21 November 2014


On a dark and stormy night, as Barry wishes to get even with all for his belated and forever childhood, and stomps his puny feet on marble floors, perhaps risking a torn ACL, in a week in which a bailed out too often radio drunk self proclaimed Disney wished to tell us how God spared him, and still trashes Sacco and Vanzetti, no less, exonerated by Regan in a ceremony to peel the wops away from the donkeys, and leaving them with Jewish bag men and Negros awaiting the Go sign when to Riot, and more importantly when not, Glenda with an eye towards the foot washing Baptists he corrals, as all seems in perpetual flux and the Goddess of ice, Alpina, yes she is the namer of the italic mountains, hurls snow and cold at a queen boy who likes to whip up discord, in a world of Jonathan Martins and thugs lying in state with CNN requiems which never end, as bloated fat women senators from the show me state increasingly mooooooo a dissenting note as they are up next, black shirted Roman heroes came onto a field, remembering their wise guy gumba jew founder, and shoved it all down a fat man’s and his prissy captain of the guards scared white trash throat. How Roman can we get. Always. Now, as if Dante himself were here amid the Borgias and the Greek democrats and Arabs and cardinals who live for death, the empire strikes back.  “GOD BLESS THE OAKLAND RADAHHHS.”—A.A

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