THE PAPER CHASE.

 "VENERE."--2012.

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.

"ROUNDERS."-1985.

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.

 

GAG COMICS. 2005.




"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.

 

 

 

"THE ACROGOLA." 1997.

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.