I’ll BE GOOD TO YOU…

You are watching Curia television. Part II.

On Wisc. Vs Mccandless.

31 October 19.


a. When I was a boy, in 1975, the brethren, who may have ridden me too hard, though they never made me a victim of the sorts admired and beloved in our vulgar cesspool of all the bats that fly through Hillary’s belfry, made me buy and read a book then on the Book of the month club listings [and might have biought it through scholastic, as remember resenting having to take money away from my Mad and Capt marvel funds] called The defense never rests.

It was by great barrister, schlock, shyster hero, we had them once, named F Lee Bailey. Now that mother fucker was a lawyer! I thought of him, and that book often as scathed snatches, ouch, of the lasted case that Curia television, and its gaggle of cute brunettes and the dumb wop who is its face, was publicly humiliating and demeaning a possible rape victim in a gal named Monica, as like medieval  Italy, its always telling when one of your destroyed women has that roman name. I thought of OLD Flee, perfectly satirized as the lawyer of Jessica Tate in the luminously brilliant first year of Soap, as television is without a Susan Harris, and is lousy with nonces and midnight choirboys who moth eat their days through what was once a wasteland of television, and which I could make the uncomment , Newt dear, that it ahs left its Elliot kale wasteland for and out and out inferno, in which there are nothing but masks and bees and raggedness and in the center of it all a gloomy Lucifer sits in vitriolic stupor, in the ice of Chappiuuqua, about ready by now to alight on the banks of the Tyber, the Thames, the Hudson with a Fermi like opulence. My money is on a Lucifer getting his groove back, in  that no one figured on when you tried to make the captain of the ABC anybody buy Clinton guard, the smiling creep who gaveled the student body lefty of Georgetown into irrelevance as he made Clarence the cross-eyed negro a Supreme, as they all sat behind Anita Hill,  into someone as impunity for his dead and shitty grafting boys, as was the Satan in the middle of it all.



I recall that BOOK, AS JESUITICAL A HANDBOOK AS

SAY THE Prince or Paolo Milano’s tretese  on Roman plays,  or Virgil’s in English, AND I recall it sadly and wistfully seeing the witch trial  that Gumba Vinnie always has an eye out fer, lest some gal kill a rapist, as that just cant be allowed to happen. I wondered early on why this artsy girl with delusions of femininity not dovetailing with the sense of what women are , or should be in the frozen eves of frostbite falls, fat, bloated, corn feed cheerleader, heifers at On Wisconsin, as I throw nothing away. Those there to thunder thighs therein ways through the latest game you just know if its important the boys of Alverez will lose. As the ghost of Urban, the coach not the pope, has not left the building, and left the cupboard far from bare. It is my consternation it is he and not the direful, rotten, fruit of the Bellychek tree , Saint Nick, who is the closest thing to a games day MACHIAVELLI, AND IS THERE BEST COACH STILL IN THE PLANTATION ARCHIPELAGO CALLED THE NCAA, as it is, after all, still the boys he bought on his life on the Mississippi who play for an Ohio state I’ve never mu8ch liked.

As I have a real inkling that had this gal, who was accounted with a  knife, as even forensics can tell what and who was cut first from the science of blood splatters , but again when the rats of the curia wish the alchemy of Shysters to medevaelly take hold, and gold is turned to lead , a schylock’s magic is announced, and boyfriends disappear into spinning boxes. All I know is if the state wasn’t calling John Hanson, you know the rapist that made her a liar, even though it was the captain fantastic worsted she was seeing and not she who called the 5-o, like is aid if I was ever thirty five after Veronica Lodge, id leave McGarret out of things, but all the boys in this play seemed to be the ones who lived out the lives out of a stock company of Aida. I felt early on a empathy, verboten to all but the tie wearing doge it seems for this artsy fartsy girl, as have believe me seen this psychodrama okaydoke out, without the affectations of the ninny hells angels tossing a woman around, separate they having not voted for Trump, one can tell, they were more than willing, were these creeps to sue this broken wren of a girl, who as some wop said, couldn’t sue the define of say post trauma as , another smiling house wop said, she was not at Falluja , of course, much like him, and others who got into law when I was a boy, and Georgetown tried to weed them out, who used the bulldog as a way to avoid the draft. Like say Doges have. I FELT BADLY EARLY ON FOR HER AND THOSE STRANGE RIPPED OPEN EYES THAT ;LOOKED STRANGELY INTO AN AUTOMATIC CAMERA THAT COULD OFTEN catch Chanlee Painter,  the perfect cheerleader for this curia bloodsports as she sat quietly as a Temple mouse, often getting up to do a stand up in front of the van, or sing everyone needs a maid from Sondheim’s Forum.



I RECALLED THE TOME BY Flee and all it signified, and what we have become thanks to a couple of ozarkls pimps who took over this cesspool in 1192--sorry, actually freudleian typing, I meant 1992, not that , to my father, it mauch would matter. He told me we still live in the echoes of the fall of Rome and imbeciles  like these Youngers erring flight suits, if not Toga Prextareas weeks into a perpetual campaign, as after all the mission was always have the fun was getting the resolution anyway. Because, I saw the peanut gallery of shysters, when the Latin is mute, the Yiddish is a good go to, especially, as I said, with house wops that my father called porch swing fascists, who just love the denial of other men’s sons and daughters  going to jail, or the front, but alas when they are pinched by uncle Shylock, no, not kidding that Venetian Jewish slimy Fagin was once used as a Columbia or Victoria for the old Parries, showing that Maverick’s Gun-shy sat through again, didn’t come out of nothing.

I am addicted to some words today, it says it all, they immediately find that technicality is after all law, and they start to ask , as I was warned, how many angels who speak Latin can argue on the head of a gavel. I recall F., as Jonnie called him, as that and he seemed to be the essence of being a Philadelphia lyre as I was meant to be , or suspected to be, but couldn’t pull that  cleverest trigger…I just couldn’t. And now I feel badly that the old men of the school I was destined to avoid, Georgetown,  a backdrop to Clintons true and fake, as both Bill and Wil Gardiner to go there, and be smitten by Brunettes who may or may not have succumbed to the circulatory systems of evil, or at least Dante’s -pretense and the silliness and meagerness of malevolence, as this channel Curia Tv, is lousy with the sort of gonniff and shysters that I was told I was supposed to be an antibody if not cleasing answer to. The man who was taught Ovid by the brethren, as I was, brought to the point that a simile narrow saffron tie could be like a prop in the Metamorphises show that opened Broadway back up, after the ash and soots of 9-11, really tell your house of deputies Omerta cleaving gummad, and her new found hags, she as highest ranking Italian ever beholden to men to get seats to race agin her as much as anything, this stupid old crow, take your  hags to take their new found berkas and shove them, as the Italian women had burkas foisted upon them by our own Umbria Mohammed, Constantine, and if you think Mohammed was something, well ask them at the Milvian bridge when the true and real Roman army and not his killers and assassins were beat barley, but then were all burnt to death. Perhaps the sun he had seen in a dream, or the sky, if one is catholic and a burning cross like the Sicilian outfits ironically later dem senators could act, like Shakespeare, was something they had come up with. Maybe that was the sun he saw at night, like Pliny’s stars on roman spears, amend may be in Latin he misunderstood and it was chance or just dumb luck, and not Chritie who told him In This Sign Murder, showing where the classically world was heading until a caveat and a caecilian packed on it all by German monk , who after all, still liked Saturnalia and Latin more than his Nazi brethren ever do.

And now, like Constantine, Billie the kid again has become history, both admired by father Gore, and now a genuinely vicious horrid little man with Hansel qualities with an eye to rub against the gals and hair plugs and capped teeth, a Art Fern of American politics, as opposed to Billy’s Reggie Van Clinton the third and his love of gals, who answer back like Etruscanite gods, that idiot, that slime ball, that born vice president, ahs the nerve to think the devotion that woman and others had to Roman Bill is somehow his birthright,  and bewared to him , when in fact, and I will not forget this, he was the captain of the Anybody but Clinton cadre, the old senatorial cabal that Catalina and Bill despised, as hating the Romans out there, somewhere, and so I don’t have, as I did last week on  Detroit and found winning isn’t everything, covering is, any money on this latest nothing , as there is no specter of a foolish blared old crow of a wife making him make common cause with the ninny who likes bombing Roman ruins, almost as much as he does like travel bans and tariffs more than the curia likes to recall. The empathy Billy the kid, again a first comic book of mine as a kid, shows various Monica’s is gone now, recapped by c students who think the earth and everything in it is, if not theirs, can be billed for.



b. So, I write this before know the outcome of this trail, as again , like old batman’s,  they preparer for of all things at CTV,  another go around with an NFL player who may or may not have actually exposed himself to some white woman, as the indecent Ghosts of the John Birch society sadly didn’t live long enough to know that eventually they could dammed and dehumanize us all , anyone getting too close to the white woman for whom this station will weep when Harvey is buffo box office, and we are all asked for sympathy for all the Gwenethes who were virginal hero for the Jewish pirate whose own hustler bloods were only quickened by a snake wielding Hyack. Suzy Cream cheeses  and others who they will cry for, as try to keep the Annabella Sciorras and others out of the shot like Mandela’s hammer and sickle. I am no fan of Harvey, but have an inkling the starlets who have found the courage of the herd, well, I have a feeling he has kept all their Answered prayer like pictures on Yachts and things, and I’m sure for some he kept the receipts, as there’s no pesky hair pulled out by the roots on any car floors in that tax bracket.

A troop of sickeningly brief scribblers, more conniving as they beat the clock will somehow show these starlets more empathy than they showed some poor gal who had to kill to be with some man wholly wasn’t acutely the witness for the prosecution any Bailey would want or need, but eh got in his shivs, though the whole things looks unseemly as a man as salt and peppered as Superman on earth 2, was out there hanging out at Pops chocolate Shoppe with Betty and veronica. And so, leave them in mid drone , as found it funny, and a bit off putting to see an old man berate end harangue a young woman, they should have had a placard, these cheese eating, fatso, millhunkeis, a card reading A child is crying… is it yours madam, as Gore has truly and now my mom, left me totally alone, it seems in more ways than one. I think her promiscuity was what was really on trial  here, girls, remember, don’t hurt your attacker, girls,  and if you Tarpeas do, well get them help right away, as something tells me a person wishing to murder wouldn’t use a two inch blade. anywhere but in a scene choreographed by Twyla Tharpe. Because, you see, uhm, the last time I saw a woman have to prove she was attacked by some cretin in an enclosed space where the monsters dwell, it as the fulcrum of the casum for Ben Roethlisberger. Ouch. That’s one circle below  Bill Clinton, who still thinks he’s Paolo and Francesca, and sow again don’t think that house of deputies Roman impeachment goes anywhere,  as that is another of your star chambers that roman boys come to hate, as again, and wont let you forget it, Sallust isn’t my forth favored book.

As left the televised show trials, literally, and had enough of Lonesome Sicilian Roads on CTV, and went to nightly shot of nostalgic ampedimine...or is it morphine…?, Green Acres. AS LIKE WITH Rachel Maddow it’s the same basic plot. And ironically, as had enough of this ash lawyers who are so devoted to their client, or at least what they thought she represented, as think Germaine Greer, the defense council thought she was going to get Boys Don’t Cry, and instead got what we basically call a nymphomaniac. If that. But she , and neither did smiling Jack her attorney, remember to get a writ of a remanded verdict at the end of the states holy case, as ,maybe she was at the buffet, or in hair and make up, as it s not my fault you didn’t even get Jesuit 101. Wow. In the episode I watched on ME, fittingly, Eddie Albert, put through hell on his show, as the one sane man, was in court against the Bill Clinton of Hooterville, named on the shanty towns that Hoover made dot the land, where they shamelessly made a new Rome for a dreadful Coriolanus, that my brother told me sadly, will you please stop giving these crooks ideas. They aren’t like you. As I saw as in his Times where they took a play based on a Roman life out of Plutarch, whatever it was, whatever it said, and basically turned it into the Blood feast that Jews in laws  make for every Halloween, no matter what gonniff falls or is arrested, or not. And on GA, in the court room, with a judge who was perfectly a bloated bellowing man from Twilight zone, too, the great Irish character actor J PAT O’MALLEY, MEE BOYEE, played the lawyer, shyster, barrister, solicitor thief, perfectly as he was doing his best “ Spencer Tracy” I.e. was snapping his suspenders. All in all not much a worse performance than these awful lawyers gave, though Semma would never admit it. As just a Jesuit player I would have asked, was this gal mirandized in that hospital…?, as you had and she said she had now ay of knowing, on face value if she had just killed someone or not with not as much blood on her as I would have argued she should have had, you know, busting humors in a jugular vein. And if the old coot who studied law under Jane Eyre and thinks woman only kill for men, a nice return to the sicgnat paperback days of Lesbos on the suburban prowl, although Lesbian drag was big in this show, as again, this old man Ada was what I’ve been decrying since I  was a kid, old coots like him, and their crucibles, of which I wanted no part even then as a boy, when sued F LEE  and CC and SUSAN HARRIS AS VIRGIL’S LEADING ME AT LEAST TO THE BETTER PARTS OF Hell, like where like Ovid resides.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V1d4r9awjKE

Its been a bad month for the curia. All the missioners, where the wild things portend they are civil and uppercruts, have been unraveling as of late. A Dallas Flavian amphitheatre was  infected with a lesbian hag gatekeeper burdening a stupid old man who wasn’t impeached as there was no Muller report for him, as killing 3000 Americans was less a high crime than a first man in the Principate to act like Rape and disfiguring women was a price of marble hauled admissions. A wife, stupid and befuddled, doing the same Mildred Pierce act she’s been doing in her one woman show, at least  every night at three am when hubby was gods knows where, went after democrats this time as she has been certain since Goldwasser that the Kremlin has spies everywhere, alright a thing to say now that both Alger Hiss and Walt Kelly are dead. She, married to that can of chicken of the sea with delusions of being bakala , a man who never fought for anything but his rites to destroy women like noble savages did, she want after of course a Brunette, muscle memory, who had actually fought for this cesspool, as my father pegged it, and soon enough as both decried and defamed and dismissed by high yellow occupants of the marble walls, the kind who demand Klan members who wrote songs about the southland be taken out of all private and public institutions, until of course , they get a call from Various famiels of Byrd’s.

The Cowboys lost a game they never should have showing the Jack Davis Hex and evil eyes in the stands are still there, as they just started getting back, and don’t think that lesbian will be held in disesteem for that one, no matter how many Jewish toilet mouths come out to do interference for the already pulling guard. And lately, as the week of Halloween was awful for me, more specially than not, and filled with fitful sleeps, Barry the God was asked to come out and tell the sanctimonious hags and white trash self important swine who he never liked, to cool it about canceling and awaking a culture, the white paint of Augustus is out,  that my father would be surprised to know you even have any kind. Its been tough for the priests of fiancé, Hollywood and academe that father Gore again seen as a ghost on ancient almost Delphi like Carson, hated and someone seems out for blood about. But, as I said, I didn’t take Coriolanus and turn it into something with more blood than I spit on your grave,as after all, that’s all you Jews and Lutherans  have ever dome anyway.



c. As a week devoted to death and a trial that a brother, a fellow Jesuit student couldnts stand anymore, went on, as thought, like a good annalist, devoted to no one, thinks that woman is crazy but ahets this judge who cant make a decision,  as after all, fair is fair. So, it was a tough week, as see that here in barbarian land, there is never anything solemn to the lesbian angers and white trash  dismissive ness to a holiday about death or war as there ever is for a Love holiday the Romans gave us in February, when they remembered the dear departed, and serially the woman that got away. And I was filled with rage and anger, to the point had to stop watching Curia Tv, as would yell at the collected notary publics there as if corrupt Refs or dumb couches, Ah DON’T PUNT! This year their death holiday bothered me so. But then on the eve of Halloween already a noblest savage eve, I got an email saying some of my witch  cartoons got in a Halloween collection. This made me smile, as was really crumbling and growling and painful. I was pleased again a belladonna escaped the censorship of Mother superior Hillary and her hatred of the cigarette girls at her husbands perpetual Stork club in a perpetual Toots shores that the Spartans cant close. At the afct that Ma said they only started  hating Halloween , these stregas , when the brunette witches started to be sexy and pretty. And then a second time in this week devoted to the death inherent in the prariea of Europa, where apostolic sun doesn’t show it’s enflamed Horse, I got, this close to Columbus day, a day hated by the same fat woman who hate circuses ,  just like their Mammy Yokums did, I got a parcel with my brothers mailed Wall street journal as he has left , like many, the sanimominius homily between the Bulgari ads, alone.

This is for you, Tony he said…From the Apache nation…? Oh. I had on duo tope or some like broker placed a piece  in a contest of sorts , to a collection of indigenous peoples mythologies. I would have liked tro tell the woman at Yale WHO LIKED THIS FIFTEEN YEARS AGO, I HAVE FINALLY MADE IT IN. But that was at least ten computer crashes ago, and hotmail is a merest memory. The lady who was nice to me and who hated Toni Morrison, but loved Alice Walker, now the Sanhedrin of the times demand a flip on that, but I don’t recall her name, though this time Kemeter was placed aside, as  blond Italian devils are still verboten to the vineyard makers and their Jewish brothers in laws. And this second acceptance this week that was being saved, I got a letter from the elder putting this together. Anthony, Elder Jojo, like a sisters name when I was a boy said, making me feel the warmth of a Sabine sun in your awful gloomy death panorama, We think you are an exceptional artist, and have accepted The tragedy of Dafne as  for our collection of indigenous myths. We, when it was read weren’t sure what you were up to here, as yours is one of the few to have people in it, much of what we got was stereotypical talking wolves and German elves. But, we kept reading on, despite words like Pontiff and Turnus hair brunettes and Silvia and Aplu and a misspelled Dafne, and the year 1147...but as we read on we saw a lovely piece here, which your girl becoming a tree will accompany, as we loved it, and think you did a lovely job. We weren’t sure what you were doing as we have never heard of the Etruscans before.

Ah, I thought, that’s the reason that fat bloated old crows make a point of how evil Columbus day is, as like my Mom said quoting Aquinas, a lack of empathy is the beginning of evil. With this came a cotton papered cerficate, naming me a honorary member of the north Dakota Indian nation. They liked in my letter how I mentioned how sad it was that the glorious vestibule of God, the black hills, was disfigured for a kind of granite colossus of slave hoers unseen since Nero. Anyway, I got this in, and emailed back to Elder Jojo, That’s very nice of you, but I have enough trouble in this impoerail hell hole just as an Italian.



They sent me a dreams catcher not that dissimilar to a medallion my mom hung around a Mother Mary still  left here as got rid of a lot of stuff she kept that I didn’t keep in a folder of her little notes and pictures of mine she kept with arts school buddies and such. I say this not to suck my own prick, but will send them something to help them through a Xmas I call Saturnalia, that I thought would be harder to get through than the hallowing that turned out nicely. I held the dream catcher in my hand and with a twine loop made it like in a Capote go Spindazzlespindazzledazzlespinsoindazzle…SO, I DON’T REALLY CARE WHAT OLD COOTS AND BLOATED WOMEN DA’S do to gals whose real sin was not adhering to that Springstein fetish of the inherent decency of rust. I never liked that shit about the lone pairee that I’ve never bought into, as said in my script to a now even evaporating  Good wife, as apparently, the ethics you hit people over the head with previously, aren’t the ones you think you need now, always a bitch for the curia flatterers, who know which way the winds blows. I gave the Dakotas sixteen dollars as usually don’t anymore pay for the right to be demeaned as some do I noted as think their opinion and demission is what you’re paying for whereas  again, gotten best results or even a fine ignoring for free. It was getting a snide respond to a mothers requiem, Publsiedh somewhere now, that makes me forgo giving a dime to these middlebrows. But I did for and to the Dakotas, even this close to Columbus day as again its always the Hillary voters that call me names, as see through their bad verses and can only think what uncle Bill thinks of these  hags. But, there is a rag that’s been quite anti Trump, but as said when he was till not a menace to the tabernacle, but on the cathode waves of the national biscuit company that  magazine now all in as this day was more than happy, more the willing to allow me into its fold as it were, for only the meager price of sixty dollars, buying me four issues of a rag that looked like a cheap version of the Kiplinger Washington letter when I was a kid reading F Lee Bailey of the rumple, or whatever… the worst moment of this awful trial was when capo Wonderful, the boyfriend, played by Marc Rufollo in the lifetime movie,  who used this girl as much as anything and helped get her snared and set up like an old Colombo , admitted that the artsy shit heads of this phony bistro in sausage land, the hipsters of the NFC NORTH, GOOD GOD!, have unisex bathrooms where they public demeaned her like something out of Marty, as they call women dogs in perfectly politically uptight and thoughtful places do the hags and ninnies write graffito, Our aim is to keep this unisex bathroom clean…The old coot and house wops saw in her saying after all that happened  to her that her name was Monica, was again a dodge, we are all lairs here now, whereas I saw it as revitrovi, just like Bill Clinton will achingly achieve  as a sweaty, aged , using clown in make up and open toga, with the barely legals around him, wishing he was noble and Ovid again reciting boyhood and not middlebrowPhilosophy, as Augustine isn’t my friend. The  Capotean Prairie always bothered me, as why I am a Dallas Cowboys fan, as wonder if they’ll get sad, wilted, Ezra, again a name that ends in Romantic A, in this ugly, squalid, death aged, Prairiea, as the brethren called it, for phantom hands to the face.