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...


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