ALMOND PALE, CERULEAN BLUE, MACARONI & CHEESE ORNAGE AND TUSCAN RED. 21 June 2026.

 [unfinished crayon ad.] 

After I had taken a awful spill in the parking lot of a low end Dollar store that I had gone to, as was given another come on for art, and realizing that I didn’t have the same crayons, which I had used in The American Decameron pages I had done, I was awfully sore and gone over and sat there watching more television than I am used to, if that is even possible.

But that night, still warmed enough not to hurt as excruciatingly as I would when would tense up later on, I watched a block of the best cops show on television Homicide Life on The Street and saw absorbed again what a brilliant show this was, and don’t really recall when it was censored and canceled anyone crying as they did fort the howdy Doodey that in indeed now was showing a test pattern from the Ed Sullivan theater. Then, I saw a station finding out that the people cursedly do not love Raymond as they had thought or guessed, as that was quickly disabled and recalled by, of all things, an earlier version of Hot in Cleveland as those three Ovidian witches seem to have retaken tension over in various states of hotness‘. And in this semi convalescents I would find indeed that perhaps the new Yorker under Jewish cripples was strange sort of gold standard in declaiming with publicizing nobodies, as have remarked previously that have had outsides of an outsize come on for mere subscription cards sent out as did the New York Times, back when before Catiline could be so monetized, I have had my share of deemed earmarks from their havens, when I picked the locks of The Big Bang theory and how it was after all a rehash of Head of the class and missed fat boys, black girls and of course Leslie Bega more than any up Chuck-er would so have thought. Taking more Tylenol than I'd like, I certainly wanted no part of Colbert's cross between Captain Kangaroo and Live from Golgotha.

Now it see, as they all hate that show, but I made a gal there at Rory Gilmore’s dream life and job despite being shelved, agree with me as the storm clouds were indeed coming. As I had sent in a cartoon and got a implied inferred acceptance for the unrewarding. It was a pencil drawing that said that I did was started to wonder when see overfed white woman with bad skin and jelly fish eyes and flyaway hair, always again like the blonds they despise, always superior to your daughters, Guido, I wondered why it was that we may not have spoken of Secretaries, Della a personal heroine of mine, or Stewardesses, or even actresses, all is the same in drag at the Spartan front, and yet, as I put in the cartoon, why is it the only gendered specific word that the unmarried dykes may use and are encrusted to use is the Germanic and not Latinesque Essa suffixed, Wife…? I mean who paid for that dispensation…? When did The Wife become achievement and actress not…? And after all that, and giving into fears that mere crayons would make my work too vivid as it was called by one of their warlocks, I haven’t heard back since. What the censors let through is always their downfalls, or else taking Augustus perennial copy of the Metamorphoses, and burning it without previous allotments. One of his Blessed concepts was that old Gus was a fine writer.

Just on the prospect of another acceptance, as they do come in bunches and then the lonely winds do flow, and just on that chance at bringing in one of these more electronic than not,what isn’t…?, collections, I do find I like the zines and the lower class and the bread state and the margins of Boccaccio that they exist within as Hillary never understood so did her schoolboy Mad adoring husband, the last president with some of Obama made fun of by that magazine that was boated up under corpse bride Biddy, the fact that I begged off going the day before as felt lightheaded within the rains now budgeted for, in the beginning was the Word File, I went that day ten days ago, to buy a sort of off brand Crayola called Sergeant’s a lower case Crackola crayons as was dismissed by someone left on the leaking’ Lena that is the Hillary adventure strip, too ugly all along and now alas too old, and she showed her devotion like all psychotic egotists show, as she was again self placed appearance of her menopausal magic how with assassinates all fat and belayed and yes ugly, a word you may not use for anyone who inst the pretty Dawn Wells somehow in Schwartz’s tropics as she saw her husband’s mistresses in half and free of any unneeded sanctimonious empathy, the empty headed hags and lesbians #metoo -ers amusingly don’t see any discomfort in calling women wives, as somewhere near Kennebunkport and a family that thinks it is not only smarter but righteous that heinous word than it is, is the only title they seem to allow the women to actually have. So was readying to complete that cartoon but didn’t have the prerequisite crayons for finishing it, as again as told by one of the warlocks in this most awful of Bewitched remakes, with Larry Tate as the ignored husband now, though Billy the kid makes a good Dick York, as was again dismissed for the vividness of the schoolboy’s work amid the new Yorker relentless pages of stolen Pfeiffer. Unmarried woman are bumps on the great guild-ed road.

I AM THE AUGER. 

When I bought the box of Sergeants, I think they are called here, a previous box of Rose art, anything cheap I say, as like that in my literature and women and good taste is as an Italian said before the Brecht girl spic, as the death of arts. When it started to fall out of a bag, not even do they double bag here close to the dared New Kensington and the ruins of mob princesses now fat and old, and lesbians tom boys who were to my sad pleasure beaten by the pigs that they married, sorry, insults to the willing general Tranquillius, I went to clutch these cheap bee wax sticks. SO, you too can be a Sarto in this party now, so f off Charmed witches, too [ratty for satanic work, as Hillary’s minions amusingly as ver kelempt as the New Yorker Virgil truing to lead our haggish Electra through the hell they armed for her, it isn’t funny anymore to late that water bearing Aquarius learns that wan-st exactly water all along. Aquarius, a hold over from pre pro war days, as I recall the nuns and guitar masses, whose name my brother saw was wrongly said at that Jeopardy that I tired of long ago and we watched that night of broken crayons, as I was certain my ribs were broken I was sure, watched a show on a crime channel with stupid hit men.

Ah the future of the democratic party, I thought. I feel like I was punched in the face, I sad out loud. My sister, eating at the table said, Who hit you in the face Tony…? She, rather sweetly, asked. No, I said with a shake of my pounding head. I --my brother cut me off, No, he hit himself in the head, Fu==ing typical Maroon, he said angrily. If you ever make me go that far again because some asshole on that fu--ng internet clover leaf--’he has, unlike the democrats, never trusted the super Autonbon that is all roads lead beck to Fisa, he is alas sharpie Threepenny Opera certain, that the Senators actually having sucked too much cock at a Roman satire of a senate, think that the people spied upon will rise up as one should the democrats not forget who they pretended they were once, before taking the side of the killers of Allende, or Italy in 1948, once and sign off on an almost imperial anti republic crime against the people and Orwell surveillance, as once again, they do, as Ovid said, always forgetting sanctimony inherent in a bribe. If you ever re do any of that shit again on sh==t for goons who pretend they are Bennett Cerf and have magazines on tv screens, I ware to God, Ill rip it to shreds, he said. A night of cold winds has made me cover up with tartan flannel, I watched Sophia and Maude and Vivian Harmon's no longer ditsy but Blanch DuBois as third act, as Estelle Getty was the grandma of Susan Harris I think I recall her saying. The next day, when I awoke, a couple boxes of green and yellow 24’s and flesh of the world was on my desk. I was certain back home that I had busted my breast bone still, twelve hours later causing him to fume and roll his massive, almost yellow brown, Etruscan eyes, as he exclaimed Good God…! at how both cheap, as I FELL LIKE A BURLPA FULL OF CORN BREAD FLOUR AS MA WOULD SAY, and what a hypochondriac I can be. See. He left the almost wacky packages crayons on the asphalt and he and an affable black young man he had started a conversation with about what fools these American senators be when Israel says jump, as they were commiserating about Trump doing the bidding of the real estate swindle that the Jews think is as heroic as Virgil, and they helped me off of the ground.

I was more apt to be the Chill subs and worse Durosuma always wants hangers on and stream room boiler room magazines from which I get a worse reaction for things as they thought they were all just such devoted to the cvnt Clinton and its stregea wife Hillata, as Ma called her, that I’d get actual turnabouts and screeching lesbian hags from Macbeth again stolen from Ovid without the sunshine, speaking of how I could in their nightmare post Billy the kid actually be arrested in the land of the free and the home of the brave for daring to say something against the corpse of power that the praetorians keep fining and who never so much sticks around to finish the term.

We who keep Shady Groves, and refuse Disneyland, like Bilbo and I, we are never spooked. But sitting there in mid languish, a arm seemingly coming out of its socket, I saw the moment of which I had been pointing at as the Roman auger at the less than pristine triumph that they grange had have had placed up for them by the station that brought you Petticoat Junction and the pretty daughters, guess which one Clinton Likes, not the funny blond I’ll bet, who all would find out from Betty Rubble this war no Empire for escapists, much less woman who were beckoned by the bright lights of Capotes emerald citta, and how they’d all have to come hackle to the back lot at CBS television city, notice it wasn’t, couldn’t be, CBS television country now was it, …?, and how they’d all have to get married and have their spawns at the railroad tracks of the Bucolic parries that could be fashioned there next to Ann Romano’s apartment and Gilligan’s tropic of Capricorn.

I thought of a plaice I sent in somewhere that I called the October war, the morass that would come soon enough thanks to thesoe now exceeded suddenly like Seymour amusingly quiet in mid Impeachments campaigns for anyone who can win an election without having to throw cakes at the perpetually enfeebled and worthless, as that devotion never comes and eventually they lie there is as a subtle but savage difference between redefining to be the servants and actually as I said I mimicking the Romans, washing the floors. And I saw dower and dire Livia Hillary at a shot she didn’t need to be, that no one whose political smarts would outweigh the subsidized pact she made with a A Romeo who would always walk away, and now she as if caught in a webbing that this wasp goddess had no idea was there, who could one not with that baggage carousels of hers, as if caught by a Mike Wallace camera of gotcha, when she showed up there to show devotion to what the swanked had become, this cretin tattoo artist Rip Taylor made, handlebar red mustached, dimwit, woman beating, psychotic with shell shock, if that, the democrats never get warriors who need the aspirin, and how he is meant to in our nightmare of feminization somehow, with mop in hand at the vaunted Roman tiles, he is to openly replace a woman no less who was no Maga disaster or treaded, but like Satan they count their assholes between assaults on Parnassus, and she is in the way of the confetti and happy days are here again of their perpetual Merv Griffin show that they have demonized. I feel your pain, clever Bill, saddled with this hag of hags, magada, Zinera Hera as ma called them, goddesses of the witches, who had to avoid devotion to this place and sort who caught up to them in mid Wokedness, somehow this piggish lard ass thug, a sort of acceptable Mastrioninni and Hegseth not to be so demeaned by whatever late night ruins are left. I am sorry Susan Collins, as I never trusted the white death masque cheeks of the DAR, and their senate placed hags, go sweep the floors, dear, as Bill does surprise me he doesn’t and didn’t have the requiem that all sociopaths should know from their Uncle Julius who said, brilliantly as usual, and gave them their treasure maps, He explained all with I adore treason, but alas, I despise a traitor. It is a credo that Shylocks should have known before they sold a nanosecond of death tyrannizing guffawing time to the Koch brothers and to their needful Medici aplomb.

So, as did probably Romantic Bill, I too to even get a Jesuit scholarship to Georgetown and certainly never the prairie windswept conveniences home for perverts with a cheap sport team attached. called Northwestern, Had to read the Summa theological even to qualify as iisoed to lately hen they just hand them out to any girls and or black folks who are willing to die, or better kill, for the divine right of this contraceptive age. So I can heartily say that if you thing eventually Georgetown alum Roman Bill, if you think he as he must have acteully ered these things to the bitter end of being on scholarship which even my pop didn’t understated so bothersome to me, I, though not poor still realized what it meant to these assorted dagos to have a child of a foreman at there precious steeple marbled festooned mob school, I was not chancing that at any higher institution with the mealy film goers out there I would have to do battle with, and still do over diction's that bothers the Dworlkin crowd that like democrats never noticed how many man their new freedoms the Bush boys sent to die in quagmires that this time the queers didn’t even bother to be on the enemies side an they just didn’t bring anything up as Mormons and Afrikaans fought for the seedy ruins of the grave of Augustus.

But If one thinks he did his forced march of a life, our Marius in the weeds, out barefoot Roman hero, our lover of Sallust take that hags, as to be corroded and surrounded by this crowd of gang who couldn’t shoot straight wop goons and worse and literal, if you think he read Cornelius Tacitus, to be on the side of an ex pat repatriated lesbian hags who has indeed gotten her way and her show over illegally almost, if not worse than the dead body of lower end Jesuit trained perverts bathroom haunting smirking Colbert, well you and his wife who prods like all sociopaths, too Much and too hard and too often to not be eaten up by the beast and not in anyway more pleasurable to him, as how could it more pleasurable to engulf and destroy the hags and picadors and shrews who took your copy of Julian and throw it into the river of muck and junk they are, these threadbare attendants. If one thinks he wont eventually destroy the cockeyed and worthless covens of his wife after knowing now as I have all along that she can detoured with more relish than she could ever create, a witch of the most heinous Samhiem sort in the Germanic weeds, well, you never had the same reading list as we did. As George will and the Bush familia, wayward and strange bedfellows of 'the Wife', again the only gender specific word allowed from Plautus to Youngman, a specific title allowed amid the hand maidens and the Vandells that Bill has always despised, and the CNN rhinos and Amoses at the the War conservatory, as Colbert and his beloved copies of Germanic Homer from Raymond Masse were adored all along, as I jadedly recalled and warned along with the penchant of grabbing frilly underwires along the ways. It was hollow, his devotion with the eyebrow princess and the laughing at Petronsinella’s fractured cancer, she an only royal Mach liked as Charles takes the Prince of the Romans charge literally and hard and takes his royal we from the soon to be excised fat man Keir, and it was all fake as I had warned. You know, this Veronica Mars isn’t bad.