1964.

11 AUGUST 2016.

1. Such was a Query or Pitch I had to do, twice as Max would say, to the makers of a comic book about public domain. When I was asked to make the pitch a second time I had antennae go up, like in the bag on the pad Queens of cable television had when like Homer Simpson, vote yes on prop 8, Hillary said she spaced in an interview, or like how when she said as President Le May she would tax the middle class back to the stone age, it is instructive that the fraudulent slip again cant go too far from her lie, that for some reasons her daily Plutocrats that day, the one from weeping water Nebraska had a frozen look on his bemused Cressus faaaaaaaace, and he became whiter the usual. I could take a victory lap and having read Tacitus… or is it Grimm’s…? Say you’d make her president over your dead body, as she prepares for her close up, You are talking to the great Norrrrra Deeesssssmont, one can hear the great Harvey Korman ghost say, do we derive any better…?, as her screaming and kicking like a Sabine woman …sorry… girl, but won’t here.

I, on my birthday, went through some files, as sent out enough work to make five additions to my résumé, although again not some, as have done almost a third more work never accepted or taken or acknowledged, and in going to find work that fit comic opportunities emailed to me, a plastic sheath holding an early comic of mine, Mister Stupendous, worked and reworked to be saved, came crashing to a floor where the gumballs drop. Once it hit, I guess unfastened , the thing fell apart in pecks, as I take it glue and tape and white out made some sort light mixture that caused it to fall to pieces. I gathered it all up, as thought balloons and reamed Mary Amazons were everywhere, seeing in fact, that pretty Asian girl may have been right, and that in fact, it was better before I tinkered with it, although had to recreate parts.

I had never sent these pages anywhere but blogger, so, take the mess and threw it all away, feeling badly that I managed to give in to those comic snerds seen in reentering comics and not finding the caliber of people there once, such is America, and will if need be remake the whole thing staging the pages done for the public domain comic, and others. But I most post something heard here at speak for yourself, which is less insinuated to rah rah as is Espn, which should make the Hillary sedan carriers think twice. Not only is the understudy Tom Brady getting and taking his medicine as fat bloated white men on around the horn say, but too, after leveraging his company to have slave labor make a billion dollars worth of canvas shoes with Le Brons image in them, like Christ on toast, gee I wonder what he thought was I the bag…?, it seems Nike has Hong Kong gardens and tankers filled with Merch they cant move, backing up, while Steff, Lucifer of the epsn frescoes, and his under armor stuff has sold out. It is what I, Roman Antony kept warning you, and you can become tired of a circus at anytime, and merely walk out.

I found myself feeling badly in trying to watch the Enshrinement, another Roman word the barbarians use no matter how many negroes and Causeway GumbaJews show up at the ward. A great player named Stabler, was finally allowed in, posthumously, which only mattered once when it was PETER  FINCH AS THE MAD MAN OF THE AIRWAYS THAT GLENDA BECK COULDN’T BE WITH A BLOOD TRANSFUSION AND A BOTTLE OF VITAMIN B. Stabler was awed in late, too late, as I recall like Bullet Bob Hayes a gnome named Myron Cope set his dotage trashing every Cowboy and Raider to allow his vapid meaningless horrid choirboys team to have second stringers argued for.  Think we have tired of the bag man, again after a while do watch the Lone Ranger and human CC BECK smiling hero Clayton to recall the gilt of those comics I did adore. As I utilize the Romans books cued as primers for me, as Doc Savage himself , the man of Bronze Desilu Fat Freddy Zachariah magus his ways  to curse and be sanctimonious at the same time, showing his monsignors distresses at Hesperianus or is it Bruno, trashed once at an ox bridge where the next scapular of its venality would be having to let Rachel Maddow in.  So, does it matter when one is on the pad…?, still recall him laughing it up with venial vapid Jewvenal about the dead fag persist jokes that bother no one, and say if there were Jesuits at the door, you Arab-ish huckster, everyone in America must always be Ish,  filth, once they knew you were a plagiarist, Aquinas again, the sins of the mind vs the sins of the body, he would have been discredited, demerit-ed, distanced, but all that only seems to work when a black woman was involved. So, secret outlays of cash to Persiopolis –make sure you know where the cash is, Mac Keen,  like the pieta, lest you bomb your unopened citta—that cant be good as again, there is filthiness to this that the queens and the henna sisters and consigliore Praetorians, and the fairies sue green laurels of plastic to hide. I have to send a few more things out then I am done for at least a month, because after all that work, my hand is starting to hurt.

2. Ah, but here is the Romans knowledge that I openly admit to as we are surrounded by rats and theirs strangely catholic bishop keepers, and why that woman made a point of recalling me and what I had said in February, why February?, I recalled, my snide ness appropriated, in the way that she had seen in my own utilization of the tragedy about Julius Caesars there were echoes of Roman Ty beyond a mere clever device. I had used Orson Welles' modern dress about Caesar and its connections to Trump, as I said, it’s the same story of lifer senators being upset that the Prince had started to have sympathy for the squalled and the rats and the filth.

Cute line, my one time more drilled in ancient knowledge brother said, that both he and my father and the Jesuits were sure they were burning away, sad they didn’t get it all the first go around, why he gave me Julian while others were reading porno and the remnants of ec comics as hoodlums, that they were trying to make sure Martin Scorsese blotted out, as Mister Burns Hillary’s god father, would try to blot our the apostolic sun. Knowledge, my Brother says, as I get from him not so much laughs but a sharpies audience to a con mans admiration that I get a That’s funny. Ah, but more than just that, I repined to show my Roman brilliance in that seeing the tragedy of Caesar play out about buffoonish thus sympathetic Trump, and unaware this was really more rigged than even he or Berne could think, I subsuming that self same ideal of the Romans tarred are as they are, that I looked around and asked, where is our king, Brutus…? The question I am sure no lesbian or queen or half wit or middle brow could ever ask, where was Brutus, I asked, back, where is the coup de Grace, where blusters and growls the unkindest cut of all. I didn’t see one. In that, where is Brutus to give the partisan, parting, partita, paramour scorned shot...?, the money shot, the grace shot, where is Marcus Brutus, no not Junus I said, getting the admirations of various William Fs who found too late and too soon, too quickly and too often and too ruined that Rush thinks Aquinas is purple and they do not know as opposed to Gore whom Cincinnatus was. Ah, too gloomily to play his role as Bush should now you’d think he’d take his bow as first complicated hero, so loved by Shakespeare when he wasn’t just slavishly transcribing that which was placed before him in Livy and Plutarch, if indeed he ever read anything but their gist.

Where...,  I asked this girl in the midsummer’s day of almost poetically Roman light where is Brutus, where is Jebby, and I want it too read Max Power, where is little lord Fauntleroy, where is blue boy, where is monkey shines, where is the Rufus of our time, whose so much more capable brother, yeeeowww!, beat him to the praetorshop, as in fact Bill may have beaten his wife in that strange one busman ship game that is peculiar to these family of now, that the Kennedy’s even never emend to have, as always got the impression that even an attack dog like RFK, who equally slid away from being first chair for anti communist McCarthy, ah the joys of growth when the radicals have no where else to go, and they already spent the check, I cant believe his venial these married in laws and blood brothers are, all for power. Where is, I asked in email to this girl, where is Brutus, the boy king, primacies the republic as if a bauble his father would buy for him, as illiterate serfdom Italia thinks the plutocrats will now, as an alley cat I think sings in the alleyways, all Mack The knife or a drunken red nosed Sylvessssssssrettterrrrrr.

Where is Brutus…?,  I asked with Roman aplomb equestrians virtue in a summer that’s hemmed to again try to equate the Romans with Nazis as to make things easier in the coming holidays, when Shlomo shows up at Mister and Mrs. Creamcheese’s house. The almost Bushman need and love to excise and delegit millions of Votes is almost Augustan, the destruction of a republic to that ninnies family of monkey faced queens and sissies, the Blizzard Kennedy’s, is all so horrid and beyond mere sad, as much as it is the way we live now, the way of deluding badness, the Sicilian stock and trade, the Jewish theater full of clientages and over wrought sons. Where's Brutus,… I asked this woman, sorry Google, where is Jebby to his monogrammed bejeweled Persian knife and plunge it into Trump, …? He seems now no where around, his smiling goons face once as inescapable as Mao in the forbidden city of pagodas and February fire works, neither here nor there as the B team or rhinos has emerged in stampeded, fiddle deed deee Lindsay Gramnsety, and old man Erroneous Mac Kane, in mid growl always, and their bag men, but I don’t see Bush. Well, the woman asked, maybe he is behind the scenes trying to tarried Trump, as my being at least somewhat honest makes me infinitely more fun and interpreting then people who are told to shut people up on  the channel which has become a bathes of Curricula where the ninnies and simps and the queers do their nightly bombast with strange bedfellow fat chicks and glasses wearing cows who were once ensconced in the folds of The Fox malegbolgia, where they , as my mother said, the clever rats and rattier useless saved by fur and largess of mother natura, condisolacoda, or wipe away the tracks they made hither and yon lest followed back. 

I begged off, no I said, I didn’t think so, as I said, tapping into the zeitgeist, Trumpie made them all look fools, which is the major part here, again, despite what use and his Irish hacks on cable TV think, having learned the meanness of a screen street which is just if not more fake than any Atlantis or Rome they can build out of particle board at HBO, I think nothing is business and all is personal at its core, at his sulfurous Infernal core is personal, to the ends as the Roman general would say. I would think that they would relish the way too go after Trump who as I write this is such a disaster to the Rhino herd as opposed to stiff sweaty plutocrats cult members who call half of America as Porch Monkey trash, or were the first to believe in socialized medicine, which didn’t other Glenda and his My Favorite Martian, Visit to a small planet is out doc, antennae. I would think that he would relish and take a great deal of joy and patrician filthiness and smarmy monkey faced glee in trying to Questa e per tea to Don Creech so his own family saga can begin in Ernest which is a legitimate insult from Roman me, as comparing that horrid family to the Sicilians is the unkindest cut of all. Dere it isss. But he is out there I emailed this gal back, as a Roman by taught out of Collodi by a Roman addled Marc Antony and Cleopatra reading in the ordinal Italian mother, as I figured there is no Brutus in our modern dress play, once a thunderbolt of an idea and now just sued to cut down costs by hags who steel puppetry from the Italians to make of all things, Titus Adronicus, one of the few Shakespeare plays that actually has a pulse. As because, drum roll, please, she cant go on and win this, and thus leave Bushy on these side lines when in fact she was minted to be his road kill, grandma got run over by a Curriculum, but unfortunately for tin eared Jedidaiah, not his name, it was conman cored, someone chosen because they were filthy enough to make him as a befuddled idiot fascia creating war loving Bush be queen, but now god bless Trump for at least this much, a bloated brigand fight fluting THE AMERICAN took that sissy down. 

3. He couldn’t show up now and give the coup its needed oomph, Grahmnesty, like Turbin Durban, is a bore, Brutus isn’t here man, none of them, as I named my own hero in my own epic Brutus, which made me wonder what that meant, but still, I named my own hero Brutus, as I named my detective Ennius, and my superman Curtis, in ways just to tick off the white chic’s. See, I think he didn’t show up as Brutus for his garret star turn because it wasn’t Trumpo who took the presidium from Poppy, it wasn’t a bloated vulgar mean and gorgeously horrendous Trumpie who strode up to Parnassus while mcing the gallows and taking his prick out and hurling it at every Kelley girl he saw. It wasn’t Trump who took the Goddess prudence away from Dad, that must mean something, lest you are nothing but a bribe taking con artist, you want Sicily bella sweethearts, you want the port of messina, you want familia politics kids, see, I was thought to be brilliant by the Jesuits cause again, I deconstructed, as they say about great books and club sangwitches, the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, so then not yet as hated by white chicks as it would get to be, as I was warned by the nuns who Rachel always saw in my posture as it were, and never quite banished Big T fro the coven, by woman whose the only sonnets that were writ for the ever were the bills from their abortion providers. You’d think if there really was a right to privacy in the constitution that abortions like libraries and lawyers would be free to anyone who wanted one, as I said in a schoolboys debate at the local Jesuit Boystown, sorry Georgetown, recruiters and receivers were at a dump called sacred heart were looking for Jesuits as Joppa looked for Linebackers, and said this to a black man, was it Ogletree…?,I recall it as perhaps such in the cold slush of an 1981 unlike any years before it.  I was loaded with admiration from them, as I was a born shyster, and could connive far above my reading grade. This eyeing the admiration of a whole new crew of Jesuits who saw me say that to a hyper broad woman with good grades who was an early version of the gals as beards fancy Pools Bathhouse all reciting Homer and their love of war on cue, vestal mustaches, a joke for too gals too, hidden by the thick Nixionian pancake make up needed by fat faced prosecutors, so as not to show the Jews in always mid Shvitz. Oh, but again, dear, lets not go nuts, it I after all a mans world. The brutal scene didn’t happen, leavening a hole of sorts, it didn’t seem as vociferous as the destruction of Monica or any of Bilbo’s adventures on the Mississippi, and ageing dying Huck ever seemed, and certainly there’d be no Oviddian neckties at the end. He, Bush baby, our missing Brutus, I think, couldn’t show up as the gods and physics of Farce would demand so as he couldn’t bring himself to allow the patsy thought of as the perfect foil to go on and be the queen while he, never any good at this black art, was left behind, as left behind as Trump Voters and the left wing have always been by the Clittin convoy, though was a line of trash and waste management trucks that thinks itself a fleet of Mercedes.

So, as they try now to all fall down and implicate and complicit the others, as no one is left now, but Bill C, again, like the Hep, and her warbling dying, ancient needs, so defaulted for money and free labor and place and war that all bets are off, all stops out, all asks gone, we all Jew down now in accordance with the wills of the fat man and the faggots who are owned by them at the bathhouse, the dance party drug worse and least and kicking and screaming to Glory as she is, a drunken seeming hag a whore of power carried now physically and literally towards a praetorian made of canceled checks and Velveeta cheese spread, where all is perky and puny and fake, as we erecter the America that Baum saw coming, but the emerald city now is made of plastics he and Matthew Harrison Brady never imagined or dreamed they could make crosses out. Just recall kids, when this is over , and she is fit into the presidency as if crowbared into her own spanx in mid ticks and tremors, as Sister Gertrude bumbles and stumbles her way into power now that meathead is somehow like all the Jews predicting that he is still some sort of radical, while the bombs are dropping, thank God, on Arabs’ remember my wintertime’s recollection of Julius Caesar, as know Trump and JC battered more than any radicals schleps doing floppy books for alphabet soup zines, as was right about those senators and their disgust at the people way down there below their Harry lime carriage, and yet raconteur less joyless ivory towers.

Remember that Hilly, you bad check, two bit, queen, was in fact one of the few people openly for Goldwater once, remember that dears, Negros and fairies, scum and trash, do recall that that she was once the Goldwater Girl, while Gerardo and Berne and even Michel Savage did social work, trying to alleviate some Police Squad era squalor, the despair in Tiberius Tenements that sooner enough would recalled than Archie’s and disco as a music fad that like the Cltins doted too long around, and would be taken up by white kids huffing their mothers cleaning supplies as the afflunenza and vomitoriums of that age are now gone and no one but the Cereus users have any scratch, and all are openly rooting for the Cretin blowhards from the sewers of Hot Springs, they one had too often pretend to hate, while he and she made a point they were targeted between the girls falling out of closets, the hidden emails about startling really nickels and  dimes once they got that high up from the Ozarks, ah but you can take the Hot Springs out if the Wigger, but….

Just recall that this cow was a Goldwater girl, you have to waken to go to war and sign here, Madam De Frage, then back to the hypodermic, she will be much less fun than a younger catty catting cat house of a hot tin roof Tennessee like hero Pollock Stanely Kowalski Roman Bill, still recalling when dead Caesar to Augustus, oh must I spell it out, as Subtly inst my art, that ghost gave him that handshake and that map to Parnassus and that copy of The Golden ass, as always havens. So, when she reaps all her husbands epiclesis and not even with the fake decorum of Barry opening the jail cells, sorry that was Bill again, proving even mercy isn’t for the poor and suckers, a few doors at a time, encumber this when she struts another Clinton plea for Dragnets and Welfare reform, their church has again shown it isn’t that far from Sistah Soldiah, or was it Lucia THE WOMAN whose hair that the duke of Syracuse scalped, again, you Nobel savages came up with nothing any fun, and Romans were rain dancing and scalping when you were busily and insipidly tossing gals into Kracatoa, remember this epistle please as Think I am tired and wont post much more than the pictures I Spackle back at face book  were I have found my old buddies and business associates, and of course, the brunette starlets who admire my hatred of turgid, vulgar, closest lover blonds.

Because as they try to regret America into what it was before the Great Society so bothersome to the bloated pigs of that new Democratic crowd so desperate for power, or at least the parking space near it, an like Jewish husbands unwilling to have anther thought their own, so beneath this contemptuous two, the didactic duo, remember this, when she gets in with 43 percent of the cardinals as the curia, which I am starting to see more and more, cantors wont cleans their hands fast enough with Boraxo, that Goldwater in a Gore Vidal piece I believe that caused him never to be used by the New Yorker again, I believe in my holy writ called United States, read like Virgil and C.C. Beck, cover to cover, that old Cicero, who once said that there was black cabal of priests running secretly America, big talk from a man who changed his name from the Goldwasser department store, lest anyone in the American Apennines called Arizona recall that he was of a family of hucksters who sold people sofas that smelled like cat piss. And Goldwater, who this hag came to like a bee to honey, showings again God puts like and Like together, told the Roman aware Gore, who said Goldwater was wrong about everything he said, not as a opinion, but in facts, he like Truuuummmmnannnn, no wait Truman, got his facts wrong about Cicero and the rest, Barry who we can not escape as Hillary and Jebbby both call our stone faced idiot their Virgil, heartlessness becomes a fraud patrician well, once called the Glass Steigle act as Communist, until of course without ethics, Bill got rid of it like another Brunette. Remember this, kids, all you loveable dark ones over there as Poppy called them, and trash and meatheads all on the same side as the Bush Family was, against the rabble and the goys and the filth, this woman this cow this hateful stone, this worse than senseless thing, at least when she, like Homer vote yes on proposition 8,  Spaces and those ticks are becoming more notable by the day, perhaps signora Fortuna and the Roman gods demand a better campaign than this from that hag, remember this, that she voted for fake war loving hack Arizona Cicero, yes he quoted Cicero much, the cow palace growling idiot who MLK said with a shaking head, like Flavius, who is this jerk, who once said that darkish and minorities ran America in ways that Trump has never done, but her hubby mainly parroted too, you know, fer the white man vote, remember this dears and gathered witches of the coven, she was on Goldwassers side once, as young still, did vote for a man who jellified the worst of republican ideals and even Nixon, and my father a fascist, couldn’t believe that that big an idiot, remember that was her Virgil, as once the Great Society in the most heady and halcyon days of true southern giant beloved by me, Milton’s Grand and tragic Lucifer, LBJ, she could not even as young, not be a witch, care enough, to get behind the Last new republic grand city of a hill, retaken as his own by b movie hack Regan, also disliked by a father who thought Carter should have been shot for treason, for letting a rag headed Ayatollah be equal to the Czar of the west, even that one, so no bleeding heart he, still, even he couldn’t abide Goldwater, and she dismissed LBJ, even before all the body bags carted coming home, as tribuned by Moreley Safer at the hut. Remember that Meathead dear, when she takes worn and double booked power, shell say anything, just give it to me already, as she comes down the steps wearing that curtain rod across her fat bloated hairy back, size thirteen clomping down the television city steps, and is propped up and in wheelchair like baby Jane, is told where to sign to send the Roman centurions back into war, remember that kids when she takes a header into power, and bumbles into Fortunes favorite robes, with or without as I said, Spanx. Yeeeeeeechhhhhhhhh….Remember as a young woman, f you Disraeli, the ideas and the gleaming conceit of a Great Society, and yes I keep saying it as was taught by masters how to make a case, as my romanticism messed with those lawyers who just hemorrhaged adverbs for cash, and don’t have to be a florid GumbaJew gimp now finding sympathy for a devil, certainly not one that he helped cast in the part, yes that Great society of the Initialed daemon Landslide Lyndon was beneath her. And should she slither with that hack regressed in, it wont be fun this time you Larry and Mortys, and the quiet will make itself, like the sex jokes did for him, if you know yet or not will be deafening, like a missing Brutus now, so play your draughts, you, as Ma says, shuffled the cards. But then, I am exquisitely sad, recalling my own lost brunettes, lately, as did too much work at once, and scraggly tire from pages, and tore off the cape and M, I was made to make white for something that fell through, as my heart is in that caisson with that old republic, and I must pause I guess until Hillary burns it as a dreaded Viking would. As it seems to me, like the story of Caesar beginning the kind of thing both Shakespeare and St. Luke could really use, as Go-go Marquez would openly use and utilize the Italians distance of the moon to use magic as a spic and spaness jungle creed screed against banana companies, as for the source material for much, the key for me as usually been those wondrous tales no rebirth of Disney of rewritten Star Wars taken from Lucas, who screeches of his work veining more atoned with Gioberti and Ariosto more than Hal Foster, dc comics, or the CLINTON IMPERIUM CAN really out do, especially if they think they can do without, those glorious Italian Folktales, for it always has been.