HAPPY NEW YEAR, GENERAL TRANQUILLIUS.

 

28 MARCH 2026

There is something Ironic about the man in the gray flannel suit being heralded out the building, like with Rachel, and shown the exists and replaced by a black man. The only thing that would male this funnier is if it was Larry Wilmore. Now you're peace nicks, … after all, the Jews once again get what they want as they do from television minstrelsy to genocide, both words abhorred by the rag that called the wops Mulattoes, do look that up. well, the business of America is war, and once bellicose hags of war pretending a defiance or even a empathy for their bribes givers that wasn't there for the Palestinians in Jedah. Watch the Abraham Shylock's demand their devotion, or what, cancel  the wedding...? I hope somewhere Adam Corrolla who at least was devoted to his piggishness all along, as I didn't have to pretend my friend waw the bloated Bluto who trashed Megan Fox, just to be on television. When fatso Bill is out there lauding basketball in mid war, too late for free bread, fats,  teams it means the chicken hawks are at last devoted. 

An essay concerning the mire and the cesspool which television has become. A boyhood recollection of a opportunity from another time, given far too early to and at me, and which now, as the praetorians smile and goofball their ways through a heinous curia, isn't much seen anymore. A penitent of Gore, Paddy and Reginald Rose looks back with ennui but with anger too at the circus that television has become, as the days were numbered even then for jury foremen, requeued heavyweights, and Jackie Gleason as a sad drunk whom drinks to not get jipped, as the days of Black rock have been forgotten and forborne at least by me long ago. It is a requiem  to Marshall Dillion himself as the fact we are too soon old and too late wise as I was told when showed my cartoons at the Pittsburgh press by a great newspaper name named Phil Musick in the olden days now irrecoverably gone amid the political carnivals. 

I DO NOW LIKE TO ACKNOLEDGE WHEN I AM ACCPTED ANYWHERE, AS ALL IS Roman triumph Intriguing to mention every acceptance I get now, all is a Roman triumph to me, to me, like when the early Romans wore leaves and grass crowns in their hair in a satire of Greek field largess and homoerotic power love, MORE THAN LATER SPECTECLES, ALL IS TRIUMPH. So this Mud Magazine bra ad was completed was accepted along with works I have avoid most of my life somehow, fantasy, as I don't have to pretend that Ariosto never wrote. 

Too, waited thirty days to renders in Lupercalia essays 26, but was openly told was sad I put so much airs,  but Mis-Spelling the Roman God Backus. Again my father warned me when I played the fool for laughers that they’d laugh at me as an Italian enough. That in ways that Jimmy the Kimmels didn’t, do we have a democratic party without father hatred, as it wasn't hard to figure out why Rob Reiner had his throat cut in a Jewish version of Greek tragedy. No royal curse, if you ask Roman me. If I am the last person to recall Virgil and Thurston Howell  the third, god bless you and your late show con men hiding old trampolines and broken bras, from you know, Mother. I, in that, noted that trashing of Italians since I was a boy Robert Dinero is so devoted to baaing anti Trump he had to alas read his exclamations off a  paper, as he has given most of his performances, no angels whisper in his ear over the calls from his broker, a good democrat he.  as the ash hole once again phoned it in, the meddled being more about banking than art. And I thought, mired in disillusionment at myself, I never had to be a wop crying or shrugging or screening or worse through a cork clandestine face, and that to my pop wasn't nothing in my favor. I await the mausoleum of Peppers, the assembly of queens, to dare take an anti Israel vote, I don't give a shit of stableman Medici are in power, it just don't add up, and the clowns must know that. I can sense Colbert's epitaph...R-O-L-A-I-D-S... 

So, I pass the time until dear, smirking, boys room haunting Northwestern Catholic monsignor Colbert has to deal with that tragic, to him, moment that he has been spiting salt and making signs to ward away the weevil eye as all those who wore cum soaked robes of praetorian priests all along, I sit and count the moments with a Vengeful glee in which he has to be thrown out of the Sistines of television, not a first this year, but when he is out on the street, as flabby, fatty, boomalatté, piggish Blotto XERO JUNIOR IN A WATERED DOWN Animal House found religion and devotion swine hunt Jimmy has the temerity to still be at his desk lector, having somehow stole the whole shtick from the simonies Daily Show dead-panner, who had thought of the scam and the bilko rites long before the fat little twerp. I await that moment that Machiavelli called the icy second of realization that in fact, you were a con artist, but a stupid one all along, and didn’t take the heed of those who said the road was one even jackasses don’t go down, having fallen there before, as Ma told me. 

I cherish the dreariness of his to come when he, like say a Left Behind Jerry Langford watchers an appliance store window in amazement, as once again Robert Dinero showed us what he was all along, the Rupert Pupkin Travis taxi dancer he has always been, deep down, I never bought that he was great actor at all, no Roman tragedy nor greater nor English patients did he ever steal from the master piece theaters cast as Gene Siskle once admitted, as Danny Devito too was seen as too Italian or not Italian enough to play the role of a wop clownish but serious enough doge in some film of that ink. Meet me at Dante’s statures indeed, Helena, with a room with a view of the anointing Guido's, strangely a proper name slur allowed by crazy eyed blond weirdo broads not Cecily in snl or Ozempic faced Whoopied. Maybe not as harsh but it gets the job done. Victims of Jesuit less arrested by and of police states long ago before this one. I hear that despite Lindsay Ellis as their strangely placed Marcia Antony, Dinsey is about to lose 2000 workers this year, who needs painted drawings when you can make everything look like South Park without the charm, or at least the scissors, we miss you Gahan Wilson. AW Nuts. Will the great and gallant porcine beard needing host care or cry on cue for them, or anyone but himself or feigned for Charlie Kirk when told an even already blown hole Q rating was taking on water, and guess who the SS Minnow as named for anyway…? Any care for the art of cartooning, as I have gotten myself into various art magazines with that as a to me unneeded and unnecessary disclaiming, as if a pretty Boccasale willing to tell what fascists all the italic have always been, I would be careful with the white boys singing any political arias sent out from South fork this soon after Nana was massacred, girls, as my father , an immigrant from then, and even Politianzo, the originator of a thousand years of if not solitude then exile, you didn’t know…?,its called the Cycula, cent’ ani, knew that and told me that eventually more Italian went to klinks after the chaining of Mussolini than there had been before. Now why the Christian democrats all with ten smarmy attitudes of the hallways bangers like Monsignor Colbert. One found despite the adorations of Carlo Levy now the Christer democrats would enrapture Italy, it is after all like so much there’s that Scorsese has spent years forgoing, now when the church called one a radical, amazes to the women and the stupid, he warned me, now one was an insurgent against God, and thus no one was there to say anything much less sing an anthem to Bella Italia, especially if one got in the ways of the plants of Ferrari. Ah but like Biden, this tiger eats all up, that incoming commie pinko to take Italy found himself more than out of Vogue, but a mere corpse in car wreck always variable in the curias of 1948. 

And a histories channel remnant of the sort most the channels out side of home shopping are, although the girls of Hot In Cleveland have somehow taken over the less than prime time dials now, one can sit at night and watch the three graces of Shaker heights, savior of the Bushes, if not the res publicans,  in various misdirecting in the middle of our lives not to be Dante not that it would help, although it was those books, not quite Mad but unhinged enough that made me an nosiest penitent to know that indeed the filthy little man Biden and his gummada wife were indeed too vulgar for the crowd that like the Clintons think themselves Roman lives amid the hoi pilloi, some closer than others, some not, and while he was festooned with lackadaisical admiration, as long he didn't ask the Pen groom HAL what indeed was being signed after all, it is his dotage and finally quenched evil little heart that has left in fact Duchess Macbeth to not let her feel ease at the night, and the morning lamp starts to never seemingly flicker, that is for you Roman Bill!, the schoolboy with his beloved scandalous Ovid, as the peacock now is where the Julia's go to die. As she sundown’s worse and more mightily unequipped than that asshole she married to get ahead always never does, and she is left irradiating by  age and circumstance, irrevocable alone. I was indeed the only one who knew that falls that their dingy pretending it was the Ambra in Capri eyesight of Augustus was going down, if not the Styx itself. They say there's always magic in the air,...

The show on now at ten, in midway run, see that in fact Wendie Malick in the pieces isn’t the hated woman as I had gathered long ago she was, and again she had a palpable scenes of decency and despite her two coats of shellacked upon vanity, has a humanity inherent in her that befits her own Rio record album cover art beauty. And it isn’t just or only or even Beauty at all, but something else, as not to sound like a Kimmelllarian pig, but cie la vie, she is here younger and not as hair produced and darker therefore and not highlighted as older woman are way, and she is thin but as a given and not a fetishism as it is near the flaming river and Mrs Alan “the biggest square we can think of” Ludden, as Wendy was either too young or too old to play her perfect doppelganger Lois Lane, alas like Nicholas Cage, Valerie was too Ethnic for the role. 

Which brings me to what I have noticed most about this show, as the not ugly, yet not as exquisitely pretty as some on the show like upwardly Mobile, almost painfully esoteric, Rena as perhaps a later recasting for a more prefect show, but large breasted Italian earth Mother isn’t anything close to anyone who would be involved in the making of this ersatz Vogue, or even be against it. The more I see her in profile the more her acting chops seem better than usual to me. I notice in this forest of concrete, this  The Devil wars Prada or at least Brooks brothers as we have dome to know, too much, there is a cacophony of Brunettes, its seems each months wall decoration issue’s Alfred E Neumanded by a equally Nagel lass, Jews like Siegel, and mostly Italianates like the bald photographer and Laura San Giacomo, but I mist ask aloud how many of these sorts of people actually passed the portico of the infernal regatta and the signed pier telling all Abandon all brown eyes ye who enter here, which as the credo under which the now desperately trying to return the earth to the wasp paper hive it all literally was under Ana. Or as my mother no fan of the Wintour of their disconnect and the bathing suits seasons that came next, nor of Valentino or victim of fagot Sparta before all Versace, the devil, she said with sneering queen of guilt nana perfection, wears Burlap, and nothing else. I wonder if the casting was done as a sort of backwards glancing, a kind of making it all more humane than it could have been, or should have been, as it could have been much more deliciously Funny, and only the one time hating Kimmel blond, prissy, gopher, bootlicking Spade seems to know the show he is in, if one man or with an ensemble who didn’t read the script, nor care to. I can just image how that Blushing blooming creation now would be, Siegel dead long after Edward Albee, speaking of knowing your source material, all older now, I wonder if it would or could ever explain what it possibly could be now that would be any funnier than seeing Daughter of Satan or her player explain who writes things were in Winter’s long gone. 

Bothersome to many, I recall sending a work in to a magazine you be all heard of, in fact, some office gal there impressed that we shared a hectored hate  for The Big Bang Theory and its prepaying mantis human Doogies, as called it The head of the Class with the redhead, the colored girls, the greaser, the fat kid,  and mostly Leslie Bega taken assuredly out first. But back in the prehistory of Hillary faunally knowing, as now the less than Columbo like American President, a suicide note of meathead’s sent out Justice Brandise, tossing her into the oncoming traffic, I was told if I wanted a good three thousand words in the rag if I accepted a billing of two years of dwindling subscription, id get just that. I was called a liar for it, but it came to be true at the Times too, all forfeited and foretop to do Livia’s and Jebbys bidding against Trump. Ah, but the old falconer is dead, his birds of prey pecking out his eyes, unnoted and unrewarded, and no one has a even rudimentary COD. Where have you gone Millburn Stone as Doc, or even Deforest Kelley. Ethics are for sinkers and dead Romans hurled onto senatorial alters. I await the clowns of Mars and sashes gumba J3ws to take an anti Israel Vote, though loosened tongues we do find out that goddess AOC has a taste for Amphetamines. Not like many, I avoided Franzetta but as is obvious I was alas aping Serpieri all along. As the trash jesters of CBS get a Mad devoted to them, as a boy I recall a back cover Liberta crying over McGovern. 

 

THE RITES OF BACKUS. 

3 APRIL 2026. 

I WOULD HAVE liked to have gone to a Maundy Thursday celebration that my brother was invited to by a more insisted than him as a mere pentene with her door knocking for de Lawd. But it as they were when I w as a kid and submerging the holiday foot washing of Hercules of Jew s Christ with a malicious mean little fat kid dislike of the ole Magilla brought to Rutillian shorelines, it as to be held a nearby synod but at night and could as those thrown at saint Pete’s last until twelve or wherever the celebrating of Christ’s trial and arrests. They were not that much different from what late barbarians would do to Sacco and Vanzetti was remarked. I denied though would be taken there by a brother hopeful of me getting at least out as I have since more élan sometimes before, but still didn’t want to go into the warmish goodnights of a sects communal Passover dinner anyway, though the girls at the door he assures me were quite lovely. 

Again, I found that while “July is the most imperial month” is non-publishable, but impressive, and comparing it to Calvino makes it worst, still, I have gotten the drawing of Wendy AS THE QUEEN OF ITALAY ROMA, THE DOE PRINCESS, TAKE THAT UNCLE WALT, ACCEPTED JUST TODAY. I know that every graffiti on every wall isn't just a vandalism, its a warning, and a prophesy. I recall when Hillary and Biden, when not Hecate's soldiers, at the others throats, said that people had to learn to code, lest they be cannon fodder at their perpetual wars. Well, all I know is that we went from Bill Clinton's life of Marius to Arthur C. Clark's sentient autopen, hey maybe that was what the code was for all along, open the pod by doors HAL, as I knew when heard that name that encapsulates both the most hated people in the res publica now, democrats and J3ws, who knew tariffs would have meant so much to Saint Mario...?, so knew when heard the name of Goldberg, that men with Ovid's desperateness at dawn, in places named for noble savages and not the Etruscan mere America, that chicken hawks would soon enough rail and wince at the priest who spoke of no laws of return, and who brought up WMD's a good Arab is a dead Arab, where's Judy Miller...?

A truly awful queen of the imperial wolves or at least over priced dogs of the empire is habituating by a tethered at his imperial post as actable swerve to the black woman running for office in Texas, specially hen internal polls proved she is unable to win even a fixed contest. Ah the fruits of the poisoned orchard that is GV’S Uniparty warned of on Carson eons ago, when I received as a 15 yr old’s birthday present, Creation, his brick sized masterwork. And the men in my family have never so much as said their gifts were presents at all, when they showed up at my birthdates in Leonid meteor skies or the fandangos of street wise saturnalia, My pop bought me things like how to draw the Marvel way and Tennessee’s Small craft winning, disposed then, but now seen as a masterpiece of poetics, as ole Merrily we roll along, hated so, for as he thought there were enough illiterate wops doing mafia bingo on the television that he had little use for. No one thought or spoke a second word when Jasmine was un-voted for as the grains of the democrats now, sadly and ironically, smiling monsignor Colbert spits back at and from hell’s heart at thee for having taken his Merverian CBS windows, at which to be seen preying to echh gods of compromise, if only on as Letterman assured them those office girls that like interns, agilely busty and brunette, why hardly woman at all to the Oleannnas of the woman studies hags, my mom warned me such, no one will ever believe in them unless of course, Pastrami’s Bill is unhinged and bitchy enough to show up with and in a yellow sash of a tie. Tourniquets abound. And the ex praetor hopes that first lady lies down, on Broadway. 

The senator in waiting, a queer as they made them now and not like those who adored me at the stolen from Italy catacombs of a rubble made Italy by the gross northern barbarians always invading somewhere, didn’t have the guts to merely say he is against God, but must replace him with a Salo, Sallow, Swallowing Godliness, and speaks with a exit stage left, don’t have the guts to be an antichrist like Gore, and whose cum soaked misbegotten run offended hands are haling the vicars aphasias in more ways than he and he speaks of Gods Junk. Ye empyrean balls, the penis covered in the images of that tortured God that the Roman had a zodiacal eloquence against of when started brining praetorian Jews at and towards himself on roads to cities already pagan, like Easter, its from Ishtar not Ester, or for that matter the table of the rites of Maundy Thursday as I could have said. But is a fennels gardens godly acceptance by the survivors of aids and doctor Fauci in previous dynode for death he has committed before that lovers of his on A BIGGER CHECK and Viacom- CBS and late nights unscathed don’t care to recall as they err doing spit takes, if not worse. back when. Ach, but this is the mark of a more robust God, a Roman God, as it were, the god of balls and the godhead of Penile, the Priapus of walls left in ashy protein ironically from the barbarian hands of Invaders who never having a gold age of their own always dragnet your own. Ah too close to Ovid, god is without sexuality, an anthemia to the sky god of Aryanism, and no one ever thought Jesus was that well hung anyway. A clown on a television station devoted to liberalism at least until it can as they are now quadruple booking to be the armamentarium of democracy, As they always are, says of both Trump and Christ, that both hung out with their share of malignancy, prostitutes. I could hear Tallahassee barely legal rep I wanna be a Chaney harrumph amid his polish princess proving once GE is involved there is no room for reparation that doesn’t come with a measure of blood with the pound of flesh, as the Abe Shylocks have learned their draft now well. And the queer thinks of the only reason to have a god, at last in hated by the Bushmen ways of Romanism, a god is only there to show what a slung he after all doth holds and his is packing well. And the lamb lies down at Avenue of the Americas. 

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

I have taken about a year to figure out that when I am asked to “resubmit” that it isn't the compliment that I might have thought, and the invite to resubmit in 30 days crap is ignored by me now as much as ever. But sending a piece called MY ITALIAN SUPERMAN WILL SHOW HIS ROMAN MIGHT was sent into some chill-subs outlet shown at the cascade of posts at one site, and it was quickly uptrend down, I am not shocked, but over length requirements. But, using word count again it was barely 2000 words as was this last piece done for #MARCH26, I went to their submit able post, always a dead giveaway, and the submission remonstrates actuated any work from 5000 to 10,000 WORDS. So, having seen likable and admired by me, vestal Lindsay Ellis triumphal return to You Tube, I saw that she seems like many to sound as though a true praetorian censor, nothing says decent like having voted for a married fish wife of a rapist, who voted on Goldwater, and yet, she wore the radical Keffeyah, until its wool in the desert devotion for the co ed, started to make the well fed, blue eyes, toy surrounded, Novice forever to shvitz. She bemoaned that the constant Good “I wont do” Housekeeping seal of approval on Disney plus sewage was gone, a warning that started for the Godfather on NBC, they hate that reminder, blaming a Trump, when in fact a lot of that work was fleetingly done when Mama LeFarge was throwing lamps at her praetor husbands head. Its a bad third act, Marcus, when your you are that willing to be seen hurling your Livia into oncoming traffic, Gus. And with that, and with a back up which the word pressers and low level Newerkers hate, I sent in the architecturally 10,000 worded ME AND THE RADICAL SHIEK, AS THE VERY WORD SHEIK SEMEMD TO BOTHER HER, SOMETIME ITS BEST TO PART THAN NOT, AS A CENSOR WHO CAN NOW think of waste management clown wop as a bigger sign of evil than she can now think of dropped long ago Big Pharma...

Of course I have my own Disney story mentioned before, what haven’t I…?, in which, having been told I had to at AIP by a pretty blond teacher to send out seven packets to the outlets then that actually cone did take uncloaked artwork from some, before this country ossified into its own Pompeii, in perpetual winter, which has to be the most lauded piece I ever written and never got published as I have a category of that all my onw, and in which I said to some fat girl dyspepsia that in fact knowing the gymnasiums of thought that Old Roman Bill had too prove himself in and at with the bretheren that Biden was indeed scared, even feeble,  and would be tossed in a burlap bag and packed in the river Tiber Just rages outside of Chappaqua, to be cared out to the Sholes of the wide middle sea. And spite some displeasure at this, in fact within a year and half he indeed was as I have forewarned, as people and women have told my sister I have those two pigs in a poke pegged all along. I did sensed to Disney the sketches that I had made for lesser known mute to them Basille fairy tales, as hipper than thou and still pretty despite her best efforts Lindsay speaks of a Grimm’s as the bible of such stories. Well not necessarily to me. And this year, with Robert Dinero as an ethincally correct Ghepetto who couldn’t, as Plautus said, play the part, as he was never called in for any Anglican gladiator between good wives either, has lost 1.7 billion in the last few years, showing literally the scnaimonius pay only lip service when the BO is unlocked on the bancune. You isn’t getting shit like this from don’t gives a shit Lindsay.  I nether sold stone soup, or and believe it or not a Italic-ied Hercules, and a ncie woman there nasically said though intriguing, as she admitted a ennui at the magic slave ship. neither would befit the ice palace where Nazi rocket men went to live out their lives. 

And the ending of holy week comes with the vile parties realigns without knowledge of Gore’s warning of long ago, and how even cnn and other private eyes of network Chayefsky thinking prove as much as the plebs again hate the idea of a kind as Augustus knew, of a king, as the rallies now a season in find their angels like onnnnn broooooaddddway, where the neon lights sign bright or until the bill is past due, when his own praetorians had to die over having rendered it as a title until him, as even uncle Julius knew a crown was the last thing the plebs, starched by Willie the shoemaker Shakespeare, what the name means in olden Sicilian, by the by, who were the first people to hold a general strike and thus demeaned forever by those Anglicans who are fascists by birthright. Charles prince of the Romans now, Where they asked?, when Arthur was at most a mere generalissimo of the swords of Tuscan prairie logic. And like previously mentions Ovid, trashed as Romans like Egyptians are at this time of year when the born again and the Jews they eventually mired are recalling God as intervening war god in the sky, child killer with Michelangelo physique. He, with crows of death more than the Woody woodpeckers of the Marshall landscapes of beaten down once and unmentioned by the Tolkien lovers Italy as we are all assured now that HBO wouldn’t be willing recover to buy up the collated histories of the little faes and such, if he was an out and out Germanic Raymond Massey more than a leprechaun like Sterling voiced Pooh. He may have hated the Romans, Italians Nicene 2 Catholics and Turks, but who doesn’t…? 

And as the vomitorium, as Rodger Ebert did call Hollywood towards his end, as he saw that that smirking reaper on CBS indeed was no Paladin he, like Ovid said, in an empire devoted to war, he said, In toto mundi, he didn’t ask for declaring Love sonnets amid the grimy sexualities of priests of war, that as he knew at first hand knowledge there of, there was no place to eventually turn. I do feel badly that Trump wanting to be a pace maker was hated enough by the war tower and relented to holiest war, the magpies screeching all along and a senate half there fears taking an auntie Israel vote in its mausoleum with Roman delusions. I recall saying to an early distress then, that to me Christerism was Virgil being read aloud by Mister Magoo. On Easter evening, instead of the sludge of Jesu made acceptable by the collected trash and drag queens of decline and fall, everyone is a prodigal son, especially democrats running for office, I forewent the usual blood myth of that crucifix for instead a better mythology, and we watched True Grit, which my sisters didn’t hate as much as a you’d think. As women have told her to me, the girlie armed fagots of decimation leave woman wanting, hopeful of a Marshall Dillon or even a smiling Maverick somewhere amid the Covens of war.