12 April 2013

BRAIN, BRAIN , BRAIN , BRAIN, BRAIN...






WHAT DO YOU WAN DO TONIGHT, HILLARY…?

If I may be so bold, I think I may have put the internet to its greatest and best use ever found by man—as a device to catch old Pinky and the brain cartoons unshown by cartoon networks that revel in shit. And, of course watch old Max Fleisher cartoons of Superman which enthralled me as a kid, even though they were old, then as we weren’t quite the assholes that you sexting free range fagots and whores of now were, thinking that nothing came before Mother avoided the sinks. The abortive country, the nuns told me often, becomes the Nazi country as they would know having left Poland and Rome before the real troubles, and eventual being wanted, a battle cry of Margaret Sanger,--wanted by whom, her…? Yikes!—turns into quickly being engendered as the Greeks, inventors of the cross and the abortion, would kill off misfired babies and some infirmed by not having Blue eyes and the like so important to An acre of women who all look like Jamie Farr. Hey, Sopranos wit is always catching. A long illness time has given away partially to at least a furor and a quickness at work, as again I can see things as innocuous as Mad Men as a slap in my face, I have that power, as can recall that before them was my own Ad Hoc, again like everything I have done with a vitality and a lack of Jewey minded horse shit and connecting guilt ridden-ness, which they seem to think equals depth. On the grand John Batchelor show, who makes it a point to speak to erudite people who aren’t just repeating what lapsed DJ Rush ahs told them he is to tell them, or worse, the heinous Mark Leh-vin, don’t call me Le-veen, who seems to do the shtick of saying he is in dire straights, as his party gets all that they want. Really, someone should silence him, as he is so overt that just in his pauses he gives the Obama game away, more than he should. On here, an accented scholar, not an Italian accent god knows, was trying to blame Tacitus for the third Reich. A nice try, but Tacitus, again I am gaining more admiration for him lately as reread his sad accounts of the cutting of masters of linguistics throats from which I gleaned, as I glean a lot more than I know, Canniolinus, as they were killed by Tyberius, his villain and were thrown into the Tyber. You’d think even a German would read enough of the surrounding works to know that the fascia always starts to fray and snap at the wrong times. Still only John would be so erudite as to devote an hour to Tacitus, not an obvious or often thing seen in Springer land. A cartoon company was interested in my Machiavelli in Love script, based on the Italian wonderful fairy tale Stone soup, but made a point to relay to me that my blog is, you see, hateful and bigoted and anté Semitic and all the rest, and I proceed to take the query and with some cuts like a Moyle, send it off to another company, as that is the point, isn’t it. The New York girl who liked me more than any white girls who thinks themselves keepers of the flame, told me, or I gleaned it, that I take too much time and effort with posts. Imagine that, and should just write column like stream of consciousness things. I will be taking a break until May Day, a holiday that Marx, sorry Hillary and you gals, who was a Roman Buff, got from the motherland, as he did Land redistribution and the hammer and the sickle. But to put things in perspective I guess, I will go back to long winding yellow woods of golden roads posts soon enough, as wait to hear back evasively from a comic book outlet, or not, a slight admiration to Roger Ebert, who though I said of him he had lost his voice because of using it to praise Martin too much, an ancient idea, what of mine is not…?,  and not without academic heft, yet, he never censored me, and in fact wrote back a few times,  perhaps getting his admiration,  poor fellow, when in response to a snerd who acted as if my discredit of Martin’s showed my lack of cinematic idealism, I SAID, MERELY, I am a river to my people. Lean will always out do greasy gumbas who lurch and sneer on command, as Soreeasy, Steppen Fetchetti, knows, as he did censor me for no worse thing than comparing his awful work to that of Nathanial Hawthorn. You make the call, which was worse. As some high yellow black abortionist swings in the wind alone and unsung, I told you all Niggardalia was over, kids, as black others are given million dollar bails because they cheated, as opposed to White Bellicheck, as the patricians don’t strike back, as much as keep calm, I know that this was the country that the Jesuits made me skittish about. The good-looking gals of fox think that not noting this nigger who loves blood is cleverness. Oh, no sir, it’s their usual cowardice, only old Kate having said peep. They aren’t, as Livy would say, paid for what they say as much as…I looked up a clip as am want to now, where a Russian actor was smothered in his own blood by a porcine actor who did his duty as a Wop wishing to get aheads, who wanted to work, as cha cha would say, and all I could think of, before having seen enough, it made me as squeamish as did the mob wives, all I could think of was the fact that in Big Bertha and the mafia cops I used comfortably numb, and I must somehow save that great song from the minstrel shows.