‘What if on the dark side of the moon and the center of the earth isn’t a noble poem, but instead a couple of Joke Books. …?”--Tennessee Williams.
As America becomes a Ed Mac Bain night mare and the onion field takes over the earth, we now know that Mother Hillary, witchiepoo herself shall not deign to call the people for whom she bled only seemingly moments ago, as the Middle class. Somehow in our injustice department where women wear Noam Chomsky’s old boxers and cleanse our language of all but what is need for ridicule and business, they have decided that the midio casum, the roman word from which the idea of the middle class comes, there’s a shock, is verboten. And this is on both asides and includes she spic who may be the next other to be Caesar as like Hadrian there is no pesky patriotism on the part of a Spaniard Roman king, and mostly no devotion to any conscript farther, whose constitution is in the witches and patricians way, coyly that pesky fifth amendment and eighth and others as we head towards a Salo, but with a shmere of out of placed sanctimony. Al, Al Franken, and other Jews making it up from Levittown shall be our lady at the vomitorium, extolling being saved by Christ, one that Billbo can write the gospels for between pops, all an image that is better than any to describe where we are now.
But I couldn’t watch the living eulogies for Brady poo, our latest sociopath to come crashing to the ground, as I have had an inkling since Richie Incognito that the Roman gods just under the surface of Catholicism and Catha especially, the boy charioteer who would not lose , is out for blood. Instead of hearing the Jewish hacks tell the house coloreds at the boys room what they were to think now, I saw ‘the departed’ was on that loop of both Tarantino and Scorsese this channel seems to engage in. And with dollop of the Godfather in original form, I guess it was bloated enough, making me wonder what the Jews are about to steal now. But I did watch it as have the mater key now, somehow like Dante if I may, who was being taught to hate all things Italic by horrid Greek teachers, pushy is as pushy does, as in Italay men were killed for not believing in a Ptolemaic universe predating Christ by a thousand years… and then had a fagot named Guido, before that name became an acceptable slur, who taught him that Virgil was no mere Poet, a dime a dozen title, like how ever niggeress is a diva now, or the fact that Rand Paul holds the same title as Cato, and taught him the glories of Virgil as satirist and historian and the revenge of the saturnine poets that the Greeks burned and thus turned on Virgil whom they had described as a Roman Homer. And then he want and wrote out the Trojan horse episode that Homer uh…missed. Myth Greeks were in their Nazi text book glories here, and the first Roman looked down and disdains the men of the horse as connivers and cheaters at warm ad to Roman ears there was nothing worse. The prefectures of the lawyer and the advocator also believed in war as holy, and the games a foot below that. So, in that ways, not to seem sacrilegious I watched the whole Scorsese puppet show armed with insight. Leo Decapiro is a game rooster plucky and available and decent amid the horrid basstan accents and even Martin Sheen elderly badlands boy, shot deserter in dotage, and in fact, was the voice of Ovid in a laudatory special on the Romans that the PBS hacks soon enough tiered of in their own toilets, and fag weddings, as the Romans, bless them, saw the prevision of marriage as something that the fascists get to, as did Augusto demand the fagots be married off, you didn’t know…?… before the queers did bend here, where they were all dead from aids and no one could say basta to the idea of the cotillion meets the bathhouse. So I watched this film, intently, as blond Italo Leo looked more Irtysh than not, and yet still always has that italic streaks in him keeping him more human than the dreaded Joe dirt.
But I couldn’t catch the end of Brady, as heard a discordant note of Fredrick March with placards and old biddies coming town with banners all unfurled and drums and stanzas of Brining in the sheaves, we will go retouching brining in the sheaves…I can only hope like that play that Brady has the decency to drop dead at the foot of a tired old Keith as liberal lion, but of course no Gene Kelley here as Menken, he is dead and all smoke two dollar ceegars now, as the Jew babies tell us that caught as a cheater somehow allows you to be the best of anything. Then, having had enough, heard Jeremy Schapp, second generation bag man, say and reassure us all that he, Tommy Tomorrow, was no Arod or Peter Rose, you know the people we are allowed to hate. But since I didn’t get molested or aids or syphilis from the Priests as a boy, the least I could do is not accept verbal jock struck bunting as truth because Jeremy Schapp says it. Of course to go Jesuit as I am want to do, it was worse what Shady Brady did than anything you destroyed Ray or Adrian or Richie for, all of whom hereto not allowed a fifth amendment that the new sheriff in town Gödel didn’t know he had. I wonder if Richie knew he could say no when they came for his phone, aha hbut teh yoyoyo mudboens and negreos wasnt fer nonna dat, well, when you struck out at hazing and bounties you made it sound like you were better than mere lunkhead gladiators, you know while men die in mud holes and the queen Dido mules cash from the tennis shoe king, ...hmnnn...as the collected Negros of the bathroom have come to their faerie queens deftness, even with a shrug as aren't paid enough to be truth outraged by anything. American Hokum. It was worse than any peds, sorry Skipio, because, no one who took peds, no nigger or wop, no Giambi or Barry, none made you take anything or worse made you take a pill that made you weaker as a pitcher, you could and did take the same pills, whereas Brady, yeah only him, made sure young lions like Flacco and Luck threw shot puts in the rain cause, look everyone, Aeneas has small hands and cant grip the ball. Ah I love when things get Freudian. It was worse than anything that anyone did who got worse, but then Brady has always been the kind of girl they want to take home too Mother, though to be fair when a lovely woman named Anne Bancroft was brought home by Mel Brooks the mother monster emeritus made a point she was going to commit suicide, so Brady being effaced, the name of the demon in AR back before I found the insatiably better African name Kemeter, must go down hahd…pun intoned. As now I know the Roman gods if not Yahweh was always on Al Davis’s side anyway. I have said I am not a football fan, I watch the Cowboys. Which if Brady gets special treatment will have to face a team once and future Americas team with a owner who grumbles about things with a way that makes the cheese whiz king look like a Lutheran. As a Good Roman I love a spectacle and so will watch that first game on where else, NBC, as there hero boy is gone and onto the field will come clomping and bumbling fat Ben, Rottensberger, who got the same penalty for his third rape…oh what a Roman moment that shall be…!
So, unwilling to watch the longest death scene since Camille, I watched ‘the departed’ why I am still unsure, and heard that moment that made me wistful and sad. In Roman Mythology a script torn from trigger street and zoetrope for vulgarity and violence, though there is more vitriol in a shampoo commercial and purposefully so, I had a scene where Clementine Macedonia, an important name before this too was pilfered by the Indy films hacks, all dreaming of eventually making Batman shit, sing the anthem of sadness from Van Morrison, ‘comfortably numb’ as she does , a wanna be singer we Italians have been made all wanna be everything as the Jews were much less given to satire than us, as opposed to Ridicule on demand, and she sings this lovely song in a white dress, in which the strap is fixed with a purple ribbon from the roman tie worn by her admirer, Brutus, showing a scene of sweetness that some couldn’t stand. It was out of place in our gumba world, as the Jewish hag to keep Robert Di Nero books said, Italians don’t fall in love and then tread to get me in Trouble at the arts school I was at, as when niggers like Dinero or Thomas get in, the foist thing they do is throw the ladder over the edge. I felt badly at this moment when two Italians, blond and Milanese like, Vera and Leonardo weren’t quite Wendy like in their sensuality, but had enough that this actually bothered those white trash matrons, who have always made sure that their admiration of Martin boiyee comes with a demand that hed be cold and analytical, no Naples oranges for him, but like I said, this is the interesting stuff in his overre, as he fills with worse recriminations than I do.
The book is recalled in me, the Boccaccio book that tells that Dante found his genius in those lines of the Aeneid, some lines of Virgil as Tennessee called it, if he may be called that by the priests of middle brow, and it isn’t just for German music savant hacks and Duke Ellington, how one finds everything said by these teachers are to be avoided are as Gore said, useless and awful, and in fact, the Sabine helmet strikes back, mother fuckers.