02 November 2014

THE SEARCH FOR THE KING.






The work was done, and I took all avenues to do it, but can rapidly and strangely honored say, as if a Roman madman in a Sallust like book, despised at good and wholesome Amazon, that I went out and ruined the career of Martin Scorsese. No, not with any thoughtful and witty and touching essays about lives of Brutus, called a millimeter from the mark by a English magazine of film, not wanting to touch it, as the cult of Soreasy no less heralded by him and those in need of a minstrel show in plaintiff and grey times of goodness, was too vociferous and venial to have to deal with. This was like comics websites unmoved by an admiration for CC Beck amid the slop of Kirby, who now it seems have all been going away, their love of the funny book on newsprint not as devoted as was mine, but what else is new…?

No, I disposed of Martin Scorsese, as a Roman would, through slur innuendo and the indictment of one thing before or after the next to cause it to catapult something into the bright Italianate sky. I, too often censored by the jittery queen not to really go whole hog in ways I wouldn’t have bothered with even more viciously hateful Copula, but keeping him close, as his Sicilian mind wouldst understand, I compared our sweaty little wop minstrel Boccaccio of the turnpikes, to Plautus and Terrence, a gag reflex having to be quelled to do it, as a Roman yet I am above or beneath nothing, but Victory is all. Like Catalane in the fields, being told by a senatorial friend that Cicero is angering the money men in destroying a man seemingly on the side if the people in ways Nana and Chucky don’t like, gotta wet your beak and all, that he, Cicero and the wrong horses called the patriots, were willing to as always do, cut to a deal. AH, BUT NO MERE OBAMMY, Catalina tells the senator friend that the die is cast, where Caesar stole it, as Julius was a fan as a boy-man,  watching the res publican die, and would recall Cicero , whom he despised, as the center of all that as venial vapid and corrupt, as Imperial Nephew America does now to the men of the people who will pay as I said Romantically for shoving tarp down our throats to a strange but usual Jewish appeal that they somehow didn’t strip mine enough and were cheated as they always are as they always do, for bogusness’ that should have been allowed to die. It is too late, Cattiline says, he that perfect anti hero unallied somehow in a place where ape men looking Lamont speak of the superhero stunts’ of black cops killing maids as somehow they always, the victims of the victimized Negros, like a direful Tarantino movie, or in fact the revenge we are expected to admire in operatic gangsters films by a hack pretending he is Verdi, too late is a time we cant mark in America. As here, like places that don’t keep FDR Caesarean like attempts to change the calendar to public works needed fill will, too late is a circumstance even a Catastrophe that we can’t get around, with enough checks from the good hands people. I feel, said Oscar, like I’m trapped in an all state commercial. Don’t we all.

But now Legs Diamond has thorax cancer, showing again Signora Fortuna is a bitch, as the Italians could have warnt you, for as Mediterranean’s, or middle earthers, go, you eastern sorts are really sticks in the mud.


I compared both Scorsese and Wino Copula and their petty little arts to Terrence and Plautus alright, malice a forethought, knowing their audiences better than they did. In laying a line almost a bromide that The empires change but the Sicilians and Jews stay the same, I connected with the Jewish producers who liked me, they back to the sopranos I had senses of a real Jewish underlying disquiet, perhaps they recalled before the cavalcade of Jews with blonds at Fox, that Italians were by house coons like Bianculli and Bruno at the rags who dutifully hate Gladiators and gladiator helmets, that the Jews were not given gentlemen’s agreements to Italian and Chinese food trattoreas, explaining why to the elites, a descending breed,  such food is always beneath their usual gruel dressed up to look French. I connected Scorsese back to the operas dell atria of Italians long gone and frankly disliked by Jews in ways and black porters still caretaking bags of votes like Rochester’s for Jews cheaper tan misstah Benny.

I connected Scorsese not to the Italians films he now loves to champion, but to the classics he as a Sicilian has to say he despises,  as both Monteverdi and Fra Angelico have been poo-pooed by him, one for creating opera, everybuddy hates birds!,  and the other for painting golden leaved angels, such crimes in the world of blood on the turnpikes. Although is scolded when saying an Italian Film about Livy in the silent era was better that a film entreatingly enough called the Klansman, that shows us what their grandpas was up to. I connected Scorsese back to the Roman. It still sticks in my craw, to their arts of farce and diminution, as they do it better than anyone, as didn’t have the awful fall back position of a master race or a chosen people to hide their mistakes of marriage. You cant be an insufferable pushy big noses master race when Remus has to get.

I compared Scorsese back to then arts of Roman farce, and that is a no-no among the same voices that whoop at the same time on daily shows come up with by yentas for yentas, as the Negros they racially chic banged in co ed schools , the Romans called them gladiator schools, where now somehow rapists are allowed constant unbroken play time, as others looking for money are not, there are crimes and then there are crimes, and in new Judea, the only crime is you asking to be paid, and they didn’t like this connection. But rather of thoughtful essays easily ripped from grappa maker film producer suites, this got out there, explaining why he was such a dick about unseeing the no man, and it got into the well water as was said about Tyberius love of blood poisoning the elites drinking water and so, as now, he had to go. I compared Scorsese to masters of the Roman form of satire and farce, and showed again, that the ladies who lunch are repacked with queerness taking vows and such as thing as if a Roman helmet on field where men are expected to bleed snidely unacceptable that close to another rapists not given a life time ban, as somehow his sin and his stealing not of underwear but 1000 dollar tabs of food at Bloomfield pizza joints where waitresses were fondled, somewhat never gets mentioned by googly eyed and beady eyed boys of the espn Band. I take credit of destroying  the jerk, the weasel, the rat, but in fact, this as concurrent within a smearing of Jews, who never let him make his Justinian, once a matron’s joke in Gore Vidal, and the Roman, more or less Calbiria he dreamed of making, is sensed finito, no dispensation, mo Roman knights, not even Salieri left handed scales to make gay and lovable Ian a stahhh, no moment of green laurel for jittery ,sweaty, he, despite all that time clocked in the jersey cement barriers. Too bad.

 
2. I am heartened to see whole scads of white women leaving that wall of Cunt that Barry stood before, and now dare not to admit they as good apparatchiks, didn’t vote for the good negro, whose name was placed in the ring for them to adore, as now, it isn’t racists that they don’t approve of queenie, but merely a blood creed circus of ambition. Ah, the grievous fault.  I am glad to see him bumbling about, as knew that day in November when the dancing niggers were parting to tire, that it would all come crashing down, when Irish thug pencil sharpener alderman buffoon clown Matthews thanked Hera, would it be Hera, maybe not, that the rains came just in time, which always struck me as Diabolical… and that rain has soaked the people to the bones, they are angry and tired and wish to lash out as even dear Rachel is shocked that the people who stained preened that they were bulwarks of the people, are being blamed in ways the mere uncapitulating sticks in the mud are not. This is mere politic 101. At least like divorce, Italians styles, which you all eschew and demeaned and thought you were better than as even now shock still polls show a majority of Americans think Barry a liar and a fraud, and so hurt was he by these stand in Mas of his, again the abandoning the abbey on the steps of a black church doing black masses, or cancelling them this close to an election, as he found a crowd of nuns unlike the humiliated and demeaned ones by protestant recitals, which were nothing save one, like the ones who narrated me. But then knowing where the western idea of witches come from, and having written about as much in a sonnet of mien called Ancient Romance: The book of Alpena, yes she is who gave the name to the mountains, our leveler beautiful ice queen who even Kemeter couldn’t save, is what has Rachel Maddow never really defaming or canceling me out as her sites delves into hateful little liars who may or may not be paid for their allegiances. Which like Grimy, the fat chick in the perpetual Kansas that is middle America to the elites, is always a question of what helps me win now, as that bridge Horiatis, not only has been washed out, in this backwoods, Columbus’ mistake, it has never really built. To good Englishmen who made themselves a second Rome, or is it third, the rustic qualities and the poverty of new AMERIA as it could be called, in many ways what they liked best. It is knowing where our ideas of witches come from which will always make Rachel not block me, while others scream of theys and thems, just like grandma, and make that frozen moment of realization come between the guffaws, whereas I am merely steadily honest, and even racial chic cover girl Melissa must in ways approve and admire that.

As like America, from which  I pretend to be distended from and other than, still, I had an inkling of popular tastes, as if a Plautus writing farces, in ways Barry the hopeful accidental theist does not, and so I tired of any Political hash and strum and drag long ago, watching real things on TV is on--like westerns. John Ford is big, though is called a racist by lantern jawed horses ass Tarantino, though as a new deal democrat, not that those two things were even at cross purposes, ah the Italians and Politics, the dogs which may not bark in good and wholesome America, and I knew that I couldn’t take not only Rachael but worse the company of Jews and blonds, a parody of dreaded and unrevealing Hollywood, telling is all who we are and what we what. Place James Baldwin line here. When Blond hag fish face Kelley was speaking to bejeweled radical overfed Marxist fatso who studied Marx between come out parties, I said, check please, and watched any movie on Turner’s seeing there ball busting  once Venus Jane Russell, a woman before they became verboten in Spartan Queensland, and the great and glorious Micthem, masculine as was allowed once too in film Noirs, when again, everything is bullshit in Pleasantville, and as the good Jews and white woman made pact over and about how evil and venial the Arabs, the Sicilians and the meth heads were for their slimy venial entertainments. This when not stealing pictures of starlets to see them naked which didn’t really go anywhere, not when starlet honeys are busily and direfully doing crouch shots as they leave unnoticed limos, as again, as happened in the res publica of Venice, the filthy start to resented your golden pouches. But what do I know….? 


Well. Maybe this much, as a good Jesuit student, though tiring, I ask the question only as an answer in itself, which was later turned into the Jewish psalm of never ask a question, …etc, when the Jesuitical was made the pushy clever. At this time as Halloween, a once Roman carnival, with a pastiche of the barbarian love of death, the big national joke is to dress as Ray Rice, and even in black face no less, amazing when the truth comes out between Olbermann and PTI, and the joke is to carry a baby doll and switch or a black raggedy Ann and such glee is had. This is specially true in Pittsburgh, where shamelessness stifles, and the Cowboys and Raiders are still thugs, despite no lifetime ban for Benji, who sucked enough national epsn gay dicks, maybe more than we know, to have not anything held against him. A Cowboy was pilloried for stealing jockey underwear, and yet don’t recall the outrage when beloved friend of the show Rottensbugeher, really that name comes out when they lose as they do to lesser teams, if there are any, as the sanctimonious Pollock’s have lost their religion and don’t like being made into a Maddening crowd, and the fact that Rottensberger who’d skip in thousand dollar tabs and a Bloomfield pizza outlet barley hanging on, after fondling various pizza waitresses long made inhuman and jokes by duding of aids like Rex Reeds,  is not incited at dve between then constant re airings of smoke on the water. This was not noted, and I wonder why people don’t go to partygoers of allowed pagan recital dressed as big Ben, though having to carry a stall around could be not worth the joke, but to Jesuits me, if it’s a good joke, attention must be paid. The now covens as so much is again tranquilly silent about this, but perhaps it is just a bullshit Pittsburgh thing, I don’t really care. But it is funny to see a league- instructing word- that eschewed the Roman arms, the gladiatorial helmet verboten as no mgm injun headdress ever is, --take that mezzo Germanics!- no men and or arms here, just us nigger slaves,  is now gagging on black face and weirdo twilight zone baby dolls made to look beaten, as I could have warned you, no matter what thou think of the Roman accoutrements, as I told the polish starlets at zoetrope somehow innerved by my still un-monetized Roman love, you know, not like Lucas, kids, there is something, as Tacitus knew, and you fear now, exceedingly worse.




3.The self righteous as they always do, are quite touchy about being tarred as they tar others, its why Jews on television pound the air about Schlock, Boccaccio called him Abraham the Jew who un weepily and un womanishly merely became a catholic to do business in Genoa I believe, and thus show a Jewish creed more important than a prick’s blood. Some bald head effeminate was upset by my discussing of how a black man was in the nfl fiend for historical accuracy, I have been there, and how thesis who of darkie knowledge on our part is an anathema to rapists gladiators wearing pink shoes, and shown as Helios in strange indeed and ironic MNF commercials, as stellers don’t pat that ultimate price of getting anything right. Like news as I said to Stan Savaran, not to be mean, but was apt, they are right, the stiller, from the beginning Jews and Stellers fans and arbiters of virtue, and only Sopranos and Cowboys are thieves. So, this bald head bitch was a latest of Rachel’s minions moved to demeaned my banishment from the kingdom, but alas Oxbridge Raech never gives in, like Melissa and even Jewry Jonnie, like the idea of someone out there amid the filth, admiring not only Machiavelli, but the Romans, the reppublica, he so adored before realize if you cant beat them, knight them. I could care less, again knowing that I have reachable as a well wisher as after a while even those who start out hating me turn to a strange admiration for icicle waiving Tony, as it is always nice to know that I know where Harry potter was laid, and from which eggs, as now even those who bought that crap think a last volume in silver Latin please, anyone…?, will be about Harry at the ministry of funny walks as a Smiley era Bureaucrat, Tinker, Talor, Soldier, Poof, and suddenly we all remember in our boys life why indeed we hate and always have the Britons. I then saw baldy befriend me, I guess haying figured I was liked by his censuring fairy queen Rachael, and saw he had placed me in one the circles that bother dear lovely Ellen Fox so, and was asked if I would reciprocate in kind. Which I ignored, as despite a Roman at heart, and knowing audience is all, I can always allow a ticket buyer to go buy the difference between Roman circus and Jewish theater, each ticket is sacrament in the latter, and so basically told this effeminate to buzz off, not even bothering to expel him, but in no ways wanting to hear the boiler plate he may or may mot be paid for doing.

Go worry about that double agent you have in the praetorium, Mr. clean, you effeminate queers, go worry about aloof and effete and sissy Barry, at arms length of even his cesarean sorties, which by divination you have signed off on, as you have everything, sanctimony is nothing I need or want, as I am not trying to yell loudly enough to make sure others don’t see the bill I am itemizing for my undying by the pound devotions. Go worry about that double agent you have in your ministered of truth, fagots he once thought should be quarantined, while playing to the rabble he wished to use as human shields. As  go worry about him, as he tries to be seen again dragging women into his cellar, kissing you with cogenesis of on your lips less like Saint Francis and the leper, and more like Duncan the coon trying to get away to the land of umbombed aspirin factories. Our boy king doesn’t like being ignored and abandoned, it is his worse case scenario, and now even every few days gives a open mike night telling us things that can fit in his true patrons, the republicans, commercials. If you Pollok’s and Negros and Irishmen are too stupidly canine in devotions to the rope from which you hang, That’s your problem, but then as Machiavelli said, everyone sees and recalls everything. Who knew that when Richard Sherman played his minstrel act he was sowing seeds of discord at a team run by the thief who seeded niggerisism to his whitey advantage, leaving the shores of so cal Ileum when caught? THE DOG THAT NEVER BARKS. As who knew that in the days of Ritchie Incognito that a diatomic was beings split open, that would eventually be that can of worms that I once showed Clinton opening with a giant can opener, as if a Roman knight, issuing the cat food key as of a cutlass, who knew all of this…? I did. 


The daily dirt of various politic televisions is in fact beneath me, as it would be a Romantic, who sees through such shit, and despite Barry saying politics is beneath him, while placing a political hack as the head of overseeing a pandemic. But then you gadflies and tribunes somehow managed to keep those bath houses open long enough to feed the pale rider of the Betrothed, back when, as junkies and fagots get what they deserve in our Judea, always as the germ warfare of the Greeks in Sicily, yes Sicily and not mezzo America, is always your go to position, if not a miracle by a vengeful even homicidal god. PASSOVER like the trashcan ghosts is beneath a Roman, despite what Jews at hbo think, and that seems to be all you have in your bag of tricks.

4. So, instead of the unraveling Barry I watched the great creations of a man I had just read about in Michael Barrier.com, the great drawer of lil Nemo, a lovely American cartooner named Windsor MacKay. This was a lovely night of pre Arthur Pizney cartoons, before American hokum became our sacrament. Then ironically, the next night I spent as doing my Warren like cartoons of a cute and less vicious vampirealla, but no less va-voomy, I watched the brilliant Paddy Chayefsky satire Network. This was an inside joke as all day the brunettes allowed in the day and the prime time major league blond fox wanna bee’s congregated thyself on that fat man, the Alexander Yardley of the Regan years. Bloated piggish Ales brokering basically Rush without the warmth to the little screen. This night I rewatched as do sometimes, this last satire of a dying empire, as vital as Plautus and comedy tonight as we all gaga on the Nicene creeds of converted Jews, who carry with once Semitic joylessness and sunken eyed Arabism the secrets through the mobs who eventually start to demand a Minerva figure what Isis seems to know by its very name that Barry as a good Moslem may not say. The God of the freeway in Tuscany, Ala, might be his new God, though we never hear why now he longer wishes to kill the imperial schilling of the noble past, again, that Render unto Caesar moment all Semitic religion to work must include, this might be a God of Barry now, if anything is, but nothing stops him from calling Isis Isil, which markedly uses a word in acquaintce in Lawrence of Arabia times. This showing again the half-breed as did Josephus manage no matter what they say they preen to know that as Gore Vidal said, Augustus is after all the closest God really around. I saw that great performance by Peter Finch as anchorman gone mad, that is merely a joke now, from the elf whose bag of tracks were shown off too often to the limo Barry he is almost hated now with each and every showing of his rat fink face, and too saw the true fulcrum again of that film, the once beautiful pow from Stalag 17, now old and tired and broken at 30 rock, at ubs you’re the best, a bad day a black rock. Even Paddy has enough heart to make Howard Beale a madman, seeing light, rather the Glenn Beck running toward the cash box.

As usual Satire must have a full heart, as Horace said, even Juvenal’s fretless when asked why he didn’t write and use his genius to show what Rome really was , i.e. Virgil, as even the satirist, before that word was defamed by Jews on cable, wishing for Cicero good life and watched to think themselves satirical as they giggled into papers and sucked Newt’s balls, said of Virgil, hated by all good lovers of indigenous loving women for mentioning Camilla and Turnus, its hard to explain, was too good for the Rome of then and was curtly out of placed to the corruption of now.

But, if I may, best money shot of the days un-posted happened, maybe the moment of the year happened, as even the closet queens and house coloreds of espn started to get antsy that the Cowboys were doing better than I even had thought. See I have trashed them good, maced them good, tarred them at every opportunity, I am neither Jew not figure head stealer coach, so I don’t take dictation. I trashed Jones and co. well. I’m a fan, after all. But them doing well made the house everything’s and the closet boys at espn weary and angry. Well all, but especially me, has been skittishly this autumn, a stink of imperial decay is on the air, and not helped by the sanitized Columbus day being recalled by a month long celebration of Garcia Marquez, as I have seen him lately haloed in spic month, especially for dying under the reign of Francis, without bothering to mention the dirty war and dead Jesuits, I am a stinker, as the death holiday of Vikings, as taken quite seriously, like Christmas time for unmarried women I guess, has been returned to a holyday of Oktoberfest as it  was in Rome, sorry, where it was gotten and proffered to Germany, like writing and Santa Clause, alas drinking must be a part of all stolen Roman holidays, if one can make it so. Grappa and streaga do not appeal to the thongs of Joe Six pack, and for no lesser reason Columbus day is out, unless Nan needs a place to hide from the Negros screeching kill the pigs, as shootings in the sho me state went nowhere as summer is gone, and do the right thing as I figured went about as well as I am Spartacus always goes. Sit down and shut up. Vita Plebe. 


Still, despite this strange feeling we all have, as democrats find themselves circling the imperial drain, and I do love it all so, as Roman hating white gorillas and their black pets all find out I was right, and you cant vacate the Roman laws of enginring an empire for ever, vitally the dogs must be fed or else, I saw the image that showed us all who and what this age is. On the weekend of Columbus day no less, there on the imperial box with Dee Snider was an old man in usual greatest generation war aged faded ribbons of long ago glory, centurion garb, Spartan drag, the paper hat, the weathered old medals, a look something I did much better in a book filled with sadness about Italy called AR, which the good white woman didn’t want to hear about lalalalalalalalalalal—who was it, this old soldier, our buddy Keith asked…? Why it was the return of the great king, again allowed to be a remembrance of war, he on the side of his masters and takers, like spic month, we gravitate towards the winners, no matter what, head father of the indigenous Nations of Opelika, or whatever, the American Etrus--no Viking is after all closer, even the white women revel in that, no ivory towers here, --the head of some amorphous real nation of left over humans, which Sulla didn’t have to bolted with, as he said, quoted by his enemy Marius, the reservations the Roman gave the Sabines were permanent and eternal. They were graves. Ah, something else you never heard of in your days when Barry as I was told was always a good little half blood prince, always siding with the Gummnit, especial like against reparations and too, didn’t want to hear about any stories about floods of drugs, no sur, he knew that was a lie, like his benefactor Billo says when someone dares cast aspersions on Barry’s fulsome whiteness and thus goodness. No, no Arabian is he, they say with straight face, which to loved or paid by hateful Jewish godfathers.

There in the box with the owner no less to catch the gladiatorial shows, if I may and not be fined, was the great king, the Darius of the heart land, their lands in ways Rome was not the Italians when attacked by Lutherans somehow, or by Percales, whose stay in hell is truly being in the Shakespeare play Willie had no Livy for, and thus only unromantic Plutarch, and thus to be heard never more…no Italian newspaper gave Willie the need poetics he stole from Ovid in midsummer’s in the Elizabethan age. I see in LOEG-black dossier that they only historical figure really allowed in to this book of fairies and whimsy is Shakespeare. Careful, ALAN, THE DWEEBS ALERADY hate you, don’t be like equally hated Horace and say of Willie what he said of Homer, that the greatest Greek myth of them all was Homer. Period. There in the royal box was indigenous beloved noble savage with a Plymouth car as opposed to a Tarpean rock, the rock I take it that Aeneas saw first, there was the good redskin, by bullshit incantation, even by magical transference, just by being there lent his earthen magic, like say being president, somehow thinking they are cleansing a Roman game. Ah, but the fat faced thug bag man who is now to protect America from the last pandemic, he when asked what threatened mother earth the most, he said, amusingly forthright and without fear of being called anything, that there were just too many Africans. Again, the little prince places a white man in power, and things are left unsaid. Look it up. The good and noble injun was this cross between Chief Wahoo and Don Corelione, no AR Sabine kings here, it made me laugh to see that the last stand of Snyder in South park looked a lot like the father of Julia in Ar, Italicus, who stood against the Roman literally, being buffed and beaten and not surrendering the sword of Turnus he had, no matter, and was sad to see that story, ancient and noble and Italic being even in the south park I admire used, to be as I guess it must be by now transferred to the Pollack half breeds of wounded knee, for whom Livy and god knows Virgil is just somehow imperial writings that again, see above,  the white women don’t like to read, as they make you read Richard the 3 and Henry the 5th, like commercials for painted contact lenses as new low of vulgarity Ma says as she could think of, I was sad to think it so. But this don’t cast aspersions to Matt and Trey, as I like them much, still, was sad to see them beat me to this particular pinch line. 


The injun noble savage here was giving his indulgent dispensation and deputation to a fat faced Jew, dreaming of being a new gladiator owner circus owner, as his own pre Diaspora kin had been back in mother Italia, in the box in the seat at the games was an Indian, as he wishes to makeum common casuim withum always checkbook etching Snyder, who will pay to have again the injuns, like Kirby, never honored, or is it honoraria?, enough, be given some shitty little display at some museum in the new faltering Rome about these dirty filthy little wind talkers sidling their shitty little earth goddess crap. As we careen wards another of Barry’s shitty Christmases, a good Christmas is only for the plutocrats, Roman alert kids!, who sold out and cashed in, and bought up cashes of Barry inc., when they were penny stocks, as they might be again this fall, I say don’t let the good effeminates tell you and lecture and hector us about their behooved noble savages this year. As remember all, this is the year a black kid was made un-person for taking four bills pay, that the headmasters didn’t take their cut, you know all of it, while the rapist Nipsey had Jimbo the red neck rejoining interference for his laughable vulgar jokes, if not felonies. The coven again was amazingly silent, again, as our thefters are all on a hair trigger to apologize dutifully, lest the senate go down the shoot, on the least verbal thing, poverty of all unseen by eyes at the buffet. No Gaea or Juno here, while Jack Valenti, Whose homosexuality was used as a threat by now we know always available for grunt work Moyers, who was a hatchet man for leg breaker thug LBJ, Jack was expected he wispily said once to, unlike japs and Germans, bomb the country that his father had come from. But then, ww2 and its Livy Brokjaw is a joke and a con, and since the fulcrum is Jews, like the civil wars with Negros wishing to breathe free in Cicero Illinois, it is an imperial bloodshed taking on the quasi Religious attributes that Xerxes and Caesar tried to have, but which no Cato Pompey or for that matter even an Anthony, didn’t let him get away with, as such holy wars are too beneath a Roman. What makes me sad about the Jews now trashing Marty boy and or the indignities colored finding they don’t want their own blood amphitheatres dug up by anyone, as they call it scared land where their blood sports were, this despite every inch of Italy being dug up by Unesco where they post markers tallying us of the place where working girls strode in the pre soot temenets of Pompeii, --what makes me sad about this is eventually they make the same arguments I have and did. Expect this time, it comes it seems from someone who matters. If war isn’t holy in itself and must be slathered with the precepts of a book sued by priests and closet queens for money and power, then, as the monk said, you have been prattling, Patre, to a wrong, and Unromantic, God.

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