a small picture of mine is, wasn’t the Sabine helmet, which I am sure would be admirable to Brother Bill, but instead was a picture of a winking Wendy Fiore, divine she as signora Fortuna, against another Italianate like image that could reach the innards of Clinton the man in ways all could understand. There she was smiling and winking as if the Turan of the book to the man who deep down still wishes to set fire to the senate in a Cattiline and not Spartacus way. It seems as I have actually heard someone on Chicago radio sneer at Showtime and their show about Spartacus, amusing how low he has fallen as now sanely the people start grumbling about YOUR imperia, do not listen that man!--, as being a low brow and a hero, now beneath contempt, as he was when the Jesuits despised him and anyone who thought the Romans fresh from Veii city where 50, 000 people were killed for the crime of being in Roman ways, that they’d be stumped by this, you haven’t read Sallust, then, and this moment like seeing Wendy winking on Bill Clinton’s page as if somewhere some woodland critters of Ovid now in the circuitries got the joke, it all made me laugh.





15 February 2013

VERONICA..




I have tired of anything political, as the last straw might have been Rachel descrying anyone saying something about a palatial appointee whom she herself had been hectoring with her lesbian  charm before the quickly sent fax. At night will watch movies cartoons, anything BUT THIS POLITICAL HORSE SHIT, as I think a man who gains power and then appoints fag hater Jew hater, men who hide 56 large in Caribbean bank accounts, boy you are a democrat!, and sends out pictures so he can show us his big gun is going to fall of its own incompetent weight. That picture of saint Julian anteing the birds sure came out quicker than any constitutionally mandated birth certificate no...? Its been hard times lately at GE theatre what with them having to avoid the word Drones, as that is what happens when the socialists are owned by the war consortiums, that Cato and general Eisenhower warned the peons about, and now, like Cicero have to avoid talk of a mad man fat Albert who was crazy enough to catch Boston Charlie and think it made sense. And then I heard fatso Eddie kiss me goodnight Schlitz speak of Benghazi as a farce, showing again you like your beloved nigger don’t know  a Latin word you wont demean just by its sue as Tacitus said of Germans who dared speak his beloved Latin tongue, it unnerved him so. This as written around my birthday August 2 2010 and I think got a like from Keith Olbermann, no less, as I believe was one of my posts which girt him to affably start saying good night good luck and good news tomorrow like dufus Pittsburgh drunkard newsman Bill Burns. Try getting something that affable and delightful from Ed there is a fistfight in the Bronx Shutl--szzzie.

We are surrounded by the true believers, as Machiavelli demeaned them, meaning their devotion is for sale, and no matter what they spoke of vile and hateful last year, from drone strikes to camen island tax shelters, to fag haters to guns, all is quieted when they do it, a recipe for disaster then and now, as eventually the people to whom you bellow will ask, and they shall ask, what excatly is your point. And then all they are left with is a canceled check. I said we had reached the Augustan history portion of our program and again was too Romantic for the room, but then I know what seventies faggots Jesuit thought of housewives, an anathema to the double stuff Oreo eating women of Valkyrie now. Life is a Tarantino movie, old chum, sadly enough. I know when I go big, roman big, Boston Charley wont be my Marc Antony, I wont be needing any house niggers of TV land to back track, calling someone who killed Asian girls and terrorized maids a superhero. Maybe Batman. I would kill them first, and packed Rachel dear in a cage, where she shall dance fer her 'daddy'. NPR wont Spartacus me, always a bad sign when we are all anything, as i would blow them up and show them not only the dark sides of valentine day, and they mean dark, MELISSA, and they'd be on lock down, as their befuddled pussy queen now at Forty three percent again, with Christie amazed at the lack of good graces, is mugging with a gun for the camera, sho nuff!









LIFE OF CANNIOLINUS,

VERONICA.

6. So with this Romantic thought of war, and the scar on his face which set him off as a man who had been upon the ramparts himself and not some fraud as we saw all the other merry teachers of war and poeticas, in Canniolinus we found that sort of adult we had yearend for, someone who it seemed had not completely become a ward to the state in all things. He was sombre, yet affable, a hung head, but was not cruel not oppressive as were some. He adored the theatre and the poetics of the saturnine past, but he was not overt about it not effeminately urbane. He did not have always to top each joke heard as do some, and was witty with an aside that could be cutting to them occasionally, who felt wit as something never to be used to at them. I recall when I was allowed entrance into his cadre of boys and some girls who were tom boyish and or started to reveal themselves as lovely, as I SAW THE first girl who enraptured me, the first girl who stole my heart as no one would, least of all until the later noticed and targeted beatitude giver herself, Lydia Versalinga. There in the rows of boys and some barefooted girls all sent here by his mentor and his friend Tyberion the prince, was the lovely teenaged gal who all the local boys adored, a divine creature named Veronica.

She was a daughter of the weeds, as we cackled, she a lovely farm girl like in the by now ancient italic road company plays and jokes, and she was novae here and was she something like we boys had never seen before!--Even in those recalled sepia soaked days of your remembered and placed down now for the posterity  that a Tuscan can gain in this muddy earth, the women of Tuscany had become bloated horrid sorts, made a point of their reading of Greek texts, so afraid they were that even their allies, girl armed imps who spoke of noble savages and libertine policy as fetishes as political science, even then, men of means scoured Italay, and Naples for lovely women, leaving the Tuscan hags to their chamber pot levis of warmed over poetry readings and wheight gain.

She was a young woman brought into the Tuscan royal house by Tyberion, Reggie, who had the prerequisite gumption to make old man Fausto, Tarchon the Newest, royal survior of the fall of Mauro, cast aside his own worthless boys to make this pushy hillbilly the prince of Laurentium and thus of all Tuscany, whatever that was. He had seen this vision among the cardinals and the ravens of the bright Italianate roads towards Campania, as I might have said as am in the blue streak of memory as I try to gain and trap each ,memory as if a trap for swifts before they are seen and flit away perhaps never to be seen again, as I make my aviary of recollection, called here a memoir. She was a farm gal, and taller than many, by already emerging as a woman might, and she had caught the streetwise prince’s eye as perhaps more than just a simple concubine, at which he lured had made a harem, as would a Persian duke.







No, we were advised, that Veronica, wither his name for her or her own, who knew, was to be his hand picked candidate for the highest up a woman could go, the mother superior at the church of Janus, where pope Macrus sits now, if not even more than that as his latest queen, when he finally did take over as the king of all Tuscany, not that he was champing at the bait for this, as who needed the headaches, one of the things that made the then king distasteful of his worthless sons, one of whom he had beheaded to makes sure the others got the point, some who now live in poverty as having dispirited the old man king with their lack of scruples, even the very scant one needed when a politician. Tyberion, delightfully corrupt to this day believes in the italic ideal shown even in Rome under Numa, of the constitutional monarchy, as it as best an institution he thinks as man has ever come up with. Expecting perhaps a Romans senator, as he is now, housing his own lack of morals he was first to jump on the Roman barge, buying up whole cascades of Roman plots, and is a senator now, which is as wonderful a worthless job as he can conceive of.

She had come to us fully formed, as though surrounded by the air from a Turan of the Ionian sea, or Venus if you must by now, egad!-still she was quite the imagery to us boys, whom she hovered over in themed adulthood, the perhaps beast flower there of, fifteen or so, as all the rest afterward being decay. I recall as a moppy head little boy, stocky and red skinned as a Tuscan, how I saw her when she first appeared and I thought I had been bowled over by that thing that even the thief Sicilian, who are as all Italians are devotees of Love, call the Tempest, or the thunderclap. Too soon, when the first blush of love is recoiled by the venial and the vulgar and the stayed and the corrupt by brothel men and kitchen women, and love becomes les a quick slice of Epp’s arrow, the strange disfigured son of Turan and her helpmate cherub boy, and more like a wolf in the snow looking for carrion in the wintertime’s, as all becomes pray and preyed upon. Sad. But then I was as a boy knight, being taught the ethics of the noble men of old, so strangely now admired even by the racialism of the street corner who finds themselves surrounded by middlebrow filth, even the lesbian warrior queens of academia grind their canine teeth to themselves, secretly perhaps more than not crying out to Juno for a man to appear on the soldieries bridges.



As, When I first got here, a flood of repentances came to me of her, Veronica, when I saw her newly minted type Portia, the princess of the portico, as she did look the part, as the Rabbi puppet show owner would say of her, and yet now I was old and no matter how beauteous the woman none shall affect me as did that first sight of her when I was  a boy. At a play I was invited to by the still a bit arms length Italia, although Al and I had become fast friends as we had as a senator and a thief criminality in common, Portia played a lovely Neapolitan girl in a love story about the full blood mad flower of teenaged love, a central image to all Italian plays, and it was constantly poo pooed and divisively spoken of by some hag from Turan‘s city Veii, aren’t they all by now; loudly through the play to the point, I, still fresh from the bin, and the flood of accusing I felt at my feet with Inspector Picot’s dogs who I heard in each street and alley I ran down, tired and sadly I got up and socked her in her fat jaw, to a gale of applause. In this part of Italae there is no insult to a Greek.

Such a thing was madness on my part, as the over feathered blue caped cops of the city of Regium could have taken me in, and then what…?, admit I was senator from a busted gulag who came here to what….?, rearm and be the separatist I was balked as being by mad Aquila…? Sheeesh! What was I thinking! Ah but every Italian worth his salt is a master of the literatures of Saturn and so, this boxing of this mother sow’s ear was seen by a laughing cop as no harm done as she seethed away to Imperialus laughter. I felt a need to make a stand for poor Italy, and the lovely actress playing a girl named with no reapportion to the previous tale, Ophelia, and this cow seen a known abortionist of Tuscan girls not far from my ancestral home, in Italay, you take your chances when you deal in blood as a business, that a credo if not a moral no fallen empire has ever seen fit to know.

This sort of woman was the sort who thinks all glory is found in the middle ages, is one who as a teen and a young woman was wall flower or a swine, and must make up for it now. I thought for sure Italia would throw me out, but this seemed to make her less suspicious of me, as she insinuated that such a story is in every personas life, if at all lucky, before Love is decayed into mere contract law, codicil and land deed, as all great things are by men with the souls of clerks and bureaucrats. I can say having been on the aside of the scales where one knows the thumb is spaced as we say of the senate, meaning, we are the ones who capped our thumbs on the pallets of bronze, which Turan does hold as justice, I can say this without fear of contradiction: Avoid the smiling men of the power boys, avoid the pompous and the mean, the self assure and the snide, they are useless and workmen, fed as they are like imperial dogs, their throats clench with the pulling of a strap, they taste for meat, but will take bread if that’s all that is freely offered by the princes, as they life in fear of work, and of black hands in the night.







They are crooners of disaster, smiling beady eyed men of placed and rank, self appointed priests of the city council church, they are heinous and they are a subclass, and avoid them, dear reader with all you are worth, as they like collected birds at a villa feeder scatter when the princes do stomp their feet, or are to feed the hawk holding duke shall use the small swifts to feed his more precious birds of war, as it amazed me how many senators and gallanthomos found it necessary to have a hooded, and thus crushed and made vicious stringed Aquila as a pet to chase away the mice and poor who clotted in filthy shadows on their lots.

Be ware I say sons of Hesperia to this crowd of laughing boys! There is no one they shant destroy when egged on, and not that much, even thyselfs as so devoted they are to power they will even take the plunge into Marcus fire pit of inferno, as some will if they can conceive of themselves art being the Roman Curtis, which is a merest retelling and sanitation with boiling roman water, of their apparatchik myths. Be sure to avoid the living punch and judies, a Umbrian affectation of a child puppet show, strung as they are to the principate as they always are, beware the guests of the praetorian, the two faced prestos of a lower Janus, whose homilies come from less the empyrean and from the recorded mean memory like gutter political mirages, where gossip rules. Beware the boys of empire, dear children, IM A OLD AND BEATEN AND USELESS AND WORTHLESS FOOL, AS I CALL FORTH A CHILDHOOD DIVA, I have nothing lest to bleed ort forget or give out or hide. Now I might be caught and killed by imperial policemen, who am I to now weep for the police state we made Tascna into to avoid the coming Roman wave of red blood stained water…? Who am I toga less now, the toga is seen as prissy symbol of affectation and want and need and hate and power here and so it is unsorted,  cry now for my polluter self…?

I am a Tuscan in the cobblestones of delightful Regium, a city ancient before the first Greek grafter came here trying to spread civilisation in the strange wayward Ulysses patriotism of the émigré. So, in the bright sunwards I see the past, and now in perfect relief as the Romans say. I SAW A herald, one of the sorts I hated even way back when as a senator, the kind we used and abused and who took it well as if political bottoms, a fat ballot stuffing man speaking of ‘farce’ concerning a war ethic and a campaign that the previously mentioned Jewish alderman was rah rah for as they live in fear of Italy falling into the ashes of their truest enemy, no not the Arabs, but the Persians who displease the Jews as all Aryans must for reasons I am, as an Italian, unsure. He called this a farce, showing his lack of erudition, his lack of book learning and his truest veniality and heart of deepest darkens. Any Italian and even any Roman knows, a farce is a light hearted play, and no oen dies in it as much as slapstick can demand, comedy is anathema to death unless as black comedy, and then it is surely not a farce. Learn your letters fat man, learn your arts, black as they are, chubby. Or else do us all a favour and shut up, as I fear you do not know you must, and will when the prince lings you think arte your protectors demand it as such. Italia pops her head in and asks if I would alike a brunch of toasted bread and Jam, a southern Italian affectation of persevered food, berries made into a spread and held in clay pots like pickled fish. I have never seen this before, in always unaware OF RAINY DAYS and thus garbage spewing Tuscany, and have taken a taste to it. Sure, I say and will leave the pages for now.

 

05 February 2013




I, while lolly gagging about waiting for this super bowl, saw that I have about fifty images of Mister Stupendous drawn on newsprint paper, a paper I told to as disparate souls as Warren Ellis, Jennifer De Guzman, not to drop names, it was drive by graffiti more than anything, and others in the comic verses, that the dismissal of which was the end of the funny book, and I didn't use any of them in the finished piece. They were mostly doubles and overdrafts and left overs, but were mostly stolen from the work of Carlos Pacheco, Wally Wood, Oliver Copiel and Romita, et al. I haven't drawn or really written anything since election day, not doing much of anything, much like Bammo himself, but think my next assignment will be to use these pages and make the prequel to Mister Stupendous, a satire of comics in whole, where the major icons of Fee Cee and Anvil find themselves en mired in corruption, a base world and vulgarity called by me, Kingdom Gone. It was be about the destruction  of Captain Magnus I, by the cabal called comics, as the night Knight and not Uberman is the one who is getting to be so powerful as to be scary, with the coming of Mister Stupendous, like the Virgil golden child, foretold and imminent. I share I think with the great Alan Moore a love of the vulgar, the vapid, the pulpy and the ridiculous, but what's saved me from being another of his dower and dishwater imitators is that deep down unlike him, if I may, as we are both brothers of the Roman snake God Kemeter, I do redeem myself by still holding out hope for a costumed Horatius to appear on the bridge. That, and I wouldn't have trusted DC comics in the first place.

Though I have four reams of Xerox quality 24 lbs paper, two as a Christmas gift, still, I upend a ream of newsprint and wish to make this booklet, only say 48 pages or so, a mere bag of shells to me, a libretto, an overture. It showing the fallen world of 1978, or a world about to fall, as the golden child MS comes to life. In this booklet, Miss Kitty will show a fatiguing quality to her purring evil, Brooklyn born Sly Schwartz based on Jeannette Kahn will witness the killing of Moscone and rethink her star spangled bathing suit life, Rat man will become even more a prick and Rocket man will be convening more Fascist as the day is long, with Anvil supporter comics gonniff Jerome, Gerry the Fairy Liebber shall be trying to find a Hercules of his own, with Norse God Tor, a goy named Larry Macguillicutty  has begun to take his comic book godhood too seriously and starts to think himself Christ like if Christ was you know a German and a Nazi. Yes, if. And of course, a tired old Wellsian falstaff figure, Androclese Krane, tiers out and almost with his dying breath shall create Mister Stupendous, as I recall hearing how devastated  he was when meeting with George Lucas, Welles was horrified to be asked if he would play Obi Wan, at scale.

I thought about posting something every day that I had been banished from the face book kingdom, but then rethought it as... who cares...the credo of my life. Once you are an Empire, when you are surrounded by only those who are incubated of being censored, well then your real problems start.I wonder now god head of the lightbulb empire, does Pharaoh Jimmie recall when house clown Jonny gave the whooppers dispensation telling them yah know yur allwoed to lauff at him, ye know...? hehehehe.  I haven’t seen anything as fraudulent as Bagman O., since well Roethlisberger, and I warned about that one, as Realise he has presided not only over not only a super bowl loss, but then lost to Tebow, that's Tee ee bowww, and last year lost three straight games with last minute interceptions, doing his Romo imitation. So this middle wont hold, and it will collapse, as the Master said the least thing you can do is be devoted to your lies. It seems that when questions are hassled on dear Rachel's show that could have been asked by Cato, i.e., can the president kill a man for any reason, does he have to be given the constitutional right to surrender unto Caesar, or can once he is targeted as an amenity of the state, does that mean all debts are off, Pontius...? God bless America.here come the company jews to explain life on the westest bank. What is a affront to the state, ..?, like a criminal, say rolling his eyes at the triumph, or worse not showing up when Caesar is in full bloom, ...?, he does have all the names of those Democrats who didn't show up, all seventeen million of you, and if he doesn’t you know Ed Schultz can tell him where to get it.The fact that he keeps talking about his 'election apparatus' should have been your first warning. All Politics is intra DIVISONAL--oh I have a million of em. But to be fair as he makes you sell you’re soul for GE's armamentarium to show quid pro quo at its best, he is making legal all the things that Sanctorum said he'd do about contraception, your only Sacramental in this dire age, as GORE VIDAL no less said, as the white man principia and its nigger doorman is hopeful of not totally losing the Catholics. Sometimes it takes run off and cum stains to know it. Ah, but the unasked question is the one that is most important, the fags of Saint Antony taught me, and if I was GE i'd worry less about the perpetual circus of consumerism socialism--who called Fascist! years ago...?,  and worry more about the fact that your economy is shrinking. I AM GLAD THAT IN THIS GOLDEN AGE IS OVER, as I make a better Gore than I do a Truuuman, Id rather be at the warm Tyber than In cold blood, I make a better CC than I do a Jack, I make a better Virgil than I do a Juvenal, after all,--  Teeee bowwww teee eee bow! 

I wish to make this next comic thing, as if still speaking of lost Eden as I perpetually am, I wish to make a comic on such paper as if a Jack Davis aping boy, with sheets of collected images of the great Jim Lee, and am only missing the second sheets and the rough hewn typing paper called apex no longer seemingly available, but then I don't draw as well as I sued to anyway, and am only swiping this all for the fun of it. As I did take unbridge at the White woman who tried to tell me that my placing in the Amazon contest didn't mean anything, and I begged to differ, as it her Alexandria not mine, I am proud to say that in the past few days even without the pricking at faced book to get an audience, which is all as Plautus said, or maybe that was Obama, still, in the past few days cine about January 25th on this graph , 764 views of my page were seen at blogger, and I take a real pride in that. As I became tired of things when lectured to about an essay about CC Beck by Kirby lovers slathered in self consumption about Comics, who had room, they always do, for an essay by some snerd who just now saw the connections between Superman and Jesus. Some of us who aren't cunts, I said back, see the Hercules all Jews have always loved, like Jerry, as they turned of away eventually from Batoned gods. The original title of the libretto prelude, in 1980, The Counterfeit Gods. I like Kingdom Gone better. 

01 February 2013

HE GIVES US ALL HIS LOVE….






24 January 2013

I didn’t watch the inauguration, which like so much while this rein of error has happened seems an insult to the Romans, that they don’t deserve. Like how the Raiders didn’t deserve the tuck rule. How even I think the democrats didn’t deserve Obomo, not really, and how America doesn’t deserve being lectured to about class disparity for Ed Shultz who like Obama, took the occasion of coming heath care and boomerang-ing insurance rates coming to fill their portfolios with Merck stock. Yes, look that up, its true, which means its unspoken, to paraphrase an Italian line, but then, what else is America but the paraphrasing of an Italian Line…?

It turned out that I wasn’t alone, and in fact almost seventy percent fowled my cue, and didn’t catch this monstrosity neither, whose strange shtickle of viciousness and meanness was overshadowed by Sally Hemmings again close to a Jefferson’s bible, lip sinking her bellowing between strange American dreams hoisted and hurled at and of the filthy and the dusty, mixed as it always is with commercials starred in, in which she explains her beauty of a high yellow sort comes of course from the French. There is always in mob wives land an answer that Eileen Ford can get behind, not that it has ever helped the mob wives who, like Mario Junior shall find, are expected from the basic salvation of mixed blood, to the point that always Jews at the times can eagerly call them malottos. I know the niggers and their masters white women rule America, as only 99 percent, remember that number…?, of the Bush Tax cuts have been made an article of faith and packed in perpetuity, no matter what white haired Jews say in the well of the Fallen Roman senate, and that fisa bills were once harangued by Keith and their architects, are suddenly dominate. Trojan horses, the Jesuit saying goes, don’t shit Trojans they shit Greeks.

I couldn’t take this fitting end to the week of fraudulence coming crashing down, this cap stone of the all winking eye that has taken its hold on the American  pyramid, as Lance and Te’o and all the rest as enough of a playhouse ninety for me, as after a while, even in new Sicily, one has to, alas least when Roman blooded as I am, one must ask, does anyone here actually believe any of this shit, I mean any of it…? As eventually, and why the Sicilians are to this day hated by Romans, and eventually dismissed by hbo Jews, it would be lovely,  after a while, to get a straight answer even from an empire of lawyers. So a few thoughts as I take the month of Janus off as holy helped no less by Face book who have given me a good thirty days to sit in the corner and think about what I did when I called the less than transfigured president a coon. Actually it was not a coon I called him, but The Coon, Cartman’s alter ego, always willing to sit on the back of any daemons his ego could conger up, which in a empire without the basic understanding of satire, as Gore knew long back, and now that all are so unnervingly white and holy and above reproach, is lawfully worse.

I couldn’t bring myself to view the little man’s transubstantiation into lamed duck, as he is still seemingly unawares that that is what he is, a pugnacious aspect is slathered on his form, much like the purell needed by the gramophone when with far too Roman, but not Roman enough Fagots, as he has an arabesque displeasure at them, as shared with suspicious Jews at the fagots of empire, as he is sure by now none will ever Virgil it up and or cerate anything more impressive or poetic than a marriage licence--and for the hoped for divorce proceedings as every fagot shall here be expected to be more Henry the 8th than Ovid, which is par for the course.

But as all Narcissus find out, eventually the crowd tires of the small package which he and those like him is, and as if ultimate insult if not schooled to the Roman hating affirmative action house coon, as he looked out to see the bay of filth upon which such men of the people as he lives to serve, and serves to life, he looked out and saw that that number of penitents to the church of the niggardly Son was cut in half in four years, and again, in these same football season, a lacklustre speech--the basic enactments of drama are like politic beyond him too--, as those sails had filled with doldrums stillness and hot wind homily, seemingly eons back, was fooled by due course by milling around by human filth, whose efforts at trying to caterwaul and whoop in up seemed so forced, as that too can tire the listless garbage of the imperial porches. Stories abounded about the fact that retakes had to be taken in the oath of office, it was moved, something that seem to dog him,  lest it conflict with the age of the rousing star Kapernick and the last ride of combating up Ray Ray, and so, with the divisions of fat bloated misquoted ghosts of  Mars--in as an because, the games were the thing and a lustreless inauguration to someone we know hates the Romans like all nigger and Jews do, was not must see television, though its similarities to Seinfeld are striking, as the peacocks last attempt at a hit. Curb your imperialism.

2. I wanted no part of it,  and no part of palatial Atwater-less farce neither, as I suspected both sides have been dispirited, leaving us only with the savage and  the cruel who occasionally pull in their claws, momentarily when faced with Harry the hat doing exactly as he said he wouldn’t, but then what idiot thinks a senator is going to be your hero, after all…those noble knights of old are Gone. Chimes at Midday. See, as I have tired of that buffet to quote the brilliant Machiavelli, and not as a gangster who works for Universal studios might or might not. I took to the games as a good Roman- American, and they were wonderful, a true ending to the week of liars in the month of two-faced  sacredness. First Kapernick showed how one wrenches the starring role worthy of a Hal Prince production, as some, unlike Jerry Jones, captain comeback admires Alex Smith for being a gamer, as was he, but when you have a buck willing and able to run on the Roman fields of stadia, well, even brother Jim takes it, and shows the Romans games are at their heart cruel, or at least cold, or at least utilitarian, and strangely it is seemingly conniving and clever Jerry Jones who wont allow Romo to go away, showing a devotion that is strange, showing again when I lair thinks he is doing honourable work, usually it is clever cowardice, or something worse.

I must say I am filled with resentments, mostly at myself, as I had allowed far too many things to walk on by me, from Georgetown scholarships to lovely tall girls in flip flops and jeans, always afraid, a coward I unromantically am, deep down, and I bubble with recriminations. But, I must think, though am a saint, what had I not listened to the Studs Turkle loving Jesuits, and not cared of the people, and though I had an inkling we were all becoming Sicily anyway, I sometime think looking back, if nothings like Clinton and Obomo could slither their ways to these heights, or lows, imagine what I , armed with Roman arms among the dirt farmer lotharios and the house niggers could have done.

Ah, but I am a romantic, at heart, and each time Lesley ensconced in suburban life calls out to me, each time gay editors admire my work about the pre aids Jesuits now gone, as they actually out there start to wince about marriage as their truest calling, and each time Martin Scorsese does go out of his way to censor a nobody like me, and Rachel Maddow doesn’t even when publicly prodded by fat woman with salami breath, well, I am Victorious in ways a house Coon amid a lessening, less maddening crowd,  or Clinton being caught cruising for ass on the Numa- structure showing to him nothing is more sacred than his own dick, I, Roman Antony am made somehow correct. Only virtually weeks after they attached themselves to the jittery and manic Scorsese, it seems Apple is in free fall, even after having cleansed itself of the commercial where Martin Scorsese shows a Sicilians glee at mussing with a phone that was blowing up in whiter hands at that very time. Ah, we call it the malocchio,  and once you have touched it, no amount of soap gets it off, like say Garlic to be mean, and it seems that Mob wives aint getting the level of audience it had not too long ago, like Obummer, showing my distained father was right after all, and eventually the white trash no matter how much purple silk they get themselves are always aware of their barbaric pasts and have to lord over someone.


3. But then I was taught by Jesuits, and so, cant be blamed. Later in the day though, was a true glorious moment, when Ray Ray and his band of merry destroyers got back to the super bowl, the stealers sitting blue and crying alone as they pare the playbill of third teamers, to return to their Irish catholic self delusions, and Ray Ray finds the glorious road to Laurentium, the Tuscan El dorado, which just hints of made me write my epic as I have, without thought not care of any white trash admirations. And too, have to admit the winter of 2000 helped me jump start things, as I watched Al Gore commit suicide, by falling off a white marble variation of the milvian bridge. It seems that Mr Mind Bellichick has gotten all he deserves, Brady too, as if not Passion, revelation is catching. Tired of him, and Bill Cower stressing a smile about his enemy getting his comeuppance, CBS, not one to fuck with, made him out to be the bigger sin than a mere thief or even a Machiavellian, or even a cheat,  --worst of all, he was a poor sport, and that always can make the thumb come out, even when you win, much less lose. Ta Ta, Belly, as your roads all might lead back to Cleveland, which I hope for you as much as I wished to see Obummer deal with being a lamed duck.

I stopped watching political television when I heard one too many lesbians and fat chicks at Facebook and other troughs, who are never censored as they never have an idea that isn’t seeded in the hothouse that is GE electronics and war consortium, about how Fox news was evil. Well, Fox news is a propaganda mill, as we have had since the Romans days of Your, and the least one can do, Machiavelli said is when lathered in lies dripped in fraudulence, is to at least allow others to have their similar lies, too. It wasn’t so much the taking of PEDs that made Lance seem such a prick, but the ploys of names he kept as if a button man, as if as Nero of all people knew about blood, it disappears and becomes so much gray polluted water, and one becomes addicted to the mere motion of clanging tin. I had enough as the gloom of a less than Roman invocation was made up and niggardly was kept going as best as having the temple crashed by fag hating Chuck Haggle could allow. Now supinely according to Boston Charley twas only the neo cons, his paid for enemy, who were against Chucky…hmnn, I seem to recall Rachel making a point that the fag haters nomination wasn’t going swimmingly,  and then with some tentacle after encyclical on GE stationary come down from the Jack Welch memorial toilet, things were, as if he was, and all was fine. No body here but us vultures. And I thought, no, despite having no admiration of Fox, and them getting the nigger they wanted, still, a propaganda mill is not as evil as say a war profiteer, and I work at and would work for neither, so what else is on…?

4. But the time and tides of men and or at least  cable television have turned against O’Bummer is in slight and savage ways. I knew he wouldn't get the number of the triumph last time, as now, the utilitarian always finds himself surrounded by other utilitarian’s and if you think that that paltry crowd was unspotted by Narcissus, Then, if you don’t know who Narcissus was, an thus a perfect candidate to get a show on MSNBC. It seemed to peeve our always dyspeptic lecturing Hector, he assumed as I said, just in body language, when not tap dancing up imperial stairways, to be visibly upset that he wasn’t seen here as a Godling, as he brought in the sun chariots for a bumpy but alas less then Gobi Landing. Perhaps a murder of crows have taken to flight to bring him down, showing at heart he is more Grimm’s than Aphelius, if not more Hanna Barbara then neither. He sneered and scowled more than not, as when you get all you want you want none of what you get, and he seem at moments of flicking through the channels to seem ver kempt that the adoring crowd had gone away, recalled by the sorts of constantly needing fifth and scum that Caesar would end up eventually start to hate as he , like Romans before, saw the men he had to destroy as better than the trash who showed up at weekday triumphs. Eventually, the Senate starts to hate these free bread niggers, or at least Sicilian darkies, and they start to hate the senate back, Caesar swaddled in hate for both feeling himself as if an Atlas drugged, and the insinuated threat of the bilious filth is appreciated by now the man in stained purple. Oh Look, there is Bill Clinton, proving the Romans shit was even bigger crap than when it comes from me, who at least tries to be occasionally True. He is up to something, that is immutable, but by now, were it me I wouldn’t even bother anymore.






Again, showing that the fates or at least Sundance and cable television has turned on him, instead of preparations being made for Imperial Barbie’s Capitoline dream house, for the garb of triumph on Sunday night, after the victory of the Ravens, and a couple of Lois and Clarks thankfully back at the forties like Phyllis Coats age of vavavoommy Teri in Roz Russell, my gal Friday suits and bantering with Hispanic superman in a light hearted and spunky way, I saw that Sundance was showing a film called Me and Orson Welles.

Like CC Beck, Orson is hated for his genius by the lowered brow film nothings, but alas they cant leave him or his creations alone, as if nothing else, there was something cool about Americana and the world before Jerry signed his rights away, Superman being like Michelangelo, sadly an apogee, the thing that distorted the renaissance out of all recognition and dismantled everything after ward.

Orson here is in the famous rendition of Julius Caesar, inventing Shakespeare in modern dress, for which is like satirical Captain Marvel too winsome an idea not to be disliked by the gutters of comic fags. He is played by an actor who is a voice match to Orson, showing again that Shakespeare actually can sound better without a Larry Olivier hammy wheeze, which explains the dyspepsia of Englishmen and white women like the awful kissing banging sorts. But still, the image of Orson and a black coated Brutus, a Brutus that is at odds not only with Dante, but Machiavelli, Willie’s hero, but with historicity, still, I would have liked to have seen Orson do a film version of this. But was stopped by a slug from Transylvania, with affected English sneer, John Houseman who ostentatiously, and only in America, could say he held the rights to a play written in the 1590s I believe. It would have been nice to have been seen and be a catalogue and something else four Pauline Kale to hate as only a woman could demean the persona who most exampled her own cockeyed womanish theory, by which all of creation had to move. Again Orson knew well, and instead of taking the loftier role of Marc Antony, or the meatier role of Cassius, or the strangely dignified role of Caesar, he knew his spit curl was more attuned with Brutus, who whether republican hero or Dante monster, still, despite his own coin tricks, showed anyone with a modicum of Roman lesions learned well, the last thing one does is full up his praetoria with senators.






I looked for anything other than this satire of Obomo‘s roman priesthood, this the horrid roman stage set up still as it was by Numa, down to which side of the portico the man of people stands at, again, Barry came up small, not knowing his opportune moment, and gave another peritoneal campaign speech, not even attempting the lofty, as his being  thief and a fraud at heart the lofty is almost a sin and a crime. Unlike Mario, whose son seems to be living out his won Roman delusions in the wings as we speak, it seems Barry knows nothing of prose or poetry and instead hopes to do both in mere screed and spreadsheet.

5. He warned boner Bainer that he’d use the inauguration, did I mention that is a Roman word, and thus trashed by the half blood prince, like stimulus or honour or America, as a way to teach the republicans their temerity at not accepting his capitulations with good grace, though you’d think by now he be up to his ass in shylocks and sniggers, a tower of them at GE, you think occasionally he could use rhetoric, now that the burnish bronze of his godly skin has worn off. Someone should have told Jon Meacham that Prometheus was a god too.

I watched a film on Turner, remembered from when I was a kid, called Cold Turkey. This was a brilliant satire from Norman Lear when I was kid, before was staire was outlawed by decree after the more pocket veto which was due to the career of Tina Fey, before all Satire became merest ridicule, its dumpy fat ugly cousin who cant get dates, as Jewry Jonnie at once attacks all goys who don’t think like his masters do, but always leave room to spit polish Newt’s dick on television, to show what life is like inside the Trojan Horse.

It was funny and sarcastic and skewering in ways undone in our sedated days of now, as one woman after the next is devastated by Jewvenal, who can always return to cry on command or more importantly take back anything said about say Calvin Coolidge or another democratic pol who appears to him by way of fax machines groomed at  the Apak purgatory ala Caesar. I remember first seeing this movie on the CBS Friday night movie when I was kid, as it brings back thoughts of third grade and pretty Catherine herself and the first blushes of romantic and Roman thinking.

It turns out I was not the only one, as it would come to the fore that this second inauguration address, this Numan moment washed out, with only the high notes of the spittoon so grandiosity and so over whelmed, and with legged jittering with the thought of keeping his job at RCA, that he compared it to the agreed upon master work of the doleful arts of Lincoln, his second inauguration address. This showing to a thief and a praetorian, the thought of where Pompey sits in even esoterically pantheon is always fungible and always defamed by the use there of. So, sad to think all anyone is talking about in that needed wanted second transfiguration, so Hillarie less then and thus potent and powerful, is a another of the mille vanilli that you negroes, frankly to quote the great Paul Mooney, after all, aren’t you all Mille vanuilli…? As The triumph that he had based his entire life upon, and for the millionth time in history, someone had gotten everything they wanted, and found it still…wanting. It is possible this was what was in Bill Clinton perfected and brilliant mind as revenge all along...? That in fact, the fact that he no longer has anything holding him back, that Obummer now has nothing holding him up…?

The crowd was half the die, sorry size…the ratings for Barry ascending to the haughty golden dome of Cattiline was cut in half. Now, why this is important and why no white trash working for GE will touch this in the pre death hagiography in which they traffic, is that no usual sneering can be done with this turn of events. No, Rachel cant merely sneer mid ninety word sentences--look whose taking!-- at the rednecks and the hillbillies as did Cicero demean those poor who thought there was a champion in Cattiline,--good luck in Barry taking that as a morality play to mirror--as Barrack only seem to be ensconced in the white rose as if beatified Madonna, but when one looks closer, can be seen that this rose of white purity is merely a tempest of bribe envelops, --she cant just with her smirking coven of witches make the point that only They, and Them hate or dismiss or dared hurl invective at the godhead of the light bulb Consortium.

This was a triumph in every way except who stood in the middle of it. That means, this as a rally or a celebration of that party, not the republicans goons for whom he and his pimps seem to personally dance and want respect from.

Ah the turnabout, when all realised those who you had taken for grafted were no longer, unlike Brutus, aware and caring. It is as Roman and the Spanish steps, that eventually, and no while faced Irishman or mole faced sun god hedonist boy faggot on ge theatre knows of it, or if they do only fear it, that eventually that forty seven percent of the filth for whom you have self appointed as heaping power of attorney, the colored and the trash, the fagots and the pimps, the trash that Jewry Jonnie feels such empathy for, as he believes one should treat the help with respect, such is Jewish indulgence, no wait that Tarp, anyway, that great mass of filth that Rachael feels such compassion for should they feel back with votes for her hand picked white woman, that the things have turned, swerved if you’d like, as Romans know they always do. Is this what made Bill Clinton smile so…the student of Plautus, who knew better a comedy tonight than a reality tomorrow, or a salience, as the optics as they say don’t match the incessant bitching, him knowing the difference between farce and epic as a aging school boy seems operatively giddy while Oromo looms with peevish desperate out art more green green grass of Rome than he had been even expectant to see…?

This is the roman question answered Romanly, and now, after four years of tap dancing and giving in as an ethic and a virtue and one too many rallies with white woman during fiscal shenanigan and now talk of guns, well, like mister Sinatra America has a cold, and isn’t in the mood for this today, and they avoided him, --this all on the democratic side, which is why the virulence if not even shocking level of all at MSNBC, excepting for dear Rachel who feels she has a future about writing books about the sayings of Marshall Foch, has become strangely exacerbated. It doesn’t take a Fred Silverman, baby hunnie tootsies, to know that a drop of fifty percent of Nielsen households for the transfiguration of Barouche into a white man, well, that isn’t good, and it isn’t all about birthers and nimrods, the trash and the rural scum, either, as any Roman worth his salt could have told you, long before niggers and their policies of resentment, the first thing the Roman senate tried to do was cleave the poor of the farmland from the poor of the sub urba, lest again as Augustus said, they’d be surrounded.





6. To gild the lily and show my thesis is right, another slimy commercial of the sorts only seen in politics since this nigger showed up, and tap danced into our hearts, and our student of Janus, two face, has been awfully good at demanding admirations if not for his vices, his wanton cowardice, which is never a good idea. And as Machiavelli, divine Italian scholar from which the line of standing on the shoulders of giants was taken by Sir Isaac Newton to explain his own regarding of things already in the public domain, said, Human action has menacing…sorry meaning. And in this commercial of smugness, abortion is made incarnate, and is after all, a black man, their most hoped for audience, as no one would have to tell Sister Barbara, who told me in 1974 that abortion is an Irishman’s dream and scheme, lest their little Rebecca’s, their name for the white chicks they hated worse than did the Jesuit, come home having been impregnated by Rufus in the middle school where they warehouse the white filth and now the collected and stewarded niggers. Sorry, but you don’t own the truth as much as you like to resell it at a mark up.

The negro here is abortion made flesh, the humanisation of the clamps, this is as close as our dower venial vulgar toilet -nation can come to the light elegance of the Ovidian night courtiers, collected and swept behinds the globe theatres wooden door during midsummer night. And he, our Oberon, holds a rose, a symbol used by the anti abortion crowd, like those dread catholic’s Poles and Italians who know how abortion was used by German invaders, as never spoken to. In his being black, abortion when made flesh, is something abortions shares with the central casting Muggers, poverty and Judas Iscariot. Who DAT, WHO DAT THINK THEY CAN GO UP AGAINST ROMAN ANTONY?….SHIT. I saw where beauteous Wendy, whose wanted videos cant work on a one year old Hewlett packer--yearn, do I yearn…?, finally started getting into various model websites and not that fat chick boob sites, but was dammed on one of those titty sites, as being Too Polish, --I think we know what that means, that her massive breasts came from Jewish stock. Oh fagot pel--isse, her name Fiore, Italian for Flower, ironically enough, should say it all about where that figure springs from. As on wickepdia there is a real distaste to admit that perhaps most of the Roman plays of Shakespeare were stolen almost verbatim not from Greek books not yet translated into English, he translated many we are told as he knew Italian…hmnnnn,…but from Machiavelli’s selected discourses, whom he admitted to as a Virgil, to white chicks dismay. Therefore I know thanks to the roman church acutely what you are and what you try to do. Therefore, thanks to Roman lives and being drilled in Ovid since I was a boy by priests, drilled in my Ovid if I was lucky!, I know the aspects of things, this isn’t my first Rodeo, which the Sabine held to Greek dismay eons before nay Cowboy trod the old west, when Italy was the new world. I am convinced and this connived by no one, I know your every trick, and always watch the other hand.

It was an ad as commenced and shown by women who smile long curved pointed joker smiles on unseen  MSNBC--and don’t think there isn’t a Chayefsky quality of the lack of mercy to GE now that they know that Barry cant attract flies anymore a fatiguing quality to evil and all that, as a celebration of abortion. That’s seemed much too much for the white men who have used the wooden Obama to hide within and get to the drones they need so badly, as it was not even spoken of anywhere but Fox, not quite the audience that the sisterhood of the travelling abortion clinic wanted, but alas, all thoughts of Sparta are of war, and if you had read Livy as kids as I wasn’t made to, not even for a grade, never even for extra credit so much as it was the fagots indoctrinating me in to temple of Janus, and that abortion was seen in this, by the white tribunes, as far too scandalous to Andie Poo who twinkles and turns off on command. I am proud to say about Manti Te’o that when I heard this farce start the first words that crossed my burning mind were HE IS QUEER, and now on epsn and daytime boxes of sportscasters start to admit a fatigue to the story now that it has taken a more Spartan less Samoan turn.






But, this commercial which was avoided so on more middlebrow outlets was shown on Fox, the tribunes last chance, and thus is verboten. Still, its very scene is to be noticed, as to these frauds who go too far when they think they aren’t going an inch, fakes and frauds, said it was  a happy occasion this anniversary  of Roe V Wade, a happy thing, showing again Clintonism is catching. The smug is what someone is when they cant be caught dead actually doing something. It is how war is a trip and a joyous thing to Limbaugh, you are quite the same, in that like war, abortion is only fin if one is a chicken hawk, I’m sorry a lesbian who never ahs to have her guts ripped out and or wear a Vespasian style boot.

7. So, I warn as Roman auger I am, once we have reached the Augustan history portion of our programme and the people without jobs and to whom ge shall hurl pennies lest anyone within range ask that they aren’t making a killing by being a war profiteer, that eventually, at least in an empire worth falling, eventually, the people turn on the gamesmanship aspect of it all, and they start to hurl the peanuts back. Sorry, not everyone wants to be tarred with clever respect by Jon Stewart, signing over their power of attorney, to then be allowed to clean his pool and toilets as he smirks worth Sanhedrin sureness he is God beloved, if not Tom Shale’s, neither is worthy of much,  and you be given a turkey at Saturnalia time, as the paternal various of all of this rattiness starts to make the whole the Popularis Romani,  itch and start clamouring for a Cattiline who shall indeed fall, as taking out a myriad of soldiers merely paid by the pig keepers to guard their shit. I saw for a few moments, the eyes of Obummer glisten but with something that had more acidity than mere self adoring tears.

You see the people start to gag on free bread, it is Machiavelli said, usually day old, if one is lucky, as the passavante keep the warm stuff for themselves, especially when Caesar brings in white man senators through the back door, like Cab ready to sing and sing for meal at the cotton club, door, abortion has never been their true sacrament, we are not all lesbians and the duelling death cuts of infanticide and guns caused the senatorial class to festoon themselves with children and flags, lest we know what abortionists and chicken hawks have stolen the republic. Note, as Lincoln has come hep now, though not in the suspicious way of father Gore, which can only be used when dealing with Italian artists like Ariosto or Leonardo, that Lincoln, who would free no one if that’s what it took, never spoke of the Republic, an afflation even MSNBC hoodlums do, but of the union. Well hell it was union, before the Magna Carta, a union is any Kingdome of disparate precincts united behind Numa, it isn’t a republic and even that syphilitic dower weirdo knew enough that his was no Amealius Paulus sort of endevour all. This is the dirty dark dank secret of hero to coons Lincoln, that if one makes sure that the union is everything and not the republic, well then, sir, anything oen does, vetoing haebeus Corpus, any level of Czarism can be acceptable, as its only so much real estate one is hoping to slave, the string around the seven hills as placed by Romulus, still holding a bloody plough, that the union all that matters, a similar thought as aspersed by Mussolini of all people, con le unita fah forza, humnnnn, and if they can just get to that, oh how glorious that haughty temple can shine, as we have taken the side of Cicero in the retreated last struggle of Rome, before things settle into an Augustan rut.

I place this all here as a sign that I brought an end to my book, In this golden age, and frankly and never thought such would happen, Barry has , like he has with America, tired me out, and his small package, in more ways than one, is causing even the fifth to go, feh. May I say I saw this coming, …? As in having had the guts to keep Newt as a devoted standard barer, you might have actually saved your con. Now we hear true numbers and un-Nate silver like number crunching that in fact, rather than gain 800,000 jobs as in November it was said to some apparent eye test failing, that same number was lost in jobs, at least of a union house hold variety, which didn’t matter because Barry never got a majority of white union house holds to vote for him, as they might have gone for Newt, and you might have lost, but too, not to be roman about it, you might have won.

Perhaps I was always more attuned to my father and the Jesuits and the Franciscans and the nuns than I would have believed, for in the same way I think now with the cast of Caesars we have and their cheap bait step men all looking out of the confers of their eyes, all waiting for who falls first, as we have made the poker game our invocation, I think too, that the reason I never put any effort into getting ahead was that I do feel above this all, too good for any of it, as white women seem to think is an insult to me when they hurl it back at me. Perhaps they were right and all these things policies and movies, even books, are all but puppet shows, as that I was to be a Jesuit in their image, but with girls on the side rather than boys, it really didn’t matter to them they didn’t before aids think of the queer order  as a pressure group,  and didn't recruiter queers as they do navy seals. Maybe I was more devoted to them than I thought, and refused to be one of the fools who dance for peanuts‘, who now even the people themselves have tired of the circus, as Juvenal would warn. But then, who was it who spoke of virulent strains of Cholera and serum resistant aids bubbling up in the swamps of Jersey….? Suddenly even on TV land, there are commercials for getting home aids tests, something one would have thought was over before the age of children sexting or has that exacerbated things in our decline, as the woman and niggers never are aware until too late…? Aids tests, hummmm, that’s interesting, as if aids should bloom an awful garden again, and uncle sap having primped the filfth their free drugs, thinking it a perfect way to get the niggers and the white trash divvied from a untied hatred of Tarp, that will make us all see how much they meant or ‘ meant ‘ it, as old yenta Bloomberg starts to horde the aspirin. And you wonder why you end up in camps.

The grinning face of networking at the triumph Senator  Wall street, always one eye open to the Idea of those camps being set up again, smirking and chiselling tells me that I was right and the more Jews one foists into a Roman institution like a Senate, it is heinous, as Roman, by its own heftiness as a loaded word is chock full of corruption. But too, at its best, it is filled to with at last the presumptions and the pretence of decency, like the men transvestites--Roman words abound--who in make up and wig, with the smell of puke and the potato liquor the Sardinians made eons before Mother Russia, can think back wistfully at the lost Eden of Tuscany, subsumed by Romans wishing to wear Italic helmets of feathers, soon enough themselves to be eaten up by Germans in the perpetual games of can you Obama this…? Too many Jews with Roman fashion, too many in the mausoleum you call a senate, as Italians are regulated to niggardly minstrel shows, the stoicism inherent in all things Italian, as supposed to Sicilian,  not on the payroll is gone, and chucks demand tribute from insatiable suspicious and despondent Rachel’s, who must bound out there and jiggle and smirk, in case the steak has been irrevocably burned. Soon enough, it isn’t just Staten island which comes filled with Kirby -ite self premonition, as Jews are great at crying only for themselves, but too, the hidden vigerish of all chosen people and master  races, when one says Chuck Shaman is out for anything,  he is out for Chuck Shumah. And in fact by the end of imperial trough week, Obummer capped in as head of the sec a woman, days after the now infamous frontline show, a woman of course, now he is clever in a zoetrope approved way, Who was personal Consigliere to JP Morgan, and here I thought he was dead, like Caesar, alas prove of my less racist than clannish thesis, Romans really did do this better than you niggers and  our white woman maters, see above, as let lose from current Brunette seeking Spitzer!, comes on Rachel, hoo boy, and with the sad distaste almost close to the Roman recriminations I mean, went all jewey on us and said as his ilk would have to as he plays musical cable shows, that he didn’t have enough information to think out loud what he problem thinks deep down as we all would hearing that the Torquemada of John Gotti, as who is next to be vacated their fourth amendment rights  by crusading bag women and now devastated Rudies, showing that it isn’t the second amendment the gun haters wish to white wash as much s say the 5th, the eighth, as they disallow the right to council,  all such probes the empires change, but the Sicilians remain irrevocably the same.





Who warned that Our Virgin of the perpetual safety was a tissue of lies back in October when Te’o made even me, Romantic me, groaned, I like with Obnama, can smell out a fraud at a thespian space, especially when they are shameless. As then ND was getting every call as the nigger holding NCAA plantation lived in abject fear of another Ohio state blow out. Oh, yes, that was me. And Joe Paterno laughs from the music of the spheres, as espn has found other stories that the oaf and the always dick sucking Jet Jew must ignore, despite my laughs, while Anderson Copper simulates sex with a shrew d lister. Happy New year Petronius! But then,  I am just a wop who talks shit, as a suddenly less vociferous and less antagonist  and less bellowing fat chick said, the sort who now find themselves in the usual position of having to support a pardoner who is about to place one white boy after another in his Imperial gaze, as he sends women to the front while his half breed ilk can watch batman movies, when GE owns all the socialists, marriage and warfare are our only needs and wants, you know, as we are surrounded by Greeks, and men, as problobly hasn’t happened since Barry was amid college experimentation. So what Do I know…? I had a card that gave me ten free ipad downloads, though I don’t and will not have an ipad, still, caught up some Sting, Vivaldi, Raydio, you’re the only I love and yew caint change that, youre the only I need and yew caint change dat, a great song by the indigo girls called Ghost, our faggots used to be our poets at least in Rome before we started getting Max Newmans everywhere, --oh it would have saved Adolph to have just gone after the gypsies and the homos, the lame and the trash and kept the Jews as imperial clowns as they were meant to be since poor passed over Marcus. And it took all day to download Love Reign o’er me, and then found out it was not the divine Who but always swallowing, fronting, Eddie Vetter, a prefect end to inauguration week, but still even they cant screw quadraphonia up…But I have been quoting of all people  the anti Catiline horse trader Cicero who said wisely at the end, when he realized that the bucolic republic he thought he had saved from Catiline had been handed over to men not nearly as not corrupt, that the cabinets ethic of gumption and in fact stealing had given way to Freeware queens who as could be seen in previous dwindling triumphs start to ask for more the screeds and bits and scraps. He said, wisely When the people  are Hungry-- the gods are mute. And one week into the this time i mean it imperia,  the consumer confidence has slipped to a new low. Lord, oh, though those Roman aphorisms do usually end up so correct….