SUPERSEASON. PART 2.
As have been told my love affair between CM and Veronica is problematic here in queer land, I return to even previous incarnations of my boyhood hero, and must Google images of the brunette from hee haw when I was a kid, you know who I mean, who was a first inclination of the fact women like her would be my downfall, as priests warned me. I go back between making her a hee haw chorus girl or a real hillbilly surviving gummnit germ warfare that wipes out the Okefenokee swamp. Again, unlike Buddha niggers at espn, don't have to pretend an epiphany happened and now see faggots or anyone as human, makes one wonder where he was during aids, and don't base my seeing of the humanity of others by memos sent by the legal department of Disney.
A horrid artist again emerges, as one is never sure why his hang ups and weirdness is allotted and allowed, as if almost sanitized for your approval and somehow acceptable by the priests of middlebrow. R Crumb is back in sight, which showed me, thinking by now he was dead. It seems he was dutifully supposed at his work, the book of Genesis, and almost apologized for as much, showing his flagrance was always more a businessman model than artistic expression, and he felt, having gotten away with misogynist tendencies and bad line work, amid the good white women as long as he did, he a first kind of Godfather to allow the swells to think themselves hip and cutting edge which is more important than merely being a bag man and speaking when told or sold to do so. He , death to an artist of any worth, something a Fletcher Hanks, from which he stole bags, would never do, never explain, never complain and never apologize, Disraeli said, and it works in art as much as it works in politics, god knows.
This hack with portfolio, one made up more of words than pictures a Kirby end we all must avoid if have any salt in our dicks, he apologized for the subject matter I guises, the divine beyond his stolen from Stardust sacs, and he apologized to an undead entity called the Comics Journal, which even the guy who hated Captain Marvel thought of as pretensions, showing just how sulfuric that place is, although from what I gather that smell of rotten eggs might juts be the lead in the nonworking bathrooms exposed again,a s precept among the comics hacks is ubiquitous as to be unchangeable for. But I thought again as one icon after the next of you thugs goes down,as avenging Maureen Dowd attacks the pope, and rags his take on of course good white nuns, not really renouncing the dirty war enough, as that would spill over on Carters sanctimonious loafers, and thus can only be seen like an eclipse, by making a prick into shoebox which of course good American woman, Dowdy must have laying around in her satanically both vehement and lackadaisical attitudes as a step woman. Crumb, prefect named, had to apologized for this work, something only hacks like he and Kubrick must do to cleanse their awful unashamed hands when the lack of possible admiration comes in 72 pika type screaming at them like a godfather headline, as the morning lamp begins to fickler as Ovid said, when truth is seen for someone who speaks about himself incessantly all the live long day. He had to appose his own work, he did only for the money, he openly admits, somehow this is an out that allows the stupid and slathers to get away with a carefully honed persona as calculated as they could, whereas the book of Milton and Tasso and others, couldn’t be as big a subject fir him as sweaty girls who he discreetly wished he could rape in study hall as he sweatily drew them, no Mort Drucker he, the decency of caricature is beyond him, and he dutifully was apologist, this human rat, this nothing, this affected hack, to the remade magazine forum that tells the funny book creeps how adult they must be as they keep sincerely re telling us this,as the white women tell us how non bigoted they are. Frankly I tire of apologies, as have been asked to give my fair share too, how dare I as an Italian ever recall some of the names I do, from Kmetere to Wendy, Sacco to Marty, the butcher not,well, the filmstrip cobbler, and never ever do, unless it became too personal than I meant it to, but alals, even then, have noticed more than a few people have seemingly dropped ,me as a friendly attache, or even more for reasons I am unsure, but again it took me three years on face-book to finally grow up and quit tap dancing as hard as I ever was, and say a Yenta -ish Feh, as am too old and too fat to jump through rings anymore, and the days of begging people to like me are amusingly and finally over. I have never been loved enough by the comics dweebs that I would ever be or want an apologist for any work of mine, any attainment I had made, but then thankfully I am na no man in the Sicily island of Warren Ellis, and would burn a page before I would explain translate and or apologize for it to those who like their comic filled with adult issues and woman in bustiers before being raped.
BUT, I LOVE HOW IN THE END, I ROMAN ANTONY , AM ALWAYS THE TRUE PARAGON OF VIRTUE THAT THE FILTH PRETEND THEY ARE. The shameless are to be avoided for a reason, as Father Niccolo said, and within ten days of the attempted destruction of Donald Sterling, by a man named Silver, oh, the Boccaccio days of Abraham the Jew are here, and merchants of Venice are everywhere before it went from Italian Comedy to Jewish tragedy, why in the house of Silver, in more ways than one, and despite Lebron trying to go Ali, but alas as a creation of ESPN cannot get too down fo dee struggle, it appears that unnoticed and unconnected by white fag Torquemada was the purging of serial black coaches from the bball empire. One for no bigger deal than being a Christian, by a fag owner who again hates all things Chyse, that’s golden child for you haters of Virgil, which it seems Jesu was not one, as he like Crumbs stole copious from the scattered pages of previous brilliance, as that sea of gold has always left them cold. In more ways than one. In a matter of days, no ESPN closet queers noticed much that one black coach was gotten rid of after another, many having had success, still, one was replaced by a neophyte, without papers, a blond dude, who played the games, for art and right, code words adenoid even in a decline and fall, and this nobody got three times the money, and has blond hair and may just be the next Matt Helm, as funnily, that self righteous reverence that the niggers are dumb enough to placate and play into is their steerage weapon as I was warned as a little boy. But, again, Steeling, an old time real Jew has the sort of Washington superpowers on his side, and billed by the hour for it, they ho that Clinton and Ray Ray ran to, showing our Inquisition outrage is always to sale at ab hourly rate and can always be made vacated. Still it was funny to see ape man Lebron us thesis piffling trifling things to reassert his ESPN twenty four hour coverage, overage, as he said if Steeling was still in the league, after he demanded Magic Johnson with similar epithets against the Lakers by The Leopard Jim Brown at Christmas time, see December 14th on the blog, well Lebron a new man nigger unseen before said, he’d tank the league and the Suoerseason, whose ratings it appears aren’t the mitzvah for which shaker Pete Silver hoped, on by not playing. Gosh, You Promise...?, cause we could all take a break from Bizzaro Jordan. Ah, but in pardon the interruption ethics which we now all have as the Jew and the mud-bone tell us how good dey is all dee time, it appears it took money grubbing Lebron twenty minuets to dispel this notion, when he heard who Sterling had put on retainer, as the new Roman army is our plaza of legalists who all still think Ala Manzoni they are always smarter than you are, public education be remanded if not pleased for its medieval attributes of keeping the suckers from writing briefs. Or reading them. If I were Steeling I would push them all to the wall, just to see how many ghetto fab Negro ballsers who have found the ecumenical dream forgo one cent one kopeck, for what is so important to the old Muppets in the ESPN daytime, but then I am a Machiavellian.
2. On these days it all starts to fall asunder, despite false polls that look all the worse because the numbers aren’t all fudged at the same time, but then there always has been a lackadaisical porch monkey hee haw aspect to Obama that can come off as detachment, a kind word for elitism that he unlike Clinton , didn’t know was less a diploma from an affirmative action mill like Harvard, and instead, Clinton knew was a fire that had to tended by the burning of Maureen dowdy columns to keep his nuts warm. Michel Sam, left over fagot whose epic bores Virgillian mediated me, as how could I care about this room 222 like after school special after having seen you all destroyer your queers as if a black death in Boccaccio...? It turns out that he had sold himself to Oprah, to do a reality show, and this bothered the espn hacks, already looking for any reason to distance like democrats in the assembly of Queens, in ways I could care less about, but hope this little, little...queen is notching how somehow his asking for equality will by definition be used as a way to demean him in ways the old queers in black warned me of , but which white women sued aids to try to satirize as they imperiously Censor now everything. Some Stymie now takes it to the level of demanding that the village People be barred from this somehow imperial codex the niggers think they actually edit, but again remember when as Kodrell was being destroyed by a fat cretin named Mark Madden and giggling Jew and nigger were doing fag Kordell jokes each day lest they get the deluge of emails from Stealer fans that have gone underground as let down by rapists and woman beaters, the Three rivers Pollocks didn’t like that tune Macho Man either, as they didn’t like to hear that 'fag music', not at the temple of Jack Lambert, which truly was, lets say, Ironic. Ah, the dragons are strutting to death, eating themselves alive by the tail, always a fear as Columbus defied the church an its Ptolemaic maps of edges, not that it was worth it, and neither would be not be castigated for it by people for whom an Italian writer invented the noble savage. Always, like hating Virgil, doing the bidding of the Augustine bank-rollers. Is it wrong of me to think that had Leif Erickson discovered America, and didn’t think it wasn’t worth being mentioned that the dead redskins would be recalled about as much as would the seven out of every ten Italian dead by the end of the barbarian invasions. Nigger please. We aren’t all Lesbians the priests, them disdainful of the wives of god, much else Fags unthinkable to them then, would say to me.
The Funniest thought demarcation in our catch as catch can imperialism, where watch yourself or else, but if caught up in imperial gears, call Sholmo, Pfizer Lieberman and Quince, the Legal team I sue, and Milton Gonniff is my soliterarrrr, and well get money and priestesses for you, eheheheheheh. Alerts given, the usual largely daily unrolling of grievance to the point is just the noise Omaba needs to get the hell out of town, his less than Cincinnatus hope all along, and sign what he told to sign like NAFTA and Pipelines, ...sorry losing the senate would help his masters now, so guess what’s going to happen, I mean, have you paying any attention between the envelopes, dear Rachel...?So, a crew of Lesbians at Harvard, passed TODAY on a Mass, a Black Mass, they backed down as the always griping, always vicious, always petty always vulgar alas mean always superior always preening always fronting always disrespecting, always vicious , always barking, always do., I was not shocked, not Roman me, that these daughters of the moon or muff were going to put on asked to be no one, epically Satan, who as Dante said, avoids the stupid and the ugly. My 'situation' with Leslie had left me drained, as I guess like Obama and GE, it as supposed to. I was looking for girls, I guess, but, all seem lackluster after Laura of the t squares, who Audrey Told me, had utilized me as a way I never had her, as someone to deify her whilst she was being hit by frying pans like something out of Andy Capp. I always had girls that were married and separated simpaticas back then, my meter is running chicas who used me as much as I used them, a calibration of fun, the last jester I was in a sissy world where the fags were married now and Maureen Dowd helped Hillary become queen of the clothesline appliances, though no one believed that much as so Both were shocked when America took the opportunity to vault a back bencher, a child when dame Lucretia was retiring Nixon for admittance back in the days our Livia helped defeat and leave a cesspool in her Disney queens wake. Oh, I knew girls, all friendly sorts but that died down as soon as I was kicked out various twelve step programs as admitted I was trolling for damaged babes , you know, to help pout—with my cock. Unfortunate I got the scent that perverts were soon not to be what they once were as we recycled Mickey Spillane with NPR, not a fair exchange, and the loudmouths would inherit the earth.
A gal I knew then who I am not kidding I think has been institutionalized by her philandering husband, named Peggy, was one such delft stepper and we hit it off all the way back to her earliest Milfy sun room and frolics in her husbands bed while he was somehow both contentious, abusive and trying to pick up aging but still cute trucker bartender girls on the local route 8 who were kind to me. As Much as anything I was trying to save Peggy, actually though a honey blond, still great fun whose life was destroyed by this thuggish fop hubby, from the horribleness of matrimony, as it seem to me to be, a toxic plague so horrid it practiced Aids as a way for the New Centurions owners to tag their fagots like pigs ears at a carnival. She asked me if I like to go to a black mass. Yahoo, I thought, sweet satanic pussy, a bunch of broads willing to eclectic slide their way to a trip on gossamer wings out of to dis and vulgar inferno on slightly grey if not pigeon wings. Sure I SAID, LETS SEE WHAT TRADE WE CAN FIND THERE AS I MADE IT A POINT THEN AS NOW TO SUE VIDALLISMS BEFORE CNN MADE US ALL CREDITS TO OUR RACES, AND THE KIND OF PEOPLE THAT SUED TO BE IN TELEVISION ADS FOR DETERGENT, as Mad Men isn't really deteriorating what you think it is, at all.
Ah, but the sanctimonious magnanimity was just in ovo then, and any thoughts of some De Mille like gyrations were soon put off. I have always had a thing for the Rachel’s of the world and they I,l as the lesbians see in me a last hurrah’s before the duck like life time of forced commitment of gay matrimony something they did infect the fags with, after the bathes of Curricula were burnt down for our Sanctification and protection. Sanctimony proceeds a purge, as sun follows rain, and Lysol follows both. Sure, why not...?, I told cute blond pug nosed Peggy, and she drove me to some cement bunker in the woods, where I was sure hee haw like busty Franzetta Moonbeams were writhing in the Calbiria like Technicolor sex pits, the sort that Augustine , as a good dutiful first Christian never stopped going to, deciphering that Jewish Guilt is a hell of a town, the subways up and the batteries down, itrs a wonderful Town! Do they serves drinks I asked, never having seen a black mass before, excerpting to unpleasant and unashamedly quoting Metternich again, the only black mass is a real mass, showing that you niggers have a long road to hoe hoe hoe, despite what is said on afternoon yaks. I, needless to say, was the only man except a droopy Mort Druker background Jewish looking Mister Carlin type, who seemed here with worst intentions than I had, what with as Levi said, Italians are a a middle class nation, of which I am proud. We walked in, as a giant Tinia T, no sorry a Lateran crucifix, without corpus, to which the mad monk returned the cross to being a pagan symbol of early Jove, sorry, but yew gets what you gets as Ma says, a cross was hung on a plaster wall of cracks on which of all things old Deceaser Englar, as I had posted before, mod posters of grateful dead and Breakfast in AMERICA Super tramp, boy they were great, posters, and boxing posters of cold war type and drawn Jack Armstrong men were shown in Bauhaus glory. This was not shocking, as I take it back then even the lesbians loved Boxing, but no was told this was an ex Falcons pollock hangout that was bought, or even squatter, in the first wave of Clinton demanded insolvency which the masters of the Democritus’ think still will always work their way until they stupidly realize, like Harry the red and Jewey Jonnie, everyone here is on their own and has an agenda and whats yur angle, pardner...? I walked in, sweet as you please, and the collected editors of Ms Magazine acted like I was something other and invading, a Roman man, and this bothered the Greek hags reddy white girls and some others, but a brunette in a Lilly Muster-Athena get up smiled at me with the brightest blue eyes I had ever seen, like a pretty Jewish sort at this time, being the kind of witch that even the democrats know, like Cowboy Whiteouts and others always exempt from white decency, is always free trade, and open season upon, anyway.
The more or less Lutheran cross was a harbinger of the bloody-mindedness of this place, which still smelled of the king Edwards cigars that my father sold the last great generation of American males, or democrats, as even still some wary Lebos had not taken down the glass enshrined flowery tin displays of Caravaggio and Da Vinci which my Ma had bought for us, at the then brick housed, trinket selling five and dime, before the city predicting McCain became the abortion loving hovel that such places always become, as the nuns warned me. Always notice, Flavia told me, wary of me, but befriending me none the less, always never schooled that I would do ten rounds with anyone, notice what is called Kitsch by the good white art dealers and what is not. If it wasn’t for house hold gods, wed not know the Etruscans were there, they always dismissed and unrecalled by on the make on the ate injuns wishing to let Snyder Boy Jones without the warmth have his name, but bought back by men who don’t own it in the first place. Again, Centurions is your best move, Dan, and then you’ll see what censorship is all about.
I was not shocked to see the Duce of Omaha, the Plautus of the Platte, the old dying man of Miss Hathaway, the banker that was played better and with more oomph by Raymond Bailey, be a staunch advocate of abortion as his deathly ilk has been since Magna Gracia, sorry, girls, but the priests warned me of your acts of playacting the filth to make sure your oligarchy is acceptable, what nitwit niggers owned by GE Industries and all, and how none of you bleeding hearts seems to even mention drones, so, I know that every nigger who luvs Uncle Sugar must forget purposefully the Tuskegee experiment and so I am not good looking enough to Denzel my way through various fairy Tales about Geronimo others now at home like pets in Ammmerrrikkkka, dadadddadddddaaaddddadddddadddddadddddaaaaaaaaa!
I started talking to the lovely brunette, as good a replacement for Lesley as I could have asked, a busty little Italian girl with the last name Gentile, ironically enough. She was dressed as the witch, she told me, yet was in white showing the level of wit on display at this coven without Tax tempt status. We started to talk, and she told me her name was Athena. Is this your real name or a confirmation name, I asked, a blond aseptic as usual that two brunette Poole were flirting, as satanists like lebaisn are at first trying to explain why the earth Mother Juno so scythed them and gave them the noses they were born with. She shook her head, on which was a lovely almost incongruous with outre then Blondie times of jet black blue black hair of a sort called a Laura Petri I think, shot as is seen in the great comic Uberman, in a mad paperback, which as a take off on the dick van Dyke show. She was dressed as I said, in sheer white, hair short , she was almost heroic, as I have placed various women like the great pin up Wendy and others as they seem almost like the perfected human images one sees in a Buonerotti notebook, which see Columbus above, any accomplishment by an Italian, whether a ceiling painted or soot stood upon much we demeaned, as we all try to white women we have become see things from Al Kida's side. Ah, but there is a new story about kidnapped girls, and thus, to show American society at its bents, only the black man Prescient is the one not speaking with hashtags about Our Girls, as deep down, he sees, sorry, the American antipathy towards Terrorism only reach full blossom when its prepitrators are alas Blacker than the Lion and the desert brown ex CIA station chief Osama. Sorry, kid, you really should have read the Annals if you were going to do bidness with a crew of senatorial abrogators from Long island and it couldn’t be that divergent from what Cassius had to deal with. But to quote Capote, this apostle of Beelzebub hang out, one time Polish falcons hang out in Monroville or off the rode from Apollo, had a stink to it of women who thought the sweat of other women was an aphrodisiac or at least a clenched fist against the patrimony. White sweat, cheap candelabras, and a tint of gasoline could be smelled in this circle of hags, and I started to get a chill, I ethereally recall this now, a chill up my back and made a sign to ward away the evil eye, or Lesbians or both, as these weren't the nuns that I recalled. THE BLACK MASS alas, had more in conman with the devil novelists my queer Cosine Gino adored when we ware kids, wheres I was alas more inclined to read when not pushing through Roman parapets for extra credit as early as 1974, how sad looking back that seems to me, I was reading intended variations of Mike Hammer and Signet stories about better looking brunette lesbianism than were at this debacle, who collected woman at the New Roshell patio parties that Mad men now seems to wish to defame, as gentleman's agreement was in place then , not as much as since Bloom berg and his cousins streamed the jokey club, but I have an inkling, this why Jews the left coast admire me, I think its still there as much as anything. This wasn’t the Lucifer of the Sunday morning television school of Marshall Effron on CBS, or even Dante, no this was the satanism of high school ugly chicks, and in Gino's books about Shatan as snarlingly banality, like one called the Car, I think, whose b grade blood operas he regaled me with with almost escalated glee, he who now works at the local food king, and sweetly avoided the mire and the swamps of albinism that I am still stuck with, like Cato chariots ruts in the alpine mud.
The chief of lesbians here, looking as you’d think she would, like a moon pie with eyes, came out and did her act, half Billy Freidkin half Harry Potter, with no fooling a wand in hand, something agauin like much, a revetment of the Etruscans whose boy hero Tasgus had a wand of power, like so much too, now merely an echo in JKK Rawlings trash heaps of misunderstood and stolen effigies from the bestiary of Ariosto.
You see I have grown weary of the niggers of empire all thinking that every baseball player and every food stamp taking trash is somehow morally superior to every Italian genius who ever lived, and somehow because the white women don’t like them, that every two boy suitcase pimp is better than the Italic geniuses who get trashed on temple of middlebrow Amazon as you now tell everyone that Taco Bell is imperialistic superposition when you were tallying the Italians they must burn Dante to somehow Mesh. Your damned soviet quilt, like so many lice covered things, is enrolling from its days as shaker spun, and I am glad to know it is all now , as it lawlessly is, a matter of Time, as Democrats are caught on suddenly slick marble staircases and Juvenal the chic wit says, showing indeed who will guard the accountants, the most important question when dealing with Jews and their suspicious in laws at all. I tried to hit it off with this lovely girl, and the head Lesboa noted this, the usual suspicions allowed to have for Italians long dead and not crips showed its buzz cutted head again, and she waltzed over,l like a hippo in Fantasia. I take it as usual, in my Jane Goodall study of dykes, that the pretty one is always seen as property of the most bitch fuck, something they share with the truckers they hate. We spoke and playfully spoke, as this old cunt hag was doing her malarkey and her spiel, her hocus Pokus and guess what that means in Metternich , or at least Kissinger World, and we started to speak at ease as the Lesbians were doing a road company of Hair, mixed with bats taken from the Omen and or Superman 3, whatever.
The lead lesbo did her almost funny stick, at our fan fan ru like deviling into the voyeurism of the occult!, really it was EC comics meets sex and the single girl without as usual a Natalie in these Woods in sights. Except of course for Athena, who Peggy didn’t know, and I have a habit of leering at women when with other women, but usually those woman if not a look-alike to my goddess, and especial if boyish and blond like Peggy, though she gave great head, like a Greek sailor, she was just a buddy, and she I thought knew that. She should know my meter is running, and I am infantile and definitely on the make. I was smitten by this girl of the moon, amusingly but thankfully, to show most lesbians are as the brothers warned me illiterate , her name was really Diana, here I am not lets say embellishing nor changing names to protect the guilty, wither, but they renamed her as Athena…!. to ,make her more like a daughter of the moon. Gee fucking whiz! I liked her a lot hopeful of finding another Lesley, who I knew was gone somehow never to be, like the Turin myths I read even then, if not like I the jury. Diana, who wasn't such a lunatic ass her previous Beatrice, despite her being as dressed as a goddess of the moon as she had been. It was funny to classical Antony, bane of unmarried women, this was a mish mosh of various things, from Paradise lost all the way to Hallmark cards and I, admiring of Satan, as one must be to any enormity willing to take on a Omnipotent God, you know, just for the principal of it all, the Jewish biblical Catalane I fear has lost his reason for being, as he trend into less the Loki of Job, past the shape at Golgotha made to be a woman of course by now dismissed and why would you bother or care Mel Gibson, to the Hades almost proto Roman imp gargoyle he has been made into today. Really I felt bad thinking Satan had become less Kemeter on whom he might have been based at least in painting by italics who saw the rediscovered Etruscan wall tombs paintings of the blond demon, he appears in the bible too, hummmmm, don’t let Fox news hear about that one, rabbi Shmomey, and he has lost some of his more Dantean fixtures, like railing against god from the ides of dis to being a patron saint as he was here to fat chicks who cant get dates. Then things got horrid. The girl I had been hitting on as brought in by ropes, as and has always been a fixture of bigotry until they recalled that with engraved invitations in italics, and of course Murray’s waxy yellow buildup. WHO KNEW that out fagoting who survived aids would be so cared of matrimonial things, that in fact they would end up being the little man in the boat in the captains hat and the pea coat rounding the waves of our toilet bowls blue waters, to show how they had been sanctified for their own and your own Good. But alas I recall when good white women were insufferably and amusingly pompously attempting not hide on the last that they were tactfully unwilling to have the new Reagan era untouchables drink from their water fountains, but then, if the past meant anything to the shameless Father Nick wouldn’t have told his deciphers to not have anything to do with them at all.
3.The girl was brought out in chains and ropes, and I recall this scene and wrote what ended up in AR , then called the Maker of aqueducts, in that day, or night recalling this must be what it w as like when Italia, the girl woman I saw as hidden princess of Tuscany, this around the time of the jazz- bulls CHAMPIONSHIP SERIES , SO THIS WAS LATE NIGHTIES June AND I ON A SLIP PF PAPER STILL USING MEAD APEX PAPER I HAD BOUGHT AT THE PAHRMORE, wrote a line, ancient Romans...ANCIENT ROMANCE. IT STUCK, AS I THREW OUT “THE FROGS OF THE COLOSSEUM” which was my first drawing or so of the epic I had envisioned and put away. The lovely, Italian, girl was brought in the room, where Seagram boxes still were kept and Coke a cola Vargas ads were still up on scarred plaster. She was brought in as I was as board by this as any real mass, to be Metternich about things. And Peggy with smiling blond face was having a great time being way from Phil or Sam or Duke or whichever her dog maned husband was, as I have always felt a certain what kind of man reads playboy specter of things that our gangsters tried to free us of with thirty years of good wholesome suburbia, the death of all empires. I recall thinking, why is the brunette pretty girl your witch, this brought back to me lately by a confluence of things, least of all Gia being a Disney witch as she was born we are told to play, by the always smiling hags I hate.; Why inst one of your blond cunts the witch here, but then as the soon dead priests said the rotten apples falls even lass far from the rotten tree.
Then like a Tarantino movie, not a compliment, she was stripped down to bra and panties, a nice psycho sexual touch when dealing with hags like this, and nothing I had stepped into when asked to ferry things from church to convent then as a fifth grader who saw my share of Boccaccio aspects of the one true church. Then it got weird, as she was bared by the sadio masochistic Torquemada Matron here, who wore something like a cross between harry potter and Maude's Bea Arthur. Then in scene that would appear in Big Bertha but done to a old man as I didn’t like the saffic implications of what I had seen, they started hurling eggs at this poor pretty girl, a local Pollock admonishment I have been told, and I, always thoughtful as coward thought this was a bit much. Hold it, witches, I said as these lesbians swelled in a way I would not hear again until Ellen got a syndication deal, what is this shit...? They were dumbfounded by my skunk at the garden party of ugly gals, here. Why is this pretty girl, I said, having gotten a gist, the witch, who again, showing they all had learned ethics at the knee of Uncle Walt, utilized the only pretty Brunette, and a knock out too, and an Italian girl no less, to be these stregas hag...?
This upset the chorus of boozed up unplucked cretin gals this was, that this beaver damn was, and the head cretina, to quote Mas favored word for a hag, was in full Jrr Tolkien umbrage at me, the Brutus who galloped in, which they always fear. Sister Virginia, she said ceremoniously to the blond Virgil, Peggy, I had used to guide me through this hell where all Feminine hygienic products like Hope had been abandoned, and a smell of cunt was thick in the room, who is this interloper who you have brought to the inner sanctum. Of course always about to do so Peggy then cracked up, knowing this would bother me, and looking for a way to elevate herself from this coven of Herstory PhD’s. She laughed, and I might have made an Outer Limits joke. But many of the Sisters of the Yoyo sisterhood were not pleased at my playing apostate. Are they ever as pleased when you treat them the way they treat others, of course not...never again, again always means to us, and nobody else. They were openly humiliating this girl, in a scene in which its aspects was ridicule by a later white woman editor calling my imagination fevered as she would, but then, when I said it was something I had seen up close and how brunettes are targeted as you fgas now are fond of saying when they finally get you your scripts, why the gaggles of covens of white wonder bread strageas, well, again as so often happen to Jesuit Tony, the matter was dropped, and didn’t hear aback from that husband bitch, as not having to defend themselves is their absolute faith, and explains why one man will get his team taken away for a opinion spike lee doesn’t like, but there wont be a fifteen yard penalty asserted for the saying of Nigger, as that cuts into their sanctimonious fun, but then, when Michael Wilbone is your Virgil, you should expect more of that. He made a point Mudbone thinks anyone calling him a nigger is justifies him to beat them up back, boy did the cow town Jesuits teach you that... that words can be met with violence, and though it was done to show his sanctimony the as is like attributes of a Jesuit edification made me think that there was nothing justified or sanctimonious about this meeting of words with violence, as after all,we ain’t all your Wife, nigger, oh I’m dreadfully sorry buts see those connections where all the rest of you are thankful blind...Id always keep an eye on someone so willing to destroy Richie and who clams up and or laughs when Ray Rice or Big Ben enters the room, as God puts like and like together by their silences...
4.I had enough of this and barked out with the only true masculine voice, as the herstiry cunts were having a ball at blandishment, like niggers do, I, as a herald of the Jesuit mentality among these hags, I said enough. I seemingly spoke loudly enough to actually bring and end to what The Clinton would sue to save hubby long enough to sing off on the Oligarch we have now, something even good dutiful Sorkin cannot deny, but then by now the chooch of the Democratic party has been worked to death mulling all that gold to the posh hang out of Goldman Sacks. They were shocked by this, as I had guessed these worse mother haters and father dispisers who had been that worst of all things, overfed, angst, middle brow American white chicks, who called for both revolution and for what was on sale at Sac's Fifth Avenue this week. I had enough of this crap, it wasn’t fun anymore, to Roman Antony all this Germanic Druid Celtic vulgarity is an anathema, and I told these hags who frankly despite their fetishistic Satanic occultism seemed to have more in conman with Uncle Walt then they would admit. The Priest warned me of the hollow empty sanctimony of white people, as it helps them as it has since the tribunes get what they want. Like, again, why is Coriolanus a hero to Shakespeare, well we ever be told why of all in Livy he could have taken and stolen why was this cartoon fascistic, as he appeared even today in Roman newspapers, ah the expression Womb if ever was one, why was he a Roman hero to sur Willie. Again notice it isn’t Sur William Shakespeare as you'd think, but then, changeling his love of ghosts and Dante, Poppy was a catholic. Peggy called me Tony, as wanted to leave as a true blond short girl would, as only the bottle blonds are as willing to demean as are out highers, and we walked out, but the head lezbo made a point of us, as that sort does, always ready to have you join in the good nature certainties they have father to thank, not shockingly, are Satanists every anything but closet Klansman,...?,Oh Toooonnnny, she said dismissively, as to a lesbian demeaning someone is their hearts desire.
As if this explained something as it would to a good middlebrow white woman, as even today we hear of good heartened liberal rust era, Kennedy school, that will come into pay later on, white men who see woman, blacks, anyone they think they have been bequeathed join nay other party, as again, the master tells the truth when he thinks he is saying his biggest lie, like how eager the good Aldermen are to call men who have lost their farms tea baggers, or say that republicans are on a jihad, as again, as I know there is only so far they can stretch Walt's grimmest out look before it snaps, which they fear more than another Catiline among the dismayed niggers, this is a recalled as anything and not with a whit of my embellishment. That explains everything... she said. I turned about, and said one of the first items before making this a credo, I said, eliciting laughs, What is that...?a slur..? I told this hag off and we walked out followed by Diana, her name was, the girl dressed as Athena, which giving this Italian girl a Greek named by these father raped john deer pricing flannel night mares was a microcosmic of all I started to seethe and hate. How woman studies do you have to take, how much affirmative action you have stolen from the darkies does it take backfire you take a woman named Diana and rename her Athena, to make it all seem more Witch like...ah the rotten apples is an orchard now. And I told them what they really were saying with all the Latin and Roman iconography as Satanist. And the disposed down T and the pagan Priestess being humiliated as she was, I could scene a good German when I saw them. You wernt fooling me, Not Roman Antony, I know a witch when I see them having, as I said, been allowed in the oven of nuns as a boy, who pout you Klansman grand kids to shame, bitches. I told that cunt, and the sue of that word was as if a compression bomb that flattened the coven breathless, dare I, an Italian ape as I was, as have been called without Jews going into shaky censorious mode to acquit themselves for a bball superstar that nobody seems to like and still gets piled on , no Jordan Rules here for anyone but the most venial of ESPN hags. I had enough of this, but was the end of Clinton days and had just seen our bribe taker emeritus compare hismlef to Romans, a unnoticed bit of true sacrilege, if you think about it, for which his famailia will pay, maybe by making him go from First man to first gentleman which would sicken him, and which he might after all now deserve. Their feminine hygiene free mass bothered me, as the kotex patrol that day cemented its femmy or butchy epistles something I had to be taught by queer lovers of Ovoid dispose of, and always call out. Hillary wont be president I said then, as salt in the wound, as Clinton I waned them is more like me than not. The gasp was something I still get when us using a similar argument against the Jews. And, in the end, I said, aloud to the coven, she will lose, as her husband the Roman , wont allow it. This predicted a saga of carpet bombing brothers.
We, Peggy, Diana and I, all went outside, as she a lovely woman, used a kind of ski patrol yellowy jacket, as it was a cover she wearing on a stained by thick thumbed barbarians, me thinks of it has been modern history in a nutshell. We talked, but I was infatuated much by her, the bouncy, pretty Roman gal I has somehow saved from the hags of Gibbon, aquiline nosed thick ankled women always looking for the sort of effeminate man who had just sat there and said nothing like a plausible speaker of the house or senate majority leader. She told me she wanted to be a writer I recall, as Peggy had no real time for her, and wanted to go out and have some fun in this respite from her piggish cretin hubby. I by then had been tossed out of several places as I made it sure that the Roman gods knew, like another Antony placing his bloody hands up to the sky, that whatever deed had been done, it wasn’t going to Passover unconnected, and neither would it all be antiseptic and made merry.
I asked her if she like to kiss, and fittingly to me,as disparate as she had been in ways I wont go into here, the lovely brunette gave me a kiss, as Peggy gave a almost hiss of a knowing laugh thinking again I was on the make. But this girl enraptured me in the true Italic sens of that word and scene used by the Christians, as so much before the taco became a scared meal of Bacchus, to whom bread and wine was correlated to the holy mass before Chris had ever first sanctified Tacistus' child molestation praetor as a rendering to an equal God. I kissed the cute woman, as had suddenly began striking out in ways not before, as could always as great Newspaer man Phil Musick, Pittsburgh sportswriter noticed, pull it out of my ass with a charm and a ease that the Press no longer had. I kissed her and she told me she worked at Hooters as the witcheipoo was a Hector of literature , what else, who had promised her much, as her ilk had been doing To Italianate trade until they just decided to no longer need take Italics into universities and such,as I was warned by Father Francis as early as 1970, again. I knew I had ticked a nerve with the Paper chasey bloated hag here and that again I had found myself into a Lesbian triad as I tried to embark yup always as I had married women from boorish hubbeis, finding it all as so much what is the word, oh yes, American hokum. I was trained of Suetonius, and Gore Vidal, and soon enough Dama Hilatta as Ma calls her, would try to sue the suburban to her diabolical needs, but alas, never had her husband teacher her at all, that once they sated kissing your hand Sulla, you were finished, as the people in power now have read too much Tony Morrison, not enough Ennius, that could not be good. I gave the lovely girl my number, to a red Fail safe like dialing telephone I might look for again, at the old yellow house of the sorts that no less than EK Horn-beck hismlef had proscribed their Carney-ville horror a word out of fashion, and recalled with Hoover ville by the always amenable and aqueduct Democrats, especially those in rust belt cities, which is now all that is left with the Tenements, always a bad move. I really wanted to get back 'out there' somehow, as was recently wisked out of arts school as the hags there had wanted, as somehow my dislike and distaste at Dorian Clevanger's Tonto act and his love of tracing, to whom again everything was personal in that awful Italianate way, and now here I was, seemed a sin against Caravaggio and all Metal hurlants that have ever gotten into the well water. AND perfectly maned Diana seemed a projected place to start.
It did bother me thought went comedic and operatic again, that this girl was defamed as she was, and that a girl with the Roman name of Diana, had to take the name Athena to be more, thou know Satanic. But then, as the Persepolis hating Aryan disposing Roman addled Priests told me, Anthony, you are the white devils, they sued such words still, greatest fear, an Italian who doenst play the fool—all the time, Father Francis added with a scowl, as I had woman loving, shtick addled tendinitis that made me a disappointment like so often. It was a cute brunette Neapolitan girl with a horror Jewish mother who had eventually started my decline in 1978 as much as anyone, they saw, and women did exert a pull upon me that they didn’t understand , before all the perverts in America n had to start buying cards at the hall mark store to make sure a discouraging word was never much said. I gave the girl a card that had been sent to me but a Ill be your good friend for fifty dollars a month agent from Matewan New Jersey who may still be delivering a web site that explains she was involved in the making of Clerks twenty years ago, more recently then. I asked Diana if shed get in touch with me, what about Peggy, your girlfriend, she asked, which inflected from me a Ron Carey like Pffffffft—which caused Peggy, my sexuality buddy to laugh as I kept the flame of Guccione alive in the cold dragonfliesless darkness of the post imperial night of the Reagan mid-winters tale. I was akin to my Machiavellian Brother, but also I made the mistook he never WOULD, I ACTUALLY FELL HEAD OVER HEELS OFTEN FOR MY QUARRY IN WAYS HE AND JESUITS TOLD ME TO NEVER DEAL IN TRADE.
I liked Diana a lot, as she summed a prefect Columbia, another image I take it the niggers and their Jew bankers, or at least payday loan signers, will censor out soon enough like In the Navy, a queer shanty we all snag with playfulness awareness once before the soldier became the God in ways not in Virgil, at least until we found out about them being allowed as no less than Palling told us from her best side always, to be killed off by the Ares that is the hidden God of all liberalism. As Make mine Mars, or Larsen If I might. I knew that I love a parade shit from one time nudge now beloved television score giver Rachel was hooey, and in monetized seconds went to find anyway to call the gathering of corpses of men without eyes and arms, as somehow another of her, or at least GE's, fake scandals that seem to dog the unrepentant unattached, uncaring and unaware by anything but Dick Tracy like radio reports, King of swing. I knew as much and warned that that shit about parades, how the babies killed have no Jews there to foment anti Goy rallies as these are Arabs, again and they are sued to just Jovian overkill. Parades for troops make them all feel Americun, as her compassion knows no bounds or decency, for men shot during a Republican war, how ever now, any drone proves that this nigger is a good American as it does them all, which is why we are fucked.
The last tine I had been so overtaken by a girl that I kissed them on the street was an older matron named Pearl who after flirting with me, asked if id kiss the still well put together old matron who still then wore a fur like good yenats used to do before we all became pussy’s. She smiled at me with Jodine Costanzo blue eyes, bluer on an Italian with black hair then they ever are with the dishwater crowd, a remnant of Beatrice I guess, and like Micheal Caine in Hanna and her sisters when confronted with his love for the great Barbara Hersey, hippy chick per excellence, I was walking on air as me and she and Peggy went to the local Burger King, not far from where we met, as her husband was the sort that didn’t let her eat fried foods as he was detahley afraid of her bloating like the fat men who have somehow gotten series renews at dying and old man stink CBS, which isn’t what it sue to be, but then what is...?
6. In a few days, the phone rang, and some bloated bitch touch guy fat woman loud mouth was bitching at my Ma, who immediately took the phone and handed it to me, and said Its for you. She already then was too old to deal with my forever young forever mine Quadrophonia bullshit. What the hell I said, and gave back epithets, as well as I can, always on stage as a good Italian can classy revert to being, and cursed that cunt out in ways that made that English major -witch coven litterateur of the woods, drop the phone and I hung up. Immediately another call came. It was Diana, exhorting me to listen as this witch moon dancer cunt was afraid as I can do that would go Roman on that bag of shit and that's when as usually Roman Tony scares the people who started shit with him, so sued to nigger slow yesm boss spit downward they have become. I felt legitimately badly that somehow in whatever way, this lovely girl had given my number to her sugar momnma cow porcine white woman, which as Machiavellian I am never resentful of anyone who would sue their attributes to get an old man like this cow on to a lets newsletter list, Id take all that fatso money to, if capable , but then her ilk has pictures of me by their cashiers. I was disappointed , and saddened that this girl couldn’t keep a number secret for a day or so and thus couldn’t be In my Romantic gardens, as was obviously unworthy to be a Beatrice in my my day, so stay with your cunt, I thought, and told her quickly and curtly a word that bothers the white trash as when I sued it as a Sallust like appreciation of my own work, or what I wished of it, really this bothered the white women as did my admiration of Jesuits they rather think got whats was coming to them as child molesters rather than as smart lovers of the fiddles of gold from which Willie stole apples, --when writing this I FEEL A CERTAIN ELECTRIC TINGLE IN MY FINGERS AS A COLD CHILL RISES UP ME, THOUGH THE DAY IS FINE AND FAIR, I feel as bad as I had gone to a black mass, me beloved by priests, even if to only grab some ass, I feel as bad as having gone there as having to admit I went to a comic convention once, and for similar reasons and recall similar chills. GET LOST, DOLL, I said, as she trued to say something now to disquiet or calm me, though as usual, the only part of me that wanst fake was the serene scene of disappointment I had. I love the idea, I said, that you think this hag Pitt professor of creative writing—as opposed to uncreative?..., was going to sugar daddy you to the heights of Pottsville, as she was one of many who made a point of a dire penny dreadful named the Mysteries of Pittsburgh, then out, which always left me cold, as the only mystery I can think of is why does everything smell like piss...oh were too close to Heinz Field, where they don’t play the village people dutifully and always with an ear to the slobs are the penny pinching Rooney. As now the vulgar have met themselves as she'll be coming around the mountain when she comes, and all I was waned about by priests with a unknown death wish , as Gayity has been subsumed now to the point of Barney's windows and registries, I see all that was foretold to me by ancient books as no one gets the Roman jokes anymore, too slapstick and farcical for the mad men of self righteousness and as Augustus said if Plautus trying to pull off a moment of candor, he wanst funny enough to pull it off.
I received the call from Diana, with a Jack Webb like plausibility I can always find the names I need to be suggestive of what they really were, and I as I said, Hung up on her in mid trying to explain something to me, which is not how I wanted this starlet Beatrice to go at all, and maybe Leslie had tired me out or caused me to grow up, and maybe it w as just lusty playfulness at seeing a lovely brunette dressed up as a demigoddess amid the Saxon pig whoers of Gibbon that incited me at all. I have a shady feel about me, I still do, though have never committed a crime in my life, still the ethos of Harry Lime and Orson as chiseler and incredulity seem an elegy lied at my feet, and I have been told this as of closure a pejorative, covers all my work and deeds, works and days,as in fact, there is something of the graffiti artists in me, at least before they became half breed, half thwarted middlebrow scions of poster art for various soon to fall from the branch pols now mired in big mistakes even as they try to change the subject from dying soldiers and go to be seen as prices of wars, but end up letting names of CIA station chiefs out out of a hatred of the country they alas sadly over taken, or at least clerk, or incompetence or a mixture of the two probably closer to the truth. There fore with a artful dodger creed in me and with a sight of Five-O always innervating to me, the last thing I needed was a gal who couldnt keep up with me, when as I SAID, THE MOST DARK AND DEVIOUS THING I HAVE EVER DONE MIGHT BE AN ADMIRATION FOR THE ROMANS AND ROMAN ITALY, THEIR FIRST AND BEST MARTYRS, AND IN THIS AWFUL COUNTRY THAT COULD BE CLOSE ENOUGH TO THE third man WITHOUT HAVING TO GO ALL CLINTON ON YOUR ASS.
I hung up on her, and made it apparent never to be bothered by her again, as I didn’t even To Lesley, who still calls up as a life line from suburban death, sorry bliss, to recall in her mind when she was Beatrice, something she still can not wholly let go of. Proving that Audrey the yenat had her perfectibility fingered as what she was and was not when she told me to find someone else, as this girl needs, the yenta told me as auger, ten years of extensive therapy and was beyond my help. She still calls here, so, at the hours of dusk and dawn, Ovid true golden hours, as it gives her something, some kind of grace that would be broken by a mere and too sub Urba hello, which she must hear all day and thus wishes to recall the Roman towers of Laurentium now even twenty years amazingly, on. Still, I must admire this of her, first too young fir me, and now too old, as it plays into my Mercury Theater thoughts for myself, she keeps it as undercurrent and sottovcie as you’d expect an Italian damsel to, like a caricature out of Italos Italian fairy tales, the conniving pretty smart ass princess, as I think there is an actual Ligurian, her icy cold northern stock I believe, poem of the smart presence shows saved herself from monsters, very anti Disney that idea, and Lesley no matter how she tired me out at least had that, something I could admire about her was her Italic love of the dark, so demeaned by Lucas and Campbell hosre shit, but which to us wops is just the beginning of nocturnal Fun. As in fact Kemetre Pines for the Moon at the alters of the earth. That this woman started out betrayal to me, again Leslie has always been irritatingly consistent , or maybe my mind is playing tricks, --FOR A B CUP NO LESS TO SHOW HOW BEFUDDLED I WAS!, and my scuzzy dislike to that human bratwurst white women made me mad and I told her in no strategy voice but truthful as I can be , despite being taught by lovers of Guiccardini and his playful malevolence and his Juvenal wit, Don t call me here again, Athena sweetheart, the emphasis on the Greek conformation named the Satanists give out now it seems like the catholic church or Warner Brothers to hide eastern Mediterranean blood of the once great and Wendy mirroring Novack, beat it sweetheart, I said in my best Mickey Spillane, as she was totally now seen as useless to always slug fir nickles using me. Be Gone, doll, I said like Richard Burton in my imitation of him, and hung up on her in her mid-sentence, didnt want to hear it from her, yet, as I never have told Leslie to go away, as I can always respect a gal who will somewhat at arms lemnth, still after all this time unawares, maybe even wary of me, at three am, as the reason the Roman length, a black market had nothing to do with race, but meant it was at night, the open counters for certain stuff that was beyond Augustus sight to be bought and traded and wholesaled.
The picture here must be ashamed and hidden away and denounced, as how dare this come from a nation that recalls Cumae, when such stories, like the Canaanites, are like Daffy Duck cartoons, in vaults of the good victors now…?
6.Now, after all that why do I bring this up now...? I have alluded to it before, but why this delineated description now...? Well, it seems that ground Zero to lib dirtball bullshit, Harvard, the Place the Jesuit hated, the cathedral that I was told to avoid in the dying swans songs of these old men who seemed old to little me, but in fact where only in their forties, and would die before any became with granddaughter with at to the daughters they had with Italian women whose guesthouses they frequented at night, an early relational of things that didn’t bother me as much as gave me a credo at which to aim, they would all be gone soon enough, unnoticed and unremarked by a human corpse, a vessel of Embalming fluid as called by Father Gore, and whose deaths made me instantly dislike and distrust the fags of wedded bliss now.
Why did I recall this now...it belies Leslie’s off again on again callings, causally on sunniest days I notice, as we are all, even when blood is mingled with the mongrel DNA of the Irish, hey don’t blame me, make Yale quit vamping Margret Hamilton 's Greek way as a text, a rejoinder which caused a Black scholar to atta boy me, why did I recall all this now...? Because as usual American sanctimony is hokum, harem scarem bullshit and in fact, that Machiavelli was right and scarcity hides a shrived womanish heart, it seems that Shatane as he appears in previous to AR Tuscan works, he, the lord of the bees, has been like the ROTC, expelled from your English class. Like Chaucer and dead Italians and all but trash, written by spics and Arabs and women, Harvard is too cool for the burning anti- God, he far too blond once, as he appears in the Talmud as the escapee of the evil of the NORTH, don’t let that get out at thanksgiving, Shmulie! I guess to be admired by the unmarried women who think they are the fulcrum of Americanized politics except when they are told they ain’t. I, no great Christiano, not even confirmed, I, Roman Antony, went to a black mass, a lesbian un- catered affair, would it kill you to chip in for a carafe, or some pasteries, no shit, without the later pageantry and so camp it hurts batman under Nolan like vicious Hadrian fag wedding buffonnery, that doenst even get how camp it really is. Without the good taste inherent of a fag wedding, I didn’t say yes to the dress like you did, and yet, Harvard, the place I was warned about was too good for such satanic curricula, which frankly left vulgar Calabrian me cold, as Hillary does now leave the all but rich and decadent, as I hadn’t been so bored and dispassionate and disappointed in evil since I paid to see the remake of House of Wax.
The deliciousness and slight of hand and self censorship of Vincent Price has always been at its heart more invigorating and likeable than the eviscerating of Hater Materazzzo , deboend like a pig in an Anthony Bordain Sunday night special. Shatan, get thee out of here, away from the this fat girl nunnery, it seems, where less than brilliant, else than read, less than Ovid interconnecting women herstory without Camilla, lovers of Boudicca, bleeeech...!, shitheads always like they are paid and want and expedited to do, back down. After a season of discontent, you back down like less than assertive incubus, the décolleté rapist Kennedy family ruins and dregs wish to not have a black mass so close to this many woodland Irish...now, would there be a corpus on the stick, disposed down T, should there be a Christis here, and if not would it count, asks Jesuit student Me. Again showing what happens when you study ethics under Rachel Maddow, the good white women , despite their caterwauling love of MLK an Gandhi and other unspoiled monsters, they backed down, back away, never mind, did I say something, is this your stop...?, how much for these shoes, get outta my way, do you have the recess pieces Klondikes here, Sal, two pounds of Pastrami with little fat, please, the white women again, back down, as you always must and shall, and there is Barry after a meting with Hillary doing his bidding like a Godot lil nigger and expelling the gook secretary,... howd he get in..?, and too the captain nice mouthpiece, thinking they are dividing and conquering, buts sited just making it look like the place is being stripped of copper wiring, again Hillary muling the intentions of Roman Bill with no idea what all that Ladine means.
I think no one understands how I feel I could screech out like Jerry Van Dyke, comically, but what is the use...? I am here making pages for no definable reason here, as await to send my DVD of WOP LIKE ME to several now outlets, as have been denied by at least now 5 of ten sent. Don’t know if even my long winded dissertations can express how badly I feel about all things, as I find I cant keep doing this on 2015, when I shall be Fifty, but have alienated enough people here in Good America without the soft landing spot of Gore's by being a patrician all along. The bros. Adored me but sneezed at my career paths, films and cartoons were puppeteers and vulgar theatros, I was to be, to them, a student of Law and Romans and everything the nun-hood of lebians hate. In America, I note this late hour, all the lefty is is a kick line of usual subsets who as with the back mass backs down when they , as in Rome, were tributes who went to far from the con they were supposed to buttress as much as demeaned be destroyed. And in the jurists I found heroism, and recorded heroism better than any nigger saints you have gotten us now, Catiline is worth a thousand MLKS, a newly initialed God, if not more as I have an inkling good old nigger bag men , despite working for the FBI as much as anything, never see it coming. So, I send out work as if divergent act, as lost any chance of I guess at respectability when I turned up my nose at the various Georgetown’s, which is still a better version of Northwestern, where they hectare niggers and Jews how to give box scores and be saps when told to, but then I have never been a fan of having to wear a leash or a collar of any sort, my Ma telling me as even as a kid, tight shirts and turtlenecks made me squirm, perhaps enrolling a previous Roman yoke placed on Calabrian me, and unspoken of now. Perhaps I recalled a previous lives noose that somehow now Fuck you Vanzetti like so much has been bequeathed to the niggers as long as the white masters see no inherent Roman effects in it, why there is one nigger in the senate and he isn’t a good old Detroit Democrat, as know they place is the first rule of politics and animal husbandry.
I send out work, having done nothing really new for a while, just having made my Tony Liberia as from before again as so much fist in the air to all, to lesbos, queens, niggers and their white masters, I can say with pride that yes I did work that predates Toy Story, Saturnalia part three, A DOLLS HOUSE, Mad Men, Ad Hoc, Dexter, Roman Mythology, Both Clash of the Titans, The Thesiad including a black Pegasus named Buesephilius, Melevolcent-AR: the book of Alpena, Grimm and Once upon a time, the mixture of myth and realism as ancient as Italay in Big Bertha and the Mafia cops, The wolf of wall street, a play of mine called Boss, and a lot of others. But they couldnt eb done my way by anyone but me, as Scorsese is far too in love with dishwater blonds to pull it off wheres Jews have always liked me, as opposed to him now, and we hare what they really thought of him. And therefore, I send out work as never before,even my Ma notices a love of industry in me...ME!, as I realize and give indulgence, something I and no Italian has ever been so in love with money to think it is so superior to God’s books, we are not all Arabs here, and Plutus the old man of women and gold is not our Mithra’s, but he may be yours. What is Uncle Billo saying where he writes a book about Christ and succinctly refuses to mention anything not annotated in the slivers of Roman backgrounders and books, something that I knew would catch up to him eventually as he now brings us Patton in his death mask carnavale, in another book who is thankfully free of the Roman satirical bastards who made his previous gospel a exploding ciageer. I Realize my mistake and trying to make amends which as a Jewish man kindly told me, might be the worst idea for egging into show business, that he has ever heard.
The question remains is why am I completing cartoon epics down to the recalled line of dialog and imagery first in MS, then in CM, then maybe even in a pre star wars thing I did called 1975 ad about the future as it was laughingly seen in the old books my father bought me called the book of modern miracles, which were masterworks of art deco and immeasurable arts of a metropolis sort...why am I still doing this, down to writing out b movies about vamperalleas I did as a boy....? One answer is that these books and fulsome goddesses of paper were destroyed by me in fits of anger and depression or worse were destroyed by little nerds I went to school with, as I later would find people worse than me in ways , Rosie O’Donnell rushing home from school to watchMike Douglas as I did Dick Cavett, the guy whop over played his hand at Elf and anchorman who had the same Saturday Night Live alum I did and who sued it to make recordings of himself as cast member, and how Jimmie Kimball's ma, like mine did , taped the David Letterman show for me as I was off to school, and which all things I got hell from glasshouse wop cunts who are still now hanging out at the Blawnox era pool halls as they did then, so AS I said, THE NATION OF THE DEAD SOPRANOS IS GETTING WHAT THEY DESERVED. Of course as things fall to bits now, look for another Jersey Shore to allow the minions and the haters to laugh at the wops again and blow off some steam before the tenements explode, as taught to the borax team to do by Spikey and Marty, but something tells me that wont work as well this time, and it certainly wont give me a leg up, now will it. Oh how it bothered the comic hacks to see my Captain Magnus destroy a Conan like creature, as I didn’t know how very sacred the barbarians were to you keepers of black workers, but I should have had an inkling.
A comic nudnik caused me to recall HOT HOY HOT, a song of my eighties circumspect youth, when he said looking at pages I had done of CM, that the idea of a superman who looked like Buster Poindexter was beneath him and his comics, which I take it are redux of anything in the public domain, Alan Moore without the sentimentality and warmth, but just as a way to sue the work of dead men to your paltry advantage. This made me think of Buster Poindexter again for the first time in a long while, and thought, bitch if your trying to tell me that your hipper than a man who in the New York Dolls, well, that tells us where we are all headed doesn’t it. ..? You valued costumers mean nothing to me, although one guy in my spam of queries did allow for a looking over of the whole. I thought about redoing some pages of already at 5 x 7 Rag, but found again, despite the sneering of Cliffs, I liked these pages and merely did a few page in color as am allowed to now, I hate being into my greyishing forties and yet still asking permission, as its seems so bleeech, but did a few pages to intricate the first chapter still there in pamphleteer form, and too, did remove Veronica from Riveradale High and make her Moonbeam the brunette from dog-patch who survives the reactionary cartoonist creator and the fact that they are given a injection of the early stages of AIDS, as I saw that up close and knew why it was that Legionnaires then as now were as they say in Valerie Jerrd world, targets. We nnnnneddd a parrrrty Song a fundamental jaaaaaammmmm, with a boom booomkobooombomnmmm, OH LAWWWWWWD...
As a boy surveyed by fag preachers, I was promised a world of sophistication and new York Jews, of That girl and Norman Lear, as Barbie, Basketball, Reagan and Batman were being phased out, screwing our masters who relished the chance to own all, with shock troops being the niggards and the plutocrats and told you thou shall not notice they were eating it all. How it was in Dante the snakes eats itself alive, Esshhhstuithion, Ethhsoithhhhion, whatever, meant to show how Italy was destroying iself, but then Dante hasn’t ever been affable and clownish enough for those who grew yup with Sophia and Marcello screaming at each other in Technicolor, which frankly is as golden aged as anything in the Vita Nova, just not all of it. But the people always notice, and now Obamabie as I saw fore any of you, is dragging you all down, no Jupiter there to blow that sun chariot out of the sky before it burns up the poles, as seen in Ovid, and yet somehow Im supposed to think they’d dint know the world was round until Columbus, for whom they’d never forgive his temerity against the mother church. I hold well the old days, and the women now no pin ups worthy of Italian walls, they all lawyer up when they find the cop killers Bill Ayers bullshit communists are now conscience of the PTA, and how after lecturing us about MLK, the first things these ex hippies do is find Jews who speak Latin.
Again, my hatred of suburbia is something that like the Roman love that wafts off of me as Flavia noted, that causes the suspicion of me, that can be seen not on pages of Scorsese but is saved for artists of worth like Tasso and even pin up artist who can’t be fascias, even though Vargas was a drop dead woman beating Jew hater, etc etc...Still as my pop warned me , why wasn’t being a fascist so evil when Jew bankers were giving liens of credit to Italian facsist -look up the word for real kids, it might shock you,--as he was collecting one communist after the next and throwing them into jails which was called by Churchill the salvation of Italia. I’m sorry did I…I always do. But maybe they are right, as in so much I did steal that coven from that professor woman, I do sometimes hurl Marys at the wall, I am not as reliable as are the good folks of the sub urba who one day pick up an ax and wipe out their child minders because like Caesar they think that they are actually that important. It may be in the play, IT IS ON ROMAN LIVES, where as Caesar was laid dead, Mark Antony keeps in a mad railing, saying to Octavian, that he couldn't imagine a world without Caesar. To which the young but cold as a backalala and eyes as dry as a snake, Octavian said, there was a world before him and a world still is here then and now, and the sun isn’t spinning into the southern hemisphere on causes of ghost conman. Meaning you're not that important, and Antony showed a weakness to Octavian that Mark Antony had that he, a prick, didn’t. Maybe their right to be suspicious of me, and maybe deep down I dont care. I went to eBay and bought a shit load of Mad magazines that my father thew out angry once, perhaps showing me that I was too redeemed in his American dream bullshit and that I would within days it would seem, stop reading TACITUS that wasn't even being given to me to read as if a students assignment, but as mere brainwashing by old men who had an inkling that they were as figured as anyone, and that the cold Reagan winter was coming, and that I was to take these leaves and if not press them into books of Roman-ism, at least take the seeds of which and grow my own Italic gardenia. I bought the mads from the late sixties, old then, from when I was a toddler and they were my brother's books. I bought them a lot for seven dollars as a way to show something to someone but am unsure who or what any of it really means at all.
THIS BLOG IS CLOSED FOR THE SUMMER.