01 January 2017

Saturnalia romansplianed 4 . THE SMOKING CAR ON THE TRANSYLVANIA RAILROAD.




To me as a boy Christmas was when it was meant to be a festival of colored cardboard. Unlike the ninny rich kids and mafia princesses I hated at that horrid school, I believed Christmas to only be a festa of ink and shinning cardboard, some glass, tin foiled cookies and cheap, always cheap acquirements of chipping cheap paint. As in my comics I try faintly and esthetically, I know that seems a misnomer due to me style, yet even still one in this nation Mel Brooks could call himself with Buck Henry a satirist, before any house wife could do it, basically issuing thus Rome timing and techniques of boiling eggs. I cant get that feeling back into my work, and sometimes even resort to the use of newsprint to get that feel back as used to make my own treasuro and compendiums, and first edition like comics and Mads and was told by some priests and students that I had a knack better than men by they who had been doing these things all their adult lives. Still, I use thick inks and cheap paper too get that feel back in, though it is harder the lober we go down this Road more Spartan unfortunately than Roman, which is something after all only my buddy Bll C would get and then preened to hanger ons and ladle carriers like Samatha Bee be that he didn’t get the joke.

My mother spoke to me in her low voice of consigliore hood, the ears of walls are everywhere, and not only of the living , but some ghosts she knows stay on earth not so much unhallowed into the gates of reward as much as they roam the earth our of mere spite, and she has been related to some of them.

She tells me of a dream had recently of a bambolina, a old doll o hers in ruble of deviated Europe, a third man constantly Vienna she had to live through in a war she knows as all enemies always know the truth was merely a chance and an excuse for a pompous little island empire to give up its empire to a Pax Americana, as Dolitcian with Polio saw a world in need of a party of the people to make tenements sea to shining sea and to mark the earth with the ruin of the secret formulas of Coca Cola and Dow chemical, if you could tell the difference if need be. SHE TOLD me that the baby doll was in the ruins, left behind and her husband , my father, a black coated Virgil in all these dreams hers more devoted than me, came by and took the doll and out it in his Davinci wings like coat of black bat shadowiness, a Lamont Cranston in the sot, and he took the doll and absconded with it as she a little girl stood there the then, or now, who knows in dreams, thirty year old man sued to play cards with her beloved grandfather as she was a little girl brining them a kind of rye made in Italay caught nowhere else, like Grappa or stragea a kind of audited taste that Anheiser cant mock away and thus make Columbus day a drinking holiday as drinking in mareica as the Moslems shall find out and have to acquiesce as the nfl did is our only sacrament.




This meant she knows this was her last holiday, she alerts me as if a message in teletype perfection from the front, as written by Caesar and Ulysses S as no one lese ever did and despite my battements at the lyrical I still try to write like in a Latin I can only guess at, as refused to ever , like so much, learn it. So, I did as best I could to facilitate as best as possible to do the thing up correctly for her, despite blowhard relatives have started to hate who come bloating in a worth the worst aspects of all Italians a memorized shtick, as again, there is nothing in Yiddish that doesn’t have a precursor in Latin and worse yet, Ladino, or the Regium of my caldaria parentage, that sort of love of the grotesquity mixed with the stoic that made men like Bill Clinton and Versace richer than Creesus. I rolled my eyes as even as romantic as I am, she lays it on too thick, and said in her midwinter’s night schema, that number one what on earth did that even mean, and number two, Old woman, you’re like 92, and not even finishing this statement to get back to watching my beloved Della street in monochrome Beatitude, she sneered and frowned and said, that was my problem, she said,  in a nutshell In Italian, that even as she was poring her fearful heart at me, I was all in all and without a doubt a son of a bitch at heart. So was the blowhards came I and by I did my best, and didn’t blow up didn’t give the tomboys of the world that satisfaction, as this bloating cow kept screeching way all day a boy fallen Dido herself, Hullary, ah but with no one there to savage her as Huck or is it Octavian, or was it doctor Octopus, who knows any more its all a blur, as on that pier making sure that she didn’t pass by in any way but what was need too be done if needs be, to make sure that purple mantle kept his old bones and sophistic errant hands warm.

As I said recounting the ancient myth, there could be a const of wills between Neptune and Apollo to get that mantle off Sweet old Bills back, and no typhoon or Gobi wind or aposticalic sun would do the need thing to get old Bill to leave that indigo cloth let be. She , this hated by now unremitting  as much as anything went on and on, but I , which first attempted at face book to most, seems to make the doubly upset as upset is all they wish to be. As it turns out I kept my balance by happening too drop a shit load of plates she brought chucking some in half as they were cheapest pouter. Now that’s funny, as the Jewish man would say. All-day about Hillary and her waste of time reaching for a big brass ring that Bilbo covered with schmaltz. Don’t blame me, I said, as I wasn’t the one who dismantled her least attempt to delegatimize Trumpie that has back fired saying that she had  level of privacy not only Nixon didn’t have, shed get even for ya Barry!, but which was hollowed out when Olbermann, our imperial fuck up, was reading love letters emails from a two bit gvnuer to a brunette mistress ,whose detractions and dismissals from the peanuts gallery of the Romans senate doesn’t even still get all these years after captious Lucia’s and Monicas , there if you Mother Mo’s ever understand will, as that woman who hated that red head and her dismal hatred of our Marstons Roman goddess, buy did they hate that inflection at the dc hacks, ah but her name is DIANA, AS I said to those wanting her to ‘Look Greek’, and this radical woman took a liking to my hilly goddess, a television hags hatred of wonder woman and jewish chicks will always come back to haunt you. I wasn’t after all a little girl who dreamed of growing up to be Mannix.





So, on thanksgiving she have no Turkey, which was made, which was fine by me, like the bread she wouldn’t eat ate most myself, I am after all a son of a bitch and didn’t play into it more than to just keep trudging along. I decided early in Dec we wouldn’t  have  such bird again for Xmas, and decided  easy on lasagna and Italian dish to refit the ancient Pagan roots of this holiday now under more tinsel and garishness than any even Italian could touch excepting  Sicilian trash. I had some comics to get out, and diligently worked at both that and decorating a tree and a house as best as I could, while watching the few Cowboys games I could get in, and the colleted over of Nat Henkin and Neil Simon and other mid century geniuses of Jewish humor encapsulated in Al Lewis and Fred Gwynne as the perfect comics cops of an America that still had a creed then before all the Jews were bought out like the liberals by ge at pennies on the dollar, finally Shylock got his pound of flesh, which was a technicality maybe a Jew but no Jesuit would let slide I was alerted early an as ink Karate every legal maneuver ahs an equal and opposite one that can make it moot, why again, Machiavelli  writes like Galileo or Galileo writes like Machiavelli, blah blah blah….While making Thanksgiving dinner for a mother who is too old to care for this but does, I saw something again which shows my attributes as auger are irreproachable. We cut in our perpetual hard sell and cross between Crucible mixed with Kovacks wittier than funny black ours, to that village of America, that cross itself between a rain soaked Transylvania and a jersey strip mall outlet highway close out bunker. Like the Romans we use as pratfalls and cancan dances much as they did, but alas as in all things, they were more or less artful than we all are.

But doing as much work for the saturnalia season as I could, with a leg and a side from various  spills and bone spurs aching away, we let my elderly mother watch the blimp helium cartoons of a Macys parade,  which she has loved since she first came to America. To her it seemed the mid century golden age in a street of American confetto and dancing princesses and snow men and a pagan route that Luther despite his best efforts could stop or replace with his Christianity, and  German incantations, which sounds too much like am adding machine.

My love of Fumetti as much as anything comes from her as my love of the classics comes from a stoic father and again as in most of my life, it was diatomic between the Jesuit and the fascistic, the Franciscan and the Roman and the Italian that made me whole. While she sat and watched this colorful parade, a commercial came on for a company whose name I do not yet recall of even saw that much showing again using the Cesarean logic about the ratios of power, it was a worthless commercial as it didnt give the hard sell well enough,  as again I say though they  put down Stan Lee, he has a Mediterranean love of the hard press, that the rest of you wish you had and don’t. A comic company still has on its website an admonition not to bother them with stories about how Stan lee told you how good you were as he came out of the bathroom, perhaps , tough I am uber sanative to such things, mirroring the story  I told in which , not Stan lee and not the Bathroom, but an office at AIP, a distinguished elder Jew we used to have them before selling out to various Judds, gave me his kudos and his well wishes, but said all that I did it was never no matter how well I drew and this Jewish man admitted I drew better than most if would control it, but couldn’t he knew, so don’t bother, make your own Supermen he told me, don’t even attempt to send anything this good, he said, to DC, we don’t need arts, we need the grammatical, my words not his. This had to be demeaned as it was in that carton I admitted that eventually his replacement at DC it was I THINK Marv Wolfman, or someone like that from those ancient days, I cant really recall who it was just that he was Jewish and gray hared and dapper, and I said I’d show this work a few years after at a hall, at a DC snob amazingly, but then what else are snobs after all, and all my heroines liked like coloreds I those pre Obama days of limbo preceding all Semitic saints and messiahs like he, Christ and Zoroaster until dropped. An that DC hack was commemorated in my cartoon sent to a well wishing editor who compared my work to Palestine, and told me to pick a big subject like Sacco did and send my pages, but I, however he must be Sicilian as a continental Neapolitan, even I cant lay it on so thick.



We all did what need to be done, I had made this stuffing that my mother learned to make from a grandmother as all great cuisines are in esscance how the poor made food for themselves while the doges were throwing the dark meat at their dogs, where high on the hog comes from, but then how would you ever care to know that. On NBC, the station of parades and 21 and Rachel Maddow reissuing the drones with a wave and tear and kiss, came a commercial showing the season of mirth and commerce had begun. We sat there, to story board this as was told by a man who worked din Madison avenue I was born idea man, and never did anything this paultry, anyway, we begin at the shires that was locked out to Jews and that now with licensees like dog and fag brides, they sigh to crash, and wipe if not Barry, his paralleled lived Constantine from History. We begin at this perpetual shire, this constant lovable loving self important dicknesville where alas as she said of the girls of Milan no less, all witches, you know black hair, though the northern city of nigger paper bag scansion it only goes so far before it breaks, no really that is on a roman line stolen by old Ben Franklin aren’t they all, Mediolanium, twas once a hothouse for mistresses and operable wives of FAT Henry, oh if only dear Camilla, no fooling, once of the Milanese princesses Henry asked to marry him and keep his beloved church and beloved Rome in his sphere of influence was named Virgilian Cammila, had she given in to Roman loving hanks advances as a catholic queen, how diffracted the world would look now, without that first Brexcit so hateful to fat little Chihuahuas who sing karaoke on televise nights, so yes we come to that, who called the brexit a heinous thing as I instead watched the great Man for all seasons that night,  because I guess I am a bitch and it wasnt on this holiday as it has been a few years in a row. On this show of dancing girls and balloons came this commercial--again cant really recall  who it was for, a big demerit to whatever nephews of Della Femima came up with this, as a man in New Yorker knickerbockers dress, again before Obama all is a murky prehistory, though Im sure hes keeps his grace like he has his books, and a man in somewhat scrooge attire is writing one of those latter sealed with wax as again all is fungible and all is interwoven, as I take it there is electricity I our Post GE as the first billion dollar consortium's, and you Romans thought youd had it down, world.

An oaf or sorast walks out into the Knickerbocker- dirty filthy Londenterra gloom to the village and the peasants once called Pat Buchanan Voters and who a cow running for president actually said were to be left behind openly as they didn’t have the drachmas to toss in her box, the only payment she demanded to pretend she liked you at all. As it were shown again, my credo and refrain can anyone where play this Roman game. It turns out we have here Frankenstein’s monster, not quite as jovial as Fred Gwynne, who may have been able to save it with his lumbering charm and perfect Jewish Catskill timing and aplomb, and it could have sued as a cackling Al Lewis as a Oompha at the satyr diner making give as opposed to six pointed stars with the left over port on the linen table cloth. Our monster, looking more like an in law maw on everyone loves Raymond than anything, fresh off of stealing Jerry’s cahr, comes to the holiday dinner or Christmas market,  lets be meanness and say, and this zombie, your favorite myth from Jesus on, the roman knight just disappears into the breech and doest come back like Tinkerbelle, he comes in Marley drag to the people at the galleria prepared to shop. The monster then takes out what looks like seventies outdoor electric lights from my youth that I have seen re seen as re shown on colorized CBS Christmas shows all advent, and attaches them to the bolts in his purloined neck, wow, this is strange I thought, causing the electricity sued by Doctor Victor Von Frankenstein to make his lumps eerily glow, as we have a combination of Warren Comics, with hallmark card the worst parts of both and the best parts of neither. The monster is now  seen by the villagers, once called Democratic voters because they swelled in numbers and didn’t make the same mistake three times in a row, and the pwople are qagast, as we are lectured too about brotherhood week by self apoionted jewey letiets who become more affable and open hearted the closer into the cul de sac they move, or MOVE, dependant on where the Jewish mayor and his insdindiary devices are, as if it would matters when one is so brazenly a democrat, hate crimes and for that matter arson a whole city block is one of these whoops that the Arabs have come to understand or should if they werent a bunch of animals.



The monster sings some song again, there is noting in English literature not done by Romans  and Italians first and better, ah fantastic breasts and from where to steal them. And is looked askance by the rabble we called voters once before as Cattiline said, the republics went to the highest bidder although this time it didn’t as you didn’t have a Cicero on your side of the track, and if he was known at all , was seen as a murky ghost by the Goldwater girl who didn’t know that Cicero is no ones favorite Roman, after all. The monster came from the roman idea that the hills had strange creatures put together by mad man and freaks and such. Dr, Seuss, like so much his ww2 characters of japs, wops and kruats was forgiven because of cause this was one of those good wars in which the Jews and mostly the Anglicans were involved intrinsically and thus all paganism dies on Spartan alters to war. In to the breech comes a little girl amusingly as I recall only saw this commercial once, or twice, which may work in politics, but not in true mercantile push the shit fascia, god knows, a little girl comes into the circle of hate and discrimination, only allowed when hbo says so, and sarts to sing with the beast, the monster  before her. Oh look everyone, get ready to have your heart strings plucked, or worse as look its Cyndi Lu Sorkin, here to explain to us the meaning of saturnalia, now that after 1500 years Jews can celebrate as they had before,  it as all Roman holidays were for everyone like stadium seating as opposed to luxury Box now, and she sings with the monster, which could have been cute and even sweet, but alas in our Beehive age is just another dream of white woman despite for someone to kiss their ring, their ring if we are as Rickels said, lucky, and whose lucky any more now that Bellchecick is here to rig the game and wonders why the mezzanine is emptying out.


Cyndi, here short for Cynthia I guess is here too tell us that saturnalia cues out of a box as it was meant to, Christmas somehow doesn’t,  though is brought to you by Macys, and Hanukkah as usual since Constantine, always wished it did. So recall kids, when confronted by a Columbia monster or an Arab, do the diligent thing, sing too the beast to soothe his savage breast, and when they aren’t looking, call homeland security, see something’s say something here in Spartan quarters, I mean we are sanctimonious but come on, they are all beasts after all, and it was Jewish in laws at Hollywood who made sure for sixty years that the Sicilians  were your comic thieves and the Arabs your enemies, and your villains, a slight adjustment that wasnt even in grimms, or even Walt Disney, as he remade each frame of Snow white to have black hair and not be blond as he had a lot rending on this, and after all, why defame and demean  those that doesn’t deserve to be…? This commercial was taken down as the commercial where admen made a guina pig spoke perfect Scorseism, as someone emailed me and asked me, Tony didn’t you say about six weeks ago that Halloween was the only holiday that Germanics America really had…? Yes, I did I said back, with a grain of pride, But don’t blame me for this. As this was the year that is supposed to be seen as bad , and not Romanly good because a lesbian lost her wish for imperial power, but more because in the age of Kardashain, a few more than usual, although it didn’t seem that much, celebrities died in their loves of poolside languor as the great Tony Curtis, for whom I named my hero, said he came to Hollywood, took a swim, ate lunch and then turned around and it was forty years later. But a story of metamorphoses was undue and undone badly by those who didn’t even know how to retell the story of the abominable snow man or the wizard in Rudolph, as still those Rankin bass acclamations are better than anything done now as we are in an age where like Italay, the fat chicks and their dogma has taken over and there’s isn’t as Gore said, A DANTE, anywhere in the bunkhouse, or as his hero Juvenal said, of Virgil, why should there even be…? I felt a strange pride in this that again as the destruction of Hillary by the left over human droppings as they were called by the heinous vicious evil little pencil sharpening creeps like Matthews said thanking God for storms that seem to be gathering together now. As a funny thing is happening as I write this in late December on the way to the Roman Synod, Im sorry the UN plaza, a funny thing is happening as we enteaaaaah  the hall of green carrerea marble, Romans stages stay the same, as it seems Barry the fairy is training on the men of the cloth  and the Sanhedrin of the American left who are never racists, always a dangerous attribute in a step man,  think no matter who wins they had a hand in it or at least in them. I took a real self erudite pride in seeing that my words in bad Versus came true and the filthy German woods showed that indeed we are one James whale removed from Roman camp and the rest of you cant get it done.

Such was this year in which I found radicals warming and reaching  up to me as they openly opined that they couldn’t in good conscious vote for a Clinton, again, which made me wonder how many did cone as like their in laws the Bushes a distain for the people can be always smelt out and then you are stuck with nothing but Colbert and Mareens who never understand that the dumb brunette is an arcytype which is an anathema to the Romans new or old. Most especially since I had them both pegged as the duchy of Syracuse, whose scalped brunette as imprisoned nun would always be the reason that hubby would eventually toss his shrewish, never much of a Catherine, scheming wife under the loaded cart, but then have been told I am a romantic at such things. This was the year that radicals openly asked for my work, commenting it was like comics about Palestine, and more than one lesbian found admiration in me and my making of Roman like Camarillas amid the greekifying of Wonder woman, hated amazingly by hosuefraus thinking they selves satirists, and both degraded and demeaned by a comics crew that amazons her despite her creators Roman name.


And during the holiday heard that of course as they mark the earth with their pompous co ed delusions that Perry Mason is to be remade as all is, as damningly for a time of unbridled sanctimony, all that is past is strangely not only prolog but epilogue for a dying state, as I am sure that the chubby Jesuitical boyishly admired by me Brilliance and defense lawyering of suspicious Perry will be reduced and demeaned too love of the state the da once a joke to all the books of Earl Staley Grader like mash books I read them all as  a kid in love with the adulthood of noir rapped now by over fed girls students telling is of their sanctimony between their unscathed blood sports holidays of unpaid labor. His dark, to sue a pejorative admired by these leftists so you know where you stand, brooding fatso Raymond and his barreling charm will be gone I am sure, or was that that drew me to him as a kid seeing that world out there once a punchline to the original Coriolanus, and his noir la feel that would be recapped soon enough by Jews allowed in by marriage and interbreeding the love of the state and all of its hyperbole and declinations and made fun of by Italians since the snow men and the farce and satire now sadly seen as gone once the Greeks spread their civility and fagginess like so much manure, as no hoeuse nigger would ever admit. And what of Della, beloved secretary with snaps and buckles and sashes of undergarment and long skirts as revealing in their way as any Victoria’s screret faggy garment of vulgarians  now…what of she, well she; be what all are now, in our Jane Russel, Catwoman, 99, Edie Adams less less, Rodger Corman less, killing Pussycats world, she will be reamed and candied and snatched for your protestation as house niggers are remanded as Questor, remade and refashioned to be all that we may be, Blond, no one cares and it isn’t an insult if we are all blond god knows this news years eve is brought to you ugly chicks by Nice and Easy, AND YOURE WORTH IT, remember hard sell is our credo, Blond, Black and or gay. A curvy wry, smart lackey devoted Brunette, not in Sabin field, dears, the curvy pretty woman is gone, as Maureen Dowd and the coven actually thought they’d build an armamentarium on the bones of Monica Lewinsky, her bones if we were lucky, but alas didn’t know the basic tandanceis of Roman farce and that knowing the audience is all there is. My mother still rails on this holiday against the monsignor who took a twenty dollar bill from an old woman in the 60s and made her an apostate to a church who the Lutherans will never be able to outsell, she still rails against that Germanic hag nun I despised for no better treason than her laughing it up with some hag named Violet, as I stood right there and they snickered at this old man in a batman coat , no more like Leonardo’s batwings it was designed of as he knelt before the church, as he was trained to do under Victor Emmanuelle, and kissed the stone. And I DESPISED AND DERAILED MY LIFE TO HATE THAT CUNT, and thus knew the Jesuit student more like me than not, god help us both, wasn’t reading Marcus Aurelius in the corner while his wife portended to drive a Roman chariot across the globe, with dibs on it when it came back for the moma, as you cant sell a Lugar in America, my  mother noticed but someone is actually this holiday selling trinkets of crosses with stones supposedly from the grotto where Romulus and Remus, sorry, Mary and Joseph bore Chistus, before king Ammminmus, sorry herod when to keel all the boys of Tuscany under twelve, sorry I mean Jerusalem,  as sad for the old Jews then like the democrats they didn’t read the Roman shit and didn’t known like the democrats under Clintin they didn’t know the con that was being pulled upon them. My mother cries thinking someone is selling stones where Jesus was born, to which I say to calm her, Ma, its not like this is real, which just makes her tsk and say again how did she give birth too such a son of a bitch.

And I knew than Obamasism was beyond me as there weren’t enough Oprahs to make me then a credit to my race, and like I said, knowing as a smart boy beloved by Jesuits, try getting them to give you a loan. But he would make his big mistake as suddenly all the anti Trump types who made it a point that he was so good and decent could not contain themselves, as he signed off against the state of Israel , believing this shit if his being a radical sheik better or more than he was just a house nigger holding  a bag of bribes from here too there and back again. My brothers bought and read papers fumes and blowout’s each day as soundly the true Brother hood of the wolf left, reaps its anti Roman summers rewards by having that sissy nigger ninny drop the bag this close to the end as the papers howl and streak with an anger that he didn’t have the back f the wayward state of Israel as I could have warned you, but you’re reaping what you sowed. The ravens and the crows weren’t the birds of my god, but of Yahweh I believe, as it was Romulus who threw that bloody plow into the sky and caused what was it, thirteen golden aquilas to be assent by Jewpater, as sign he was a good Roman boy. Onwards now the ink between Bulgari ads is poisoned penned, and angers seethe, and I say, you get what you deserves, and you are who you follow, etc, and it makes the puck in me laugh. Oh,  I like my fellow Jesuit student Bill we have a boyish love of Della street, as you’ll figure it soon enough Samantha dear, wonder woman is a better hero than any cunt with a  rinse looking for imperial power, and Camilla is her bester, and you’ll have to explain why you to went too that saturnalia well once too often, as it only works for these who keep saturnalia holy, and when your doing their bidding, not slapping them in the face as the macys ads already are. A toast of Christmas cheer to pretty hourglass Della, and her ilk, as like the sun of this Roman Holladay as was admired for telling some bulldyke it isn’t the solstice  that we celibate it is its opposite, like Cicero’s appstolic Sun, the father of all gods, and like the Republic,  spitting out chicken boney Hillary too her calculating husband, the curvy pretty Brunette gal , is indomitable and invictus after all. Seeing this Frankenstein commissariat surreptitiously and quietly pulled from the air, as under by some self appointed messiah of Semitic acrimony, that worst kind, and thus like the UN resolution to close too hate speech for those then a latest holiday market was crashed and the Reich of Who Ville was upset, my brother asked me, didn’t I say something about Transylvania and Christmas like two months ago…yes I said. God damn it he said, I hate when they pilfer your stuff and you get nothing out of it, and then, exasperated said as he shook his head, Cant you pick a fucking number…?



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