17 May 2015



As a boy, My sister was approached to be an artist, when America was still at its high noon, and we had yet as Italians to become so white that good Negros could forget or even resent the fact that the most lynching that ever happened at once in the golden door happened at Fort Lee New jersey to Italian men. I had written this as a play, I know what was I thinking…?, and though have been called anti Semitic, as even flushed and upset and offended Jews, when not…? , like to avoid the whole JEW term, though now thanks to drones and either true or untrue delta squad fandangos, Semite isn’t like many things, the go to word it has been for them before. Welcome to the jersey shore, or is it This is Sparta, who can keep up. But my sister a hippie dippy Pyscodelic artist was twelve years older than I, taught me how to draw, and was seen as a talent by no less than Disney, then about to open a second seedy carnival at cape Canaveral, or at least was then it was meant to be a neighbor to the Space program, I recall seeing the booklet sent to her, and we had yet as an Italian family to fall apart as much as anything, as Father Gore was telling anyone, the American Empire had run out of gas.

One such person who reached out to my sister for work, as nine would come true for reasons intimated at here and always thought by me an eleven year old to be my fault, lets just say it as still open season on Italians then despite the sanctimony of good white folks who’d make it from Holy cross all the wait to the corrodores of others men’s power at the limestone tower, a Tuscan variant unsought of getting that high or being that grand, or holding that many thieves at one time. As I have said, the term Ivory tower is another Roman insult you good white trash don’t know you even use, and refers to the fact that the Tuscans were effeminate, the go to, like ugly women, of all war propagandists, unless Greek history where the men are fierce and the woman pretty  an open insult to Italia by Greeks,--somehow, but like impreailism on Obama on them they think it works, and soft they were, as they could build buildings that didn’t collapsed when hitting a fifth floor, thus giving us the word penthouse, too showing when gods give you lemons…And so, as we find our own tenements seething on cue and then calming down once the word is out, as I have always known you didn’t have the decency of Roman rabble in you negroid gummit workers, I recall the past with a measure of if not nostalgia fondness as 1980 and epilepsy descended as I was an auger warning the earth of the vicious victorious Regan about to slaughter the Turnus of the American republic, Gore was not a waste on me, no sur, my own childish body like old man Tybere, rebelled against the onslaught of microbial antics, and the days of my sister's freeness were soon enough like the days of Gore Vidal as was said by bloated human beer truck Reich Limbo, had gone indeed. 

My sister was given a  paper on Della Famina, Travisino and Partners letterhead, a big time ad agency in the emerald city, no really in Oz the emerald city was New York, to which the heartless or was it courage less or was he wizard in toto, Brady, I mean Bryant was a headed or a leaving. The bald wop made good when this was still available in America, as was warned that the Godfather as a secret clarion call to all they good white folks that these wops, especially those with war records, were always to fall back to Sicilian creed, and couldn’t not be trusted until of course men who would lose eight of the coming elections would deem them as white, which makes me laugh when you injun fucks think you have a gripe against the dread white father. The ultimate hustler, when the garnet city held him and Knustler and Guiccione before the debarking Jews and their blond in laws made it a magical city of tax dodging, he had sent my sister a booklet to gain entry into the firm, and of sire an Italian, of the kings of self promotions, sent a copy of his memoirs which might as well have been called the girl of the golden Vest, a joke I am sure no reader of Rachel Maddox’s barrage of breathless yessims could get. Too, as a little boy I would help her hone my own eye this way, she was to take five ads from a Vogue sent to her, and re block them for their sponcer, to show her ability I guess to redo Ideas already done, as it had to be that idea done in an new way, etc, as once again, I show my ability to speak of the truth of things which causes agreeing good-fellowships like Rachel and Jonnie and Keith recall an America slipping away, as we are inundated with one poor man’s Larry David after the next. He told her that he liked helping Italians out before Mean Streets and the Unitarian church made sure we were all white with an assist from the Hollywood Jews who needed a Western to take over that dying genre, where no body cared about how many or who was being massacred or not. 


She didn’t complete it, not strange from a family whose patriarch was offered a chance to try out for the Pirates but poo poooed this as he said, he had to support a family in Italy, and thus couldn’t play the games of boys and bus all over the Forrest called America and send back pennies when the local mills paid well, there was still a medio causum then before the white girls did Ovid witjhout the charm, even then before Jewish in laws decide that as enough of the middle class from which they had married out of. Of course I thought him an idiot then,  but when see Labron in full regalia as nigger emeritus understand now what he meant, my Roman minded dad, as he knew in his literate heart and taught by fag Jesuit of his Italian creed own that sports have been sued as a way to keep the rabble as boys for millennia. But this was struck in in those formative summer days, and so a few years later sent a script to a producer of Teleplays , and it was the ethos about that firm that ensconced in my mind, and I called it AD HOCK. Again as all things in the Tony verse there as wit and fun and joy and sixties ring a ding ding action, only in this dower sobbing age can the dreaded new York times make the joyous Tennessee into a tragedy, of which they never like Greeks, see enough, as Gore said, as I was only an infant but through the sue of Mad reprints felt a nostalgia for a time now demeaned and discredited with all that gentleman’s agreement and all. Ah, the fulcrum around which all spins, as no body was getting a death sentence for gay queer sex when I a boy, at least not at first as they would in the restoration of Regan, as the good christers sat back and watched the fagots die, but then they have been subsuming germ warfare since the catacombs, as they never buried their dead. It then it is amusing how truly impotent the Semitic see their gods , perhaps this a remnant from how well the Romans made walls.

I sent this play in, all art deco Batman era camp, and too, in his center was an Italian American Dell Feminia sort, but no laughing joyful hump he, he was soundly taken and struck with how seemingly meaningless sit all was, and how distraught he felt. Oh, it was all here, the man in the gray flannel soul feeling at wits end, the patent leather hair and buffaunts, the succeeding in business without even trying millue, down to yes, Robert Morse, beloved by me as J Pierpont Finch and Tru, motioned in the margins as the Jewish owner of the firm in this Boss ideal game come to life, Sid Bass, and Jerry Lewis, has he hovered been in it, an ad man extraordinary Marshall Greenbergh, with an assists as the grand Keith Olbermann, all mentioned as types, as the button up Piltdown man excelsior, down to horn rimmed glasses as cheating lying stealing and beloved friend of Frank Glissando, as that man still looked like a living cartoon of Hank Ketchum made pudgy flesh. I had the snide smart sarcastic office girl, here and plain and mean and bitchy of course in our English to Yiddish dictionary, and of course, the sexual center of the storm, cigarette girl name soap queen of all and network Pitch woman, busty brunette as I must have in everything I do as a prayer to the Dea, this before Wendy, but of these same characters weren’t stolen in whole, like of course made red heads and an air heads, as sarcasm is the first thing the Jews, more than black hair, avoid. It was about the joy of life and how much fun they must have had there making japs car ads, and it was all more Darren and Larry Tate and McMahnn and Neil and Carl Reiner, than someone than it ever was the awful droning sad Tolkien Reich of now. Actually everything these humps think they have done was done better in the Apartment by Villlah, viullie Villllah than any of this navel gazing pompous shit done now.

I sat doodling these pages for others, as find a wall is hit again, and don’t even get much requests for books made, as have done five now such things, commissions, to one disliked, which I let go, as found I am in no mood to do horror anything as Sy Hersh after forty years finds out that Machiavelli was right and all politic retires to basic question “who holds the whip…?”. How good of Barry to reignite the war again, on cue…oh were the boys of the chorus, …so right when his own In laws, talk about black sheep, Uncle Jeb, not Jedidah mind you, but an other Initialed God, was flubbing around and could sue the gunsmoked break. Sad things are this transparent, don’t think hes not, but James Arness is dead, much less William Conrad whose basso profoundo,  like Orson, made pulp images come to life for chock full of nuts and Quaker state. I was saddened, I am now beyond the circus of Rage as the roman called it, as saw just going through the channels that Mad men was NOT ONLY GOING, but shade with a marathon of days to get there, just to put the extra oomph into this slog. Yes, it was these producers I had sent that script to, which caused them to reach out to me as have said, for a Gumba show blood comedy, that was steering into head winds as names like Spielberg and Scorsese were allied against it, even Scorsese!,  who understands I now see enjoys the joy of the amoral, to the Jews horror, the hoooooorooooor, were not fond of a show. The producers reached out to me one  cold arts school winter’s day needing an interpreter, of the sort of fat girls preening wither devotions to almost as fat cheerleader blonds, a thing I shall and cannot be.

So here was the show eventually made by me a modern script, Pygmalia, as a friendly Jewish procurer told me not without some anger, that things were tough now, and it might as well be in the age of enlightenment and a sixties b movie would be a costumed drama. I am sure that the echoes of which still exists in the low rent low ebb tide servers of Zio Frenchy’s Zoetrope, taken off here as being Clever, as the Roman script was Vulgar, big talk from someone who festooned Verdi operatics to the Genovese crime family, but all we Italians know now about taking that which you can get. So it is in there somewhere I am sure, perhaps the nsa, Id rather be watched by them than Universal or Paramount gods knows, as again as told that the film company I changed it to, and the same fatigue of evil, and the cigarette girl being a DNA swipe of Jane Russell as the bombshell reappears as it does in Ovid with cloning as Jupiter, was all there and is available to anyone who wouldn’t believe me, but then what do I care. 


The shows went on and on, and I won’t catch more than ten minuets at a time of this dreck, another Roman rite inculcated in me, though saw they stole this thing in whole, of course all that shit about demographics is horse crud, as the center of the show is a good white man,  again wrestling with dragons, as all in all English literature must be. They stole this good, except the fun and well written parts, as I was told by admiring Zoetrope cog that it was more stage play than not, a speech about selling out hit one of these polish starlets especially hard,  and the fact that there was no brunette. Oh wait there she is, a blond in a wig, thank god now no black face here, anymore, to make the Stan March like man in the gray flannel elevator, this Alan Brady show writer within the folds of tree martini women who lunch American dream gone bad corroders feel human again, and thus this was just a bunch of Jewish writers making themselves feels so good about the fact that they just love all niggers who aren’t losers of lives lottery to have been born on the Jordan, and have to take the collected punches that no Jew in his right mind would hurl, unlike Italians, at the blonds they have been counter intuitively told to deify. A little blond girl from Raymond land perpetual Newsday delivered to circle of hell,  kills herself, as my mind reels with what could be behind that, our affable lunkhead wop Kermit, as he may be next to go, like Gandoilfini, as I don’t trust anyone who wants their children to match the description they give their pimps.

But then I have always been a fan of the Roman clown, the Roman pratfall, the Roman farce, as must say again , these were the once of less than golden woolen who as the Jews were busily defining and defending the theocracy, a first thing Washington wanted no part of, they , the early Italians were making Coriolanus into a clown and a buffoon as I have said before. Which I have said a lot here and think of going to all drawings and leaving our lads at Comedy Central and MSNBC alone, but what fun would that be, and eventually agreement does start to make one suspicious, as Mario Cuomo bless his heart said, when two men agree on everything only one is thinking. Or one is secretly thinking, I'd add. The crappy show was now awash in nostalgia, as it hadn’t been before, but again only watch ten minutes at a time, you know like tithe,  and I was saddened by the fact that this  lackluster crowd, including the man in the middle  Glissando who turned out to be not as far removed from the happy days, you do recall this was the Camelot of Kennedy and LBJ when white liberals consorted the earth goddess as fortunes favorites don’t you…?, The lynching like at jersey were done by democrats you don’t recall…?,  of woman beating and bullying as say Andie poo would like. These monstrosities were shown as the Paul Anka song of my youth played. Good morning yesterday…started, and brought up; thoughts of a better yes better America, in which we were all Peppers and dancing, Fame in the street, the electric company, Bob and Emily, Sunshine cab, Barney Millers twelfth where gays would wince at the idea of a weddings, not in that outfit, do not spit on the floor, Jimmy Rockford and his icy bitchy wife not letting him get a word in edge wise, ah but even the perverts don’t need a Polaroid anymore, and this love of gay marriage will come caressing down as it must when people start using petaphilia as the grounds for diverse as a no fault, and that’s not me equating the two that your gate keeper Mother Dowd, who says the two are connected, as she learned when a sportswriter and studied ethics under Dan Jenkins. This was sad a moment to me as the song was in both AD Hoc and Pygmalia, and a joke turn at a wedding forced and needed for the Rachel Maddow lesbian character I had made here, who had to marry to get her money, as there sis something of the love of Cartman and Bender in me that makes me laugh at the things that men will do. I felt bad that they used this, of all songs, but it did show better than most these Jews in the perpetual cellar can always hear when the cops are coming better than even the niggers on the corner. 

What they missed there, as I have the temerity to say now and again be the mad man at the triumph, or the skunk at the gay nuptials, as I bring a slingshot to the dove release, the dove as we know more a heinous bird than a crow or an eagle would ever be, was the point of my story. Glissando is fatigued by the onslaught of silliness and shallowness, a remark and a hit taken by no less well by Pillow Talk and Doris Day Rock Hudson movies, so please spare me the pompous act, kids, and so he takes to the extortion of a woman, alas a Pygmalion out of whole cloth, at first a mere cigarette girl, then a clone of a dead star to show again, at least things never change eventually even  and all but the most vacuous of white women, like Tacitus to their self same angers, reaches the point where one just pines for Agricola, Beatrice anything that isn’t wholly fake and fraudulent as a Patriots win. After a while even the fags of ESPN are moved to wish to see a Chuck or a Tom or a Dan Marino or someone real, as pussy footing Tom terrific might have to back down, check your phone again, sissy, before you start finding out how many angels dance on the head of a subpoena, bitch,  as strangely Doctor Shrinker amazingly for such a brilliant man is moved to that most un Jesuitical of things, a open permeate and says everything after decade of warbling, silence. The Roman walls fall in and the man is left with nothing to say. Not me, I known when one is caught that’s when one should commit to the blue streak. Owwe wee.

I have waved off much, too much a felt now swimming with recriminations at this turn of events. A hump named Louis CK was on Saturday night, too good for a last name cretin poor mans  Larry David act, we are lousy with them, again telling the good fucks how good they are, as in the seventies we were all bigots, I guess Norman Lear is rolling over in his grave, ah that was before Regan as good GE praetor killed off the fags and incarcerated the rest at a profit, as I hate this goon. I hope he pays and pays bad, as he was here laughing and poo pooing those poor dumb Long Island wops in wet tents after a storm that blew and ill wind name Barry back into power. Those people still live in tents, two years later as we have been discovering the horror of team names, so I hope this Chewbacca , although he was funnier, gets his and his little retardo too. I had heard a rumor this was the last SNL, which the lovely Kate McKinnon sort of underscored, so watched as much as as I could. But these are not the days of miracle and wonder, as satire hasn’t been this bad since dark ages you now attest to, satire is a Roman art that like war, you have rescued to mere drone and push button. As during this show in which the great Cecily shines, I recalled the lack of satire for real, in a shitty show where nightly saw the little ninny from mad men so fill of self admiration , when did again the age of Aquarius become the dark ages…? Will someone tell me…? He and the goofballs who are asked questions, as now every comedian thinks himself Croce, by that high yellow sneering nasal faggot negro at that nightly shit, whose ratings are worse than those which caused them to cancel Corolla, and he was just so in love with himself and his detiriorata and his cable truth. The nigger here is insufferable, as I can deal with and play with Jonnie, Rachel, Keith, but this nigger in the words of Truuuuuuuman he believes his own shit, which is insufferable. This nigger between hummmmphs and sniffles was so upset someone would say they would bomb the Arabs back to the seventh century, number one how could you tell…?, but two, he made sure his smarmy little writer got his digs in as the high yellow bitch deep down knows it was the Arabs who started fishing for human flesh in Africa and sold them to the highest bidder. Ah but in the seventh cycle, Rastus, the Italics, the whole that you dear with not even Tuscan red or mahogany skin, with that marvel dark prismacolor peach of yours like a Nubian Amazon , of Santorum who somehow this had to resound back to, ah yes I think T shirted I was a fag for the FBI queer Prop, col. Savage was on as our gay gadfly’s have lost something since Gore, those people those Italians were in the seventh century still adhering and allegiance to a Roman ethic, that was in taters thanks to at least one side of your half breed family, and all the in-laws of Obama and that the Jews had ever had. I cant take this coon and hope he is summarily gotten rid of and quickly, as I cant take this mother fuckin finger likkin, chikken shitting, mother raping, father hating me lotto coon, house everything parceling at me whitish his keeping it real nigger shit which means just read the paper, and as it is written. I LOOK FOR SOMEONE TO BE A ROMAN IN THIS, even a Becket, and take this crap to the Farce and epic it cries out to be, or even honest to the Boss board came I had as a kid. I had to nail this here for what it is worth and hope it is recalled a again a cable show takes is swan song, or is it dive…?,  on a Sunday when maybe hopefully the economy can tank again, as the air is field with Pixies and sprites worthy of Italian folktales, showed in a cop book I wrote was told I had to get rid of first. I hope it is recalled how much more human and fun and better mien would have been, as my beehive wearers had to be a enthnicas, as Lynda Carter unalloyed amid the good white folks and their love of all things that Himmler loved. I have been told I live in the past, but alas am not the nephew or in law trying to keep Hollywood afloat by the sue of opuses that spilled from the fevered minds of Stan and George.


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