VIRUS COMIX.

The ruins of a comic magazine I thought must have, like Mad and Nat’l Lampoon dun been gone, is  on one on the sites I frequent to get ads posted answered, is looking for something they delightfully call VIRUS COMMIX. Now, since got the only sort of lecturing reply I ever got all year, as stopped counting the we really enjoyed your crap and do you have anything else, well, Political shit, I was wondering since made georgics Italian peasant girl, even hinting to spaghetti souse in a jar shiller Cecily Strong was that sort made her angry, but such is elitism at 8-h,  italicate Pin up queen Wendy Fiore into a cross between Betty Paige and Vesta, and have scads of sketches I have never completed of her, as she has become quite the seller for me as the anti-Italian grandmother shoved into hell by Cuomo. I thought, do I send something in,…? With her as the vigilante archangel of sarcasm and Italian girl moxie in comparison to idiots who would actually think voting for a segregationist would give them a high horse as amusingly Jesuit Bill did once…?I mean he is the prince of shady Groves, the doge and star, no matter what colostomy bag pretends he’s queen. 

Do I draw out in Big pages like those Epic comic I had as a kid, do I draw out Bilbo in new Verona as spoke of in THE AMERICAN DECAMERON DAY 27, which short as it is compeered to some, frightens these hooligans of empire more than other pieces for reasons I’m not exactly sure of, although as he bumbles across  a stage that his own dog feel the inevitable arrows pointing at him and barks at midnight and bites at all praetorians, not a good move, is it possible, birds of a feather and all and creepy Heath cliff buzzards still do, like the wild Bunch Fear sweet old Buffalo Bill, and fear him getting even for some unnamed Monica Bellucci who has died out there in the first Verona, near a Etruscan Mars, whose image in the fields Bill could not take his eyes off of as polish pontiffs where screeching at him with dying breaths about the evils of socialism. Humnnn. Do I now illustrate the tale as Bill would tell it of the man who grasps his purple Augustan cloak, like taking oaths of Roman office behind devil wire and chicken fences, and how does the CJ with segregationist background think of losing his post and his position as five hacks are shepherd in to play beat the imperial clock. Now, a variant of the cooties that were Biden 2020, are attacking people with a vaccined arm, possibly more FF Copolla than Manzoni, which serves you right. Now we will find out not only how many but who is willing to die to make a segregationist from 1973 into Cleopatra as her dog shits openly where the Washington post circled kelley girls stand in fear of germs. Leave it to mister two masks to bring dog shit into the marble masuleum, but believe me, when Roman Bill wants to get you, hell get you, old man. And the shtick of politics from a creep who has been shadowing and tailing David Letterman to be to him what Biden is to Bill may find his sqautter life coming to its end, at least on television, and what else is there...? A bit player plays his part to the end. No good deed, my beloved Gore said, as smirking hard ass when I was Jesuit pre law, clerk John Roberts wouldn’t be CJ anymore, if elderly Erroneous had his way and the senate had to install three judges all in a row at once, and after all those boxes of votes and all that blind eye he sent out and all the Italian grandmothers he killed for a segregationist who cheated on mid terms, Yow!, Goes unpunished. 

I figure I can as did for A BAD DAY AT BLACK ROCK, take the story and just like mad, print it in little boxes, like my brothers ec comics, my father as sure was garbage when I was a kid,  and then build pictures around it all. But as I take the bricks of words and set them to type to be able at 10 pica to be bold and then cut out after printed on card stock to be pasted on finished pictures. And as I do this, as read aloud the events of day 27, and listen to the brilliant Goulet playing Petrucclio no less, looking the part which is least politics can do as it did with Trump and Clinton and as Gene Siskle said, with Bidey and with Bush brothers, not so much, a brother who thinks I may literally be casting roman jewelry before swine, says aloud, I think, he says, You have that buffoon pegged all wrong. But he said sharper than I, it is sweet, and no body is doing things like that for Uncle Joe, he said, They are just silent for him, and they both deserve that. 

 

a segment of TAD--DAY 27. 

If some diabolical gorse, I said, Was behind this, if some black hand was the puppeteer here, I spoke and took a breath not as afraid of the steep sandstone walled incline, as I might have been, If any one for a paltry purple sash was behind this and in reverse Gheppetto made old ladies raped my father's called cesspool, in his times, suck for wind, I said, I wish them, I said, To crash their imperial yaughts on Virgil's alters, I said, And I wish them nothing but the worst of fates…

 

He laughed, this mixture of Barrister from Rope, Plautus or Hitch, it didn’t matter did it…?, and Herman Munster, both roles I believe played by basso profoundo Harvard Lampoon editor, beloved by me, tile salesman, Fred Gwynne. Oh…, he said as if a child of fates, a Caesarean as there hadn't been in a long while. Oh, he assured me, If one Italian girl here, not your Maw, he said to me, un-meanly, She was 90 bless her heart, no not her...He said looking directly at the kind of gal who caught his gaze since sweet old Bill was reading Capt. Billy's Whiz Bang and stealing smokes on the back yard porch as he still is on, or off, most if his life.

 

If one Angelica did fall to this, he said as he was raising a hand at the cracked moon, the moon believed by me and Gore and yes he, as once closer to the earth as it is now, and not the cvnts of the now scattering killer demons of the new York times, Italo Calvino, the man who was openly campaigned against by the white tied ice people of Nobel and his Dynamite collections. As another Beloved Monica, this time Belucci, the last Italian bombshell, outside of Wendy, in this open citta, smiled that Catherina smile that goers like her have been doing either prodded or unpardoned by a stygian church more devoted to death than the Italians have ever so liked. He looked out, with purple sashes circulating, undulating, and spins of Guido Basile snaps and folds of silken rope and mantle around him, that I just knew that Bidey could never, ever, carry off, no matter he played Landslide Lyndon or not, the rules of Petronius and Jack Warner are still Paramount, hehe, in politics as they will find out at a place where a drunk once tussled Trumps hair, because  he calculated and wanted people in the hinterland to still watch his fake laughter and his constancy of playing celebratory twister every fucking night.

 

As spear chucker’s and cup holders don’t play Caeasr in any dress, modern or not. He stared at Monica from earth one, in so many ways, he winked at her as if she as alive, or he was, I wasn’t sure. He stood there in his poison green suit, Mobius rags of empire and position snapping around him in the Tuscan winds and the Apulia moonshine, the most stringent there’s ever been, that no T men or persistent G men or priests can avail themselves to bust the stills there of and never will. He made a vow, not a position he liked to be in his kamakakamamakamamam chameleon life, and frowned this time for reals, and made that vow no bible was need for as it was named of the light of an early Oviidian moon, how poetic we can be with writs of foot washing snapping off we can be, as if he, Jesuit Bill could ever care of the schemers of dummies and frauds and late night talk show goons who cant quite get the Tonight show, no matter what they pretend they have ever been. Those who deserve it, will get theirs…, he, Petrucclio said, with assurance from someone or something, as Wendy the most Roman goddess played with the paws of a cat whose hair was the color of the eternal mud lapping up from the middle of the earth sea, that was unnoticed below.

 

 

 

DO I EVEN DARE...? 

 

 

 

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=abH_k0YhL04

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WeiOFZy1dx4

CUOMOS ROPE.

 

Edited out of a piece in the AMERICAN DECAMERON, DAY 95, THE ROPE. 

1.We passed the granite gloom, has seen here in as said, the dire and rancid little man, yet another in Cuomo the less than elder but not youngest, as familiars with fathers to avenge it seems now are everywhere. They are asking or maybe just happy to be around, although where I saw were all beeline, whose younger are all dead and or in jail, as unlike the saddened and the doomed Roman, we alas don’t stop at merely Elder and younger as now have our black ship of state doldrums triads a third generations and more in our Magellan quests to as pop said, finally prove that we and anyone can again fall off the edge of the rectangular earth. 

I’d be careful of the Beagle boys, the Cuomo’s, she the smart Italian girl said. There are two or more types of Italian women, and my mother as the more Pier Angeli type, svelte, as least she was before I came along as she said openly that emitting this bowling ball as I was through her slender frame at 40, did in fact cause her to most of my life be a plumper woman, a bit on the fatter side, and by then, he trying to keep up her Christian Dior affectations and asides, did wear on her, as it were, and she tired of it and acme the nana sort she became As Wendy here, Miss Fiore, my beloved Beatrice of the pin ups, she is the other sort, the Sophia Loren sort, the Gina, the va va voomy types. She was in Vesta, The kind that Jewish clowns used to marry in mass ceremonious like say Moonies, before the shylocks found there was more money in disparaging them, and they moved on to the dishwater legions and Suzy cream cheeses, which my mother told me in no uncertain terms never to lighten her Italian American doorway with. My ma, Bless her heart, once told me better poverty than dancing ion the strings of the curia, and somehow, stupidly or sweetly, I believe that to this day, but then I never made a cartoon disgracing not only various fat Tony’s, but indeed Saint Francis, who like Wendy, Fermi, Michelangelo and Columbus and Machiavelli and every wop since Savonarola, its seemed, is fair game by the half breeds of Toscanini’s old palace, now shuttered this Saturday evening, hopefully, in many ways for Good. Avnet we come far since a spring time for Ebersol. 

We used the swan air ship-diregibale, half Terry Gilliam, half the blimp that in his discretely prime, the Mercury theater’s brilliant Cassias, type casting, Vincent Price, had so perfectly navigated as a flying machine, in a film, when such things were still romantic and Verne-ian and not yet cattlcars of those diseased, with flying wings, ferrying the sick from here to there. We had come down, the sawn still a Disney circa 1964 ride at that similarly shuttered theme park, and we came to the side of the bridge named for this galoot’s, to me, believed in father. I recall each day how my father as not schooled by the apprehension that thin lipped garbage like George Will and Bidey felt for as Marc Shields called him, the man with liberal soul but broad shoulders, as unlike the more jewie among the party of queers, and how neither now had an open distaste of the other, though I, Jesuit student always, thought they should have by now. The land is awash in segregationist, who were segregationists in 1980 no less, as this crowd, unlike some, never became just republicans, as George Wallace did AND ALLOWED TITIAN HAIRED CvNTS ON TV TO THINK THEY WERE AS NOBEL AS EVER AND THAT INITIALED Gods don’t win places like Texes and Missouri once by placating the red necks and the men who they, un-sashes, be put on trail forty years later as old men when a new substrata of plebs was found squatting on the homesteads that LBJ pertained would have segregation forced ever, as long as Biden can hold up. 

Because somewhere as Bruce Kiden, a sophisticated sports writer, a press man who looked at my drawings, including a Bill Clinton draped as a Roman, but with a can opener where his cutlass should have been, everything is a joke with him, and standing near cans like my mother’s Greek Sardines for pickling, brought to Italy by the early Chinese invaders to Dashin, buy nothing from the Sicilians she warned me, that in the cartoon were tins as marked WORMS. ONE CAN this summer only hope. He told me, in a baseball poem, that when the one great scorer comes to put the number in box score next to your name, Mister Olbermann, He won’t care, if you won or lost, but how you played the game. Biden destroyed not only he, but American politics did our Game show host, a giant named Bork, accreting with a giant is for women, and he helped put on a bench a Google eyed idiot, a hard ass Reagan Soldier, who once sued his juris secondus compendium of a mind to go against the un-constitutionality of school lunches programs, Remember that one girls, when he’s giving the oath of Roman priesthood. 

2. The son of the Virgilian spirit guide, who died before he’d see that sonny boy wouldn’t be the first Italian to write his memoirs while the battle doth rage on, you know, like the old Capt. Marvel serials. As it appears the Lone Arranger over here from Albany, is out there while veracious grandmothers die and gasp, is shilling and peddling a book hoping to get it at Simon and Shuster , and thus CBS, as that ways can avoid pesky Savannah as saw him tsksing at her womanish prodding in the early day, needing a toke of acideminophin before mister sunshine would be harked at by fat bloated once black weatherman , smiling goon Al, who has worse things to say to these who mention black face, than you know who have actually done it, but that creep on the Tonight show proves that to be bald faced, the first thing one must do is wash off the cork. 

There below us somehow as this book has either founds its footing, or jumped the sofa, by journeying into Magic realism, as have been label a racist daring in a land taking down Columbus and TR statuary for a goon who requiem dixiecrats, recall that it, as a literate device, surely goes back to Roman writings, Apuleius and such, and obviously Dante, I don’t think he and his favored poet and loved from afar unrequited love actually walked through hell, but then another Book that came out of the dire filth you left the Romans to, while you’ve been actually asking Romantic and Italianate me to admire the circuitry of your various coo coo clocks. Some of us are more Harry Lime than others, I still hope. 

We came down, and I could hear the rusted bolts of this bridge hiving and straining, although am sure that a leash will be pulled and Rachel Maddow will avoid making this bridge one too far for Cuomo, at least not yet, as she did for fellow even lighter Italia buffo, Chris Christie, who now looking back, had the curia not destroyed him for having saved that prissy little bitch, Barry and carried him through the rains, could have easily been handed off to maybe the first Italian president in say 1500 years, but that that would never do for a glum little lemon headed cretin like George Will, who somehow like Arrec Barrwin being made into voices of reasons no one recall or remembers, as I do, when watching the old Dick Cavett show on a channel called Decades, now gone, at the beginning of his allsorts assault on acting , or what Plautus called the lowest variation thereof, and him doing drag basically, mugging, but on the phone this very Easter. 

Back then, at this beginning, the great English actor Ian McKellen, and back then posted this very thing to his page, recalled at the topsy tervy Tony awards, …I think I had one of those, or almost did, or a better variation, anyway, Sir Ian, then fresh form leaving the closets that Colbert will make a grave out of Dante’s illustrations, that in fact, before he would be the curia’s clown prince and demean Trump so heinously and showing Virgil’s proscription of masks and what they accomplish, Arrec at of all places, The Tony’s, called out to some surviving aids victim, I must look up who it was, and called out to him with his then just becoming apparent Irish couth. When McKellen told him to take it down from a perpetual 11, Come down here, The boy with green bile said, always throwing punches, always willing and able to crack open heads with a two by four always at hand, and an eagerness to bust open skulls as all the world is a picket line, Joe, he shouted out, Come down here faggot, and see what I do to you. But, to show the era of good feeling we are in because the wife of a rapist lost, and now watches her husband’s greatest enemy slide into power, slither more like it on the entrails of a thousand Italian nanas, sorry but the lithographs of hell had an effect on young roman boy I, the word “Fagot” was censored out, as a wayward clerk once did to Bill’s beloved Metamorphoses , at which Bubba gose oft back to divine the perfect futures, did he build this bridge and as usual in Arkansas did he cheat on the cement…?, he goes back to, as if a holiest write, when surrounded by Baggalian hordes, before alas, Augustus got wind of it, and had him hung as if Augustus was anything , like Uncle Jules, he was a man of letters. 

I stood there at the edge of the bridge. In such fandangos such as this, my usual inner guts apprehensions of such things as heights and bigness I’ve had since I was a lad, goes away, and I’m as willing penitent, maybe just enamored of the swan and her capable driver, willing to see what I cannot or shall not see in the mere viable light of ordinary time. There, in vista, in a Riverdale of the banks of this Styx, there is a house bifurcated and cut way as if in one of the old mad’s by Joe Orlando I have relegated myself to, Satire, I was taught, is a Queer business, --a brother damns the curia in a bathroom heard from here, look how fat we got, while this creep Cuomo, maybe he is listening to me as I type, That mutherfucker son of a bitch, I hope, he said, that mother fucker is constipated for the rest of his fucking miserable life. Good wishes from Ashbury Park New Jersey, let’s call it, as if reading my mind too, generous Wendy sings out in a sweet, almost Penny Singleton voice, half Maria Callas and half Jane Jetson, The Daffodils who entertainnnnn at Angelo’s and Maxi’s wellll…when Broadway babies say gooodnighhhhht…As I must stop here as will venture out to get my brother some needed M and M’s as he is like many going stir crazy as hags like Gummadi Pillozi tools around, as does the brother of the count in New Amsterdam, all without masks, and yet they dare wonder why the word plannedemic has become, among the plebs, coined. 

Back at the bridge, looked off and saw the Five corners like Tammany halls of this last rag time, as again, Pontius of Long land was devoted to his whittling of coffins, wearing a tattered, ragged mantle of shitty, pissy, spitted on PURPLE, a cloak, again hung onto in way I recall the master class  of Bill of Ovid and the tale of the sung god verses the god of the idea to remove a cloak from a hoodlums back, and my mother hand her lovely tales that only English professors can totally bleed of their charms. The Bush family and their inherent love of death, with shaped saber toothed hyenas like John Bolting being on midnight specials that are soon to be shuttered for the year, not quite as willing to preen go Biden as they were to gave Cattiline murdered in the streets, ah but a Roman is told by his death, Sallust said, not his being able to hide and survive, so wake me for the riots, as they always come, and sometimes not even the ones that some have receipts for having throne. By the way, Steverino old boy, the cup fill of pens is a dead giveaway as has been for me since that fifth grade that wont wend, Swine Flu and win Buttons and Dicker Chaney still as undead as ever, but a Dracula, with always with portfolio at hand. 

I looked into the house that had that wall cut away as again you’d see in a scenes wed liked to see in say a Cracked, never read Sick and never wanted to, although as told it as a sharper Lenny Brucian version of Mad, at twelve I didn’t care that much to take satire seriously and ruin its finer points. In the house, before me, in ink or CBS MONODRAMA, there was Rob and Laura with their playboy after dark age of minks and stoles and men in black ties, the kind of good life that the Jews and the Negros aspired to, even though, with the help of television, and Cronkite they applied to destroy as much s anything. I saw the gleaming MTM, as Laura, in her Capri panted best, smiling her 5000 watt smile, and jete jete jete jete, and bounce about the room as the end of the Presley age was setae around them in suburban joy. Then suddenly a I watched this and Dick Van Dike did his brilliant marionette act across the gray floor, all the people there became inherently old, like in 2001, and not only old but mummified, and then became dust, and they fell to the floor, their prefect Copacabana clothing falling as rags around them. I stood there dumbfounded. I asked Westa, where are we…?

New Rochelle, she said, eating an apple, with a dagger worthy of the ides of march, that she took off her flouncing feathered fat, as she looked like an ad for Mêlée & Co. the giant department store in downtown Naples, whose catalogs a mother got sent to her as a girl to make those glorious to her curetted clothes out of whatever fabric she could pilfer, a technique I still use in my own artfulness.  

These black and white images of perfect silver nitrite CBS glory, these funny, sexy, partied, taking the last train out of Central to get to Barefoot in Larchmont, the suburban empire where Lombardi rules as noble king, it was all gone, but in an instant, as homes seemed to be black and white drawings by the grand draftsman cartooned, George Woodbridge in Mad, they were  as dilapidated as anything in Sherry Finster's New York, or anything drawn by Mort Drucker in Hoo Boy Columbus, as the one and ink drawings of Oscar Madison and Ali McGraw came shuttered down, crashing into the newsprint inferno that had been opened. I stood there as unfazed, at Machiavelli's hard tack and vinegar buffet was in fact, Guvnner Boombutz,  and I had thought that as a joke I had done only a few weeks ago, Ominous starring Guvner Cuomo, now it was true at least to me, I knew that Savannah was right and a threat as I had guessed and heard from gals in publishing,  whose nanas were a sad undercurrent to the previous Anna and Donald that new York would never return to, not with thsi crowd, was a death march as venial and as sociopathic and as vicious as anything, but with this smiling goon and his crooked smile and his crooked surviving kids, as they all toked their way to better living through illegal chemistry.

 

3. [The first title I put on this packet of files of one story a day for 100 days was WELCOME TO LAKE CUOMO. My brother asked I do something like this, remember these old ladies, remember them all to these dirt bags, like with the Jesuits he has a lower opinion of politicos than even I ever did, but he is sharper than I am. As Lorelei advises her partially always sixteen year old daughter in the Gilmore Girls we watched all holiday night, call it, he told me The American Decameron, he said, not lake Cuomo. But I replied the Betrothed, I said, happens in Lake Como, showing the filth and the disease that even the Milanese lived with then, --he shook his grafters head, Listen, they wont know what you’re talking about, but every idiot has heard of the Decameron, and that way they’ll be more upset. Welcome to Lake Cuomo, indeed, as I now think back.]

WESTA. 

Slicing away at her green apple, Wendy sat there, as a tweedy like bird bounced on her hat every time she gracefully moved her Body, as the wings of the flying sawn were left in a kind of Park, as she idled there in the bridge to who knew the thirteenth century. They are, she said to me, Doomed, you know, kiddo, even though she is much younger than I am, not that I am ever been averted to a well kept up fifty year old woman, ever. They are doomed, she said, Half Barbara Hale, half spirit guide. No one who touches this dick, will survive it, sonny, he’s a reverse Midas, she announced as though somehow she had sued that flying fowl to see where all this was headed, past vanishing  points I can’t even try to guess at. …she said. Him, I asked as gestured towards Cuomo as he single mindedly whittled at the balsa wood, instead of making gliders as we did as a kid, made a pile of hand carved coffins that he would send out, all of which read in fake blood, Vote Biden 2020. 

Looking out at the ruins of New York, this Planet of the apes being played out before us all, with the subways as a ghoulish catacombs where unsuspecting people left behind are sent flying into third arils while we must now feign empathy for pimps and drunks and thieves, which is a hoot coming from hags and creeps who were cobbling crime bills with segregationists that before this started , got that dodging king vitamin to be actually shocked in the face with the cold water of boos at a debated, in which Anderson poo was certain to have told people to had to be a church again and all the prisoners-prisoners,  were mice if not arts, who fared more than anything a populist, Meaning anyone who’d bring other men’s sons home from Messopatium, remember that girls, now it is just a hum soon enough to be punctuated with others men’s sons blood, with the death of Mac Kane, no one has in that mausoleum, despite its Roman affectations, a single son at your multiple fronts, Jerry, hand jerry you need hand, and isn’t it funny how suddenly the priest of nothingness is now everywhere, I notice as he glumly hangs about the globes of Queens,  and nobody recalls the cruising he did at the various highs schools…Populist is you see, for always non Jewish, any Newt to lead them from the meat grinders that the Bush familia and ponzi soma, boy they hate that as much as do the Roman stuff I was told once, so exactingly and willing as new men back bencher one termers and selected personas were able to put up, so long as Wall street Shylocks got their money. 

4.I can’t believe it, I SAID, That anyone could do any of this for this fucking curia, I said to her as she sat there, and the wooden coffins toys clunked as the pig faced, I noted, dago legacy prince let them fall to the ground. I stood there on this dismantling bridge ,daring to call myself a Roman satirist, its been done by worse, Lorne,  daring to compare myself in way way to the brilliant Italians who made the lemonade of literature like no one else, whereas Willie and the rest of the Elizabethan gang merely quoted Ovid until it was time to flatter their patrons by crowing dreck like Cymbeline, which like Schlock and other works of your Anglican Dante, hoo boy!, have been in not packed under lock and key in the vaults of magic kingdoms, like what happened at Anzio aren’t much talked about by the legacies at Boola bioola land no more. She stretched her legs to sue Harold bloom’s most hated epithet, but this time as actually true, literature-ly so, in that her deep peach colored legs of perfection, as long as screen doors, came out from her almost Phyllis Diller like satire of boas and such, and she stocked them perfectly and I saw on her feet were the kind of Roman laces that either from bigotry or saving red ink, the idiots at dc comics did to the first exposition of Superman once it was originally stole, all that long ago. 

You know, I told her as she rubbed her legs as if the pedals of the flying duck gave her a kind of charley Horse, I can’t believe it but, momma’s boy I am, I said, I have yet to cry over my mom…she looked up at me and smiled sadly, as she undid the clasps of her almost ballet shoes but I noticed, despite the laces going up her faultless games, she had the stiletto heels on both sharked to a shiv like tip. I haven’t cried over my mother yet, I said. I don’t know why, I added, but I can’t…

You, she said, Have to be honest to yourself, my boy, she said. Look out there, she said, as I looked out, See, she said, Look over the vista of death and destruction and malevolence and all so as a goon on CBS late night adn a creep who somehow stole the Tonight show could preened that they didn’t do black face once, or beg Les Moonves not to give the show to someone who didn’t look like a fucking frat boy, or a colored, shhesh, think I don’t know, boyee, shit, she said, I have gotten my fair share of crap from people who can’t stand me, but can’t wait to see my titters…Bah! 

I smiled, but tried to suppress it from her, as I did in fact as the ultimate feminine, sexy Virgil Sybille did ask me to do. Sharecroppers in Oz, she said to me, as usual, a millimeter from the mark. That idiot is over there, whittling away, being political in a time when politics is even more venial than usual, she said, as he sat there, spirals of wood coming from his box cutter vocation. In one fluid motion, she got up from the cement of the straining bridge, as if a Venus coming up this time from the sandy rotten cements that urban doges like Cuomo the son over there have been overcharging for since Romeo and Juliette was as my father told me, put on in this newest west end, the Romans called their theater district that, there is nothing that the English have not stolen, as spit at you, and made sure the first thing they did was take the Italians out of it. Then came, or went, the Jewish daughter of Cappeltti's noble house. But I like it here in America was still a Neapolitan mazurka, when somehow despite all of that Carol Lawrence was the Juliette still in the age of Gore Vidal’s Golden age time, which came to a crashing halt no later than Biden collecting information on fags who may or may not be relocated to Traffic managers ala a honeymooners, which never got a dinner. 

She got up, and sauntered almost heroically, like a Camilla that mattered, towards the idling swan driver. I, wordlessly,  was excepted to come along as have been in the position of being subserviant  to a doll before, a kind of bitchy telepathy, in that move or ill find someone else, and quick. I walked past the iron workings of this gate in the partial twilight as the democrats have finally made this the barrio they have always dreamed of for everyone but themselves as the gates go up when they want them. I can only imagine the stale Castle Gray skull, as opposed to Roman revelry, which will happen when Bidey managed to steal in a presidency with two fish and 60,M fake ballots. And if you don’t like that, well, don’t bite at me when the blue waved turns out to be a busted septic tank, as Savannah asks now where are all the Cuomo ads, as it is becoming apparent to me, at least, a lot of people have still grudges against this guy for being the worst of all of the Senators I have warned a scaled by blond hags Al Franken that they have been around, 15-18 of them, Men of Texaco, men willing and eager to do the bidding of the rich and the red necks since Marcus Agrippa, and won’t you don’t! 

5. I then followed the svelte and yet voluptuous Roman goddess back to the airship which looked like it came out of a mid century tunnel of love from Coney Island whose unpluggedness and darkness I could see from here. You know, my mother, I said, as we took off, and the wings started to flap us towards goes only knew where this time, My mother told me that there was open seasons on Italian girls in this country by the Johnny Shencks, as she called the Biden types, the all American goof balls. I wonder, I said, If she spoke from an experience, and not just that the Gummadis told her that they were all sexually assaulted in this country why white women as they paid a hooligan ‘s poet like Scorsese to make it seem like white women were in danger from men with the fedora grace of my pop. She nodded, perhaps having heard the same thing from a Polish mother I take it, but as a catholic and thrown aside as white, but not really, she had heard a similar thing, although when one is polish the word is brood mares I take it. I asked her, I said, If she had been accosted, and she blanched in her older ladies face and said, no no, and shook her finger like a streaga Motumbo, Not me, Picchillio, she said, If I had been disgraced by some  cornuto, she advised me, first I would have cut that Rotarian-like Lutheran it was her catch all for all the American goons,--and then I would have killed myself right before you fadder, to show him I had grazia to the end. When I think about that and wonder if all the old ladies in the charnel houses that Cuomo locked the elderly ladies into, See my brother said that I shouldn't say Italian grandmas over Cuomo but I think it matters more than ever that we know what the whittler is up to, a last Scorsese selling out his own people as he makes Kennedy wives race to the toilet and lectures the world. She laughed, Oh, Antony, she said, preferring the Romantic name of all as a Vesta would, Honor they father, boy, there is no other Roman law. I want to get back to Home by eight o’clock, she said, A movie channel is showing Somebody up there likes me, and I watch it every time I see it shown, as it’s a nice antidote to when creeps on the internet or democrats or such call me white. I made a point as she aid that that I would late into the night past That Girl and bewitched as use them now as did as a boy , though I had  a life a lot better than many, still used ABC TV and comic books to escape a not as horrendous reality as now. And I would eliminate out of this book, trying to be as Catullus and terse as I’ve ever been, this book let any mention of George Floyd, out of respect fore Cuomo’s victims, and won’t cry for a rapist, god knows. And we flew off, levying the mean little cretin to his cloak and daggers.