THE TRIAL OF FIGARO.

You are watching Curia Television. Part IV.

New York Versus Weinstien.

14. February 2020.

17.

I  was heart warmed to see a show beloved by my Mom called That Girl had returned, as the last time i imbibed in this wonderful fantasy of the emerald city of Capote, and a land of Perskey and Denoff, just a hair removed from Neil and Mel and Carl’s wodnerland, I felt an inner peace. She was a lovely brunette and Italian girl respite from a feast of Janus OF THIS PIG, AND TODAY ON AN IRONIC Valentine’s day, she was on all day, as a Roman girl of the sort that made Cornelius Tacitus eschew the men in drag in Euripides, as that never took off in fashionable environs of Rome. As if just discovered then Pakistani sweetheart Archie Penjabi could cool a raging soul about losing a mother days after it occurred as she had with her dimpled loveliness, then, the return of Don and Ann as new York pilgrims adrift in Merman city, could, like Bob Burgers did twelve hours later each day, allow me to calm a not as vividly angered soul, as i recited the punchlines right along with them.



So I wait to eat each day I get up for Ann and her ABC mod Batman before the grime and Aids cocktails hipness, as see a whose who of great actors beside the late great Ted as boyfriend per excellence, but see Richard Dreyfus, Dabney Coleman, a truly peppy sidekick girl named Bonnie Scott, who unlike  Mary and Lucy, CBS monstrosities, Marlo, ah sweet ms. independent, future gummaddi Marlo, didn't make 15 pounds heavier under threat of perjury, an actual crime as opposed to the bullshit of impeachments now, but whose counting...?

I watch each day as Ann strolls and in frantic Ingenue thrilling goes about the great city, spinning through the fountains at the then spanking new Lincoln center, thorough Soundhiems and Loessers brilliant Broadway, with a tyrant based on L Strasbourg, perfectly played by Billy De Wolfe, and act sadly not dons as well now on the ruins of the Columbia Broadcasting System, and there is Don’s brilliant career as a magazine journalist, we had them then, before, even the vaunted New Yorker would have in its vaunted pages of incomprehensible cartoons and now those left out showing Trump as a war monger as even the rabbinical order of now has its dissonance. And I think of the vulgarity now fashioner as news, anything but showing unseen coffins coming back to unseen mothers. I sing along with sound effects with the Vivaldi of television themes, Earl Hagar's brilliant theme song as the camera pans across black-rocks, if still there, might have been torn down, and not just by Al Kida for the reclamation  project, as opposed to health care concerns that the newly baptized as Mike,  Mayor Bilko, pushed through, with Imam's and Madrases not invited , not that again Barry the deity made anything close to a fuss.

I watch almost pleasant, hard to be now, Ann, as she bops along fifth avenue, with ray bans, and I find, maybe its her black hair, or short bantam chicken like touchiness that my pop always liked about her, or maybe a sister who loved her who had to become a victim of medial circumstance as italics seemingly always do, as i have to hear about spics and their sharecropping American dream when all I got was Talia Shire. A previous years essay called then Fior Gore Vidal, then re-titled as a scattered novel , a first one really written, called Other Cities , Other Pillars, as I am a stinker, about the cesspool the new Yorker and Publishing had in my schemed to become since the golden age of Don Hollinger and the old woman I had seen,  on the then shown Tomorrow shoe, a tomorrow that was never gotten to by Scarlet or Macbeth,  or us, I alas was seen somewhere, where else, by a scout for this PEN cabal. I felt like it was 1974 again and the Jesuits came to St. Peters, this one here, or there now, as the society of Jesus had heard of a student they wanted to recruit for their bulldog kennel, as they were constantly on the lookout for point guards, cheerleaders who wore wool skirts well, and Jesuit lawyer students, and not always in that order. It wasn't  the blond polish half breed queer, to his and church ladies dismay as I looked like just another wop hood, a dime a dozen, and wasn't even frail looking enough, like Obama or Martin S, to even seem as smart as the priests thought I was.

It was seen and read, the essay against Will an Grace that made a woman at a known magazine actually stop and think about what she was laughing at, as she emailed me back. Ah concern and interest is nice, but, if I cant place it on my resume, at page 13 now as devoted each acceptance to my Ma on the other side of the Moon, in the noble comedy and not Tennessee’s joke book, as admiration I’ve  have had enough. And how some f*g on parade here, doing a queer Jerry Helper take, now suddenly not as vanguard or as beloved as it was in the age of Monica, but then, what ever could be...as they try to forget where they had been and how they all got here.


21 FEBRUARY 2020.

18. The shamelessness that my father and the jurists said was at the Dis ice center of this cesspool , down where Brutus now a lesbian or a poli sci hack weeps with a Cassius meant to play Too Jewish, was shown relegated as much as anything, and ever before. The bloated, jellyfish skinned, Jewey,  doge, worthy of a hidden Shakespeare play, batters and buffers himself through unhatched unseen debates that lost their charm,  when Cornelius grandson, told the plebes to not actually applaud for Newt, their champion once, as there was already too much money and soot wrapped up in the smarmy little negro who'd they'd make a saint before he had to be a liberal.

Now, with stop and frisk again acceptably grandfathered in to the black trash, whose captains are always looking for the charm of a post dated check shown in commemoration  for the Bloated Jewish Macher, who runs for praetor in a worse year than even fellow chosen golden boy Al Al  Franken had to deal with, Bloombergh tries to get enough spear careers in his commercials of hard sell,  as in antidemocratic politicos, as my father warned me, ethics belong to who got in the bigger check.

Maybe not a year in which a distracted DA is trying corporeality to walk that line, as certainly doesn't want to make any precincts lost, by cobbling precedents,  by getting any fat bloated piggish rapist in jail whine he has this many pictures of him beloved by the uninitialized Gods of novae Roma. The Frankenwienie case drags on-wards, befitting someone who thought wrongly that Annabella Sciorra—and by the way why does singing Waiter wiseguy mob councilor, Arthur Aida whatever, the bald one, why dos he keep calling a fellow Italian , always the best names for pleb victims as Tacitus and the Clinton marriage shadowed, why dos Lex here keep calling her Sciorri, as if he cant say the name correctly, like a  Bush brother running for a presidency he will never get…? Too much time, I fear at Fox 5, AS HIS WICTHIPOO COMPILER MAKES A MISTAKE, I THINK, as even a wholefoods producer of two films about Harvey, ah Capote merits, but what do I know, as she sues a tactic I thought was discredited of what were you wearing …?, asked of a rape victim. She dared asked to rape victims, which my mother in fact said was a gimmick used by an Italian lawyer, one step above Cahlhoooon, if that, a relay I mentioned to Rachel Maddow, often, a thug  named Mumfredi, who she said, was brought in lest the Italian girls then dare to cry rape as the cheating husbands knew that they could merely trash any Italian woman vociferously who dared mentioned that husbands were depreciate for the Beatrice factor. A belladonna effect as she called it since I was a kid,  that their white bared, mayonnaise wives could not even pretend to give. There is a reason that one like Harvey could  lionize Huck Finn, dimwits blond hags like Gweeennnittth Pal-trow E Pal-trow, and not succumb to beguiling Annabelle as he did with chocolate dicks, and DVDs of Roz Russel as the girl Friday...see…?, as his Madonna whore complex was there, just as perforated as he did everything. A man cant constantly lionize and hagiography white women, slaves and holocaust victims without making his darker parts even more darker, a kind of Jewish Strombolis chiaroscuro, that came with a serrated edge. I mention Rachel Maddow as used to bothe—hect--connect with her, as was asking even in ‘16 if she knew who Ambra was, and how she could cry and carry water for a hag who had Stromboli on the payroll. But then if anyone has decline and fall written upon their foreheads, as Mom said, it was that two pigs from Hot springs.



AS  let Harvey Korman, the ruins if Mira-max ‘s gray flanneled hack on CuriaTV say that if let go as he thinks he should be in new Judea, that Harvey will become a Schweitzer and build hospitals, maybe Rape trauma units in his name, as shamelessness is outre business at least since Colbert came from buying crullers and underage girls for his Rob Petri Louis CK, and became the heir to Merv Griffin, whose very same theater marquee and name shines there as Donald Hollinger races back to Newsweek magazine, which now I take it would be allowing a dago hag like Rotundo would be suing for jury stammering. Sorry, Tampering, as if!,...like shes that sharp, as I’ve gotten sued to hearing Curia Radio play Donnaluch stammer in transcript form, when she got answers she somehow wasn't  expecting, as she  made the mistake of actually believing the filth-bucket she was reduced , when child killer barristers and Old Eli Wallach looking shysters said to Harvey to take a walk, in Bay-side Parlance.  But again, my mother spoke of the belladonna factor, and I think of its Machiavellian equal opposite, the Coppola factor, in that eventually there must be some Jews not on the clock, not with bags to take from here to there and back again, as the tragedienia isn't that big and west sdies and west sdies aren't as divergent as you'd think as north and south happy lil islands are, I wonder how much shit a jew can eat before he thinks, as I did with the Sopranos , that I and we don't deserve any of this lawyerly, clever, shit.

So, Harvey made  the most jeusitcail of mistakes, though it sounds wrong, it is not, he stakes too plainly and openly how many angels dance on the head of a pin , but does so at the Kremlin of my boyhood where they all , and I mean all, said how much they love Mayday and not in a Dante and Beatrice way. Harvey, true to his puppetry form, has in fact, shown my dad was right when he said to me, sad that I had been given an interview at Stanford, but for cinema, a fake art form which is what it is cackled by Martin Scorsese when the old wop with snits while making films with aforementioned Harvey, or filling the days with being a commercial pitchman, for Rolex's and jolt cola, again jokes of mine coming true. You're boring Harvey, as each nano second that goes by, each interview Seema must give to the great Gadzoo, or attorney Ratso who shysters woppishly for the cameras, as Jewish judges were there, but there little proof of, - like Sasquatch, or Gloria Allred that sadly and prefect brings up Scott Peterson as your doppelganger—Ouch!--each second is more dirt on your unkempt, unnoticed, unwanted grave, as burn in an Inferno that DA sonny boy, never wanted and by looking at a disjointed strange butterfly ballot of a jury form, poor Cyrus the small is unsure which bribes to take at all.




Last year I write a piece that got the usual accolades, IE, send more later just not so, you know, called the Manzoni papers, about my Mom's favorite writer  , Alessandaro Manzoni, and his tower of a masterpiece. It is a brilliant book, called the Betrothed, about two poor shlub Italians, the real Romeo and Juliette, say, the Italian ones, caught in the gears of imperial, or worse than that, medieval power plays. The ratios of power it is called by Calvino, a way I have tried to write my own small new journalism template at the Harvey trial, as sometime think I am the last one who read In Cold Blood or The Right stuff, as now ewe know women who laid it on thick and won awards that should have been given to Mia Farrow Junior, instead were sued as ways to cleans dear old yen-ta Jodi and such, who we know know, when Ambra did everything that woman are now pilloried for by various Jewish pontiffs on Curia TV, well, she was instantly and immediate called deranged and other vicious things, a basque connvivio for the Italian girl,  for some reason we had to save the blotted Jewish creep who was raping girls, probably, like Tiger and Rotheleisberger, the right ones, meaning sadly brunettes, to show the waste yard that he and enemy Scorsese helped make a pit that my father never liked, and never was stupid enough to buy into its con of decent tenements, and nobelsets savages kept in North Dakota winds.

So, he goes against the Roman rules of circus and becomes that most un-Roman thing, a bore, not even willing to take his bow, hiding as he slithers into a courtroom, looking like something from a Warren Comics page of horror comics, as I rethink, the colorful four color goriness of Wally Wood in EC pulp pages was alleyways beyond and beneath him, and that is no compliment as he lives out his infernal creed by poetry written not by an Italian genius but a hollwyood hack, a front lets say, with no Zero to make it at any point sad enough for care.

02/24/20

19.


As was boiling eggs for a late breakfast and a magazine from the Writers guild I joined came, almost concurrent with this bulletin, They at Curia TV cut into a  usual case, I.e., about blacks either killed and or caught by 5-O, I was altered by a Brother, that the case of the modern Fatty, came to a dower, dire end. I was peeling eggs when saw that a hallway showed that he was found not guilty, which angered me. No, a voice said from the other room, No, hes found guilty on the second charge for which I thanked Libra, the Roman goddess of justice, still hovering over the courtroom temple, whether finger-painting patricians like her or not. And again I impress my sharper yet more romantic  brother, as  one count as found guilty against Jessica Mann, a girl prettier than any i've ever had and wouldn't have abused so willingly as gave again Caterina's one part after a next. How did I figer that, he saked, as knew , some ingenuity part of me, still a Jesuit schoolboy that I heard the chimes at midnight and he abused this woman, and making a rape victim race from the box in tears is stupid even for a woman to have thought out. I was glad to know again the inferno has a pig that ate its own tail, and the Orobus is encircling itself.

I as the jury lets him die as say a Polish Pope had, to the pinpoint that all drama is bled out of it, more like pig at slaughter than anything any Jewish minion can use to any advantage, sorry, have to say here, publicly, as have parts of Artist and Models out hither and yon for your considerations, let me get this straight….When ten years ago, I was being lectured to by Project Green light, for scripts about Italian killer bankers, Etruscan myths, Italian men hung in the Klan fortress of Fort Lee New Jersey, and the crumbling Roman Senate, that while that was happening, the doges of Venice himself, I could be sharper than that using your poems of imperialism, was raping and tarring and abusing every cute brunette that me and my buddies in art school loved….?  Cause again there is something sad about that.

Despite , maybe because of white hags and c**nts of the court page who seem investing in letting Herod here rape whoso ever he liked as long as the bought and paid for character witness that was paid to testify, not their daughters, god knows. As I always wondered what would have happen if Monica was blond and a Wisconsin heifer cheerleader type, but then that might by lastly we I never liked as a Jesuit pre law boy, hate speech and hate crimes laws,. As the wolves in cheap clothing know and even telecast which sheep to mangle, don't they…?

Yes, now with breaking news that in the second actual day of deliberateness by hour counting, that indeed Harvey, HarrrVeeeey, has been decked again by the image of a Sad Roman clown, Ralph Kramden who waylaid him good. He is free of the top charge, as that would necessitate that this jury would actually believe pretty ANNABELLA, and my mother warned me, not too long before her end that this  was the way we chissel  now. That is sewer system, with me and others as a Black coated Lime, certainly not that broad jumping cartoon gumba jew who wouldn't take his bow, that Martin Scorsese helped make into a cesspool with Marble walls, as Caesar so long ago aptly covered the dying Roman senate. Another Stromboli falls to the earth and cashes as Jews finally have been want to do in the shadow Interregnum of a hag who never knew when to quit. And there, just as I said, floating over our Hollywood Salo, a Beatrice above the Jewish Sysosste cesspool this thing was, as actually found it wearing and regretting the longer it went on, there was Ambra, the Italian girl who desperately begat the whole thing.



It was no yentas nor blonds not Fox Five hags who started this as much as Ambra did, a name meaning much to me, as used it as a name of one of my cartoon anti heroes, Ambra Rimea, which means Dark Poetry, as I had as usually rewritten the story of Germancius, one of the first Roman stories, that I had overwritten down as a kid. Ambra in the new Amsterdam  sunshine stood firm and as a Lucia, who was the one who brought the Shylock doges down. I'm sure Shylock is hate speech by now, as of all days to show that Signora Fortune is turning her pretty, dare I say, Orange Cheek against the curia, and when that happens, daffodils who lunch dinner and midnight snack, woo, watch out! Ambra stands vindicated , as the bowling for shysters has crashed and burned again, which is why the brethren adored me so, as kept this law fandango from looking too much like Jewish theater and more like Roman farce,  as it was meant. I wish to say here, placed a screenplay called PYGMALIA, on a vineyard pretending to be a Cineretta studio called Zoe-trope, and it was taken down quickly, as the haled full wops, and such of that vineyard called me Anti-Semitic for having a bloatware buffoonish character in that play based on Harvey and his rivealry with Victor Glissando, Scorsese, who in real life, though.



There was no Metamorphosis that Martin was planning as was Victor under the Bolted doges hooked nose, but those are the cum stained hands with which Martin made sure he mad another Gangster  Movie this time with the dared Irish. I feel my dad was righter than I ever gave him credit for, but then he knew the Roman books that Billy the kid pertains to have read and read them in original Latin and Italian, which I dint want to, and yet thought him the peasant and the paranoid. My mother wanes even in dreams from THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES AS Chanley meets with Ambra on a sidewalk summit, as the shysters cons were made mute with her. That who you did business with , Hollywood creeps as Jack the agent-producer who liked Roman Mythology, at a distance, told me. That whose hand you had on Sicilian puppets in what my pop said was a minstrelsy show and a puppet show without the artistry.

And on this day no less, wop trash like sash wearing sonny boy Cuomo bitches at the goys about a prescribed love of Jews, irony as the Germans call it, as I do think how sad it was that as I was being lettered to about jokes allowed in the age of Mel Brooks that I was being tutted at and lectured to by  girl Fridays, lets call them Claudine Pimps, who let this animal run roughshod over only it seems Brunettes, who like Ambra weren't playing to the tenth row. And, affable good-fellow, that's fellow well met, a favorite on Curia TV of mine, Ted says sadly, Ambra had her life taken away from her, as even being a rape victim in this crucible with rabbis allowed in as prosecutors is a finish line to women, no matter how many twitter followers you collect.  So, good night unto you , Harvey and the hags who came to your defense against one too many deadened brunettes, always be casting Harvey dear and learn that the dumb brunette act put Dame Hillary where she is hiding today. As pretty, lovely, Chanley stands at the hall of Justinian, as a later Vestal as I have said, in the sunshine and the now breaking up crowds of plebs and as Harvey is remained and fingerprinted showing that again the Orobus has started to eat its own, I say give me your hands if we be friends and Pinocchio shall restore amends. In the piece I had sent out that amused some, and angered others, about Manzoni, I had stated back when Epstein was still hanging on a –yeah, Rope, I said that all this dump needed to be more like a medieval Italy without the warmth or the charm, medieval doges crushing the poor Saps who merely wish to live lives outside of the Rodrigo's and Bilbo’s who wish to rape one Lucia after the next, was a Shylock, a pandemic, and somebody raping the wrong brunette.

THE CHRISTMAS FOG.

i. A FEW DAYS BEFORE A Christmas I HAD NO REAL INTENTION ON EVEN ACKNOWLEDGING, I WAS ALERTED THAT RELATIVES WOULD BE SHOWING UP, AS IT SEEMS EVEN A MOTHER DEATH CAN NOT STOP THEM DOING THEIR WOP ACT FOR ANYONE HERE. I was told with a few days to make a Christmas on the fly, as didn’t even have tape and had to get a pork roast out of the freezer, though amazingly, though they hated Poultry every xmas my mom strived to make, now suddenly the Roman meal of pig for saturnalia and new years, which I hope I am free of them then, was somehow against whatever dietary laws they can come up with on the fly.

One reason I despise Hillary Clinton as I do, is that the husband proved to me he was a weakling and pussy as a brother also steeped in Romanism saw from the beginning, but alas his use of Ovid against the mouth breathing women and the miss Grundy’s, I thought, meant something, which is my own fault, as again with his ilk, nothing comes out of nothing. I see her as an awful nun , making a Roman addled schoolboy into little more than a Jewish husband who will never speak again. One reason I thought that I sized her so, like Peggy points of lights Noonan now admits , they were hated by the sanctimonious, ah Now you weep, as my namesake thanks to my mother would so say. Now with Bilbo I guess for all instants and purposes dead enough to not corrode and corrupt, a falling, fallen, angel in always I guess, as Somehow we are being given platitudes and homily from those pigs who were early on television making Monica jokes with glee and now, the face making monsignor queers of Cyclops and bloody sheets, have the never to lecture us through their grinning tiredness of evil. Too bad, I say, remember the bathwater, tap water, toasts you made against all Roman laws as yentas try to steal the papacy for the first time in a thousand years. And when nudes I had done in art school after hutting the local strippers at the Roman V to come in and pose as exemplars of femininity, ala Raphael, who also used the working girls of Rome as his model’s for various Minerva’s, when they started getting torn down in our perpetual Cupola vineyard, I have to ask the crime family scumbags, if they ever heard the line from Dante about how many bags of shit are at the island of Medusa…?

Too, one bigger reason I  hate her so is that recall when my father was still alive, I saw her, still in all her mousey haired, myopic, glory on some stupid show of a sort  I used sued to watch, I believe her getting the sensual distress of a lineman head named Gerroooge, that would later marinade in to any hag in a storm. So, don’t tell me you’re upset she’s not imperial persona you human lemon, as I recall when you made a point that no body was as tall as they’d have hoped.
I saw here early on, on I think it was David Brinkley after he had somehow eschewed the Kmart of networks, the Nation biscuit company, and the grave of General Sarnoff, to A Bigger Check, and a Ominous Sunday show if his on in shod days when not only was there no #metoo, but rape victims had to take dna tests just to prove Byzantine Bill was even on the same floor, so devoted were we woken to the king of the crime bill. But why I really hate her was that she made a point, this human bag of shit, this queen of weeds, and every other diminution I could pull out of Tacitus if I had the time, or inclination, was that she was a first person to make a point that of course Mariko Cuomo was somehow not the liberal champions  that her and dripping husband was. Still then in 1991, though he was busily making the rounds of Sons of Italians would actually be at, as was with Carter, but between ogling the underage Ginas there, and drinking Grappa as if he liked it,  and he living off of fried dough’s as he had at the carnival enabling his life was, somehow Mario Cuomo was not as staunch a liberal as this hag, and her cunt of a husband was. I am off that showboat, Bill, I cant stand to see you anymore, it is a sadness like catching Namath as a Ram,as I didn’t pretend that I was a cross between Niccolo Machiavelli and Dennis Mitchell now did I...? Only to have to make sure that Yes Dear were the last words parroted as a continual Rozzsssebudddd...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V1d4r9awjKE

Early on, my brother, saw less than hero Bill Clinton with the pussy qualities and he’s whose been able to quote Ovid, to this day chapter and verse, and knows it alllll,,,,was against those two pigs who were slithering towards power , tunneling forward like Milton Satan, or just the tape worms that they are. But early on, too, I felt a certain empathy for Brother Bill, and his open love of Roman farce, epic, strategy and epic, and too, for his obvious love of Roman dinning girls like Cattilus at the carnivals, surrounded as he was by Biddies, queers and sycophants of power.
But now, I am not so sure that my brother wasn’t right all along. He did, after all see through the long winded address that Billie the kid--notice woman’s spelling, gals,  a feature of Roman farce that I’m sure bought and paid for hoodlums like CBS monsignors aren’t allowed anymore, like asking a bad golfer, does your WIFE play golf too…? All which now may be  just another lebso joke, as once again, the Romans and their genetic love of truth means the barbarism will be making another pyre for what pages are left over again, I hated Hillary since  then though, as did my suspicious Mom. We saw her coven at some Tim Russeret, and he’d pay as must they all for having not greased the skids for that hag enough, asked her why she was against Mario Cuomo, as she once was, along with aids victims. Well, he, she announced somewhere, to my distaste,  on a football Sunday in which I was just waiting to see the suddenly restored Cowboys ala 1990 or so, like Sauce was, that Mario, damningly, had said he rather see a society, mid- Regin,  that was far too much to bear for our mousey berthas to be fair, decency and the qualities  of mercy, again a line from Ariosto, were so much of her husbands cum on white shoulders, and meant nothing to the Satanist- Goldwater delegate she has always been, as in fer a penny. I held that against her now, all these years and hope her husband got her good,  as always felt there was a real cruelty at work here, that he did make sure to humiliate the old bag as much as anything, and rooted him on, Ah, but now, like all circus, we have stayed too long, and need some pace from these clowns, a sad roman minute of devotion to lost nobility and grass and crows, already shown on page there of Ovid’s January in the book, that again, showing his sharpens, my brother thought that bloated imperial John Clinton would die to avoid.



So, now, the great Borgia marriage is surrounded by immigrates who recall them at the temples that Torquemada tossed their salads at, as again, like Jews finding italy as a less theocratic land despite who holds the banners, , there is always a pretence and a fear, like with Yenta Bloomberg, the hard sell is just again hiding the fact that another bloated Bugsy is eventually going to step in Gucci shoes he’d naught. Bill is surrounded by enemies, again, and now the prospect of having been emasculated into Lady Bird is nothing compared to a hack, capped tooth , nothing, who should he be embalmed into standard barer, the ghosts of long dead Jesuits from bulldog land will see that as a most awful, reversal of fortunas.

ii. The only decorations Ive put up for this watering to have been unnoted Christmas was a poster I  did of a Black haired Cammilla as a Jovial Angela, complete with helmet, Minerva shield and of course the body of a penthouse pet, which was done and accepted by a site where the lesbians who have accepted my work have had a adverse reaction to being shunned and demeaned again as of all people, lesbians seem to be out to get the auspicious of a Jewish cartoon piggish bag of tripe, who like Jimmie Kimmel, they once were unnerved by and made sickened by, not that long ago.
And too, I have a small plastic Christmas lighted ornament, an angel with spinning roses, like an image one would see in Dante’s Empyrean. And that was it, as was asked by a onrushing returnee if we were ousting up a tree, causing me to wince, and my brother to almost yell out, heard on the phone from here at the angel lit darkness, your mother is dead, bitch, give some fucking respect in this fucking toilet of a nation.

My father, and the Jesuits, trained my brother even better than I, as I am never schooled by how low they can go, as he often is. The lesbian girls with which I deal, are suddenly not so keen on their queen as she going to Howard Stern was a previous aged fault, it appears, and recalls in them just how full of shit this whole things was, which to be fair, a gal talks to me that I did see coming when spoke of how Monsignor creepy Boys room enthusiast Steve Colbert had at the beginning of this needless morass, did when him not making faces and smirking at Bill as  he said Monica aloud, thinking he was somehow now freed of the debt of making jokes about the great queen, no wait, Prince, who can tell in Tacitus, mistress, well whatever, he thought himself quite the king of things, as snow dissolves into the warm waters of not being liked, at which he was used to.





But then, my brother asked me not to glower or be of bad cheer...he said Life goes on, and though this wouldn’t be a Saturnalia as it had been, it wouldn’t be dry toast either. He went to the state store and bought a case of Coors for me, the only beer I can drink in Irons city land that doesn’t remind me of swill, and piss, and bought a bottle of Jack Daniels, florid with apple as it was the old mans drink, a mans drink , as is aid , before we all became insurance salesmen. As I  remember when football players sued to sell things men liked, like Bourbon and woman. and even panty hose had a sexual aspect, a who likes short shorts aspect that hags of empire like Miss Grundy Warren will actually rail against, thinking somehow for the first time since the Romans that the spoils go to the vanquished, which they never ever do. A few days before Christmas, my brother gave me a gift certificate that he had won somehere at some gala he was at, and told me to buy a classic book or comic books, a gift from him to me, to not not mark this Roman day, that like Bloomberg and his blue streak of apologies and resentments and reconsiderations, there is nothing any Semite has ever said or believed in, ever that cant be fandangled and reamed to include what the people believe in, from Saturnalia to Lady Luck, should the aliases suspicious purists of arabesque find that the plebes looked down on so hardily are , with Mars and swords in hand, see what I did there, will take the decent house n****grs among  us and make sure that net flicks doesn’t honor its contacts.

As 175 MILLION BALLOONS IS QUITE THE LAY OUT FOR YET ANOTHER MAFIA MOVIE, STARRING THE QUEERS, MOLED SON, WHO DIDN’T SEEMINGLY HAVE ENOUGH RESPECT FOR POP AS AN ITALIAN AS HE WOULD HAVE TO HIM AS A QUEER, ESPECIALLY WITH WOMEN ABOUT TO FALL OUT OF CLOSEST,  AND TELL US ONCE AGAIN ante Trump AS JUST ANOTHER CICERO’s PLAY TO MAKE SURE NO ONE RECALLED OR NOTED THAT THE GREAT Jewish WOP SENATOR WAS WILLING TO TAKE MONEY FROM SULLA, THE FIRST DESTROYER OF A VAUNTED AND LOST AND ALWAYS CAPABLE OF BEING LOST , REPUBLIC.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HV8OCOaxq0Y

And Christmas , of all times, seemed a bad moment to bring that fool back,--Scorsese, or Cicero, for that matter, -- especially what with his having been stained with old Jews tossed at him, with numbers tattooed on their childish  for arms, as again German engineering is nothing, at least to me, as compared to Roman, as Poland is not filled with Pantheons that let the sun in at the right times s much as they are dotted with crematoriums and rail roads,  that the newly manned cbs Jewish rats hope early can be brought back to the earth, least it queer the latest deal withy always make with their latest blonds.

That amount of scratch could have made not another mid century ode to the Jersey swamps of Lufthansa’s case we have never Technicolor and blood squib bed enough,  quite the Juvenal, could have been made. As while Tina herself is white knuckling it in her dreary suburban ride, selling again Insurance, as again I feel like I’m in an all state commercial.
That amazing amount of money, to make again a Mafia Movie seemed untenable and I hope he was Italianate enough to steal a third, like something out of the Satyricon uncle Bill has left, like the Roman festivals just come,  unfinished. Of course,  Ovid’s heart was broken, as he was taken out of the great emerald city, yes Rome was called that one in one of these, as all things Roman weren’t so hated until it seems Jews and in laws,  needed a minstrel show forty years back,  and then dared to pretend that the in laws they sold themselves to needed someone to laugh at , who , of course, wasn’t they.
I again wrote a paper that got its share of admiration from the brethren, as just like the apaches who have sent me another dream catcher my brother says to place on the wall next to a Mom’s picture, as the italics are nothing if not approximating and appropriating, and then of course, the spics will tale us how we must watch their pigheaded up accoutrements, and as I said to some cunt who dared shoveled her shit at me, about cultural appropriation, Butch, there hasn’t been a senate this bought and plaid for in two thousand years, ...you’re  welcome mutherfucker.
My paper about THE DIGEST OF ROMAN LAW WAS VERY MUCH ALLUDED BY the boys of the society of Jesus, as they liked me more than the dykes, negroes with scholarships, and hillbillies and lace curtain bumbling pill heads of that time, whose try again to take over et Urbis Et Orbis, and trade to both snatch and of course, stubble and break Augustus’  golden orb. They, like the apaches did, liked my Romanisa, liked the fact that Apaches wore the same feathers as did Roman centurions wither the softener poverty law pontiffs like it or not, --they never heard of Jeddah--as they just love people in rags as I was alerted early on. But I didn’t listen to anyone, as my pop told the well wishing Rabbi, and the brothers liked that I saw a connection between the first true constitution , sorry Paracles, like Jews they ahve to give a lot of givens, and the shows loved as a boy, like Paladin and Gun smoke. They liked that, a lot.

And, all I know is that Martin Scorsese has seemingly made more movies about the Irish, than he did about his allegedly beloved Romans. And The Irishman departed into a consent Christmas drizzle lack of notice, as did too, commercials starring house wop Devito, whose been doing a take on a wop from the barrios of the shire now for longer than any STEPPEN should have to ho dee golden do. Seeing in his hit and miss delivered The Wall Street Hournal, that Peggy Noonan is telling everyone that the Clinton are dispraised by those who now with their evil eyed infama, as Ma would call it, have the audacity to pretend they didn’t make Monica jokes, making Colbert now find new drinking partners for his styrophome toasts, he said to me, How the Fuck do you figure these things out, from so far away from their Marble halls. He also laughs that Pillozzi is eating her plate of crow, as no one in the senate wants a prolonged , silly, unneeded , Jewish rite, and hardly Roman, of a cutting off of Trumps feet, look it up, initialed Goddesses. As see, coined again, proving I am right about all but girls, and who is...?, there are a teamsters union of men in purples sashes, who have to sue January to do a Full Santorum, you know the dumb wops allowed to be called shit run off by a bargain basement  a faggot creep activist, who is always there , like Scorsese to make sure the in-laws know everything they thought of you was right all along. The Capote factor.



iii. So then, in what was becoming one long dreary , dizzily, snow less Christmas, the package came . A copy of Ovid’s Roman Festivals, I think on the eve of Saturn’s holiday no lamb of God could do battle, as  Chrissy as a mad man at the Christmas sales had not given over well  as to be fair to the Romans did didn’t when people were just looking to have a fucking holiday without this self important creep who stole copiously from Zoroaster and Roman congressional records.
The book had come. And, its title would be in ;Latin, Festi, not English, although to be fair, the English queens of literature are actually starting to give the Romans their due, and heavens to Betsy, actually give the books the titles that Roman and italic geniuses gave them, the days of Cattiline’s conspiracy long been done, securely at the National review. Here was the book, though the Brother  was disappointed I had not bought a hoity-todier copy and not  sued the whole certificate, and instead got a cheap Penguins copy as I had, and it was without the Gustavo Dore drawings that some spics and Spanish have utilized to be able to have careers amid the white woman who only know Dore , if at all having seen the pages of gray and silver brilliance as they go up in flames , showing again, in Germania, even the progressives aren’t that different from their circus hating, corn flakes eating, studdbubba grandparents, as I had been warned. I rather liked it as a cheap version, as used some of the rest for flair pens, which was find with him, and too, as a gift for him from me, got a family sized, Tide detergent Box of juju beads, a favorite of his, and small packets of peanuts. He was not pleased that I’d do that, but he does like, as do we all here, like eating enthused the gummy things all day, and it was a size I couldn’t forgo, as its the same way that Ellen and Colbert buy their decency.
And flipping through the Roman Calander, I see this book isn’t edited by people who seem suspicious of all Italian geniuses and Roman works of days, as again they have to admit about Ovid lately, he has become big since Bill Clinton mediated he was a favored, while Johnny Carson’s ghost show that a calculating ninny of a family once said, in ‘92, as Bill said he liked things like Roman epic and farce and classics and drama, Johnny recounted that this patrician bitch, born with a silver spade in his mouth, the line changed for being said by Ma Richards, shoeing some men don’t lose 12 straight elections by accident, and the feeble Liberals have always been doormats, as like the Colbert’s who wont get anywhere near the golden door, they are glad to be here, as they are glad to be anywhere, until like Tommy Smothers, they are told black rock is not amused.

The old coot, M, hated Opera, of course, and liked horse shoes and Hee haw, to WHICH the comically perplexed sophisticate Johnny made a face that got a laugh about the beginnings of our sliding down Virgil’s cyan road. And, I saw the story, I think, recounted in the Roman lists of festivals  that told me why Bill Clinton should have never come this far, or done half his shit. It seems in Augustan Rome, from where Ovid had been exiled, showing Augustus I guess had Ennius Roman meter meaning he didn’t just Kill the great poet as he had so many, that it is known that Augustus , wafting a restoration as pigs like him wlasy do woken they become, when they think they can no longer be arrested, like in Chappaqua, that eh didn’t like the old forms of religion, which a Germanic doctorate explained weren’t so much a roman acceptance of the old elusions as much as some hidden satirists that had once covered the earth in whole. So, Augustus went to go after that most Roman of goddesses, Jews and fascists nad Germans don’t like Minerva, I know, and he actually smashed a Roman temple to Vesta thinking he would recapped walls with Mars. Ah but she was loved, something I have warned the Jews, like Audrey,  and the priests now trying to remove her name from Transvestism, and arcade it with mistrusts of alphabet soups, that Vesta is no Jew Boy willing to be so whipped by the seated Governor.




When the made man named Maccius ,I think, the owner of the tracts of land called Carerra, in Italay, where that Auguries where plaiting the usual church of the penitents,  the perfects and the peculiar, Puritans ism, and that Vesta had been shattered to the ground, he walked in to the Praetorium. I am sure Bill Clinton would know, without any such appointments made by the  vestals he had standing around, as did Bill, as men had knives...and women dunt...? Any how, as reading this introduction not as anti Roman as many of these things are, calling Ovid no less a heroic figure as he juxtaposed the Jupiter of Palatine with the Jove who raped Silva and Daphne and et al, Macias hearing of the Great Clerk’s distress at Vesta of all things, he had his meeting with the tentative god, and explained the Vesta of that temple, as solemn enough Roman temples be smashed by barbarians and house niggers bombing Libya, that the model for Vesta here was not his wife, but his most beloved mistress, and that gallows have to be paid for by someone, don’t they...? In days Augustus anchored that his Midas like touch would turn Rome from brick to marble, but like Ovid, whose present came hours before Christmas , like he, and maybe someone else who keeps the Festi scared, liked Rome better when it was full of bricks and brunettes...

Christmas came, and I was heart sick to see I was surrounding by people , all Clintonish, who didn’t much care, and kept doing their shtick. A fat bloated relative wont give in on such things as blaring a television, and makes sure , like the fatso she always was, far from the eaters on command of theater, that will tell the most vulgar filthy stories while one is eating Christmas dinner, as of course, she makes a point she must watch the Flintstones, as if , as with her ilk, Hillary they think live will forever, it will always be 1975, when by then, even I a moppy haired boy, knew that those days were already irrevocably gone. I bought Ovid as will read it through as a rite of sorts while watch whatever trials are on television, in which only Bill Clinton could be the witness that makes  it all make sense, ah but he says already, like the captain of the anybody but Clinton brigade and hsoue n***gers with Martial wings too, they will not fulfill a subpoena, literally under the imperial hammer, much like they didn’t when now lionized CBS Seal teams members were left to die, as an Augustus never much could do.

iv. There was a real gloom over the city, maybe the whole region, over the media antics and I took out the garbage just to get some cold wind hitting me. It was a fog now, everywhere, and the nearby old leaden Xmas decorations on streetlights shone like starry starry nights did in Van Gogh’s tweezed and brilliant mind. I have gone on too long, and missed much, but, as a gift, my brother calls from Big Lots on the eve of the day of the resurrection, called that as Jew baby missed nothing once filed as a 501 C3, apostolic sun. As even reactionary, to sue a Mad Magazine- ism, Cicero, though quoted and loved by stone faced pols that my kinder and sweeter Mother despised, when literally hags from Cicero Ill., did not, did say somewhere that all religion came from a Neanderthal adoration of the sun. With Augustus’s comparing himself to Turnus, that did not go over well, but gave the old coot a lovely eulogy as I’m sure Clinton has written for any occasion, or need for a finally gotten dinner.
He had bought a cheap old DVD player from Payroll , asks me if I want to go pick it up. Sure I say and get dressed quickly and were out in the cold night, a small strip of red sky at dusk as the weakening , but soon to be predominate Roman Sun, as the persistent, daily fog of now, makes the lights of old time, Menchen hated yelow porches,  shimmer as the Romans would ahve wanted as a simple indo-European hidden lost religiosity, since someone at Rachel’s now ignored page made a point that I’d use that word, we can never know what the slur is after all, as I found out this year even mentioning Ariosto is a crime amid the family who wishes to have genetic powre, as poppy didn’t pretend he loved horse shows and Hee Haw, but eschew La Traviata, at least in public,  for nothing.

The fog was as thick, and constant, as it had seemed since I was a boy. And At Dusk, the lights all came on, and there were small wet shined bulbs of color, reclamation of a spring that the Etruscans called Prima-verdis, to the point they didn’t even want to name the wintertime, as Ovid here explains in a forwards that isn’t as defaming or detesting as many of these always were. The fog is prefect, as my mother had the Roman sun and clear skies to journey to the dark sides of Tennessee’s brother moon, and so now,I didn’t much care if it rained till new years. Look, I said to my brother as rode through sparkling bits of colored lights, there’s a church, lets go in and light something for Ma, for the season. He was dumbfounded. Are you kidding, he said, What are you talking about, what country do you think you’re in...? He called my bluff and we got out of the car and went to the large oaken doors. Ahah...he said as I saw, not in the clothes I should  have been, just a windbreaker on, the doors to heaven and hell were adjacent maybe, but also padlocked with a chain worthy of a Horatio Horn blower galleon and a lock as big as my hand. Goodwill towards all, he said with a sharpies smile, But lock the doors, father Mcgee.


The rest of Christmas week, I ignored any news crap, again place Ovid line about elitism and their ends here, there is a reason he is important to us Romans schoolboys in various forms of distention, and watched with the remnants of this family, who were never willing to stalk Praetoriums, as have the honor of a generals name as my pop told ne to inculcate me against the pan-genetics of SCORSESE, ALL THAT WHILE AGO, the old DVD I connected. As Star wars and Belli-cheat showed the third act is always the hard one, we sat here and watched Eastwood, the last LOTR’s which ma wasn’t here to note what had been stolen from Rosalinda and Italo’s folktales, but my brother left when the elves, as he said, tossed the ring into Etna, and he forwent the ten false endings. We watched the Departed, though he wanted no part of that, as Infernal affairs is better, I recall, and a shit load of South parks, as he bought every disk there he had found. Like Jon Stewart in the Obomination the guys at South park also befriend me in 2011 or so, showing again, like Bill Clinton, I am immune to the dis-natures of German nuns, bitches.

The best parts of this dreary Christmas was either the fact that Virgil’s atlas did come up out of the sea and slash STAR WARS on a Roman anvil, as it has been depressing me since I was ten. Some Empire struck back, kids. Or better the fact that Andrei poo , the new Gay Lombardo with boys from the bus qualities, had to admit that something called Black Palestinians, no wait, that lilly is gilded, no wait Israelis, in fer a penny…anyhow, Black Israelis are cutting the throat’s of Jews just trying to have the holidays even Jew baby Son O god Jesu seemed to be begrudge for them as people were starving in Bactria, although never motioned ten year old girls raped at the Villanovis when he said render unto Uncle Shylock, or whatever Tyberius was at the time. I made a Christmas wish , issuing my mothers remnants of Neapolitan magic that that hag Hillary “ Poker FACE’ GET WHAT SHE DESERVES , keep Virgil sacred hunny, don’t make the mistake your misbegotten hubby did, don’t bring up Ovid if you thought the end of time was ever going to be Mayan, hag.

My brother called as we went through the Warner Bro. collection, as was not a fan of either Casablanca or GWTW, before Negros were told to avoid it. I am filled with anger at myself for jiving, not kept impressing Jesuits and letting title niner fat, sloppy white, pig, broods think they owned the world, escaped on this occasions when still living , campaigning dead trash were told to let Iran amuck quietly go under the bridge, like when they find out Bellicheart is in fact, still being a naughty boy and now, as I thought, hooey so without compunction, or even Gilberto like prospective has to cheat against the Bangles, which can only mean he’s becoming more dangerous with each passing day, but what does Roman Anthony ever know…? On the phone, I had told him to put Superman 2 back, as wanted to get the first one first and maybe even the whole serial too before that and the rest of the Reeves collection, but soon regretted that. As the fog descended on the already dark, or black days, as Brokenhearted Ovid called them, the only festive lights in the room came from the small electric angelica I had plugged in as an only accompaniment of the holiday this awful year, and the older television, and moving colorful construction paper motions of foul mouthed little boys and a chubby funk or at night, a girl in rabbit years, showing me I wasn’t the out of place other that queens in Ovo, as I wonder if dear Brother Scorsese was actually shook when he , a supposed genius, was told he had to go headmaster Iger’s office for daring said something about their Virgil, pajama gamers Stan, and wonder if they’ll make him walk the streets in golden chains, or a little girl dressed as Minerva, because as its always been, triumph, even my getting a page here and there, and a well wished word of condoles at Saturnalia, is beyond his love of darkness and money. I was better off knowing who I was, and really not caring whatever was said by queers now pretending they are always victims, or future tom boys, or bathroom fags, or their later bearded girlfriends would have retried to convince me.

_

A Note on VANITIES:

(TOLD BY MY BROTHER TO CHANGE WORDS HERE AND THERE AS HE IS SURE the swells just love thinking we all talk like that anyway.]


As opposed to things I blizzard over the INTERNET , like 5, the death of Ritchie Brockleman and The Plautus Project, I only sent the previous post to three people, two of whom turned it down. Including the new York times as a shocking email I got in, which a I presume black, or mixed race, editor as the TV gumbaJews call them now that their’s is no need for a Sopranos reunion. An editor named Lauretta, like a first grade nun I had, sent me an email asking if I could send in something to remake their stance on race, there been the sneering articles of ex sportscasters, the unread gist quotes from Aquinas from priests like Brooks, and of course the Bulgari ads I noted in a from hunger Xmas that Barry couldn't be either with ever to care.

I had a Xmas album a nun gave me as a prize as a kid, in which Peter Paul and Mary who I’ve seen everywhere lately, even reruns of Jack Benny, did that sad song about hay pennies and Dickensian, yuck, squalor, I prefer Manzoni’s poor girl taking a gaunt cow to market with a  ragged rope, which as a carol, if it can be called that, that was taken out of Barras golden age Christmas rotation when something called Guido the Xmas donkey, of course, was not. So this was turned down, all in  all, a gal I was dealing with, who I prefer to deal with, as have no intention were I on CBS to get coffee between a head writer taking out his dick , as would look for the next Susan Harris before firing a  woman for early telling me warning, will Robinson, don’t become Mort Saul if you can at all help it. They sent me a follow up email, from what appeared to be her husband, a joke above sued to some disdain, but there you are, in which he said I had a distinctive voice, a good style and all, but too many grammatical errors and too ,many typos made it un-publishable, but send more, as did the same refrain as an Asian gal who called me an anti Semitic for showing in Ocopillars, I had Shelley rather be dead at the round fleshy knees of a Mullally Doppelganger, than leave his Kim Hunterish Lois lane gal for life in the warded Jews invaded Westchester with a cigarette voiced Blythe spouse, and all her guttural interiors.

Actually, most of my typos, but not all, are purposeful, as the nuns who taught me English better than any white woman do now, commas alas, they told me are for Lutherans. Still, I did get some, as do each Christmas, get a nice booklet of acceptances, as Mention of Saturnalia goes a long way, and do get Arabs and lesbians, Jews and other trash to admire me, not despite, but because of the Roman-ism I show, as some are starting to think at least my brother as right when he thought all along by the way, since the night he saw the Jesuit on scholarship, no one demeaned gathering menace was his uncle, openly sandbagged Micheal Dukakis for the now dead Savonarola, that my brother thought Clinton was a big fat pig. And no none that much of a coward does anything but die a 1000 times, this time, next to a wife who he wishes had died first. I did get something, somewhere always a triumph, including the story Other cities other pillars, decried by another husband who wasn’t impressed, but said send more, to which my brother said, a Jesuit student better than I was, first send a retainer, bitch.





I did refInd Works on a disk again, where I do my best stuff, as was writing eulogies for Biggy that night that almost got that prissy bitch's attention that day in August, now with a new senator, aren’t they all…? As again my brother was not shocked we were taught by men and women lovers of Boccaccio, that now dead priests of imperia didn't at the time notice were dying as much as I did, that self appointed Lois Lane-ish, the gal senator for television magic shows, Kloblashar, some self inaugurated queen of paradise island, was instrumental in making sure that Senators wont  have to pay for any intentional groundings, clippings, holdings or another infractions that would be best drawn by Jack Davis for magazines long gone. She, still after so many episodes on Raquel as our national scold, makes a rapprochement now that the senate doth cleansed itself of a comedy whiter, who showed no respect, at all,  for the people whose mausoleum this once was. Or like Ozarks pigs ran against them, in mid marginal pandemic, ala GIOVANNI’S ITALIC COMEDY, as no extra rights for dying fags was a Hill they were once willing to die on, if you’d be kind enough to recall. Never idle hands the old bag now writes to little kids telling them at this time a narcissus thinks mostley of themselves more so, Yes Virginia, there is a Lucifer, and I married his brother in law.

I did get accepted into a  magazine purposefully looking for satire no less, as my hatred of Colbert, pre Trump, what isn’t…? reanimated with some, as get Mister Stupendous again as cover called “Bazooka Joe” in, a variant I haven’t scrubbed  here, a Venus, and a bunny, with which I’ve done well, in a land that portends its Salem, but with a dying Livia and her finally leashed husband having to slash prices as they do one last wild west show. They shoot Trojan horses don’t they…?I did see Maureen Dowd, no less write a sad little eulogy for the Lunts, the Clintons as they live out their act to the end, as even she now admits again I was right and that a cleared Monica, as even Peggy Noonan is amazed to  think what thief house everything’s like Wrangle, and others that Barry get in jail, would be so willing to decry a woman, ah but by now all the bribes that cretin got, no more Roman Bill, as i vow, it means something too me, as my brother said and finally agree, this is no Roman, even that bribed Dowdy sees now Monica seems a victim and more decent than these tow pigs, who she now admits, their largess and corruption is a stain that even she cant wash away, as they had in a Beatification ceremony for dead old Buuuuush, that as the essence of American Plastic.

I got a picture I have scrubbed away from all my sites, admired even at the New Yorker to the point their cartoon elicit-or sent me a website to go to and find out what they are looking for, but as the person passing on Vanities said, its not the time to be a Roman mad man at the only triumphs the curia has left, the funeral where the paid mourners grieve for a pace between the detergent ads and the weather reports they snorkel through. People shamelessly weeping for old Cosmo, our Savonarola, allowed to die of old age, the fire as a schoolboy me noted, befits him, as was draped in the flag he portended to be the champion of against Greek hands, so eagerly and shamelessly. I was to know from one if the people I sent it to, that at its posting it at 9 o’clock the day that cretin died that beat the Times to Willie Horton, and speaking of shutting off microphones at a debate no less showing a  shamelessness I as an Italian have seen since time imperial from stable boys who have stolen their way to decency. I wonder if such could happen, can one imagine what the coming feared and resented  death ceremony old Billie  the kid be like, could you even do that Beatification ceremony, the kind that made me bristle as a boy that refused confirmation, as you all didn’t, with a straight face, but then wonder  if anyone would even bother to go. As I read both Livy and Levy and thus am shocked by nothing, after all.

I got my Patty bunny cartoon in, nicely in a magazine devoted to satire, so f you, that hag who thought I didn’t know what satire meant, as that’s not what the Jesuits who made me read Juvenal thought. I got her in, as if my Venus is Wendy Fiore, my Vesta, as in the goddess, who doesn’t speak her name now that the sissies have left Ovid for the Hoppa, ouch, how Clinton, double ouch, had been accepted, as she glimmers with italic sexuality, as that italic fleshy goddess did as my boyhood Beatrice, and she speaks to a fat bloated senator I made all ermine and fifty cent cigar, was he wears a sash that says a truculent, ironic, Et Too…? I’m glad I got that all in, as when I get ten, fifteen, twelve, dollars for art  to me it’s a triumph, and not pennies I’m getting from Gripuon. This old bag Mother Mo as I’ve called her, the nerve to call it a tragedy, what the Clintons are doing, its just more of the same old lady, this time, they are out of wire transfers to send you to make you think its still a comedy, as commedea past long ago, and that joke book is been censored admiringly after Brother Bill memorized it. It’s a pity she said. No, Its, Like, a pity.






https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H4NjrBcn0PA&start_radio=1&list=RDH4NjrBcn0PA&t=145