A Note on VANITIES:

(TOLD BY MY BROTHER TO CHANGE WORDS HERE AND THERE AS HE IS SURE the swells just love thinking we all talk like that anyway.]


As opposed to things I blizzard over the INTERNET , like 5, the death of Ritchie Brockleman and The Plautus Project, I only sent the previous post to three people, two of whom turned it down. Including the new York times as a shocking email I got in, which a I presume black, or mixed race, editor as the TV gumbaJews call them now that their’s is no need for a Sopranos reunion. An editor named Lauretta, like a first grade nun I had, sent me an email asking if I could send in something to remake their stance on race, there been the sneering articles of ex sportscasters, the unread gist quotes from Aquinas from priests like Brooks, and of course the Bulgari ads I noted in a from hunger Xmas that Barry couldn't be either with ever to care.

I had a Xmas album a nun gave me as a prize as a kid, in which Peter Paul and Mary who I’ve seen everywhere lately, even reruns of Jack Benny, did that sad song about hay pennies and Dickensian, yuck, squalor, I prefer Manzoni’s poor girl taking a gaunt cow to market with a  ragged rope, which as a carol, if it can be called that, that was taken out of Barras golden age Christmas rotation when something called Guido the Xmas donkey, of course, was not. So this was turned down, all in  all, a gal I was dealing with, who I prefer to deal with, as have no intention were I on CBS to get coffee between a head writer taking out his dick , as would look for the next Susan Harris before firing a  woman for early telling me warning, will Robinson, don’t become Mort Saul if you can at all help it. They sent me a follow up email, from what appeared to be her husband, a joke above sued to some disdain, but there you are, in which he said I had a distinctive voice, a good style and all, but too many grammatical errors and too ,many typos made it un-publishable, but send more, as did the same refrain as an Asian gal who called me an anti Semitic for showing in Ocopillars, I had Shelley rather be dead at the round fleshy knees of a Mullally Doppelganger, than leave his Kim Hunterish Lois lane gal for life in the warded Jews invaded Westchester with a cigarette voiced Blythe spouse, and all her guttural interiors.

Actually, most of my typos, but not all, are purposeful, as the nuns who taught me English better than any white woman do now, commas alas, they told me are for Lutherans. Still, I did get some, as do each Christmas, get a nice booklet of acceptances, as Mention of Saturnalia goes a long way, and do get Arabs and lesbians, Jews and other trash to admire me, not despite, but because of the Roman-ism I show, as some are starting to think at least my brother as right when he thought all along by the way, since the night he saw the Jesuit on scholarship, no one demeaned gathering menace was his uncle, openly sandbagged Micheal Dukakis for the now dead Savonarola, that my brother thought Clinton was a big fat pig. And no none that much of a coward does anything but die a 1000 times, this time, next to a wife who he wishes had died first. I did get something, somewhere always a triumph, including the story Other cities other pillars, decried by another husband who wasn’t impressed, but said send more, to which my brother said, a Jesuit student better than I was, first send a retainer, bitch.





I did refInd Works on a disk again, where I do my best stuff, as was writing eulogies for Biggy that night that almost got that prissy bitch's attention that day in August, now with a new senator, aren’t they all…? As again my brother was not shocked we were taught by men and women lovers of Boccaccio, that now dead priests of imperia didn't at the time notice were dying as much as I did, that self appointed Lois Lane-ish, the gal senator for television magic shows, Kloblashar, some self inaugurated queen of paradise island, was instrumental in making sure that Senators wont  have to pay for any intentional groundings, clippings, holdings or another infractions that would be best drawn by Jack Davis for magazines long gone. She, still after so many episodes on Raquel as our national scold, makes a rapprochement now that the senate doth cleansed itself of a comedy whiter, who showed no respect, at all,  for the people whose mausoleum this once was. Or like Ozarks pigs ran against them, in mid marginal pandemic, ala GIOVANNI’S ITALIC COMEDY, as no extra rights for dying fags was a Hill they were once willing to die on, if you’d be kind enough to recall. Never idle hands the old bag now writes to little kids telling them at this time a narcissus thinks mostley of themselves more so, Yes Virginia, there is a Lucifer, and I married his brother in law.

I did get accepted into a  magazine purposefully looking for satire no less, as my hatred of Colbert, pre Trump, what isn’t…? reanimated with some, as get Mister Stupendous again as cover called “Bazooka Joe” in, a variant I haven’t scrubbed  here, a Venus, and a bunny, with which I’ve done well, in a land that portends its Salem, but with a dying Livia and her finally leashed husband having to slash prices as they do one last wild west show. They shoot Trojan horses don’t they…?I did see Maureen Dowd, no less write a sad little eulogy for the Lunts, the Clintons as they live out their act to the end, as even she now admits again I was right and that a cleared Monica, as even Peggy Noonan is amazed to  think what thief house everything’s like Wrangle, and others that Barry get in jail, would be so willing to decry a woman, ah but by now all the bribes that cretin got, no more Roman Bill, as i vow, it means something too me, as my brother said and finally agree, this is no Roman, even that bribed Dowdy sees now Monica seems a victim and more decent than these tow pigs, who she now admits, their largess and corruption is a stain that even she cant wash away, as they had in a Beatification ceremony for dead old Buuuuush, that as the essence of American Plastic.

I got a picture I have scrubbed away from all my sites, admired even at the New Yorker to the point their cartoon elicit-or sent me a website to go to and find out what they are looking for, but as the person passing on Vanities said, its not the time to be a Roman mad man at the only triumphs the curia has left, the funeral where the paid mourners grieve for a pace between the detergent ads and the weather reports they snorkel through. People shamelessly weeping for old Cosmo, our Savonarola, allowed to die of old age, the fire as a schoolboy me noted, befits him, as was draped in the flag he portended to be the champion of against Greek hands, so eagerly and shamelessly. I was to know from one if the people I sent it to, that at its posting it at 9 o’clock the day that cretin died that beat the Times to Willie Horton, and speaking of shutting off microphones at a debate no less showing a  shamelessness I as an Italian have seen since time imperial from stable boys who have stolen their way to decency. I wonder if such could happen, can one imagine what the coming feared and resented  death ceremony old Billie  the kid be like, could you even do that Beatification ceremony, the kind that made me bristle as a boy that refused confirmation, as you all didn’t, with a straight face, but then wonder  if anyone would even bother to go. As I read both Livy and Levy and thus am shocked by nothing, after all.

I got my Patty bunny cartoon in, nicely in a magazine devoted to satire, so f you, that hag who thought I didn’t know what satire meant, as that’s not what the Jesuits who made me read Juvenal thought. I got her in, as if my Venus is Wendy Fiore, my Vesta, as in the goddess, who doesn’t speak her name now that the sissies have left Ovid for the Hoppa, ouch, how Clinton, double ouch, had been accepted, as she glimmers with italic sexuality, as that italic fleshy goddess did as my boyhood Beatrice, and she speaks to a fat bloated senator I made all ermine and fifty cent cigar, was he wears a sash that says a truculent, ironic, Et Too…? I’m glad I got that all in, as when I get ten, fifteen, twelve, dollars for art  to me it’s a triumph, and not pennies I’m getting from Gripuon. This old bag Mother Mo as I’ve called her, the nerve to call it a tragedy, what the Clintons are doing, its just more of the same old lady, this time, they are out of wire transfers to send you to make you think its still a comedy, as commedea past long ago, and that joke book is been censored admiringly after Brother Bill memorized it. It’s a pity she said. No, Its, Like, a pity.






https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H4NjrBcn0PA&start_radio=1&list=RDH4NjrBcn0PA&t=145