SATURNALIA IN HAVANNA.

This is a piece about Italian Folktales in a nation that seems more willing to make Italians into a crime minstrel show than even allowed sight of the one sailor who more than anything has been hated by Italian doges or making the church of all  people look like the lying molesters we now know that Machiavelli and Boccaccio was right , and they always have been. I am an Italian, second generation epileptic, Jesuit student if that means anything as I'm sure none of those things check off boxes that you all use to somehow make this sewage be acceptable to the sanctimonious coloreds and white girls of morning television shows and the J Fred Muggs within them. my MOTHER bless her, warned me of the way some people are so stupid they become diabolical by default. 

As we are in such as that, as I thought the cooning and ho deed dooing Caesar and the mouth-breather mongoloid in the Piazza was bad enough, I have been on detera against that and, am making sure to count how long before like dancing Palestinians with Italian and brunette girls and never blonds, they disappear, but as bad as that was, I have now amazingly seen worse. So, as admired Jenny the dead pan girl says, As a dying old coot shows the diabolical aspects of killing all the Italian grandmothers to get a goon languish at 34 percent, admitted to the moment the porcine Prince of shady greens started to think he was being poisoned in Shady Groves,as a sharper brother knew the moment he shared his less admired doge was sick as a dog. Truth is a weapon the Jesuits warned me, and Machiavellian-ism as a shield not a spear. And my brother knew that Roman Bill, he would move hell if he had to to make sure this goon wanting cretin, Brother Savonarola to the end, would get so much as couch more than he would. I love when things go Decameron, all I’ve been saying all along. But now see a true vein of infernal ideology sent out by the soundly sacrosanct Jews and their in laws and the goons of the empire who I have never admired. 

But seeing my new swan, #lindsayellis seem actually upset that the ostentatious liberal hags in fact, don't die with who they ride, a line about the digest of Roman law by Justinian that Jesuit boys like me knew was a first constitution, and superior to anything and any conscript father they can make dance and prance on Broadway. But, after the year you gave Italian American nannas and old ladies who were once raped with impunity and told did they say anything about the Johnny Shnecks you've made triumphant now, dears, as my mom called the car salesman and the white trash unsaved tigers, that in a year where there is no war on Christmas and in fact, Saturnalia began earlier this year than ever before, there is a toxic spill of commercials amazingly either tin eared or just salt ground in the wound. As amazingly, to show one unread grandma after the next, in these cloying, saccharine, schmaltz dripping adverts, as unvaxed moon eyed creeps are made to pay nothing for a Godel policy suddenly unheeded, that one commercial after another showed a grandma after another seems angry impetuous,  losing the room, even for this done cockeyed crowd. But then, I'm not the one was was shocked , like house coons who can play Caesar as opposed to the Dick Burton and Marlon's who played Romans when i was a boy, on the CNN porch , unruly barking at one time Bush brownies, were shocked to know that somehow had like Nixon said of China, worse than that, somebody is losing New Jersey. 

For the second time this year I have had problems with a Saturnalia Angel I did, as Audrey a Jewish neurologist who helped me through juvenile epilepsy, I did with a flair of copying someone else with not being slavish at it, but making a new work of art out of something already seen. She was impressed that I took an image of Michelangelo as the only one writing in the school of Athens, and redraw it in my own style, and can not find even a xerox of that to send out. Also, an angel made by me from a copy of beloved Sergio Toppi, and, as Paar for the course, can't find that again either. So took out a box of old ornaments for ,atop a can of salted sardines bought when ma was still here and unmade and still in the bright blue labeled tin, imported from Italian as much as anything Macedonia, as Ma hated the wops who were mobbed up importer sets and Trusted the Greeks more, sadly, my beginning a Roman festival, as read that masterwork early on before , to Bill’s chagrin, I'm sure, Biden and his acclimates, now no where to be seen, called their Triomphi death holiday, and the last way this coot could get into the washrooms of the preatorum.

I asked my brother to go to the Staples and scan it all, or at least get the previous Saturnalia Angela made larger and color copied. There, he charged him for the scans and copies and then didn't do either, earlier today. So he raced back and demanded his recompense. A gal there saw this,  and took the bundle of drawings and said to him, Give me twenty minutes, Hun, and I'll get these done fer you.As I was alas too addled by women and too willing to be a chump for broads, just for brunettes and not the blond hags both my father and Ma were suspicious of all going.

As it has been since I was a boy women gravitate to my elder brother as alas they do not do to me , but outside if a few of them, he like Roman Bill, who he dismisses as a schoolyard Jesuit, if not worse,  it's never really gotten under my skin and too my father warned me how women at that point were willing to use wop like me as they had their talons and teeth ready for Fredos other and Dumber than me.Because we are in the thrall of a good who had to buy term papers and is so venial he had to wait until he was freed from the spectacle of riots, no Republicans 'nsurrectuon, the colireds just riot, Kemodabi, and old coot Bidey had to wait until sundown to tell all that the baby faced Nelson he called a white supremacist, waited until the straggling negroes were shooed away, and once again the idiot who thinks he's Spinoza covered himself in a off Broadway play everyone has by now walked out of long ago. 

These are wonderful pieces, she said flirting with him, he told me, as he had to say You don't think I drew these penthouse pin ups and angels do you, …? As he asked her. Well, who did…?, she asked. My little brother did them, he added, as at fifty something I am still his little brother. Yeah...You certainly don't seem the artist type...she said,he said smiling at him over the xeroxgraphy, and my colorful HP inked circus girls, printed on thick card stock paper. 

I took out the box and the small velvet wearing angel, noticing again no war on Saturnalia this year by the hags and the perverts,as its been a sad year without Cattiline, just like in Salieri's opera, and boy do they hate that!, as this Saturday evening , the kind when satire bleeds, the bowling ball network has admitted at 69 percent of plebs feel cheated and would vote and almost yearn for Trump to return. Boy a woman could see where this is headed, no fooling, an actual woman could see where this goes, I guess leaving the hags if General election out if things. I found the bag holding the last ornamental that  I bought the year I was in art school when my father died. And there are some red Xmas balls that still have the paper clips I used that last dadded Xmas, and I could see the small creation bits of a gifted oil pastel tray, its crumbs that had attached to the bag since the last time I used the wreath-less girl. It was then that  I turned against cartooning with a vengeance, as thought it was somehow beneath me. 

And now I realized,  as dust off the collected dusts of Saturnalia, we place it on the tree already up. I think about drawing or redrawing my Saturnalia angel as the house hold goddess that informs the Christmas that priests and Lutherans and some vicious nuns who I  hated and haven't liked, but now we know as i implied then as a smart ass, we are aware of the little kids that were raped back then in hidden rectories, if not the old ladies who died because Cuomo the younger, backed the wrong dead horse. I think, should I remake the angel, if only for the always wanted credit on a resume  and then, I  think against it.