BRUTUS THE GOD.

BRUTUS THE GOD.  

13 June 2023.

I was heartened to see that yes, despite the best intentions of who  my mother and the Franciscan SISTERS called stragas, With Hillary playing Medea  perpetually next week, she just can't seem to find a stage that can support her weight, that in fact, the similarly named Tony awards did badly, worse than they ever did, than in the plannedemic, which,  if Biden gets his way we'll all call the gilded age soon enough. I was glad to see that, yes indeed, as I got laughs for the sentiment but was totals serious , everything I needed to know I did glean from Plautus, and I guess that that all means that George W will never be troubled with vendetta star chambers, as after all all his classified documents were faked. Heh. Oh It writes itself. 

Like middling dull awards pageants at the winter garden. But mostly i was glad-ned, or is it Glaaad- ned to see that in fact, worlds do collide, and not from liked medieval @Kazrowe, but from some mean drunk queer, gosh yes, is there any worse, Bruce, that they are finding out what i have been saying since first heard and caught the pollen of your love of dandelions of barbarism, of Conan and cabbages sent flying by Menvra, yes not a typo the WGA secretaries are always looking for, that yes in fact, sorry ladies, but in fact, the vikings hated queers more than anything, and often blood eagled them, sure that their effeminacy would somehow pollute a crew of men who worshiped blond pubic hair,  bull horned helmets, Hulga, and of course, living in trees. What you call Roman corruption, dear Rachel I said, I call civilization. and it turns out that your beloved stonehenge DC may be a bigger monument to fairies graves than even the occasional flammen and vestals, and vice versa,  or all together now, were thrown into pits, as skeletons intertwined oft found in the live and let live sunny bright verdant leaves of Mother Hesperia.  Gee was it worth it Byzantine bill, a moment of slimy, tragic, crummy vendetta showing us your wife’s s Livia needs  and her love of merch, and all those Echos, Ovid lover, to have your greatest enemy be called Mister Praetor one time by a taxi squander you never liked..? …I didn't think so, time to fix the leek. Something for everyone,...

But, showing a certain fatiguing quality to evil, among the we enjoyed and send more i got which is a hell of a laid better than last year when I, Roman Antony was actually called a National socialist for daring to say that the idea of a repeat channels showing the heinous idea of a comedy, not that black, at a Nazi POW camp was sickening, I have actually gotten two acceptances of essay work, with the cartoons having made the last six months an entire page of the divine resume. That's needless to impart is a level of admiration I certainly haven't seen since i was a boy and had names like Scalia and Ogletree and various Georgetown protagonists in my corner as it was okay one to see the folly of all of this, called a cesspool even then by my stoic and disenchanted father, and not have to carry water for a goon he saw as garbage even then when he and his now minus one triumvirate were banking their consent pirouettes, like when he , a reason i will cheer his eventually falls sending back to Terra, as an Icarus in wings made out bad checks and held together by sun despised spermicide and polident, comes crashing to the less than Tuber basin. 

Thai was surprising to me as I should now realize that going to work and figuring it and reaming it may just be middlebrow patrons who are eager for a three dollar reading fee that the low rent new Yonkers ask for, making the slush pile a going concern. 

But again, I argued the situation and didn't have to even pluck a chicken apart and read its guts, which we now know, to a trained flammen eye, could actually revel in the entrails what was going on in the mother Earth itself, like a caterpillar growing a heavier coat of fur, or the dogs staying silent before a Italian terracotta comes crashing to the African violets blown there by the southern winds of Carthage, , or the lack of moss on a tree, all signals earlier on that its nice nice to fool Mater Natura, much less signora Fortuna, and again I did get laughs for one sayings, as a witty boy before throw in my chips and walked away, that one thing that would always make Rome a better society than ours was no segregated bathrooms, a reused that lien against Rachel dear one, and mostly, that the Romans were honest and decent enough to use butter and did not have chemical companies like DuPont, whose senator then I noted was mucking the old man Ohio, shoveling margarine and what my mom knew was poison then, NutraSweet at us. I did get my response to my own DAY 77 AND THE PRINCE OF CROWS, published days , almost hours, before theta third act I said would happen, that winter that was coming i said less like GEORGE RR and more like Tales of Livy, and that eventually we would come to a, point where that family liquidator, that peter principle goon in baggy pants farce played almond the dead and the wrenched, showing his own Hillaiate Tin Ear at such things , and now, the entire company!--

Going after Trump shows again what depth we sunk to when the goon old coot brought his family eradicator charm, and his chicken wire and his kited cheeks and his whore mongering, crack addicted son–even the mention of this caused a showed based on Clinton and that brunette somewhere Livia destroyed for her step husband's  in  that Georgetown past , The Good wife, to be hurtled off the air, –would lead us. And who has been so quiet that he starts to look like the disembodied voce in one beloved Ovid, unread now I'm sure as page payment in the Styx and the yellow wood that is the Chappiqua happy hunting ground to which he has been exiled as a new Capri, just with higher walls and deeper mo-parts, i mean there was  a reason that Tacitus and his swells so enjoyed the comely girls and little black haired boys of Naples and that newest oldest citta. One thing about Clinton was his hail fellow well met qualities to me, as he was  a living Satyricon, a figure out of Roman gossip, a Suetonius magic trick at dinnertime, he was a lover of ISIS BEFORE THE ALWAYS INSTIGATING PAIN IN THE ASS RAG HEADS MANAGED TO ,A S THE CHRISTERS DID BEFORE, PISS ON EVERY RUIN THEY CAN FIND, WHILE FILLING UP THEIR CLERICAL CLOSETS WITH AS MUCH PORNOGRAPHY AS THEY COULD SURREPTITIOUSLY GET. He was a big booming melodramatic Roman life of a man, MORE us grant than not, a drunkard, a womanizer, sure, but what #metoo doesn't get or care about is that when one is coming off far too decent and always retraining to the dogma, they are liars or worse than that, excruciatingly dull, or just waiting for the next laws written on palmists , but will burn Ovid first. He was a coward, that's was a given, I managed to get the BACK AT THE PILLARS accepted, as it seems despite the fact that yes, I couldn't in fact footnote as essay as a cute witch and Life magazine wueer cover artists who created the Arrow collar man loving lesbian seems again more circumspect and devoted to footnoting than less lazy I have ever been, as i have been saying making the scene at  Jesuit mixers, take my word for it, I know what I am talking about. But, I do in fact find the votes Biden waddnts drunk enough not to take to reaffirm the Southern Manifesto in its twenty fifth year of having been cobbled, or Crime Bill,that Ricardo Nixon had to veto, or the emergency powers cobbled together by still yet unincarcerated Oliver North, drew up for a quarantine over America lest they start to not allow Reagan's awful first term to somehow be forgotten and re-branded as Morning in America. Don't fuck with me girls and segregationist voters I say, I remember me and my dad watching Django before to save his career Tareninto WOULD REMAKE HIM A NEGRO, LEST WE RECALL THE MIDDLE PASSAGES AS JEWS , LIKE THEY DID FOR ROMANS WITH THE VOLVO SALESMAN, ROMANS REPALCED, AS  IN CREWS OF PEOPLE WHO HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THE FRENCH REVOLUTION SUDDENLY IN HUGO WIGS, and I watched the Great Race with Bernie's beloved Natalie wood, with my pop as the die of this first corpse Reagan was taking power and was bit by Poppy Bush first in that dice game , made somehow mt father’s  Mussolini adoring heart fall. 

So, I would make book as the Italians in black and white noir would say, I saw one recently where a Joe Cotton lookalike, but not act alike, called the wop played by some central casting goon gumba always after their daughters as Senator Du Pont once warned us all, that somehow Hillary does indeed ruin her Husbands already grim and meager chances at becoming either the life of Pompey or Paladin, as both seem out of the question. I would too bet that i wasn't the only person to think, or the most powerful to silently revere when i saw the fat and bloated face of Livia not yet screeching for killed Germanicus,...Jon Jon is that you, cause the familia seems ver kelmpt...Prince germanicus to save her from the raider careerist, with bones of a pretties brunette somewhere hidden in the countryside, will now maker her pay by dunking her into whatever Tiber is at hand, that as Hillary grand dame herself showed up and did in fact take the bait like a Ionians trout, that all i could think of was, by do I really miss Ma. Pop too, after all that time.

I have bought AT Home by my Virgil Gore Vidal, boiler  plate believe me sometimes has the shelf life and the subspace of a banana splits whipping cream, so I doubt anyone would be buying any shit wrote by house wasp and Jew translation the final days ,as that didn't even get the Miss LILLIAN SEAL OF APPROVAL. DID I ever mention that I met Jimmy Carter at a Sons of Italy when they, like America ,was still standing.?..​ Here there is much of WHAT FATHER GORE CALLAS THE SEEDY AND SEEDY ROMAN RUINS THAT BARBARIANS ALWAYS LIKE TO PLACE UP THEMSELVES, NO MATTER HOW MUCH NOBEL SAVAGERY THEY SHTCIKLE TO. Ill bet that I am not the only to think that as yet again, seems like old times and the-yr playing our song and intertwine whatever Neal Simon play you'd like, the Odd Couple perchance...? And, in At Home, i am barreling towards “Ollie” and what an old line liberal like Gore as opposed to mere Democratic house nigger, oh fuck the land of the sopranos and Vito Scotti and FF Coppola and its asterisks in all, save those for the accomplishments of your black ball players as you look for any Judge to activate unwanted advances you white girls are trained to find with rape whittles at hand, which were certainly not sent out nor distributed when Italian women and wives from Anzio were so accosted , buy more than mere winks and words, and were told in no understand-ed terms before the triumph of the Dworkins, that good girls are never raped and take their mixed race fetus to term, just like expatiate of the Sabine girls long ago. Put that on another of you H channel Disney kiosk Roman days, or when you gather up all the receipts from showing the Etruscan chariots you have saved for a year that seems to be flagging. 

When I was 14 or so I wrote a play, a lot of Catiline by the flying Dutchman or Frenchie Camus' Caligula, which I read aloud over and over to get the grist, but stealing from Shakespeare seems even then to make me feel more like a fence than my pop would have liked. I wrote a play called Brutus the king, which again in pen and ink and second sheet yellow paper was so admired by the local Priesthood, it sends its way to the hands of the provosts of academe at Georgetown, once a sleepy little southern swamp according to Goah, as friend Jack called him, and was then readying for the day that Bushes and Biden's begat. I write the play already wary that Coriolanus, and it use that as a first dismissal of Bill, I saw them coming, what do I not…?, was in fact in Cambrian Italic verses and farce, a buffoon worthy more of Mel Brooks than Plautus, and certainly nothing of Larry Gelbart and his hooking plagiarism ever even heard of. 

I wrote the play, and the fact we have known since Dante no less, he was an apple polisher and a curia brinks-man and an attache and a Cesarean nutcracker and when pristine with the chance that the coins he struck would be more gold-finger and real and less Franklin Mint keepsakes, although see a Pawn Stars, making me recall all of this, in which, and not jingly, a pawn ticketed tales affable and sadly ending Rick that that icon I referenced in the play, struck at Phillipi as a doomed and ridiculousness Cassius looked on, is worth at auction, that most American of words, a cool three million dollars, if you have it. I say out loud, that coin has bad voodoo too it, Brutus is a millennial loser, Id take no part of it, I said, causing my brother elsewhere add, yeah I'd get rid of it too, right after I got a cashiers check for three miliooni petze...Caesar wasn't my father, he added cool as a rattlesnake, –Muster Colbert, the once and future Roman life in on line two, ah but to a proletarian, like a quark, present tense is all that there is. Oh, I did better in science and Math, why that Nance on big bang bothers me so when acts like there is some difference between or even a lower ebb to the humanities than to his specious, already disproved along with his wrong HizzBozz, whatever bullshit atom, mock up, hey its only TV my brother adds, string theory, already as big a myth as the idiot German who thought baskets carry the planets, and got a space station telescope named for him, not Hubblle but the other one. Then, even in the letters and the humanities as my typos were always by some unmarried hags held against me, and I write this play out, with Brutus worthy more of the word Bruno, if not Blu-to and Brutal, and seasons before Animal house, wrote it with then adored Romanian wop John Belushi in mind's eye, who id find out was actually once part of the National Honors society, before like satire, he bled on a Saturday night. 

 

We have replaced our Suetonius'es with Jewish Shylocks now, well that is to those not dark knighted entirely as they ahem, been for the second summer in three, and one can only guess show many doggies and maids that that queer on CBS is kicking not belying aloud to fulfill his Cyclopedia destiny by being on television, and doing the exact opposite act, yes Gore we are confiding out what the truth is, but knowing he means the excepted opposite of what he ever says, if anything is true,or Auerleianly True, at all. Ill bet I'm not the only prson seeing that old coot bewitched cow, Hillary, who my mom called La Regina de la Puntani, yes that exactly what it means, no bar bar equivocations in Dante;'s toungue, as calling them dark ages even to the Le Bron of the patriots mean juts that, it cant anything else. And now I see that play made before me, in real Time, the ghost of Trump more delicious, more apparent, more honest and true and open and decent yes and stage and scenery, and mountain greenery by the Petri's, and set chewing and weeing and scene stealing than this understudy could ever hope to be, but is it Trump,,,or someone else...? As shucking and jiving niggers, sorry, I dint make Caesar a cooning up clown, at the winder garden play act and tap dance, and sorry, Hamilton is inches away from its own shredder and its own Jack DAVIS nemeses Sessemee street wrecking ball, LIKE THE PRODUCERS YOU MEAN THE SWELLS AND THE JEWS AND THEIR BLONDS LAUGEHD AT THAT ONCE, FER SHAME…ANYWAY, BRUTUS THE KING is being played outwore than i ever write it, as the Associated Press aha must to explain to the left be-hinders, a Creon elitism never works well, see its always as usual its always different when its a crime by someone we hate, or at least that we pretend not to hate, and again why did Marius the great, barefoot or not sojourn to Trump tower as and ask that poor putz, last Tarpea to run against his malicious Clausius wife, ah a mad cartoon of wife swapping cartoons comes to mind. 

When I writ the play and innocently asked, why makes Dachau any worse say that ALKATRAZ, where despite a moratorium on electric chairs, unless, you know, a Jew is caught yup in the gun airfare that like Coriolanus said must always be kept Out there somewhere, what made it possibly different than say Wounded Knee or the Galipoli, that fatso, piggish, Whig, empire lover Winston one presided over, showing the never say die spirit of trench always coming back for an Oliver like Mohhh surrrr…Well for that a bloated wop named Mr. Bianco., who had worked under my Father , who as the foreman at the aluminum company of America plant down by the Allegheny, he took off and slapped me across the face for daring say such a thing, but then he would tsk too to his teachers pets, and I mean Petting, when id say bring up Sacco and Vanzetti or the thirteen men hung and lynched at Fort Lee that fish eyed fool, sneaker seller Spike never much heard of, anyway. He was scared to earth that that night school GED an all of his readings of Herman Woulk were for nothing and so, heed send John Ceraso, a well acquaintance of mine, and friendly with him,and not an out and out enemy like queer Albert, father, a lawyer, to my mom and begged her to as me not to place the fat bloated creep wop up on any charges, as not being a nun he wasn't sure he could survive it. I could have cared less as Safire would say in his somehow perch at the new York times, its national brother hood week, and my mother knew nothing of this, but like a later to be dragged through the mud William S Payly for Biden's distaste at how Reagan was treated by the all seeing eye, i said, if that his attitude to hell with him, as i was ready to give up anyway. So, dutifully as the AP tells us again what is after ll the diffecne when the price of everything is at hand, i wonder will Jon Boy continue to kiss madam Hillata's Clitoris, it is after all a Roman natural, no...?, for good, and does it, ah the question Galileo upon whose shoulders the Apple-seeder stood, will it matter or has it all run down….?

 

Go Brood amid the dried and drying, collection of unread yellow sheets of Sallust, Brother Bill, you either missed your cue or took too many curating calls, so go now and brood and grumble as your greatest enemy makes you party like its 1999, as ma told me, he is married to a straga, whose evil is she is never full, and always wanting more, even of shit, if at least it is hurled at her, like the dog she at heart is. Like Shakespeare everything my mother said sounded more noble, if not romantic or poetic, in the original Italian. And she knew then, wanting me out of that Catholic dungeon, no innominatos here as Cobelt and Di Nero wont mention Cattlien's named, showing the caliber of boatmen in that infernal Moorish fog, Bill, but Ma was right I invoke on this Triciadecca celebration of the bald headed saint one of the few furriners not to go all Otto and Pope Sylvester as I have mentioned before, as a latest usurper finds himself losing the Roman mobs, if he ever had them to begin with. As Ma told me, the reason I couldn't stand these horrid centaurs to whom the Clinton's, and the negro Barry's of the world would so bow and scrap, maybe test why they liked me, after all, an Italian maw's weariness of imperial farce and gladiatorial drags, if God so loved the idea of Power and riches he would have given it all to a better class of plebeian.  He would have made more of them, and they always make less.