30 January 2014



1. As I am diligently cutting at WLM part iv, I found I had to brake down and buy a honest film sifter and not just use odds and ends I found on various websites that also downloaded weather ads for computer cleanses. Still, I went out and went to Target for the first time in three years and bought a replacement Cheap Vivitar camera to read the disk placed within it as it broke asunder, and too, I liedk being out and about in the Frigidaire airs, the cold revivifying a droopy me. I bought the studio template version of Palladium studios or some such thing, which at 90 bucks---Gaaaah!- was only ninety dollars more than the widows heist I had been already downloading anyway. But 90 dollars...again, --gaahhhhhhh, it hurt, but I did it anyway.

The post holiday weeks has been me at my Jesuit student best, in that I am like them a sponge, no gay jokes please, I cant get away with them not being a good Lutheran or a woman, and I have watched the every click I have made, learning as I go to make this film as professional as I can, as have been sent another yes but, and with it a shit load of instruction to understand what film is when one isn’t a puppet made boy of Hervayy, although these messages and specs creep up again at strange times, just ask our friend Martin S. But any port in a storm, or doldrum for that matter, and I now can keep the film in various ways so then forgo to dismal of a wrong formant is now no longer theirs to pull out of their place and I must now be demeaned face to face about what I say, or have said, which once was a fear of mine, and which now is merest Salvation.

Tasking the day off after down loading, I sat to watch the championship games of my only liked Roman sport of football, made pansy fied in the same ways Roman Wars have, which of precious still leave room to move, if not double bill, and allows for bloody strafing of Pakistani weddings by anti aircraft fire, which somehow the good Spartan cup holders and anti war types never notice as they like good closet everythings cry mercy the showing of war in movies, like the old don aghast at the Sicilian art of puppetry in the sepia soaked godfather, to show us all what is real and as Pilate said, what is truth after all. I had an inkling as a priest of the Maia who is signora Fortunae. As the Romans were more about the femisazaion of things than yous and Jews at fox would so think, I got a hunch that Peyton was going to win, as today didn’t seem like a time that Tom Landry would have to share his numbers with a stoic surly bitch queen stalwart everything caught cheating and somehow with imps always on the look out for heeling positions sued by Eros, so how this time it didn’t matter to rosters of the blood sport crowd, so spake father Costas. Also, I had an inkling that despite being the better team, that Seattle named for injun and King as they dismember any Jersey like Columbus days in Thor loving adulating White utopia, Oh, Seattle, Seattle, like Brooklyn Brooklyn leave me be,., Seattle, land of closet GOP white folks log cabin fags, who aren’t racist in tee least, was going to win as puppeteer Godel would have it no other way. The allowing Seattle to run into the kicker and throw Fred—Kaep-rnick down without the ball, was a dead giveaway. Shazam. But then, Kaepernick, as a adopted child like TEBOW, WAS A FETUS THAT AVOIDED THE VACUUM, and thus the good Seattle white women saw him as the one darkie boy who got away. Even Publishing Ancient Romance myself, just for the due respect for myself, I still having passed 250 pages, still took out a story called the Well about abortion as a weapon sued in magna Gracia by Greek lesbians and queers, the imperialist desire of all, Spartan love amid the barracks, as didn’t want to deal with the hags again. Oh, poor once great Colin, has never looked so much like a Fredo, and they always like their Fredo Corliones, as Road kill and affable corpses.

'beatrice.' Tinkerbelle eqivilant of the Acri Radio Pictures Catello. 1993

2. I was disjointed by rumination of the unromantic aspects of our fix is in game I watched the new Sherlock, which I have discovered lately, and admire and like infinitely more than the lace curtain porno of Downton Abby, which the commie pinkos of PBS, this is the third time at least that a Victorian age drama has captured the fancy of brutish women who tell us how un racist they are as they dream of a wistful time, when even the irish knew their ruddy place. Oh, preface be, they shall as at Asgard sprinkle a few darkies hither and yon to let them feel accepted like the Jews in the golf clubs, but that is funny coming from a society which was having its own Kampfs within recent memory as John Bulls as my father called them yawningly and sneeringly sued to tell him what a credit to his race he was with his willingness to work. My father, among other things, warned me of all things British and Anglican,l as now as they make niggers in helmets and coons at the Abby, he made sure I was to remember that these were the kings of eugenicists, which he labeled the dna queens part of so I wasnt shocked in fact, when the father of DNA turned out to be a hateful Essayist himself, as I recall what the grand dame dowagers and English romanticism you love so much were saying about my father race, and even the tangential Spanish and Jews and even yes Greeks before they had to start a new wing at central casting.

I though do love and watch Sherlock fondly, having read through the stories as out of a Christmas gift ages ago, a collection of author Conan Doyle's massive work. I though am made evocative by the man who stars as Sherlock, an updating infiniily better than the CBS crap which made me think this was going to be awful, as Basil Rathbone hunting Nazis. But the best actor to portray the detective since Jeremy, Benedict , like his name has a air of the Italianate about him, from kinky black hair to lean and hungry look. He actually recalls in me my elder brother as when I was a kid, down to the hair of black ziti, the leanness and the clever sharp mind, which I Wonder can we use such a word now that Coppola thus has made Thugs of us all...? He looks like my brother when I was a kid, and I though not looking like him, I still have a doppelganger in Martin Freeman, Dr Watson, who is chubbier, thicker, slower, always at wits end , and always hurt yet captivated by the tall lean man of seeing around corners. I like this show very much, especially the audacity of bringing in a Machiavellian look alike, no less, to play the villainous Doctor Moriarty, who was brilliant, as I was glad to see this show back, amid the sad soap opera’s beloved by white women and faggots, who seem to want to return to their ages of the grace of no bless oblige, acreage and class discretion as we all go over the less than Victorian falls wrangling barrel because that what a poverty stricken fool must.

I was lazily going through the cable channels as work diligently all day to get the Pinnacle Studios software of digital film editing to work, I studious at software understood and working, as I am at my best Jesuit student mode, and I am open and aware of all click and clacks, all returns and enters as I haven’t been since a student way back when, so I endeavor in the Creation of at least WLM, PART 4, CATTILINE. So over stimulated am I as a student at this curriculum of light and shadows, of this digital process I cleaned up Vunder-girl and Rag comics scripts to send off to a Russian publishing house no less , with ties to china as they look for old line men magazine adventures repertoires of the sort I read in dell and Charleston comics as a boy, like Tarzan and the Phantom, and all things adored by local heroic Dore Duvall. I am cleaning this comic strip book up, as liked the way I wrote before, damnnit, before giving in, and cleaning up and bemoaning credos to my own race, as I liked the pulp,more than poser Quinton does or did. Now, crestfallen, he starts to keep telling us he is leaving film, dont stop him, hes leaving, yes Mongo, we heard you, don’t lest the bloody door hit you in the tuchus, and by bloody I don mean to affect a Bakers street tongue as much as say everything he has touched has been socked in blood in ways even I, with Roman aplomb find, uh, yecchie. As for Quinton I say to paraphrase the great Boccaccio, we have seen his best in Quinton,[Plutarch], when we have seen the least of Sergio Leone. [Dante]. I also like the doing of Vunder-girl Rag, as see a Abe Burroughs new york invoked there and was only going to use this as a script for a Alan Moore like comic, but as I have said, any port in a downpour. I atria word from the eastern Hemisphere, as it makes me feel like Peter Lorre and his fat man hardener Victor Guttman, hummmmhummmmpgh, looking for the stuff that dreams are made of. See, again I must say the dangling word of there appeals to me, as does A apple, in that if Bogart would have said the stuff of which dreams are made it wouldn’t have been remembered for a single day. I like to talk to a man who likes to talk to a man who likes to talk. Yew fahttt stoppid ididot, you peeeeg, To the handsome, and away into Buuuurmmmmma....

3. Looking for something to ease my keyed up mind, neurally I haven’t been is focused since anointted days of creating the casts and the settings I still work at diligently, I see the channels are covered with a house darkie who has played the American game with a relish and a joy that is almost s unseemly. The beats commercial comes on, with our Freudian nightmare, Dr. Goddell's Boy Sherman, which was in the can as they say when he knew he had to liberality sing and or bellow for his supper. I have a pair of beats and their ghetto baseline, as do all baselines adored by masters and servants, I say let the music like food rest and breath from your white love of cleverness and in-stagnation a bit, the base brought to prominence by misunderstanding the Roman idea of the left hand scales in the musicianly dashes they took from the Etruscan, willingly, it is dower and deep and hellish, and echoed in ways that makes me itch. I turned off this wall to wall coverage, as had to wonder why suddenly fan radio hacks who trashed Richie Incognito on the word of a Stanford lawn jokey both sunny literally said boys will be boys, using that get out of indignation for free card, one again not so long after famous prize winners had alums in power get them off, as thou-st hast conquered, Bobby Bowden!. Feh.


So, I saw in turners movies the film from the annas mirabilus of 1973, before our collective falls, the film, The Paper Chase. Bleech, starring pompous tub of guts, Orson hitch tail rider John Houseman. Ah yes the man who thinks producing Citizen Kane was what made it great, of course, when it was the Jewish man at rko would stupidly and naively gave father Orson catre Blanche later Jews and wops like the whiz kids would not give as they mementoed his name as their Virgil, but after all, bidness is bidness. I watched a bit from this film, as Lindsay Wagner was a sophisticated Blond of the sorts that somehow went away just as Maureen Dowd copyrighted the brunette Bimbo for arisings we are still unwary. And there was Kingsfeild, the teacher from hell. As Housemen was a merest Hungarian from Texas, sheesh, played the role of what men who have never known Jesuits thing Jesuits are, or better an even more phony version of the sort of fakery sued by Wm F Bug-eyes, who only would dare to say in lispng whisperers lest eh be heard by the audience to which he glassy eyed played, I adddddooooored Joooolian. No, old Johnny was master of the stagey pompous, here not as bad as it would get as he laden his traits honed over the century sold by the pound like so much bratwurst to even then the jinnning up kleptomania of the republic known as Merrill Lynch Pierce Fenner and Ziggy. They who even then knew that need of a short sellers and feigned erudite shuffle of stage craft as a fake English accent amid the Jordan Belorfts in ovo even then, as young hustlers like likable Kramer was on the street and prowling.

This unnerved me as I did my best Martin Freeman, fumes, stammers,eye rolls, and puckers. I was taken aback by this remembrance of the 1973 days of Saturday comic books and walks to the candy store. I was not impressed by this act, not did I liked the effects on me, as I thought of many of the Jesuits now dead who never acted as if they had the answers so cagey as did he, but were more John McLaughlin types always looking in grafts they made themselves on the fly on scales of Libra of nil to 1000, zero being metaphorical something or other as they always placed their thumbs on the scale when one one was looking, or even if they did. I was off put and had enough of the nutty professor and turned away.

I recalled, with Stanford in the news now as one blowhard darkie with paper after another shows ya and demands his piece of the American blackbirds in a pie, I recalled and have written of it before, of how in 1982 on the strength of a passel of pages of low yellow second sheet, with storyboards and little else, of The Rage of Catiline. I almost wormed my way into the marry halls of Stanford, myself. I was sent a letter saying that I was accepted for Americanization down the field into a then just almost new film department. My mother wanted no part of me going to California as had been there and wasn’t that impressed by the golden back door then, as saw it a burgeoning barrio archipelago, seeing it as less Joe Friday and far too Onion Field at first glance My father though, he was put off by this, as I was to be a scholar, a lawyer, a reader if Virgil and lets say the collected works of Caasavettis twas not his idea of a tome. Looking back I am assailed in my flippant suing of blarney and how I could sue it as an almost catch me if you can way to get access others would dream or yearn or seethe for, perhaps it was a side effect of the affirmative action stance prehistory not yet had Coppola and Scorsese tarred the name of the people of the Renaissance that not yet had I become and clarion clown, apropos not yet had white women found the Italian they had tried to use as pool boys and gigolos handnt yet cleaned them out of mother's silverware, allowing white women to say of them what they hide they say about other especially from themselves, I wont know.

By somehow with mere Bic rollers and crayons and second sheet paper I created opuses and opera dell arte that I cant do on a dare now, perhaps it was a cowardice at work or a mere uncaring attitude I don’t know, but I was offered house darkie status in Stafford eons back, before the leisured caught up to me, and the works of Shakespeare were taken out of all California schools as being Imperial, whilst Hannibal as usual juts doesn’t get mentioned very much. Somehow as still a whiz kid then, and without a shred of film or videotape or anything like that, whereas I was sure that others had sent scads of still physical reels of thin Brown tape, oh how the sprockets holes get into your mashed potatoes and everywhere, as Mel would intoned, how did I, cable and yet mired in fatigue and fear and yes lazy as a Tacitus Roman porch monkey demanding my circuses, how did I so impress the preists of Stanford to be allowed and accepted as a film maker, as a student who would have to actually learn how to make a film physically, but having shown enough ink as at least blueprint that I convinced them I was worth the bother in the program.

How did I, the queen of laisee faire, never backbreaking a sweat get mere cartoons to get Stanford and others to accept me as a possible hollywood boilermaker, when others were covered in Kodak fluids, preening a Copolian love of the anti artifice, or mythical art, of Cinema. Was it that they knew that Orson was right, who Houseman liked to demean as not having read the very books he somehow memorized to be able to perform them....that a knowledge of literature, art, and all the renaissance arts, was more important to film than mere shots, now I heard on Charlie Rose don’t exist anymore, as they did for Stanley Kubrick...? Is it possible I , dare I say as Italian, impressed the provosts of their middlebrow academe before they had to sell out to the trash and garages and make people read that slave shit as to allow for their constituted strip mining of ghettos for bball hoodlums and used thugs who could be as paid in white girls and untreatable Cadillac...? Was my premeditation for Niccolo and Geoffrey worth more than somehow who knew mean streets down pat...? Was I truly a last student at the end of an Americana republic, soon enough to be highjacked by radiographers and Regaintes and men who wish to now deteriorate De Blasio and Cuomo with impunity dare three more cents of every dollar go to the state they have no fear of asking you to die and kill fir as baseball goons get daily shows with the brunettes that amass like murders of crows and truckle at five as opposed to the prime time blond hags and smiling disco hags of Rodger Ailes...? Dare I be that self assured, allowed with some and not with others. Dare I say that as an eighteen year old boy, that to me the paper chase I accreted as less a mad flitting through the commons as it was the decree I have always attempted of posters affixed inappropriate and unacceptably at the wall, graffiti as as Roman an art as as ever been. Also the full brunt of AIDS WASNT KNOWN YET, and I always had a naturalist ally in the fags of then who admired me and my Jesuit leanings, as they actually liked the disdain I had mentioned of priests that film was little more than Italian Puppet show made large. They weren’t all dead yet and replaced by bald men who shriek of marriage vows with their lover Anderson Cooper as beloved television performers yet, and so my slightly shady Machiavellian intoned love of the Roman circus in ways Fellini was not allowed to think of it was intriguing to them, as Scorsese had yet to so leaden the Italian box with his crap he had yet to play the role of Cicero on the stairs bellowing about his importance to all who would hear, as he never understood as I again augured he’d know that the Fisca to some Romans was the only Circus that mattered.




"ITALUS REX."--2011

And then in the night I saw the dying organism known as Apple computer, without its head, who appeared as computer science geek and rival to old school CC Eaton’s IBBM, in MS-1980 as new billionaire Andrew Lemmings, who owned a computer giant called Google, no fooling, I am not lying as had learned that word in 1973 in a book I had kept as a talisman called Splendid Journey, told to read three times what the other wops did, as a antibody the priests thought to the contagion picked up on mean streets, where the filthy didn’t wash their hands, but did their minds. As the commercial that had brought it as a company back from the dead once. In this, filmed on a i pad, as the new Technicolor, I was taken aback, the whole meaning of a good commercial, I am huckster with a liver of gold at heart. see my pre Mad men Ad Hoc, where gin woman and artwork ties were as usual for me celebrated. They are trying now to say what I had heard the COMIC GUY EMETYRUUS, the great Kevin Smith say that a feature could be made on a Iphone if need be and I took him at his word. On this commercial, the voice of principal to me, Robin Williams, a boyhood hero and admired still even now as he is reduced to doing shtick with hang dog house Jews late of new Christine, sadly, still, here he was Poet teacher from the dreaded DEAD POETS SOCIETY, WHICH HAD BEEN thrown in my face as late as 2009 with the making of Mr. Stupendous, where the unreduced catchers, Jesuit and Franciscan and such weren’t shown in either way as Hollywood would so like, and had a mean streak as I could attest to, especially against the girls who had a hyppolyta in then onwards and upwards Fienstein who, and this is literally true, checked on her make up to announce Mosconi was killed by a wayward rogue faggot in a lovers spat, as the collateral damage that wops always are. But too, I did mention I felt bad about the way they were allowed to die on veins and on quilts that white women made to feel ever so good about themselves, their Petronian yardstick to all art. Yes, now Slaonic hags and effeminate queers snitch about war movies, as Obamers was re-elected as with a vendetta mind no better than a Sicilian, and men no longer need to be shot in the back and dumped into the sea to get this coon of coons reelected. Still, taught by nuns even, yes even women who warned me of Irishwomen poring guilt, I would have killed whoever had touched a hair on Ben Laudins head, as did Caesar to the men thinking stupidly that their torture of Pompey would go rewarded, again, none of these Germanic horde leg breakers ever getting the whole imperial joke.


4. The latest film consortium I had air mailed my DVD at, gets back to me, and has as usual a list of demands. I print it and show it to my still sharper than me brother as I can make no sense of any of it. Why he asks slyly, does a work of any art Have to be anything, in any form outside of time and deadline and not allowing porno or dirty words, after that, what is all this,... But he surprises me and says to me, I will with his help reach this deadline at least, and maybe others, as I print the pdfs to send more work, going in for the kill as unromantic Scorsese bleeds on the in land sanded shore as little more than a Canaanite in the way, of a Rich Sanchez or anyone else suck on by good inshore jersey gumba creep Stuart Little, as he will discredit anyone for food and games. We will get the various things they demand done, he says with sureness, as if he sense like I suspect if anything its all burlesque anyway, and they like playing Sam Goldfish moire than even Walt Disney. Well get the vestal and the old man as Roman Lear he says, as by now, too, all the n words and cake bosses and Paternoism has gotten under his skin too.

Still I was caught frozen on a twinight when I was saddened literally by what I had just seen. The house blowhard bawling at target of boy men, Erin Andrews, screeching in her ear with out the least compunction bothered me desperately. Why. I am unsure. I felt worse watching Sherlock than I did that night when The Catch was made by Montana, who all heads up, should Peyton win he will by Fag acclimation and signed off by the sissy Greenbergs, be the greatest of all time, two super-bowls down no less, but then if Kaepernick thought looking like Fredo was going to helm him in a land of byzantine house Negroes with Stanford papers, good luck to you, Colin, or Guido or whatever your name is. I'LL GET you a Lear, my brother said. I think of the eight pager I did of satire of Shakespeare, it only works for me as austere satire no loveable Horace here, King Italius, and the fact Id like to put a resemble facsimile into the film here. How again, with a usual disdain of everything and a baldfaced, what is the word...?, taking for granted--ness, I used small bit of yellow paper to be my own affirmative action, picking locks I only realize now were always allied against me, more so now than then, but picked them I Roman Tony did. Pages sharped by me to a razors edge were sued as a way to slice upon Gordian knots I didn’t realize back then were as entangled as they were. With simple page arowsmithiness, I plunged these pages of ninja star , no better Roman cutlass sharp page within at people not yet as made so Liberal that I would be the decreed arguable nigger for their needs carted to the minstrel shows. How big a pig or self righteous or lazy was I not to have seen that then, or did I, and was I just a coward at heart despite my Instinctual love of the Roman letters. I would see great Italian American Frank Langella, now playing King Lear as an antidote to a holiday run of Twelfth night, all male, making me think of the scene true as rain, where in Cambrian Italy, Greeks doing a similar act, as opposed to Columbus, the Greek imperialists, laughably called democrats, brought not sickness to Italy, ah the reason for the word German Hitler so hated, but brought their unreadable schoolbooks, according to even uppity Cornelius and the boy lovers who wrote them, sob sissies that Aids has left us with nothing but. AH, but the Greeks in drag were booed and lettugaed off the stage by Italians, who even then adored the idea of the Goddess, and in a way invited Drama, or at least the ingenue. He recalculated this all in me to a possessive degree, and too of the Gragantua who was Welles' Lear, elegant and without even beloved Ian’s bombast. And a sadder, older Lear with a return to the men of the soil from Roman roots, yes a comparable like story appears in a book of Roman history, what in Shakespeare don’t after all?,...AND THE STILL HANDSOME ONE TIME DRAULA, with Epiphany and white wiskers said he had grown up, and thought a woman was right who told him to leave people be, and quit invading their personal space for personal gain and quit lying in wait. Ah ha why I hate Richard Sherman, despite his cocksuker contingent at the slave ship now blaming all for his villainy, play the part you chose, or don’t, as Ovid might have said, but quit asking, yes!, quit asking to be admired for your viciousness, because the bean counters you sold your soul too are reading over your contract to brake it. Jesuit Tony smells a rat. Or a Legal Team, as the cocksuckers of ESPN have their minds made up for them by warrant and memo. The earth, or at least America, AS FALLEN AS AM I, REALIZING THE MISTAKES OF ITS PAST, HAS FELL INTO THE CREDO OF SICILAIN HIGHWAY MEN, AND THE SELF PROMOETR IS OUT AND ABOUT, the light touch of me as Italian circus maker and puppeteer is gone, and is our newest paragons of virtue. The Gods of masculinity are now un-impressed by your Spartan stable boys, as Flammnius is said to have said.


I felt bad this January night, where was bloated windbag Berman by the by, isn’t he the keeper of their gold and maroon flame...isn’t Berman their flammen....Hoo Boy! Why did this make me feel bad, as I hate the San Franers, and should have enjoyed this, but did not. A man humiliated people on a field, stars of one of the top four franchises that horrible league uses as much as anything to amuse the circus crowd, besides the fall of Rome love of Concussions. If I were Richie Incognito’s shyster, that’s the first thing I bring up, when is this nigger who is having a blast by the way, who is allowed impunity not given unto hated folks like Richie and Dez, remember our blue streak who heard passion isn’t catching at all...?, when is Mantan suspended for bullying tactics for homophobic emasculating antics on the Colosseum field of play. Why isn’t he suspended....? Oh yes, he's black, and like a Jew is incapable of doing anything illegal immoral or questionable except of course, not showing up on election day where his good white trash Irish drunken masters point to go. AH, Machiavelli, the patron saint of the Franciscans, with a nod to Francis, but the whole reason that niggers are unquestioned and Wikipedia still is suspicious of Politzano and Ludvico Ariosto. I heard sometime how coon on fan radio say gracefully, boys will be boys about Boy Sherman, showing a degree in ethics from the Clinton Foundation. Really that is funny because of something no one saw Dogs of Caesar fail to call Richie all sorts of things, as what they say to a hypocrite is the closest thing they have to decency anyway and so except the same amount of carefulness from you. Ah, but if I may go Anti Stanford Jesuit, a mistake was made indeed by our Millie Vanilli wall banger, when the beats commercial came out within twelve hours, showing again his sanctimonious, as it has been since the Prince was wet, as it is with blacks and Jews, sorry just quoiting Terrance again, no February cup for you darkie, is sold by the pound. That gave it all away, the game was too apparent like father Gore's love of Roman Satire amid the foolish women, showed up the fact that a company signed a stooge you couldn’t literally pick out of a lineup, and how it fish tailed into the exact agreement, sorry Argument, which in our filthy empire of shysters is always interchangeable, that puppet Sherman was making made more than one eyebrow go up at Park Place. In the year of Richie Incognito and fainted distresses at the old names of Cowboy rivals, it appears like Pope Francis vacating cash awards given to Italian boys mothers, both who have been sexual trade since Boccaccio, it appears now that a circuit judge sees that the house of Godel has been low balling men wishing to paid off for their lives given to their shield, something the Romans always did, but again empire costs more money than goy hater Jewish senatore would like to think. Is it possible that I had some deep Italianate sense of things, and the nature thereof, that I was not shocked to see good white boys and closeted barely effeminates who make careers of jokes about their effeminacy, then dare to bitch about gay slurs, ninny in the morning, who breathlessly savaged Richie though as the story went on it was apparent this was not the usual wop gumba that you love so, and as stupidity enough, a mistake I have never allowed, to let white masters tell him to be sicked upon the soft candy ass nigger who thought the Americana dream was being carried aloft by the hot air and sanctimony of white women. Not the first to make that mistake, as Hillary gets her revenge by making President Romo dance and dance and dance away, begging to be adored again. Is IS POSSIBLE That I KNEW SOMEHOW WHAT AMERCAIN WAS GOING TO TURN INTO, AND WANTED NO PART OF BEING ...COMPLICITE IN ANY IF IT. Gidell, bless his heart, was played by an affronting moron with a contract for ghetto ear blasters, now that their previous spokesman Kapernick was uncovered as being Sicilian. AS I WONDER WHY doesn’t bullying matter in public humiliation as it does in word of mouth, as why did the victims of a Scorsese movie only matter not when they were Italians in garbage trucks and thrown into piers or shallow graves dug to sounds of Stax records, if that cool, but listened to only where Jews always looking for that holiest grail of twenty percent return. Why is that..., please I know I can be a prick and a pain, but someone say it please, just say it in the land of the Pyrite door. Roman Sicilia digested at blood level. So, the commercial of Robin for Apple was a moment of respite for what had been a grumbling me, to the point that even my brother saw my disjointedness and told me affably to drop this crud, who gives a shit, go enjoy Masterpiece theater and this Sherlockt. But I was upset to my Roman ciore. I felt bad about more than some tap dancing thug flapping away on gonniffs command. Yesssh. Thumbs down.



21 January 2014



I saw the precise moment when as the Goddell turns restricted up and word was sent to the field that the Seahags had to be paid off for the bad Superbowl they lost to the Stealers, who had to be paid off for the spy gate scandal, as did Peyton, and now, on and on it goes, with a commish who is cowed by a shameless lentil eater reptile man who the ESPN fairies, or as I call them the Greenberges try to obscenely tell us isn’t a lying snitch ass cheater. Keep those eyes peeled for clear though, those niggers in the rank and file cant be trusted you know, but Bellicheck puts the company in company men.

Still, after having abused them all game, I saw the precise moment that as praetors with equal high middleweight yellowtude, a gentle push had to be given to old alleged black qb Wilson, who has been not exactly setting the world on fire as he was carried on ribbons of less yellow rag, as Roethlisberger once was, not that Godlike Godell has ever forgiven him or the Stees for that. Still too high orange woppish Kaeperfuck didn’t stand a chance, and so the die was cast and suddenly calls as happens in Godells America came in micro bursts, which makes him feel less like the wwe has had made the imperial sport. I could sense the turn, suddenly wops from the central office were brought in, to explain why the seagulls keep the ball, but then I am a Machiavellian, that somehow the gods of football had decreed that who better to go up against white bread hero Manning than a good half breed to show on the year of Ritchie that any colored Can make it in the gladiatorial bunkhouse, as they did in ancient Rome, if willing to salute their tamers and too get brain damage. So, aware with Italic antennas almost as good as those bought by the now beaten down Bellicose Bellicheck, gets at the radio shack, and whoso if you ain’t cheatin you ain’t tryin, I snidely saw the turn of events to come, and that a team that had been beating the shit out of the team from good livable lands, ie lots of whites like San Mateeo, was not supposed to win. Welcome to being an Americium's team, Harbaugh. The Romulus and Remus act was last year and isnt cute now, as father Rodger, Rodger the dodger anyone...?, move on toe pay back Manning, and or the Seashells whoever get the paperwork in first. Like every American I like Manning, though doing due indulgence , ESPN queers like Cowturd made sure that his love of Bud Shlubergh like love of selling shit was sued against him, as Cowturd said, he sells Oreo s and Pizza pies, egregious to him, while Brady Inc, like Tigger woods sells Longiens and upper requisite shit to the one percentile and targets the high end costumers,when not targeting, As Tiger did, every waitress and hostess of every Dennys to fuck over as this house coon was clowning out the American dream, sur!

But, then I saw something truly heinous, even or despite or because we love in the Incognito land where you are evil and they are just peachy, again apportioning to who gets the paperwork in first. A dreadful dreadlocked man, a dead giveaway but the way like a dashiki, went all Jim Brown on us , and for tipping a badly thrown pass, undertowed no less, and with the bump and grind, which is allowed to all but Cowboys, it seems, he started going all native on us and prancing around the field like a intoxicant, darkie and Rastafarian all the love long day, ringlets flailing about as not seen since Palamalu or Wonder Woman bondage cartoons of the forties. Turnus here was clomping around madly, really as a Cowboy fan, and thus no fan of the SFers it even bothered even me, for Gods sake, and this negro was stomping around as only seen in unhallowed nigger cartoons of the forties or Pulitzer prize winning plays by August Wilson, which when one thinks of it, are the same thing. THIS BOO, as in going jiggy wid it, started failing around madly, really unseemly, helmet off and prancing around, and having studied ethics under Jim Brown had to taunt the poor wide out who dint even know,as they never do, he was a house nigger all along, and no less soft and queer. Yapping like a Cowboy in the golden age times ten, he then looked at Kapernecik no longer the percipient of bad calls, once it was learned he was a Wop, and thus no longer available for the tears of good millionaires, as who recalls the Sabine women when Mob wives is on, nobody. I watched this for as long until the truly wonderfully entertaining new Sherlock was going to come on as I, even Roman I, was foot balled out, and the day was saved by seeing Tom Landry not be smeared again.

But what I found almost diabolically intriguing was this cow Richard Sherman , self proclaimed sergeant of men, first man, taunting someone in ways no Stealer or Cowboy or Raider ever aught, you know teams with actual following past the suburbs of the their settlements. Then he looked at Kaepernick, and in a Augean Stable where Richie Incognito must be trashed lest someone count up the felonious, in a leauge where women are hit with jack bottles in the face, as we so blatantly worry about the feelings of thin skinned tokens,who look like Obama with glandular problem, In a league where rape is underscored as a perk, taught at the collage game unlike press coverage or sixth grade math, this howling coonskin, on looked a a starting qb and grabbed his own throat with a imminence, which makes me wonder how he spans his Saturday nights with his babys mammas and fat white gals along the road. Oh that will come out soon enough, kids, it will come out, and it didn’t take my man Prime long to say hold up player, what is this brother on brother shit, no body ever heard such things said about the forty niners before. But the 49ers weren’t supposed to win this engagement, not this year, god knows, and on cue some coon named Lamont Hill, he who just adored the cop who lost his mind and started pistol whipping maids and Asian girls, came to this coons side, of cocksure as in America, spiting at men who didn’t spit and you first is the national pastime, more than even football, and on to the Saturnalia Bowl, which I sued eons before Howdee Dowdy as usual turned it into an insult, where I again in Roman mode I wonder what shall happen if the fronting nig berates too hard on Peyton , Oreo seller or not. That poor wide out didn’t feel bad enough, he and they needed this human cartoon to rub it in. But wait weren’t two touchdowns once wiped out in a cowboy game because Miles Austin and Half Witten danced too hard...? Hmnnnnn, Ah, but God will remember your unnecessary Cruelty, its Machiavelli 101 and from which I learned all my ethics. All I know is that 21 would have caught that ball to begin with.

Cornelius Tacitus we about to fall salute you! 

UPDATE: WEH WEH, LOOLIT HERH, seems dat dee massa o de NFL Godell, didn’t realize what eh was gonna get when he had to make sure dat de year o Richie Incognito ended up wid a good Nigga as the face o the funeral games in newest Rome, or at least newest Sicily, New Jersey. Naw sur, he waddnt exacting old coonskin Atrocity Seymour to grab the limelight like dat, naw he wassent, makes him probably think he traded one Ritchie fo another dere, ah dee shame of it all, eh...? No, when the marching orders came out and the refs won day game for Russel Wilson, you know dey always need a hand up and a hand out and slap down if things go bad, why, who would have thought that dee bizaaro Deion wuld shown his Carthaginian head in so Roman of a game...? Oh, if Rodger could only know dat why he wouldn’t have let the sea-hags run innna the punter all the live long day shu nuff! But at least the castrati of ESPN are being told to reform dis nigger unlike wop Richie who had the temerity to ask to be paid and shit, this punk ass Stanford house nigger can take dictation, like all the good coons, can and has been apologizing all day long sur, showing that isn’t of a guy doing acts that every lineman has done since the barracks of Brindisium, fo comradhood, Gladitorial aplomb and team blooding and brotherhood, things the oaf in de morning admitted he did way back, naw sur, the Stanford nigger ain’t got to do nuffin they don’t wnana do, no sur, no Decorum fo dem sur, why dey is educated they is, and soft and playable, thin skinned a credits to their races, why dey can feminize men with slaps on the ass, and then do cutting throat signs with that sniggerin dream, impunity! Ah, but to break the minstrel show act, and quote an Italian genius, impunity only means that eventually you will have to destroy your masters or your masters will have to destroy you. Ask equally high yellow Obama. I said the Prince couldnt hoit. Yeah hes a real Prime huh, why dey done civilized you boy, Or if you a Good nigga like Richie Shanaynay, you hast go on TV all day long and apologize for biting you masters hand. I WONDER IF THEY COULD HAVE KNOWN, if them phantom unnecessary righteousness calls would have rained from the Colosseum sky....oh well....

Id rather be censored as I have been than to be like Scorsese and Seymour and beg for forgiveness for having stepped outta line, shu nuff.

Next: The Paper Chase...

01 January 2014




When presented with the chance to make Spartacus as after the literate and erudite Lean passed on it, Alfred Hitchcock is said to have said, …“a film about Spartacus…? The Jesuits, [who had taught him] would never forgive me. “

So I spend more time making an replicate of an Italian stage seen here, and reading aloud sonnets of mine made to Cattiline, lest the crud of film too much sway me and my intentions. On thanksgiving I saw the station that hurls out the whole Godfather saga, minus interestingly the parts that were always kept out because ghost written by the writer of Chinatown. As I cut at Cattiline, I’m not sure what I want here but know it is something, I asked the question why was that part on Godfather taken out where Fabrizio was shot gunned by a regretful Michael, after all, why of all the bloodletting was that too much for Paramount, anyway…like how no Oreilly or Jew will explain to me if The Romans were so evil why did Jew baby Jesus make sure one of the few words in red where to be render unto Tyberius, as he was being the forerunner to Obama: a man of questionable birth who let the rats and the bankers into the Fisca…? A question unasked, god knows, by the tribunes of the folks. I get a gift in the mail of 750 sheets of woollen paper, at 9 by 12, a tabloid size unaccustomed to. I think as this epic like is shown incessantly this holiday too, of an Alan Moore take on JR RAWRINGS…Harry Potter meets Nigella Lawson…I could do something with that…

As the bloated bilious bags of sanctimony Negros of the American dog keepers start to literally be caught dancing and shucking and jiving from the field of play, I have to noticed that two years ago an Italian assistant coach was shrewd enough to just put a foot on the field to disrupt a runner and oh lawdy be…! all the protestations what did come, what came from our high yellow bald head captains of that slave ship of closets called espn…Oh lawd, why doth dey smythe mine ass, was caterwauled all day long as the beady eyed gonniff and the making copies wop stood by amen--ding all day long. But now that Satchel of clichés Tonmiln is found, like Barry not as spanking clean as the lies they do tell, why the bald man just shakes his head wif a knowing smirk, ho deee dooo-- ho dee golden do, and nuffin wrong wit dat, sur…Why just play harder, is the refrain the men who jumped to conclusion always say showing I am literally too Romantic for this room. Funny, but Incognito has been suspended longer than the Zippy mongoloid loved by dat show shu nuff, for taking co-eds into toilets roofied up. That is what I hate about the American bullshit left, always at the prosecution table till dey caught and den its call in the Jew lawyers what understand dee law. It was all better done in Manzoni, but then what wasn’t…?

The hagiography was thick as peanuts brittle when Mandela died, as I have nothing against him, of course, but the funeral games of self aggrandisement, as if Wolf Blitzer and the ageing CNN pinheads had some hand in his triumph was off putting at best. The sanctimony came hot and heavy and frankly after a while I resented it, of course, as again, the men who the house of Turner decides to sanctify are almost always cleansed and sanitized beyond human recognition, their hatred of the Vatican isn’t mean that they haven’t learned their black arts as best as they can. All I know about Mandela is that I heard someone once demean Joe DiMaggio as thus was kept out of the top ten of baseball players for the century, really,…?, was that Joey D., had to be demerit for his being a one man ‘anti defamation league’ to the wops, and thus was seen as a pejorative, interfering from sportswriters, and Id name him if I was a bicth, he who probably cried at the various hagiography of 42. Like I said, they cant fool me again, but you more at danger nigger and spics should know who you are dealing with after all, as the priests made sure I did. It was somehow to a mark against DiMaggio that he was seen as a …what…?, a An Italian not in the mob, still when Italians wart sending their boys to die and sport for old white fags…? That as a pejorative the men castigating the ballplayer, as if a heinous thing, that these dark people found him to be heroic, and poor DiMaggio actually bought into this shit and lived out a bitter life through the easy to brew cups.


So, I thought I would except myself from the You saw him on TV Requiem mass for Mandela, not meanly or anything like that, juts thought enough. As I recall, that day that Mandela got out of jail, the cbs news cameras went over time as they tried to keep cropping hateful nattiest Arafat out of the picture, but were double whammed when to go to his left, hoping to just get black dancing men, they’d hit the red and gold Romanesque fascia, the hammer and the sickle. I wonder if poor Mandela ever knew it was a roman iconography it was, if that would have made a difference. Arafat had the dastardly qualities to be a champion of people not served so quelled by the Irish thugs who see the dark filth required to them as genetically superior as Chris Mathews sees himself, but not by that much, and thus almost finds nobility to becoming their blue eyed, but not by much, Master. Yassir and his slightly lighter colourds never get to cry freedom, never get to be the poor besotted victims of tyranny, as their suffering is never made into Hollywood fair to allow the circus of cleavage addled Hollywood to feel good about the people who in all other films as usually thence dark criminals, if seen at all, but first to get it from whatever plastic master they still love to show. Who has shown us more incarnate one man bands of hagiography goodness and modern day saints than have the po Blacks, and their Jewish handlers…? Well, someone whose death wont be so noted by dancing black folks, is there anything that cant elicited a number and Paul Simon plagiarised ghetto township dance,…is there ever a money money when dignity can come to the fore and the whopping colourers can possibly shut up and give a sense of dare I say it, gravitas, to something before all, no matter what it so turns into a Vaudeville act…? Dare I bring up Cattiline again, the sadness of and shock of the whole when his slain body was carried in poles through the Roman roads, by the triumphant senate…? Is there ever a moment at which the old strange Italian women are good at and fond of a vestal sadness and quite amid the candelas…? Ah, who cares, I heard from more than one that the marathon of beatification was getting on some nerves, as the at wits end Obammmy decreed a mourning day period of Ten days no less with standard lowered, but then the leanness he has had to go to keep a base that didn’t seem to mind Bill Clinton’s living out his Satiricon pleasures has been at least to my Roman and thus jaundiced eye, revolting. But, on other channels, by the grace of happenstance revealing all, there were two marathons too, one of Shnookie and one of Mob wives, showing business is after all business. Oh Mickey, what a pity you don’t understand…

I Found Mob wives by accident, but saw that anyone actually , you know, endearing or likable at least in my way, was gone, the bloated house frau left as the fulcrum to this dilapidated minstrels show, and of course, the Armenian cow left on. Fat chicks and Armenians …sounds like my prom. Gone was Carla, a fiery bitch, blow hard thick knuckled Sammi the Cow Gravano, having her own trials with the federalis, and of course gone was my girl Ramona, much too pretty and again spunky for the Mob wives tradition, where they just love Drita the coldest thing to a white girl princess, allays ready to dirty her Disney dress or leather pants with the mud and blood and eyeliner of a good cat-fight. At another of their perpetual parties, they Trimilchio it up with out the grace known by Petronius or members of the Clinton entourage, I saw they had all reunited as if straggling banner carriers of the less than Roman war, and I thought, do these women not invite people they have known for years because they have sold out to television, where was Carla or all the others they had known, they are persona non grata now, because somehow the wife of this bloated suburban mob wife rat seems to the pardoners to be so grand and wonderful this close to the park way. Persona non gratas in a coven of Sicilians,…that seems gilding the Lilly to me. 

I received an email from Zoetro--sorry, Tribeca, telling me that my disks had mp4s files on them unscrambled to their dvds. But since I am now circumspect and definite, I told them I would get it back to them ASAP, but thought, this was a gift, a saturnalia miracle to refine and redefine the film as now have it, taking the smart ass parts out to say this time, what I really mean, nigger and yid and fag not withstanding, I don’t often dare to do. Get my cloak and my Cowboy hat, its directin’ time! I have a chance here, maybe on purpose, to get things reframed and redone, though that isn’t a guarantee of anything, if anything just the opposite. I wish to place in the betty boop that brackets Wendy as the last Italian starlet unlooked in a land where the white women have found their fifty shades of Jennifer layered, the going blond Hun, not the smartest thing to do, but you’ll find out. That, When I was a little boy, the older woman who had given the boob boob be doop voice to Betty had taken to selling paper towels with an aged, buts till present playfulness of an old flapper. Also, on second thoughts, the only ones worth having, I would like to say that no matter what queers who make x men do and the white girls too, that the Romans were not the Nazis, and were better not only then them but yes you wonderful niggers and good white girls. Where’s is Rachel by the by, when another girl has been dragged against her will by football thugs, only to be exonerated, as thank God Mandela kicked the bucket as if not epsn might have reasoned that press conference came dangerously close was we play justices for quarterbacks by the cc, that any other dna on this cunt proved she was a who’re, and they all studied law under Mumfredi. Oh, look it up.

It was funny to see the stragglers, professional lamenters, bean and bread paid trash and filth that caterwaul on command out there by the singles, freezing in the nor’easter that befriended them. Id say it gives it all a Dickensian feel that Barry deserves, but I have always like Shakespeare liked a Christmas Carol better in the original Latin and Italian from which it was stolen. When you use an argument only as a devise, signora Fortuna will get even with you, despite both Irishmen and Jews on cable trying to make Santee, saint Nicholas, Pater Saturnalia, Dutch. I got a email from Tribeca asking if i'd send two more copies of wop like me as they cant read the first ones. Ah, I live for second chances, as the Angela’s wink at me, allowing my less clownish less goofball, more severe and honest art to emerge. On some boobie pages where some with taste actually post images of Wendy, sometimes without her permission, but beautify will out in our vomitorium world, I noted some goon paring her images with thoughts of Rape, wishing to demean intimately the girl who with wilfully Italian pride shall not eat crullers while being dp’ed, as they’d so like. I then not having seen her new sets in awhile, and always on the outlook thereof, especially when free, as moments of fleshy solemnity and out and out sexy in our gay wad worlds. I looked up her twitter account to see if the grand Roman goddess was aright, as I wouldn’t have been shocked if not, as this is after all a world where every Connie Francis will be unforgiven for whatever crime she committed, this is the place my father warned me that an Italian if wearing shoes is seen as putting on airs, and I looked her up somewhat sadly for befuddled and enchanted me, to see if she was latest victim of the golden door. But I did see that Quinton Tarantino, Our Mongo, is thinking of given up film, run out of Sergio Leone already…?, so it’s a blessed Saturnalia for us all!

Fixing up the tree, I sat and couldn’t quite watch the Heisman award, this year a plan b as much as anything, as others seemed to lose the award for things like getting hurt, losing to the dread Stanford, the Harvard of the Pac 10, or again the great sin of asking to be paid, leaving a Sleep and eat looking boot who was lucky that Rape and allegations there of have never bother anyone in sports. Luckily for him, this is a mans world, and rape has become now a somehow a politicians weapon, only mentioned as an esoteric ideal, usually to bludgeon republican men who mean no real harm, as opposed to say a quarterback dragging young women into toilets, or as Geraldo is the only one report ting, may have beaten a girl co ed good, before he fucked her supposedly I in front of exculpating witnesses… also on the football team, so how could impeach that sort of iron clad witness. But, as I have said, that slave ship called espn, is full of brothers wanting to get ahead with the usual closet fagots, Jewish embalmers and milk duds, summed to become, as Ma says, Misto, or silent, but with cowardice, like women, when after the hanging of Incognito, an actual slew of felonies came their game shows, highly unquestioning snappy ways. I don’t want to see this, I thought, as an Italian in America I recall when it was open season on Italian women in this country, not so far back, as it was in the Sabine frontier, so don’t ask me to cheer for these niggers who have made it to besieging as cruel and corrupt as their white man Klansman grandfathers, who as I pointed out to the steam of still Hillary uppers in san Francisco, Barry had connection to by way of his up-sizing and acceptable Grandma. Click.

Making DVDs to send to Troma no less, I got a deal on a shit load of them and figured why not do with what I did with cartoons, a willingness to paper walls with them, with these silver little disks, I turned back to see the heinous imagery of slave booty made good was still on, but that a film about Maurice Clarette was coining in soon, thus ran over to catch this. It couldn’t be because anything untoward was asked, maybe a local redneck sheriff would be laughing again, not explaining why it too a year to get through this investigation of someone who was targeted as a nobody, but then, it is funny when things go more Max Bear junior than Truman Capote isn’t it…? But I came back in time to catch Maurice’s Gladiatorial story, explaining when he was the BBBBBBEEEEEAST as the great Michael would say, he too accomplished to be allowed to sat at the dais with Bummer and the also rans. Oh, I wanted to watch this, it is an American dream not that different than that of Captain Marvel I thought, a show as my pop had told me that night shown in my Superman part of WLM, in which I was amused to see that the men who made Superman were two old blind and broken and poverty sunk Jews, so much for the delusions kept alive by sneakier Franken huh, and this pleased my father to show me just what a Forrest America the beautiful stolen but not fenced by idealism and savagery really as. The Slave ship he called it, showing America as just another giant continental home for wayward jailed English trash.

I watched this as Maurice Clarette is the name as I have said that I recall and echoes in my mind when some white trash, girlie armed, sissy fuck, red headed, myopic effeminate queer of college stations come on to stash Thanksgiving as imperial, because I recall that name knowing that you academics have your own high feast, like various houses of worship, and have your own Roman bloodsport much like the woman abusing Incas you have white washed. So this interested me, and I watched it.

All he had to do was to tell some Pollock named Wojo that he was, being an inner city kid practically reaped to be gladiator for the weekend taken off by the Angela Davis higher indoctrination crowd, as I said when Lee Corso brings his buffoonery and comes to town all the Shakespeare scholars and the women who hate them, they fall mute, that he wished to be paid. APOSTASY! How dare he, with teahouse of Berman sure to come in and through gasoline on that fire as they did then when not allowing Keith and Kilburn to smirk at the speed of light. Of course such a whispering was seen as a insult and a warning to the men who have much too much love for Julius Caesar than you’d think, grandchildren who knew the one thing the Roman did wrong was not go far enough as the Khan told Augustus, as he paid in tribute to Dashin, and warned the blessed already marketing the mistakes of the jade king of the stream, that Rome was doomed unless like the wolf men Chin, he took Roman centauries and depleted Germany, Syria and other places of their indigenous trash, and gilled up all that honourable land with soldiers raping the common girls then, as Romulus had done to create the first true nation of the west, Italy. Ergo, the nfl, all with vested interests , came down on Maurice and in the vernacular of Keith doing Al Davis, came down HADDDDDD. He had to be destroyed as if a pretender to the thrones, and sadly, this dumb boy Negro played into it, as they made sure all the others in Tiberius’s tenements got the message, and just ran like bucks always ready to be piled in their pens and bunkhouse at night, as having to even pay these niggers in the nfl was something they were trying to avoid now if possible, coming up with the Rookie slavery, sorry salary cap not long after this, as the Rooney’s more than anyone knew like caricatures out of my disdained Ancient Romance, that they call it blood sports but like all other sports, blood is cheap and again, its about Money.

As stringing lights though, half which do not work and yet, I refuse to bend over and buy a new string from the continuum’s of Christmas, seeing the poverty of Christmas as its best attributed, along with its sadness which is why you won’t be seeing Saturnalia on a channel this year that stinks of Woman lit white girl factions refitted with a Christmas setting, I saw the evil incarnate of the piece.

Here, as usual, uninvited and unannounced as his impish ilk is, here they are, Jim Brown. This was fresh off another of the black sphinx’s non head moving homilies at the swine, all barely recalling him as anything but an old sage gladiator again as seen in AR, really not to pat myself on the back, But its better than the usual Roman shit so hated by television city gnomes. Suddenly on the screen was the mouth that never died, as opposed to his legs, the sorts the Nero heated, better to be a dead gladiator than a living old man he thought, but see my posts about what Nero really thought bloodsport was elsewhere. No, now our Black Orpheus showed up, with an iago sensibility I saw that only can be ascribed to Italians, but I Jesuit Tony saw through it all, as nigger please, your dashiki means nothing to me, old man, in fact to me it is lairs best giveaway. I Know who and what you are. He tarred Kobe recently, as having been ‘born in Italy, somehow he didn’t understand Culture‘, no not his culture, whatever that is that Clive Davis can sell by the pound at the ruins of tin pan alley, and get good black kids from the suburbs to deal in, but culture.

Funny, isn’t it, Italy the nation that Hannibal almost depopulated, …ah yes, but since there were no Jews in Naples and Calabria it isn’t a war crime this Cumae…wait….Anyway, the slights are remembered and nursed or not seen at all in our Praetor home Companion, so, that the way it is, I guess. Still, Jim Brown was here, but defensive more than his regular shit, which he still wears as frayed laurel around his neck, see Nero above. He has the never, which to me gives the game away, that he had a litmus test, as avatar and arbiter, did I ever tell you were we get arbiter again not Shakespeare,…that there was some uncle Toms, of course anyone who doesn’t even know they disagree with him is by nature and almost molecularly inferior and evil, an old trick too beneath even the tricky Jesuits who knew nothing is above or beneath or beyond those who preen that they are immeasurably Good, thus showing Jesuit me his bag man status, like later high yellow niggardly gods, and thus only the most pristine and snow drifted pure of the pure could come to be called to help save Boxer Ali, who was avoiding a draft as to be able to beat men’s brains in. Ah, but not to be an iconoclast, but Ali was the original House Nigger, a high yellow creation who grew up in upper middle class Kentucky, in a white picket home, on the other side of the demarcation river, and thus to hide this fact, the loosened ropes, never enough, like Jim Brown, he has to put it on hard and fast and Burrell thick, again the dashiki and the farcing name a dead giveaway. As I can say, knowing at least some Italian culture, you know where Hannibal not Hobbits was, and the Spanish conquistadors came first, that Cassius was a lot of things thanks to always over simplifying Shakespeare, but as slave’s name, it isn’t it. Muhammad, like Spartacus was a slaves master, and Columbus of the east as much as anything, but that is an augment I wont waste of the likes of Jim Brown, who as Calvino said, will realise, if not already knows, he has been old forever. I recall hearing from our Trapea number one, OJ, that Jim Brown started sniffing around when The Juice started making waves at USC. Like Keith I always look for what the monsters do without the funeral music of espn and their cocksucker creeds, as I HAVE SEEN enough Pablo’s and Bo’s and have had my fill of such stenographers, as like Others I don’t take dictation, as whatever it is I do isn’t so Girlie as that. I recall OJ talking of the unasked for Virgil who is Jim Brown who started coming by to take him under a wing, but it was a bat wing even bigger sociopath OJ knew, his having something of a Jesuit radar, as do I.

Brown, as I said, the anti Emmett, as Smith at least unlike various Barrys showed up, came swooping in, and started pioneering himself, pissing in the well, sorry it’s a favoured analogy of mine, screeching about slave owners and uncle toms as is his shtick, as his commedia dell arte so demands, and got this poor kid kicked off the team. I bet you did, nigger. As, Livy calls it African cleverness, fat man, I don’t so demean you as your masters by sanctimoniously demanding you not show it, as I know these sharpening tactics, as have seen them since meaner streets as a boy. LIKE I said, DO YOU THINK I HAVEN’T SEEN MY FAIR SHARE OF ERKELS AND HALF BREED PRINCINGS IN CATHOLIC SCHOOL, BITCH…? Please. He came swooping in , and now was almost wistful as he sat there as a kind of Italian Doge, sorry for the ingenuity insult therein, cultureless and Italian, a brut Doge non the less, heavy eyelids of having to live out a con, him still stung where spurned by the Raquel Welsh that was his closest thing to a spic Beatrice, who rebuffed him good, yes I read the kids stays in the picture, and studied it like Chaucer for personal needs, and I as A ROMAN HATED man can think nothing but infamy for a nigger who walks away, AS they never do when told what to say at veracious slave ships on cable television.

There, their love of Cincinnatus is unrequited as they speak on command and then go get fed like Caesar’s Dogs. Or Doges. He was evil incarnate. Stably as much as anything, our Negron Lucretius explained the nature of things with an almost agronomists calm, he having done his work well, seeing in Maurice another perhaps Walter who now the chidden of my age recall as the greatest of all time, and whom live and then dies as a Roman hero might, too soon, as opposed to Brown who will now never die soon enough. Brown is far away from his champion days, and now guarded his own fire of old clippings in an eternal flame, which blazes only in his own mind. I knew automatically, a Jesuit loved boy who can see the corners, specially when sanded down, he was sent by the NFL to help throttle this poor kid, please again who do you think you are talking to, someone you pay…?, and the last living Brown, who now seems like raging bull made to fall down agendas made at the mother ship, as now LT and Jerry and some even pout Emmett ahead of him, some even think that Tony D and Gayle were better running backs, made sure to ruin things as his sanctimonious ilk have been doing since the Caesurae first invented the idea of not only infiltrators but instigators. Poor Maurice once targeted by good priests all in thrilled of evil men, ..did I ever mention the priests made me read Tacitus in Christmas 1974...?, was beaten and broken and bruised by the unleashed good clerks of Bristol Jewish beady eyed rat and the milk dud and the making copies guy each day with their love of laughing hoghohohohoh heheheheheheheh hooo hooo, with stage laughs all day, where's the free buffet…? Ah, life on the corporate card. And now he, the always sure of his role, ready with his lines, Jim Brown did his duty, again the radicals often are by praetorians in cheap clothing, and there is Maurice, irony incanate, on pti he shows up and dains to speak to these hooligans to be a black incog--sorry innominato, having seen the light and wishes so to convert to the ides of the madonella. Which not to be a prick, and my admiring of Clarette since that first day I saw him and said this dude is the next Emmett, with usual Cogswell bluster Jerry was scared off from drafting him by an nfl that only wants the Cowboys as farcical back story, and for all or nothing Christmas Sunday night, as it is NBC’s last hit since Seinfeld. I think Maurice sweating to be a decent man, as he tells these bag men, well, it might be the biggest insult to the games keepers and the beady eyed and the as Mas says Mosqua, meaning be silent and cowardly and yes it does come from that, another reason the Italians are always as clowns, after all, silent women and colourds on cable say not a word about the facial lacerations on a girls face and a rape allegation kept in abeyance until they found out if the next Tuscaloosa all American could play, might be Clarette’s greater failing yet. To wish to be a decent man, as I can attest as it is the punch line so bothersome to white women in Life Of Brutus, is an uppitiness that they take as a most assured insult to their farce.

I was taught well by Franciscan brothers of the sun and moon saint, trashed on the Simpson’s now seemingly gone, man, gone, with an impunity by cartoon liberal women who preen to be Buddhists and yet as usual misunderstanding the whole of it. I read Creation, even the part that dear Amises Jewish handlers wanted out. And the Jim Browns were the first people I was told to avoid, the step men, the pets of the patricians, tribunes of the poor who now as I called it again, bill by the hour, for their two days of head shaking before falling in line amazingly so. We now find the pad was bigger than even I thought, I like the Cowboys can be such a piker. The men who get hundred of thousand balloons to be scions of the wurkin man and then after three days of outrage stop their questioning and get on board the ge train. To where…?, just not here. Or maybe there and back again. As Rome was filthy and lousily with frauds who spoke of the poor and the weak, anarchists all, who there win with Cicero against, yes everyone my hero Cattiline, as Cattiline would by definition have tossed out alas the people who were certainly paying the radicals a good life, to quote their fake enemy collaborator Tully, and to save their asses suddenly strange bedfellows are always shown. Poor Maurice, I thought, giving in as he did. But like Lucius, I think of the line in Sallust recreantly re read as much as anything to save my soul from narcissuses at memorials smiling for dee camera, where Cattiline tells the general trying to get him out of his madness, who wont engage him hoping to sue for peace, a niggardly thing to do, again see elsewhere, that Sergio’s says with mad radix joy and with a vestal virgin he has at his side as an oracle and a better Cleopatra, that if he doesn’t make them destroy him, he will be worthless. No, no sixty years of retirement and bomb throwing on Arsenio, that aint the last act fir a Roman, nigger. That’s what you all don’t and never will get. I gotta put the tree up.

On a Monday, in which I was sure of the Cowboy decline, its almost Roman epic by now, no...?, was on, I had enough of the Jones unraveling and stared to place up the small white tree I have come to see as a bulwark of Saturnalia against the awful Christmastime tug of war between Jewish Of Reilly and Irishman Stewart or Vice a versa if it even matters. A channel of choral music, all of which Ma hated by the way as if apostasy, was on, and while unpacking small mementos, they parleyd the thyroid diseased Moat Zart, he who gave us music to invade Poland by. A hate of mine of all things German does get me if good standing with Jews, Arabs, blacks and Poles, And others all of whom cant stand the fact that they act like Santa Claus and Cinderella are theirs. I never did have the Americanized dream of being loved by barbarians anyway. This awful music was suddenly I thought like Dora, a un-laudable asperity itself, that quintessence whine and crash of mad man glissando , this Machiavellian clumsy music, to music what his writing is to verbiage but out of place, or luck, I couldn’t attend the slate and clank of it all, his insistence whirling dishwater machine tempos and his work will set you free Cadences, all making me put my teeth on edge. Yuuck I said aloud as Ma said what is this shit...?, poor old woman half deaf but still was upset by this caterwauling cacophony OF incessant loud and garish and boorish as was he. Yeeeech, I thought, and quickly retreating it faster than if seeing the gay wad sonnets of 300 and for similar reasons of a hatred of the over your head over and over ness to it all, I get it, I would say of MoatZrat and his Dachau melodies, his calliope always about to screesh to the ground, his piccolo forte and his piano gusto and all that shit parceled together showing again, when Germans try the Italianate and the Romantic, like with lightning war and senates they fail worse than the niggers they look down on do. Late at night, I saw the Simpsons now reduced to midnight screenings, and saw ironically Lisa come to the defense of Salieri, probably an innocent trashed by Moatzrats father, right on MISTER PEIRSAW, and knew I was onto something.

In going up to the attic to get the small boxes of Christmas stuff as I have always liked the sad and poverty aspects of Christmas as much as anything, the fiasco du jour, lest anyone note the unravelling of our I spy President, was that blond headed hack parrot Maeggiyn whatever Kelley calls Santa Clause as White. Of course, he was a Turk, as I said, and to good ol Jewry Jonny that is as good as black, as he’s always willing to pick at that scab until he hits the Christmas Hamm. I won’t bring yap Bacchus again, but he appears in A Christmas Carol as the second Ghost of Christmas, goes to Scrooge cloaked hiding the wretched as it appears in the Italianated Saturnine corals from which Dickens so willingly stole. People will be losing their benefits on this coming 28th, as Christmas never meant anything to Koran Barry, neither did the feast of Janus either but again he shall find, Juvenal less as he is, what happens when the bread and circus does stop. A seemingly decent red headed Cato from the Nation John Nichols speaks to Captain Nice, making a point of evil this coming austerity, it means the rich will be stealing everything, again I have read Livy’s Roman Sicily, a script I wrote for impressed Jewish Holywooders who again wanted no part, the last part of Livy for penguin to translate…hmmmmm, but of course our perpetual boy man in the gray flannel soul will have none of it. The democrats, he says as true hack not that different from those Tacitus sneered at under gargoyles and porticos, espies like a good bribe taker the Democrats didn’t want to do any of that, but signed off on it all, you know, as cowards do.

Somehow never a discouraging word is spoken of, as the mob wives were back as usual, hoofing and mouthing across the stage, with some monstrosity called Big Angela as the newest Snookie, always willing to be a pig on command and let the good white women look down on their vulgarity from soundly less than steady suburban porches. I had enough of this really, as a lately brought in wife, a cute Italian gal with a Valerie Bertinelli thing going on, was being trashed by foghorn Gumandi herself, bloated cigarette voiced hag cunt peer, ratted on her own father in jail, as the Post assured, and then cries abut it, Scoldoni like Italian hag bitch cow PR fucking Jappish Renee, who was going to ‘mess her up‘, the clay Romans always the ones they use to cause the bloated wops to run the track like running dawgs. I had enough of this, and went to get the Christmas stuff and saw a small mouse bought by me at a five and dime as a boy with a sister, was now broken apart, just by age and time, its head came off and it fell asunder, and I couldn’t glue the dried out pieces back together. I felt horribly sad at this, as have been welling with anger like white women thought before, but was not, and am so now, as in me a lover of Cattiline rages with Mob wives and gargling fools and talking bras starting to get on my nerves. Angry, I took my pair of feet on which I was wearing cheap ass shoe NIKE knock offs and smashed the box of later ornaments, angered and steaming at what I and this country had become The cowboys had lost to the bears, Romo the American dream like Obammy immune to the tides and times of men’s lives…they so think. Whatever it is its just not yet…and things would get worse, as Jerry Jones presides like a Heliogabalus over a decaying kingdom, unaware of what’s in forefront of his vain face. With this Saturnalia rage expressed, I stood above a broken shoebox of festive destruction, small chips of green and gild painted thing ball glass on the wooden floor. My brother asked me where the ornaments are, and as I was caught short, sure of some sort of trouble, he seemed to pick something up and waved it off as I was slope jawed as usual. He said, no big deal anywise, well go get new bulbs new balls, and left it be. So the tree was white and bare a few days before I could get new glass balls, as the plastic balls still up in packages there is a Roman no no. Carefully, after a cooling off, I went into the box of shards and carefully took out about ten saved old balls, and have packed these on a tree, which like so much, Martin Luther and his Germanic swine, had little to do with.

NEXT: Mister Scorsese goes to the Bank of America...