THE FIRCEST ROMAN LOOKED ASKANSE AT THE BURNING CITY…

Seeing Bill Clinton AS a lap dog and wave his tail for the Bush familia, even if cleverly so, after I had taken his debarred side in all his dalliances, as I had, I was appalled at finally his lack of grace catching up to his frame. Perhaps it is a membership in a war college like being a Spartan or working at ABC. The product must be pushed, interminably so. But, in the Bush junta and its dreaded Mikado Chaney, I am made aware that this is the cattiest that the land of the free and the home of the brave has ever been, as Oliver north was our Agesilaus II. After having framed himself just so well. But along with that corruption I am buoyed by the fact that again the Bush family thinks much more of itself than it should, and that its inbred stupidity outweighs its cleverness and hunger by four. All they touch will go to seed if that, and all with them will find they were looking out for themselves all along. I have known these sorts all my life, and I think that little of them.  - GORE VIDAL. 

The empire is in a sad place as Petronius said,  for a couple of hillbilly pigs who once said that the era of big gummite was over. Two weeks ago I said that Rip Taylor in Maine not only wouldn’t be a senator, a sadly demeaned term now, or make it to election week, or survive past my Leonid Augustine birthday. Timber. Why a gal asked me, interested in using my work. Because GRANDDADDY Bush held that seat, and the boys decided no drunkard Bluto was taking it with sweaty palms. Welcome to the Duchy of America. I say we look into the first stolen election since Gore's 1876, and that would be the 2004 election that Hillary as stupid enough to think was , like the least five years, done for the wife of a hillbilly rapist, who never could get a majority anyway. 

I don’t usually do this, as mostly post a essay a month, as my brother’s request, though I am still devoted to the résumé. But, don’t do social connections to my work, unless asked. But this woman has been awfully nice to me, as I never really care about getting accepted by anyone , but do bark back when I am sensing the sanctimony of clowns. As this third piece which she accepted for her magazine  not tje third piece I had accepted. accented, so suck my dick Elmo, I'm not the pout   looking for a bailout. 

All which is not always the case when bring these trilogies Infor a landing, as did get the parts with the king of crows in, but not when the city is a ruin, was in fact the true requiem for the goon at CBS, if not all of television now, as I have found it funny that though overfed whyte chix, we must use astrix now to avoid the censors rats. The hated Oligarchy who hid stories about Rip Taylor in Maine in bulk, until  the phone call from Kennebunkport went to the Times. Asked by someone else how I was so sure that Rip would never be a senator, I knew from the histories of Italy, a book almost a comedy by another Italian genius that fat women and perverts never heard of, no patrician was letting him past the marble door into grandpas seat. So, hags, sorry I recall the jokes so easily made at Valerie Bertinelli's expense, after all who would rape a woman with facial hair, after all, but the cows of Tarzan in mid empire, amazingly I don't care if You get it, with flyaway hair and bad skin and pop bottle glasses think they rule the earth. That it is strange that when they aren’t braying, someone makes films about Barbie, Oppenheimer, serial killers and now, Ulysses. But the Romans you are allowed to hate, amid the conquistador trash, they thought that Ulysses, a snide insult in the name as Jesuit told me, was the first war criminal. EVEN GIRLS I FIND ATRACTIVE AND CUTE AND INTRESTING LIKE Broey and Lindsay know that much. No fooling, actual GIRLS, know as much, so of course I root for its demise. as I can say I wasn’t  expecting Virgil anyway. The Hollywood J3ws laud the maker of that horse, but it was Virgil who said Aeneas, the first Roman, didn’t trust the idea of a Trojan horse. Or again, maybe that was Bill Clinton. Every wall written on is a triumph to me, as I neither tell or am told when I can say genocide, and don’t use tourniquets for my beliefs. As even two short paragraphs can bothersome be so to the new puppeteers at the DNC, like Doctor Evil and his wife pink sashed Penelope pitstop, as I, a good Italian,  know that i am not devoted to anyone who didn't pay me for it. The same museo does send me a come on, as I guess like for poor crippled kids, they share emails or buy them, as I wonder is that the mausoleum of art which they cloaked the doors because you couldn't drink the available water, wash your greens kids!, as if that's your attitude, shit, tell Elmo and his Univac that I recall a better America than you've left in ruins at GE. hell I can commence, as I'm not the one who is Marius in the wasteland, and I'm not sending out my papal nuncios like James Carvell and Van Jones to tell the see above relics of hippilands and Height Ashbury to cool it with the overfed commie crap. I. no, We miss you Mario. 

https://us.list-manage.com/c7VsviOPwbA?e=54674f9d9b&c2id=ccbe23a3a9155fd95a1a677dce4aefc8

There can be no better eulogy for what Hillary Clinton’s incessant needs have done to this republic than somehow that DAR hag has somehow made being a liberal synonymous with Having to admire Homer and Tolkien. When he finally did have devotion to his wife it was too much too late, as ma said it’d be, and a pig’s devotion to The Wife causes him now to be chained to the great white whale ala Ahab, or maybe just Greg Peck, and I  do feel badly for old sweet Roman Bill, after a life time of hidden brunettes and shot glasses and Captain Billy’s whiz bang read on the perpetual back porch of a more akin to the truth Mayberry in which the hillbilly Roman was caught. I feel for you Villa Bill, anything for Joe Shlub was a mistake, and his gummadi Gilda reeks with unanswered prayers, or half assed, the wasted of all Saint Teresa has the party Marches on towards its own destruction. As Doctor Doom Tony quest la Facci shows signora Fortuna is indeed a bitch goddess, a moniker that angelic looking Leslie made her smile. So do have the shit colored creep ala Ro Kaka, like the black face that tv gumbas wore once,  come in easily over five years ago and as the trash always does make sure that they keep little Italy off the map, cant you put the garbage over there, the suit alleges as the white women pull up the draw bridge as they always do. it means nothing to me, as those people have seen republics die from Affulenza before. The Italians have seen shit like Cornyn in a marble urinal desperate to get even for having to work for a living and be indeed stream rolled by Augustus, sorry Marius it isn't personal on my account, back when the beloved by ABC TV wop noble savages were still living in trees. 

I do recall a time when television wasn’t so vituperative, as we have allowed this Warhol might mare to send its wasps of the hive of celebratory to make us all Tru-er than we’ve ever been, and sadly studio 54 left us closed and only Aids in its Faucci wakes. So seeing overfed piglet women in that mausoleum and its queers dare thank the Innominatao without a Lucia to feel empathy for be appealed in his life’s work as Chuck said, of collecting the coins off the eyes of the dead, well it left me disrupted. But as Gore said, the thing in our republic’s favor is that the Bushes and remembered fatsos, that their viciousness and there schemes of dirty little mice, well, it’s always subverted by their inherent stupidity. Faustus Faucci he was the republican Livia’s doctor who told us it was only a virulent strain of Tuberculosis as an underpinning of the Regan cities, that took those Jesuits wholesale as I had noted long ago as we sang our little Sheppard Xmas carolers for the old dying men, another affectation that the Jew from Galilee stole from a Roman hated Mithras long before, Yet, knew as unlike some, feed the dogs first. I still though find myself at the TV at night, sore and battered as have ever been, and find myself back at Carlton your doorman or Schneider’s dumb waiters, the spited New York of even television Neil Simon as Oscar and Felix are on late, if I am doing a night unwell, entrenched against the Jew and wop hatred as the party finds, how about that!, they take out a second paper on the senate and god knows who is awaiting payment back. Trying to make iou's work for you, I can tell the overeating pigs of empire, never works, as the strip mined broads always want paid back. I do find myself back at the 12th precinct, Baltimore homicide, McMahon and Tate, The Mighty Carson art show players, and Reggie like Art Fern, though never queens and its lovable bigot, even New Rochelle thought it leaves me sad, but a more romantic brother said it served the Princess Bride Jewish translator as much, like a Mandarino. I watch the flat in Indianapolis that couldn’t just be three tailfin women and Guido Panzini as again a jewey interloper had to argue, but even I never thought a prissier version of Lee Grant, whom as a boy I loved would lead us back to middle earth if not Sack’s holding his wife’s purse, with broken bar straps held over his head, Clinton Bliss if there ever vasnt. My brother watches a man named Bannon from whom I got the whole Elmo Musk diminution, again Plautus called it dovetailing, quick gin up more polls that show what Shhpockets wants is all that anyone does, who is sure there is some aligned between deep red and dark green, ah but the democrats are busted, and cars veer into queer parades that even the Romans knew being of them didn’t mean you couldn’t build a magnificata basilica or lay waste to Gaul, if you could tell. As the Roman did say, as I place it seems upsetting to even HAL’S PROGRAMMED WARINESAS, THE HORESES THAT THESE MEN TRADE IN ARE ALL ALAS BEATEN TO DEATH. Although that might have been the famous anti- Mad that as in an early schoolboy’s hidden Lampoon. 

I feel for you oh Roman Bill, caught in this mausoleum as you are as the senators start to bite the dust. A house Negro says the senate is the next to go, yeah, you and what Visigoths…? , as the first thugs to rail against Mamdami that mattered where his bankers, fried chicken licking, lint picking, fast fashion weasel women. The Sanctiomois who wanted no part of drag queens, meth heads, filth, garbage and slime, wayward and haunted, anywhere near central park west. Neil Simon is not being replaced by Fellini, or god knows, Petronius, any time soon, Angel. As deep Red dark Green shows it isn’t an alliance as the over fed cvnts at CNN so thought, so goodnight unto you all. What bothered me was seeing overeating fat pugs of that marbled tomb take the side of Faucci as despicably, as all I recalled was there those jurists priests were dying off as early as 1977, to me in mere mid Lynda Crater and Valerie Bertinelli fugue. But, I did notice back then, that as we went to the old folks homes where forty year old society of Jesus who liked me more than a dirty eyeballed brother who they respected more, but still I saw enough of it all to know, something was up, and behind that queer less Grecian formula of the always even then needful Bush boys. Sorry, but what bothered me was in the sneering by venomous X, Christ in the insufferable Greek, which I don’t much use and its sentinel as if there were Pam am flights to the Luna Diana Moon, they’d be overpriced, if not grounded through the rains. What bothers me is that Univac and the fat bleated lesbians who don’t see the recrimination of spear holding Chinx who ask imperial Pooh where IS THE GODDMAN MONEY, …? A question always asked after the parade,  did go as they find themselves not being virulent enough, as any day on the Roman lunar calendar be the middle of a cold march. Though, what bothers me is that Grnox or Gronk or whatever thinks I care of this hateful little weed festooned kingdom, as if I gave a shit what happens to it and its plywood and plaster of Paris Rome. So F you Elmo Musk, and too, your sentinel too, and a toast to those priests that the now devoted to fat girls in that cesspool daring call itself a senate, whose dying  quilts he didn’t much notice, first. A filthy little wop who seems as sister Barbara Ann told me, loves death as do the neo cons though wears a bloody cloak of Claudius Galen, or a flag. taking the perpetual creed of such wops, a word used that I never used this much, but never does bother Elmo's Univac, ah Americanism in Americanism out...As a dago as usual takes a nolo contrenre in a barbarian satire of a Senate,  the fifth amendment, well is as far from Titus Livy than you’ve ever done been, and a long winter of Mario Puzo causeway and gray skies,  stretches all the way to Riverside. 

THE VIRGIN’S RAPE.

2 FEBRUARY 20

It is like what my pop told me, although he was a stoic at most things, his praise for me was quiet, but unqualified. When I asked him, why he was placing cartoons I had done on the wall of the old house where he played pinochle with his Jewish and wop and Negro buddies he told my mother that I as an Italian and a smart one would have enough people upset at me just on general principal. Now as I notice what the entire woman in the Weinstein trial look like I realize my parents was right about everything. You’ll know what I mean when Gummadi Rotund and the shysters come in a second car.

I couldn’t watch the Venetian like sentencing  hearing for actually pretty lesbian morality tale Ezra, as must say that one of the essays I got published this year and was allowed to concurrently place on a writing site–I look only for that an no fees now–was You are watching Curia Television about her. As with dear Harvey comics, I wonder since we are always being casted, I wonder if , like with him, she looked like one of the daughters of the Prairiea   and one of you little Suzy cream cheese and if Ez-Monic, the name fits in the crumbling duchy, dear, you should have went with it, I wonder if she isn’t being persecuted by a cheese head windswept wasteland Lake Woebegone , for not having had the American decency to be a pervert who is given a license like a dog. I was beloved by the brethren as could make the art of shyster hood, they even told me, seem romantic and classical, as they loved me equating the digest of Roman law with Paladin as I am sure, even though she makes her filthy lucre from it, some part of Gumma Donna must by now be shuddering at this many Beatrice’s trapped in the bathroom. She can’t be so money grubbing –its what separates the wops from the Jews, –a love of money isn’t as evil as the adoration of it. She can’t be immune to the kick line of brunettes that Harvey didn’t just rape like a common alleyway rapist, but emended and defamed them at a point they thought, stupidly, this Hebe wasn’t just a blond shaping ham who was perpetually unable to be taken out of Levittown, no matter how many blonds he had on the payroll. Let some dark Jerry pin down some cheerleader in a old dodge, and then find images of Caravaggio and sonnets to murder in hicks room, it wouldn’t have even gone to court.  

I feel bad thinking that a possible rape victim is being drug through the city, dressed as a Minerva if that, by the milk fed farmers in another witch trial the Romans and Italians never much bothered with having. Thank God, That Girl was on early today, as they have at Curia Television been devoted to trashing women as no one has since the last Clinton interregnum. It all proves a mother who knew deep down she was going called me over and begged me not to be come ,l even this late, part of the cesspool of America  in anyway, they cant wait to trash you here, as I’ve been warned all my life, and wonder if Cyrus the Vance didn’t just sue brunettes, thinking that the Clinton’s, Roethlisburger, they still on KDKA man caves call him a hall of fame, as if Godel wants any part of that rapist shit, and Tiger tigers burning down, that they don’t get here they remain today by making sure that only pizza waitresses and such, them kind of women, are the victims of their shitty advances. Did Cyrus the Great assure the Shylocks in laws of Venice that only brunettes be pleaded OUT as witches, always be casting, as he, hairy Harve, Frankenweenie, didn’t exactly cast Italian women in any other those crappy movies that the great Gene Siskle called warmed over Master piece theater, you know, where I Claudius is a Rome where everyone had blue eyes, cause that’s what it as like then at the West end.

The unwashed shysters of the house, the help since Romans Senate days, that corridor between deputies and Kings is a Styx, they don’t like rabble rousers coming into the hall of Augustus’s, are playing for history now. You know, the same way they declare war now, perpetually. That’s because the mezzanine is empty, again nothing in politics, like Machiavelli said, that I didn’t see better in Plautus. Next time you plan a coup, try to get the local CBS affiliate to not dump and go back to Dr. Phil, already in progress. Ah poor Hillary, shell never gets out of her perpetual wedding night. Again, another line I got from Roman farce. And the best part about the chaos in Iowa is how, like the NFL, how it doesn’t smell of being crooked. So, I read my incomplete Roman calendar as set down by Ovid in exile, more of a last letter of Vanzetti than any heinous letter from any Birmingham jail, but then, as cravenly as last week’s circus, I have to remover to Gödel the mixed race qb is never Jimmie G., but always the creep with mom’s blue eyes. At last may have printed Requiem for Ma, I am asked, emailed, for a picture and a bio, a hard thing to do in a land as decent and honorable as this one, as somehow they like their wops as dead vulcanized rubber corpse-men , i.e. cheating.

In Ovid, I read, it is very subversive, that this a later translation the Greeks have been eschewed for the Syrians and the Mesopotamians, you know where the wars are, and they admit Venus is an Italian goddess of the fields, with a shitckle of Isis throne in as this book loves bringing up Sam Hein, and a Roman Halloween. The writer, or translator, sees a honorable roman trying to hold back the first of many later messiahs who dare come to Rome and Italy looking for vines and women, and explains to them all past perfect, that for the temerity of calling himself a God, Romulus, is attacked by thunderbolts sent by Jove, again the Roman law of know they place. Easily when in ermine and silk. There is, he admits here, no word for SHE in Spartan Greek, only the definition for heifer or nag, as a horse. Remember that one, when the hags of empire start bitching about how they are above reproaches and beyond mere pronoun, that they don’t even bother to hide their knives well, and I, whatever I am, am not on the same side as some other greasy grimy weirdo Bob Hopeless who is doing the bidding of a Bush family, which just as Gore said they do, left the room a total mess. Maybe the land and the in laws who took Coriolanus, not even making it a comedy, as the early Italian did, he was a buffoon, ask Bill Clinton, he knows, and instead put it on in the park, a second straight year of others playing Romans as they all demand equitable casting, with literally buckets of blood. We are here to adore at the goddesses of comedy and tragedy, and not make I spit on your grave. I made a vow, a magical decree to my Mom that id send a curse on all those people in the curia who were going to get what they deserved, and in a matter of weeks, why the once Machiavellian democrats who had a wayward Augustus riding on triumphal chariots, with streamers and standards of yellow mistress ties, I won’t ever let you forget, not that tyrant Harvey has ever read Ovid, god knows, couldn’t put on a god damn Caucus, as smart are they, that the Romans put on in the bronze age. And when they stop putting them on, then you really have a snootful. Again, the empire strikes back. Destroy the republic…there an app for that…

#ovid#romanhistory#billclinton#courtTV#harveywienstein#metoo#rachelmaddowshow

WE’VE MADE OTHER PLANS, AND THEY DONT INCLUDE YEWWWWW...

It appears every August birthday of this rancid Resistance, again dont trust a Bush when speaking in French, the Jesuits taught me enough at the boys room to know that, I seem to be pounding out  late summer work for someone else.

This is a varying degree of success,as  somehow despite scads of work I’ve posted, low level comikers think somehow they will get something else besides Venus and Hercules all i have ever drawn since third grade and all i ever will. But have gotten my share out there, despite a Jew York Ti-ems coven and a convent of fat chicks thinking they could be an actual college of cardinals and decide a presidency, as they think they have and can since got a pig in a poke to get in, despite say having never shown his tax returns, unasked for when we needed to get a crime bill in, and if a largest stockholder of both Smith and Wesson and Walmart, and also Private jails wanted to wet her beak, what the hey...? So, am diligently reworking Hercules again, this time as The Black Knight, the last roman centurion in that wasteland that Barry's beloved Conan clomps along,a s it was a cartoon in which Aquilonius Silva, his name, eviscerated a Conan look alike, was seen as too much to an industry where Conan's bloodthirstiness was just fine, and soon would be torturing Lois Lane, BETWEEN THE HOMILES. i AM DOING MY BEST TO Hal Foster THIS UP, AS WHEN A KID, SAVED THOSE GORGEOUS PIECES OF ART WORK CALLED PRINCE  VALIANT, NOW CLEARED OUT BY A THOUSANDTH CALVIN, WITH A THOUSAND HOBBES. 

Still, But, I must admit a real love of this latest swerve I saw coming, as waredn Roman Bill to get out of Dodge , or better Salem, as best he could, lest again hed find out maybe he was the one, and not, Trump who had a target on his fatback, and had more to lose, as he like a character in dc comics was binned in long boxes of past. He was depersonalized, as if never made of ink or blood or drawn ay all. Duck Amuck. He’s now  wiped out.And now, in dibs and drabs, house everythings like Lester the molester  on NBC and Greek handmaidens have to explain how the stupidity of the people were for thinking ill of a couple who once wallowed in so much shit that the monuments they have made out of it, as seen in the history of your hated and demeaned Italy, are melting in the rain. As isn't it interesting that hours after i mentioned Mario Cuomo as the closest thing to Virgil in this peculiar hell, that nosy boy, Doofus, would so be taken aback by a hurled epithet, Fredo, that he’d didactically as some noted in lil Italy, as they always do, that he’d be willing and able to play into that role as the muddleheaded Sonny's that Jews used as muscle, back when the Bush Family  was still keeping them out of Yale and the Stork Club. Now who could believe that something out of the Godfather could possibly be a slur, as if despite the handwringing if it wanst for wops making their variations of TV aged Titus Androncus fulfilled with blood, no one would be watching a film industry that Oliver Stone percipient said would get too cute. 

How I wish my Mom could have lived long enough to have seen the beginning of the tasteless Program again like Italy this time against rich and powerful Jews, showing i was right again when mentioned Marcus Agrippa as their go to. I cant Wait until the enw found chorus of Pretty ,as the Jewish comedy writers woulds say, Brainy Brunettes, Della Streets all, of Court TV are doing color on the trail, yes told a gal use trail and trial indiscriminately as have watched a lot of Paladin, of fat bloated Shylock, my there are many of them now, thsout hast conquered Andrew Young! I CANT WAIT UNTIL ALL THESE PRETTY ETHNIC GIRLS ARE IN THE BOOTH TO WATCH THIS PIG FALL TO EARTH, lets Go to the Tape, Seema, AS A BAG PF SHIT CARTING BALLOON, AS PERHAPS AGAIN THEN THE BLONDISH HE AND HIS IN-LAWS POLLUTED FILM WITH FOR 75 YEARS ARE PERHAPS WEARING FUNERAL BLACK.Welcome to Coppola’s rammed down my five year old throat, it was Jesuit school after all, HOOO BOYYYYY!!!, DREAM of Italy come true, men in white suits and Sachs and each day a Columbus day, which i wait for with baited breath this year as AOC isn't sure what side to take in that principled stand what with her whiteness skin color and streetlight straight black hair being a conquistadors bequeathing. I  WOULD SENT Wendy Fiore IN TO DO COLOR,

THE DAY i AS A JESUIT LAWYER WOULD CALL Bill Clinton TO THE STAND, MAKING IT LESS like Anatomy of  Murder, or Orson as Clarence in Compulsion, no Attic-us Finch for me, though have always loved Gregory Peck since Roman vesaps my mother watched wistfully when I Was A boy. Let me have at Bill Clinton, hoped that Negro boy queen put him on the court, but his Miss Anne the one he bombed Magnis Leptis for, didnt want it soooooo...as i wanted to see that ball of shit go up against similar Italian- ate shyster Scalia, but alas he wouldn't be firfst lady either. I would have loved to see a #metoo parade of starlets with him as Flotus, wow there be a word Hillary sues with out least compunction, but alas think the only parade would have been going out the back door of the east wing, alert Sorkin, we have another setting for his overbolied an insult of Ma’s, Preston Stergis. A clutch of bunnies once hunted for,  when Hillary was under siege with missile attacks. I was tired of what was going on in those perversion castles that Manzoni couldn't delineate as did later genius Pasolini, boy Clinton agelessly tip toes through, to the point, me without the frame of a Answer like point guard couldn't chance it,as Aids was just then an early frost and Georgetown the north pole full of toy-making elves, all yet to be given voice by a screaming later Plautus, who would strip mine the graves of Zero and Jimmy Coco. It wasn't Inherent the wind but the Great race, a line i had Christine Baransky used  in my Spec Script, A BROTHER SAYS DONT SEND THEM. He still thinks Lorne Micheals stole my mob skit and ruined it in 1980, and dont feel like bothering to tell him not, that Lorne by then was gone before he realized hwe had found hid Chuck Noll’s lives work. Like, how wonderful to know that a raid of the Lolita compound, happily gone to while Wifely Hillary was failing and Flailing, like Tacitus alliteration is job 1,  in the fields of Campagna, yes why we still call it that, censor all you like, but no one can un-see an image of the wall,of Xanadu,  at least I called it a Villanovis, in my older tale, again to those in power who live in implausible deniability,  down to collected Sabine girls, welcome to the Satyricon, girls. 

The Commentaries of Clinton--The war years. 

There was, seen by a swat team going up in class than usual, an image of Bill C., one time catcalling clay Roman, as set in a blue shmata and heels. Do remember to wipe your feet, dears...Ah yes, Bill in not a Toga Prextera, the Etruscan dress blues, but a Dior fabulous original hung up there, with a marionette as pendulum in a weddings dress, showing this was never the Roman lives, or even Petronius, but just another flagging, shitty, The Good Wife episode, after everyone likable left, or was pushed out. oh, Bill, i thought you were more Roman than Greek. Yes i think once weave gotten to a painting in Drag hung on the hidden wall of a Jewish Shylock child molester, maybe you shouldn't have been as vicious to the Italians as you have been. So, again I await the flub machine, Bidding,  walking in a Sicilian parade, next year, a good year, my parentage on parade, as have an inkling as wonder if a post with no slurs i can think of doesn't bother a peanut gallery Twitter now being both Pat McCormick, and RW APPLE, i think Bill in drag isn't anything new as best Senora Fortuna saw him in such a garb when he was in that which i eshewed and almost feared, within the hidden vestibules of a bball factorized Georgetown. 

KARTINA RICHARDSON, YOU HAVE BEEN MENTIONED IN A POST BY NAME....

Haven't seen the dear Kartina Richardson, as much as before and there was that unpleasantness at Facebook...still, I had to get somehow in touch as thought about our zaftig little sweetheart, i don't know why you bother your pretty lil head about such weighty matters, as had to say to her what I have seen. A commercial in which a pretty English brunette was in a lab coat and making the sort of double meaning jokes the Romans loved in Plautus an such, was torn off the air, while at the same time, for the same industry,  there is a commercial with a bloated fat bumbling rippling Bellona of a cunt in the mist of the medieval Tolkien Nazi adored warfare we will all be headed towards, just as soon as Barry can use his niggeralia cover to, less Oberon than Flash Gorden each Saturday going to spaceship war against Ming, he shows his willingness to back down, his best asset all along. But I have some effect, as I was the only one who mentioned a commercial in which a guinea pig spoke like a Scorsese player and it is gone torn off itself. I was talking about the awfulness of the praetorian guard battering this poor dumb nigger to death over cigarettes,and sorry to the apology machine,  but cigarettes is what gives it is Roman oomph, like Caesar's men on Cato amid the woman and the dice players and the pimps and the stooges, the whole point is they are criminals, Jonnie. I heard nothing all summer and fall , Oh that was when you were trying to pull Grimey across the finish line as you all loved guns and the cops in ways the Italian worth their salt

never would. , oh well, looking for Romance here is a fool serenade. And soon enough occupy hags and fat jerks and Guy Marx mask wearing under grads will back down. You didn't have to make up a rape story doll,...Jameis was right there, but you'd never be bold...why you'll lose every time. I have written plays and books where the cops were becoming an occupation force in 2004 and had white women tell me... paranoid much...? So I have to cry on cue now...? hell, no it is a happy Saturnalia, hunnie, to the lesbians and the fags who aren't the ones I recall as  a little boy, we who adored Roman Feast and I who was given a copy of TAOIR, hows that for an initialed Epigram  kids,...?, which I read amid the tinsel  and wax and lead old balls and painted perceppios you all, like your grandpas, dutifully hate. As a boy, Barbie Batman Marvel and other heinous things were going bankrupt, but Regan, now the heir to Disney according to Beck, boy did you just say a mouthful pal, saved you all in time. Catiline and Don Meredith forever.

HELLO, DOLL.

With the feast day of Ceres, the blond Roman goddess of wheat approaching, the true pagan roots of All saints day, distorted by Germans into Halloween, which after all is just dirt bag barbarian carnival, I came to end my filmed essay, WOP LIKE ME, as enlist a first cut. I didn’t have the wherewith all or money of almost anything to get it done as I wished, which again gaining admiration from Jesuits and Flavia, the last Nun of my schooling, I can make art out of anything, but then, those days of admiration and the like have been recoiled by dower business and atonement long ago. I could never find the Lear I needed, as Robert Di Nero and Marty find their wholly black arts palmed in the usual vomiteorium of Hollywood independent zombie movies and Halloween ghost stories, which have lost its punch now that they is all they make, as this October has been from hunger at the mouse factory, them not the first to find their dower little puppet shows as anathema, if not boring entirely, and becoming a middling product with lessening returns. Not surprisingly, the nickel plating icon status of Marty has begun to chip I note, and more and more people discover a certain empathy with how it feels to have been Sicilian. The usual liberal shit about American Indians now just seems dirtied and cruel.

Most of all, I am quite proud of my totems here, the first since 1979 to make a film, issuing only a small Sony consumer camcorder, a block of dick blick paper strong enough to make paper skies, posters, graphetti, the Romans art form, paper dolls of recalled great playboy Italians starlets before the Reich became insufferable, and less than five hundred dollars, the least amount one can spend on a movie at various websites, and made my argument not so much against Martin, but for me and my fathers race of affable scoundrels.

And most off I couldn’t find the vestals I need here the most for whom I caught the old coca cola chipping walls that I had, hoping to return to them with the goddesses in white sheer lace if possible, whose imagined storyboards in my mind I placed in the thing as placeholders to where I wanted their images to go. So, My film is complete and done, as much as it could be said to be, under these conditions . Still, as I completed the film mussing as much in the public domain to make my points, smiling black hand white shipping frescos of there own of beautiful gorgeousness like Jane Russell as queen starlet per excellance, before horrid Marylyn made Hitler’s dream real, sound effects of Orson with Jiminy cricket and the Looney tunes cartoons in the dole, the roman affectation of public domain another example of their impiety, by that meant that the nation that burned civilians alive in Hiroshima makes up for it by keeping Daffy Duck cartoons in vaults, I found enough to make my points, at a bargain.

Un willing to dismiss the Oviddian night dream as mere brain shitting at night, I had another dream in which remains of the vivid bludgeoning of the bright and shining leis of day meet and smash up against the recalled senses I have of Franciscan poetics, Italian artfulness, nuns and their holy cards covens of barley hidden sexuality, and the inamorata I so seemingly need. In this, in a Panavision age recitation dark poolside of Randolph Scott party preparations, surrounded by my inner recesses fakes and hacks and constructors of a cinecittta kind, a girl seen in many commercials now, twinkles like so much leaden laid Christmas tinsel, dirty and sad and plastic smelling, A blond too big and Blond to make that jump, in this Hollywood hills almost constrain era closet everything Capote era patio was aloof and distant and both resentful and toying with me, yellow pages of Cattiline bound under my arm. Jewish cartoons were everywhere, as sun drenched creatures spoiled around as I was in black suit and black ray bans ala Fellini, not a favorite again, so, again don't know what that signifies…

I was again, trying to gain the attentions of this forever starlet , as I played player as heartily as I could. She was aloof as I SAY, demanding automation be paid to her grotesquely maden form, in commercials where she sells razors to men who actually price razors, she was not this fat, porcine even, sadly, enabled, squarely large form, a Marylyn of rots allowed to be a diva of carbohydrates due to the silver Anderson Fox tint of fake Argent in her helmet hair. Into this Altman esque scene,  to the Patrician delight of the Trimicilian crowd, a lovely nameless gal, rounded and sexual, but not in the vulgar bikinis and one pieces of the hostesses, but a maids outfit came in, I had been thinking about the cop maniac whose killings and pistol whippings of maids were not so anger enduing to smirking high yellow times tokens on dying television game shows, and stated giving out drinks to men who looked like Jack Nickelson in various stages, from the Raven to last detail to yearly Christmas old man star turn, of life. But this time, she had hair as black as night and cut like shit, cowlicky, and cropped as in a style Lucy Ricardo would call 'the Italian starlet way', allowing her to vamp in ways unallowed when one was a fallen American red. She asked me if I wanted a cocktail, all were Vodka, why who knows, as I said I am not so Cavalier to throw away the night buses of the internal mind. No thank you, I said, as she sat down tired and relived the venation of a round butt that was pored into a…of course what else…?, pardon of a maids outfit. Would you like to be in my Film, Doll…? I asked sheepishly. Are you kidding...? the brunette as even here relocated to maid reverie in Blond turgid Hollywood said. AT this, she tore off a black maids outfit, and reveled herself as a Venus in a white one piece, ample and supple, voluptuous and healthy. I had envisioned this scene before, --and even once for my film. The Jack Nicholson’s, of a sort all took notice as per usual, the queen bee found a rival to something more and other than the mere sugar daddies and old man stink, secret boy friends and sperm counts she collected. The girl went into the pool as a reverse Venus, and bobbed back up with smile and I took it all down in Sony DVC Panavision, as was my want. I do get a certain resentment to having forgone all I did to eventually find myself sneered at by lower case filmmakers, bullshit artists, and this was a dreamland reaction to always recall to stay true to my anti Blond anti Cicero polemics, and to always follow that girl.

The meaning of the film is that I was shocked to notice in the land of the free and the home of the bribed, that house bag men like Copula and his ilk, seemed almost insulted if anyone, or was it just me...?, dared say anything about their blood operas and over lit pasta bowls. After forty years of his tripe I have to show my bone fides by somehow watching what I say about the black bag artists and the white men in drag...? Well, I am this way because I knew a better class of perverts than those who smile and wink and dance on the Rachel Maddow Show. Big Tony wasn't shocked that more people go to health care looking for freebies than looking to pay, the praetorians are aghast, but is just Roman 101. As My brother told me I aint a guerrilla anything, and fly Cesarean flags too red for that. I now merely wait for Movie maker to take the hour and half, I really did sweat out and over do and recut only about fifteen minutes of film, but it was that last section called 'Cattiline' that made me feel as an artist, like I once was. I await for the slow process of making the clips and taped together images a Movie file, as Wop Like me, is done.



http://www.youtube.com/v/cLZOjROpfVY?version=3&autohide=1&showinfo=1&autohide=1&autoplay=1&feature=share&attribution_tag=DDFVfLnPN9VFlnxPS7eGcg

KODACROME.

I wished for this to be the summer of George, as I have said before, and it turned out about as well as it did for Costanza, as I was hopeful of getting some unhurried and needed work undone, perhaps not be a good American and watch the blood sport that is trial television as we hurl people not to lions but to the boys of Columbia, whose fangs are worse and from whom, unlike Daniel, showing the zeitgeist of the times, there is no escape.

Then, I saw in the middle of our summer of George, that of course a self appointed paragon of truth and life white girl spoke of George Zimmerman, and once you are made evil by the self announced self professed good white women, the Graces, or harpies, I am no scholar after all, there is again no escape from devils island. Here in twitter, the graffito of our time and tides, some white girl posted in the morass that is public etchings now, that the black girl who was on the defence team, and this from a white girl mind you, was a traitor to her race. I didn’t trust the white chicks who came out for thou fandango of self love that was the beatification of hoodie boy, yes the word where Beatrice comes from, as seeing fat girls crying at the verdict I couldn’t only think they were surmising in a world already mean towards them there was one less brother to date.

Taught by the Jesuits, they made me look out hateful grandmas for who called my father various names as he dared walk through a town he had been in for forty years, I always find it instructing hen a white anything calls me a traitor and or a credit to my race. AH, No moor than you hunnie, fat and or sickly white skinned brunettes THAT I AVOID, SAYING SOMETHING THERE, who take succour at the ghetto door. And she want on to show the spasm of strangely prinicpate love of the Prosecutors, they that lost one finally which pleased almost darkie me, that this was turned into as the Negros on dutiful watch, made a point of blotting out the Prism. The idea of teams and sides, and trashing a defendant as I haven’t even seen in Casey Anthony, never said for Jews outside of Skokie Ill, --I have freedom of speech, you bus my table, --that this woman was on the wrong side of history or herstory. Well the Jesuits were dead, after all, as I recall a more liberal Time, when the defence of anyone, yes even someone white girls and niggers, heavens to Betsy, don’t like, getting a fair trial and a defence council has been sacrosanct in America, yes even the left now replaced by a white man Salo, as was in Rome all the way up until Constantine, hint hint, gals, when he sanely, with God’s will, a jury trial, was soon to be gone from history until Runnymede in 1066. The idea of game show trails, for such is what this is, as I perceived a while back, was to evaporate the fourth and other amendments, with of course the preferred niggers as contestants, come on down!, Lets spin that wheel of Fortuna, ah Fortune, and justice, is something that Negros think they can buy like stock cheese from day massas, was to be replaced by HLN, sorry colleges of priests always on the take and willing to always come to an agreement that no rich mans daughter would be cast as witches or priestess of Satan. Like I said, Hln. There is always another Monica to throw into the pit, here in decent liveable Stossle’s America, and if they don’t have one, they’ll make one, they the purveyors of the commedia dell arte in ways that would make the Borgia Milanese blush.

What good side of history is this white chick on I thought…? I haven’t spouted in posts as was in the middle of film flaming and too my brother told me the goons are out and are looking for anyone to pillory, ah Snowden hit the sanctimonious hard, and they are on the outlook now for Personae non grata, my sharpie brother tells me, more than ever. Unlike Scorsese the fulcrum of the short digital piece, already I am on thinnest Como ice, my elders here all read Latin and Italian in ways I do not, maybe why I put on more airs than they do, but even still from the scent in the air I know to avoid any white woman talking about a defence put on for anyone as an anathema to her good history lessons taken from Negros good enough to be called on cups in happy meals where no italic can ever be, god kwnos, certainly not Sacco and or Ariosto. Oh, maybe Scorsese is a good banner for some Italians American parade where they can have a moment of silence for dead and goine porcine Jimmy. They are looking for escape hatches and thus have to caterwaul hard and loud, he tells me, they having studied ethics at Milton’s tower, harder and faster is always is the con, as the candy coating of that cunt Obamas is flaking off and the insufferable are looking again for witch trials. Too I have been tired and working diligently. I had eighteen days to make a film, having not touched a camera since 1979, a millennium ago, for god sake, and haven’t been like I was been with comics and or writing, doing my own variations there of, I had to realize I had a little over two weeks to figure out digital filmmaking when I hadn’t even done much of the old line stuff.

　

I, Having the heart of a Jesuit and you can take that to mean anything you’d like, sometimes wish to show my allegiance to the ideal of the worker. Hard work never killed anyone, as nuns would say, so sometimes in my leisure something may come up which causes me to show my devotion to Vulcan, roman God of fire and labour, as he appears in Ancient Romance, in Tuscan version, Sethlands. In this, he has a crew of diligent walkers, all Sisyphus like, who with Herculean stretch roll balls of mud up the fields of the night, to cement, this being an Italian myth, the creation to the inevitable spheres of the universe, which it, seeing the earth as a infringement and a incubus, as does brother God Jove, who fears Sethlands, often shown as a black god in china induced Italian walls and reamed Satan by always affable and money launderers from Semitic lands, wishes to repel. This idea of the universe kept in harmony by the both moving of the universe always outward and it being repelled by the divine, appears in linen scrolls in Tuscan mounds eons before Albert Einstein couldn’t quite figure it out. But then there is nothing really in Einstein one cant find in Bruno, the one of many Italian heroes you don’t know enough about to sick the middlebrow fem studies white women on, and haven’t heard enough about to diminish totally. With this as a ethic to go back to, wishing sometimes to nail creation to the ballasts of night out there, I will occasionally take upon me a task to get something done, again, the getting of something done, its own and sometimes only reward. SPOLIER ALERT!





I do this to some consternation, but it is all true and in fact have done things that eerily mirror things done later by money grubbers and circus owners without my panache or my grace, or even the flair I show when pulling things out of my ass. In 2007, around the time of getting into comics again to get a résumé of some, hell not heft, even substance, for note at all, I sent a screenplay to a horror movie maker in of all places as I recall Georgia. It was a satire of Chillier Theatre, one I have mentioned before a staple of Pittsburgh television when I was a boy. It was a triple header in this play, as he, chilly Billy sometimes showed movies that were so cut to ribbons as a kid, sometimes it was just as a collage of filmmaking I would imbibe these b movie schlock classics, eat them up, as one imager went into the next, with Zsa Zsa on Mars turning into a Sam Spade film noir not done by John Huston, to kung fu movies, of entered dragons and frying girrotines, and an occasional Hercules from Steve Reeves addled Roman theatres. Cinema Paradiso. So I sent the script in and it was about a man and wife tv anchorite on Saturday night showing these bits and pieces of movies, b- movies, included here were Bikini Dracula, eventually made fuller and its own movie, but with some of the same aspects, Hondo Joe, a spaghetti western done during the sad industrialization of Italy, and The Bounty, a satire of star trek in which the always missing fro the Enterprise Italians under a man named Romulo took off to destroy the happy little space ship of collected good credits to their race, a bit like a satire I write as a boy that has echoes of the Star Trek Wrath of Farrakhan skit that is a classic. The newest found then images of a sports by brooks goddess named Wendy was the model for a ensign girl in pony tail who rebuffed the advances of the ZAPP BRANIGAN LIKE KIRK, but who fell for always invading and always recompense needful Captain Romulus Zapperone. This was so long ago, it was before I took that name and handed it to Joe Mister Stupendous, as a pseudonym which he would use when in unromantic street clothes, a date for Miss Kitty at happy news years 1978 at Eaton‘s penthouse.

The reader loved it, the associates too, but the Peachtree owners here were that Fangoria type and again, like compassion, satire gives the game away and is something the sanctimonious don’t engage in. When asked what I need to make this film, again realising I can make art out of anything, or at least hope I learned as much from parents and jurists who went through the open cites of American expansionism, I told them I would do this quickly and succinctly and cheaply, just again, to get it done, something of a punch line now, but not the worst sort of ethic and or rubric to write on the wall. All I need I said, to accomplish this was a shit load of Kodacrome and some super 8 cameras.

I was alerted then 6 years ago, that Kodacrome was done, finished, that digital was the way of the future as uncle FF had decided sadly, as the flat digitalization process of awful movies by Jackson and other monster movie makers leaves me cold. But it was cheap and quick and fast, I was assured, and could be done on a computer. Auger that I am, I kind of figured a lot of my waiting and a load of my turning way from opportunities was to allow for the coming age I was told long ago was the future, computers doing everything, an Asimov dreamland, in which the gates and towers of the Zoetrope’s and worse, were not only not needed anymore as a certain Republicanism took hold, the graffiti on the wall, as it were, which is way hangers on of that old emblematic epoch of speech codes, bell ringers and sackcloth and Monica caretakers like Mo Dowd cling happily to the gate keeper island of Doctor Pauline Kael, as if one isn’t anointed by the new York times, they somehow melt like witches, unseen and unnoticed, like a Dantean apparition of demononology. In two weeks and some I would have to face that future I heard about from a friend in the debarred from Jesuit high school in which I abandoned forthwith, a good kid I was becoming friends with, son of a local detective, who saw the computer as the magic box that would rape television in its ass, he said, and almost everything he told me, breathlessly as If I a dweeb at heart, and smart could understand what was going on there. This was a call to a future then unheeded, as fat chicks I had known since middle cesspool public school were now freed of the St. Joe’s low calibre wops now entombed in public schools as the tuitions went up, were still playmaking things like seven minutes of magic in their parents freaks and geeks era closets. This was I took it, as my chance, all this time later, the Canon non contest, a meteor coming out of the sky, one ridden by Richie Cunningham, of all people, and I was to be come at least, devoted to the cause as not having done before.

I worked so here, quick but not fast, taking my time, diligently and circumspect, piece by piece, line by line, slicing thru days at least with looking up a essay called Life of Brutus because of a well timed virus to hit my computer the very moment that I attracted the attain by accident of the jersey Maloccio of the Scorsese troopers. I was careful as I can sometimes be, at times too careful, not just quickly whipping something up as I did with Rag, somehow amid the diminishment I feel is my usual go to with such types as these, still, a comic snerd did manage to say my comic done quickly in four hot summer afternoons was better than most of the shit that marvel spews out. Outtasite!

I downloaded windows movie maker, unlatched in this latest computer, of course, my Emachines which showed all movies and opened all works files now in a landfill, and learned on the fly how to do this, instructing enough as files called Flv were unread and unseen by it, losing two days as switching from the camera access to the small memory card, as I was told to do in a tutorial, no shit, caused nothing I had taken and co-opted to pixels had stuck or at least would stickle to Wmm. Then I realised around July 12^th that movie maker didn’t make movies per se, it made templates that had to be made into movies. In the first weeks of summer I called this all together, shot by shot, scene by scene, slowly I turn…I awoke at dawn to catch the decay of rotten unhidden Pittsburgh in golden hour light, I walked outside shoeless in the middle of the night at one to catch the apostolic waxing moon of saint Francis, over the dark lines of black trees. I avowed to avoid Zimmerman and the balloted pigs of American minstrelsy, with a passion only catching enough to have my Jesuit heart warmed by Garagos, who shows the middle earthed Mediterranean ethic at its best, as black chicks and Jews now play whom do you trust as good and sanitized christened as stators Torquemada’s, that pejorative to the prosecution table a remnant of three priests who placed me in Jesuit pre law early on, demanded I read Hercules in fourth grade made in me a slow assuredness, image by image, take by take, wall by wall.

The contest made you collect a passle of other men’s photos to sue, with Ron Howard’s a single leaf, actually the best image of the bunch, and spoiler alert, that bit of apple polishing may be meaningless, and I clicked one image after the next that I thought I could sue, dilapidation, a river, a golden girl vestal, etc. This was a bit much, I think a few images from Ron would have been enough, but then we are selling canons here, which I have nothing of theirs, all the photo equipment down to the sound mixing is Sony, the kodacrome of now. I like Fugi Too, but alas film is dead, cant you tell by the flat earth we see now around us. This time, instead of the mad dash rewards genius and or destruction I always use, the doors of heaven and hell as they say, this time I placed in with industry and aforethought that which I enacted to show, not as enamoured with the shock of the new that I am always trying to show myself, as I am assured my mistakes are better and more deep and more assured than the thoughtfulness of others, having read too much Mishima.



I began to become more in the weeds of it all, the green leaves of Ron became the emblematic ideal of the laurel. But too, the overgrowth of green and brown in a town being swallowed buck up again by the surrounding earth. As, abortion and porch monkeys on the take for electric companies having taken it toll. As I was doing this ode to decay, showing my masters touch, Detroit, like Tokyo was brought down by its own Godzilla, a lizard made monstrous from a hundred years of chemical dumping. Having studied Da Vinci’s colour wheel, not the usual one, there is no brown in the usual one, I noted and limitedly took hold of da Vinci’s studious colour theory, as green is the colour of spring, but also, in his genius amended, is the colour of poison. Now, the Laura was not only a signage of Victoria, but of forehead peccadillo as Dante showed. The leaf was symbol of earth, but of poison too, was that a poisoning ivy leaf I saw near the garage…? Did it matter…? In the over growth of green from incessant local rains, there is graffiti, the Romans art. Fuck you was spray painted by someone adds to a garage barriers asking that someone named Dre be freed, they are innocent, aren’t they always…?, as Juvenal noticed, don’t laud him gals, he’s a motherfucker. Ah, but Tacitus is dropped from the middle brow pantheon, I can always tell when sometimes has read as much as I have, or some, when they rat back away from their bellowed concerns, having turned the page. As I have mentioned to too many who count that he invented white mans burden when speaking of the Turks…!…and that he invited later phrases that Boccaccio found in that MSS, LIKE PORCH MONKEY AND WELFARE QUEEN, there is only so far one can go with a decline and fall after all, Juvenal becomes a rapier wit, a now beloved figure Romans as sinister and quoted by Grouchos on fox business network, where the wops and yids know their place, and staccato means what it was meant to mean, sadly enough for old Junius. In the green red lips of Beatrice, my logo --at least something came of it all, amid the emerald plants. Poster of Unusable unusable Inominata, boy I hate when house wops use the feminine of Italian like Coppolla, was Wendy Fiore. Here she was a truer Beatrice, posted up on the wall a crumbling red brick wall, red meaning both love and war, admiration and passion, a placenta and a stabbing, Da Vinci was no hack, and knew all in ways that still bothers the Groeneings to this way who think, because their robots and father idiots are given voice by Italian, that the whole raza is open to them to demean as Lisa lectures us with cafeteria knowledge of the Buddha’s. I, therefore by thought around July 14^th I was on to something.

But the only places I could film I was ousted of downloading the guerrilla filmmakers handbook were falling through. The old lady I thought still the church secretary was long dead, the one who told my brother I could draw like an angel when I was kid. And now polish priests had descended upon the old schoolboy holy Mount as scrambled jets of piety. They are , the pole’s better god know than the Irish, who will at times be true to their stereotype by the numbers and ask a human milk dud in his fathers suit, how many times can I bash your head into a wall when that self same lawyer hyping for his spotlight and close up speaks of not that much blood commixing from Zimmerman’s nose. As the queer Jesuits taught me, everything can be reduced to millilitres if need be. It was late in the evening and I blew that room away.

Ah, but thing’s as of July 23, 2013, 3:28 PM are calming down, not for fault of fox loving showing revolting Negros wherever they can book them, as usual mister Wet Blanket came out and almost admitted to being black, causing my face book friend at one time Kordell West who once gave me a like despite my calling him Kordell, it was all in good Pun, and Im sure he got the joke, called the whole thing pointless and useless, with Tavis calling Obams spittle warm Kool aid. Now where have I heard that one before….? I always raise a Jesuit eyebrow when the Spartacus card, marked of course, is bottom decked sued by Amercing darkies, even the Sicilians, almost Jewish in their litanies, at least among themselves and ignored by the hbo boys who need a minstrel show to be excempt from their libertine aspects, ignore him. Ah, but Obama’s latest take on this ethic, to say after five days that “I am almost Like Sparticus“ sort of, as he has made a career of tap dancing away, it made me laugh and showed the underpinning of narcissi to it all. What scared you more, Travon’s death or the life of Travon, boy….I have an inkling. The Jesuits made sure I knew Spartacus had his own slaves, like later white men wishing to cry freedom, like how Mrs Mandela liked chocking little black kids, the whip is all, and it was never Spartacus who as adored as much as Cattiline, willing to be a mad senator, that best of things unseen now, when my mother was still a little girl in Italians hillsides.

I found I couldn’t film, on a camera now reconstituted to mirror real films as learned from the handbook set at 24 frames a minute, that is closest to film I take it for any kids out there wishing to recall the ancient palimpsests, and placed it on soft focus, toying with this though have always been a fan of Greg Tolland and deep focus. The day for filming the cheap tripod broke but was sued and thrown into the bundle, and was so small I doubted I could get anything but the curb side by keeping it anyway. And of course, into this, a nagging voice started to bother me. I was fifteen and making super eight films in an attic sued as a studio, more room than I have now, --thanks a lot Pelosi!-and here was in the dwindling days of 47 years old, good lord where have I been…?, doing something irrevocably the same, as was always too good and too much of a saint to back down and give any inch. Well, now GE keels backwards out away from another two bit nigger Cattilines ballooning about riots, marking this as against stand your ground, as even self defence is fungible to the law hacks, cardinals all, you know, lest someone who got Tarp be shot by accident as opposed to the mounds of dark flesh drug by tankers not barges by Charon each and every day in the hoods. They want assuredly out of hoddie wearers who were amid bludgeoning men’s heads into curb sides, so I guess sanctimony and beatification isn’t what it is cracked up to be, so to speak. No really I would ask Crumpie and the dude from the Eagle try outs in Its always sunny in Philadelphia, how may times can I bash your head into a cement wall, ooh wait that would be a hate crimes. The democrats I was warned by nuns always exempt themselves first. Google the words Canicattì massacre before you ask me to sanctify you least less than Ghandi like whip me beat me make me feel cheap negro saint Perpetua.




　

In two weeks I crated the seven minutes of film-or this approximation there of, and was complete. But I had no idea how films were made in the digital age, and started by hitting done and then clicked on ‘save movie‘. Film as something real, something sunken now as white women dance about having lost their curves amid weepy sob sisters speeches given by our lamentable Marc Antony over the body of Traven, as opposed again to black dudes who were killed by spics from the U who play gangster on Sunday Night Football. He like the victims of the wayward cop not a tin badge cretin fast enough, their bacterium of compassion in our college of cardinals’ is always emendable, second person as Machiavelli said is everything, as the roll of the die and the spin of the wheel never seems to go just so on 21 news game shows for them, and no Larry magnificent or not nor will chipee Alexandra, why did I think pretty half breed Alex was an Alexis...?, ever bring them up. Even a non-Jesuit taught creep must know that situational ethics, a catch all so that certain sorts can never be evil wrong or seen for hat they are, are no longer ethics at all. And your wackamole bought and paid for ethic mean nothing to me. How great is it to se the Pius the third scaffolding already up on the monument to Martin, how great is that I, for someone who was pilloried for every pun to know that America got his textus receptus wrong, if not on purpose, by dismissiveness, who showing our darkie incompetence is always below the surface like an alligator, or in my case Excalibur. Yes in Romans annals, a story appears where a sword is flung out of the water at an early republics hero, but then like Shakespeare and Christ, if everything Romanism was taken out of these authors again as usual you’d have barbarian slop.

So, I WAS I THOUGHT, wrong, stupid, and was done. But, in trying to covert these file to a film, which I stupidly a child of the millennium of Michelangelo thought as made and done and whole, was in fact merely a futurama phantasm of 1’s and 0’s and was nothing like Greek until a paid interpreter could make it all make sense, or sense enough. For two days, I kept trying to have the intent gods of tubes take this grainy film aping scenery and make it real, honest and true, which film itself would have de facto have been from the beginning. I kept hitting the all at 14 percent and needed three days to make a film a whole thing and I yearend for the days of 1979 when before the fall I was still at least dealing in things that were actual and real, and not yet having made magical to the point of electric non-existence. It took me a whole to download too the codex needed for this translation which Microsoft in its infernal ways of the demonical business dealings of the least bubble and fall, or as it the one before that…I am losing track as is my want…doesn’t bother to tell you. I think I took it as a given from the Charlie Rose shows about the age of enlightened this is, or maybe it as Zach and Miri, that Digital film was easier than this. Again I did not figure on theta first day in the Venetian harbour was not counted. There is a Spanish acceptable turn on Romeo and Juliette, which was sued often by white girls to hide their prejudice against the Gumbas who gave them welts and orgasms worthy of ice cream Shoppe’s, but it appears that this story like so many in Grimm’s was found in the dark Cresses of unread in Brittan and thus unread Babblers of Italians, so like so much in our Emily Latella world ahs been dropped. I may have mentioned or at least alluded to this is the movie file, Movie One, or Wop like me as Proposed to file it and send it uploaded to the Cannon contest an the Richie Cunningham who is the exemplar of an Gerry Marshall America that I never felt I belonged to or wanted much to. It as now starting to cut it close something I thought this time I wasn’t in the mood to do.

I set it up and disrupted to download at 9 in the evening on the 21st. I had lost three days playing with movie makers, where as if these were strips of film they were already made back when I was a boy. Then I was to add something about myself , oh little old me? …I so hate to speak about myself, --which something I usually can revel in, but didn’t feel like playing Franciscan barrister with a fool four a client this time. I had to place in the title. Wop Like me. Heh.

I was accosted by red letters, as red as the church that copula has defended das much as he ever railed against it, like good frauds like he and cable hostess do. Watch your mouth, I was told by the house of Opie, the variation sounding less like Hal the supercomputer and more like Francis Bavier, aunt Bee, Bea too, you know, Italian for the gingim for Mary Lou in the American vista that even Woody Allen has always both been repelled by and secretly dreamed of bettering with Diane Keaton as Virgil to explain these interiors. You have to be, as my buddy from arts school said, shitting me. I can’t edit this film now its nine o’clock on the midday before the deadline, or what I thought as the deadline, not exactly great at PCH time travel, tell me about it. So, always clever as was smeared by the gangster squad maker thinking isomer Ariosto. I PLACED IN : AN ACRI RADIO FILM, which due to my pretensions,, appears before the title Wop like me, my title, hops getting a figure on things appears only in a cartoon at a poster before--no wait, I’m not that smart. It does appear at the end in credits --thank you very Much Francis Fiord Copula and other evil eyes you’d like to push on, get me some rock salt to throw. Wop like me, it appears, was unacceptable to a man who made his career by letting a Jewish man play out lords of Flatbush until his retirement, so nice to know that finally I am avenged and having done reams on how ‘Wop’ as a word that the blue noses never seemed willing to censor was now, so the jokes as usual in America was one on me, but at least I wasn’t either a man bludgeoning a man made into saint and neither was I another of your sanitized victims whose stone monument had to be enclosed as it as yesterday so as you can resort to actual quotes. I wrote down ‘Life of Brutus‘, just to fudge things, and when I went and had to write down what I was doing and why explaining my work again too tired now for usual enjoyments, I found where I set own my thoughts of placards and posters and Romans street art, I found again, strangely I got another watch your tongue as I write down the word Roman. Well that does explain much.

I was crestfallen as actually placed much time and senses into this small film, as I have said, and was left with what seemed to be a beautiful corpse as something out of Boccaccio’s Italians sonnets or the line up at crumbling democratic television. I was broken down and felt awful as this time was hoisted on my own petard, as though knower of all things, in a Jesuit way I didn’t really have any facts on my side, and didn’t know it could take days to replicate a shit load of Kodacrome.







I was beaten down, but had until 6 am and allowed the film to unroll into their severs, saddened more than angry or anything else, that the time I should have actually been at a horse trot clip the day I should have been more Cattiline I was more Bruno, looking literally as the phases of the sun, something he thought up before anyone, sure that the sun wasn’t stationary but turned like the earth, something he was as burnt for at a stake, and so cannot be mentioned even ironically by Martin Soreasy, the Charles Foster Kane OF MY MARCH OF TIME HERE, who likes to act like all Italians are in his varmints personae and god help you if you think it isn’t so. I was afraid of being shut up again, shut up by him again, as he is nothing but the recitation of the principia, like a good hatchet man is, a good clown is always paid by the circus who uses shim, no one is a clown for gratis,-- except maybe me. And like I have said, I am more akin to the madman in the Romans street, wearing twigs and piss stained mantels and issuing poison oak as a crowing of not so much thorns, as that a too fixture in Livy long before Paul or one of the Jew babies scribes stole it, as who would know better than them how to skirt even rudimentary copyright laws of the Romans state. I was psychically ill, and not just from a constant diet of lemon heads doing a childhood number on my guts and making my teethe inflame. I sat down sadly owning I had just fucked up another opportunity at which I am great, as being made into a granite slab in a fashion the Romans called a frieze and which often then not was sued to show demons coming up and out of, remember Gregory and Audrey in Roman holiday, kids,…? was not my hope ever. I sat down and was not in the mood for a boy from then bus named Stossle to ask if Ameriax, the going concern in more ways than one, US STEAL, I could go on, was becoming Rome. You wish, I SAID, OUT LOUD AS A STUDENT OF FATHER GORE. You wish.

Like a cheat figure using banking as a catch all for the divine as his sort of Semite always does, sorry mob wines has buckled my inclination to see too polite, these Semites are so dependable as he trashed Rome before an audience of Christers and Mormons who look like what Tacitus called the barbarian class, when he got too close. Here, Groucho Stossle, late of 2020 after the mugging that shows no matter what you think, the republicans will never disappear in a nation that is getting irremeably old, no matter you Cicero attempts at cosecant youtt and viga. I WAS SURE that I fluked ups something I didn’t even know about three weeks ago, coming in late and unprepared, as usual. Why didn’t I make a student film, a student anything, as after all even in arts school with no less than Dorian Clevenger who I tried to befriend before I heard how hack -ish he thought I was, me beneath his heavy metal arts. Shit Tonto, Ill be friends with anyone. And wishing for compatriots who are good as you is middle brow and too womanish for me. I think, a teacher told me, it was something else, and if I were as incomplete as he presented me, as students would race to see what madness Old I had brought in now, as Ciotti called my purple heart and other story boards and comics better than marvel, see I’m sued to it, --well it was something else, I was assured.

http://youtu.be/57RIlznOpDM

I have been sire of my Welles-ian attempts at beginners luck all along. Why didn’t I at least figure out the basis of the art and lave the notes of Zimmerman to the peanuts gallery. Because as a Jesuit I am a friend to the friendless. And recall I lost an opportunity to have something made a year ago but a July Fourth post creed against Nancy Grace and pro Casey Anthony called Graceland posted elsewhere, made me too close to a criminal to enthused white folks, which as an Italian I was probably there already. Now I see on the newsroom that suddenly everyone recreated what a witch hunt this was, equally to s ay now that Nancy is like Ackerson and Rachel, seeing the new umbers coming in, speaking of being crestfallen. But then, I don’t and never have played to the tenth Row, so they not turning out in drives isn’t a cut to my spleen as it is to dismantling Barry. It was nice to s ee the jury system be stood up for by Greta Van Sustren, of all people, as somehow, suddenly Rachel sues a Sonora Fortuna, yes that's  justice in Jesus freak America, behind her at all times. I was pulsed to see, with my Jesuit heart, this sneering pouty defence lawyer with a true career, having been one of the few who gave oj an even break, he not so willing to be the complete Trapea you enjoy, causing the democrats Sharptoon and cnn to always shoot the wounded and the poor since then. It as nice to hear her tell some melotto, if I might us the word the new York Times, or was it Tom Shale’s..?, sued to show his gratitude at the sopranos, a girl who looked like a cross between a TV cable layer and a penthouse pet, to back off and that law is law, and social justice, is something Christ came up with between hailing Tyberius Caesar, which he famously did.

Not sure if anything got through, as miss read The end point of the contest as 6:oo pm pst, you know close of business on the 23^rd, but no, it was 6:00 AM PST, meaning either nine o’clock am or three am, who can tell…? And instead of this dying requiem for a surprised saint who talked with his fists, or hear white girls tell me that defence councils are the wrong side of history, or any of that shit, I watched True grit again from the beginning, as it was American as apple pie. In the days of attempt and carefulness, it was watching such things as Carson and Jonathan Winters, The Fortune Cookie in which the great Walter Mathieu plays a  huckster called Gingrich, the sunshine boys, True Grit, François Truffaut, The Third Man, Ray Harryhausen’s clash of titans with Olivier as Zeus, the birdman of Alcatraz, The twelve chairs, and other films. All which showed, which shows wither mutated gonnifs of Fox want to know it or not, bread and circus is a national reaction to sputtering Severus us, Agrippa self important imperial Jews hanging around middle school girls with pictures of his Wang, Jew II with black socks and tent pole again, who fall from grace , though who didn’t go to jail despite the dark haired Beatrice that I told you all middle earthers desire to get, whatever the Orielleys tell you dream of as postponed to the dishwater daughters they are meant to chase like MLK did thus cementing his place, as it were, the dark haired lovely he was always zeroing on fact did go to jails someone tell Rachel’s its as a man’s world. All the Janus’s were ignored by men, Romans Tony, as when I bring up Rome, its not a four letter word nor say it with a Marx Brothers sneer like assorted relatives do, all who bore me now, all who at the end, bloody knives heavy and resentfully held, are looking for the exists to that better out there.

Why I feel so discouraged is that this was actual a-1 stuff here, Ron Howard a gold standard impassable and unassailable to me. I have spent my time since 1995 and cold calls from cable television gumbas operations needing a “consultant.“ Which, Audrey my yenta neurologist told me if I didn’t poo poo the tv gumbas and their now dead Big Daddy, a name me and my art school buddies laughed about, Id hate myself all my life as I wasn’t like she said, Mel Brooks talking about the Romans, as I stole every gimmick mediated by Plautus. I loved Italy and should have been true to it. I have dealt with Rupert Pupkin types, checked sports coat wearers tax evaders who ended up issuing their ford fiestas and broken down old Cameros to hijack women who like Wendy, called out to them as a Beatrice among the dishwater whooers, so I haven't earnestly scaled the heights of Hollywood. Now I’m being censored for using the word Wop, possibly the first ever. I must wonder they would be pleased at Zoetrope to know I ma not the cleverer Jesuit that they were weaned on in Victorian literature when an Italian isn’t a day labourer MGM company Mario Bros. like affable wop slipping through stereotype time. And now Travon is rotten away again, not long as Americas sweetheart, see, as I SAID I would explain it all, as the priests warned me augers they were, that that prosecution table dint feel comfortable with the enlistee nigger Godling, or saying men who wished to be cops were somehow mad, and the divinity of the jury verdict is sued by them more than not, and there is something unseemly about a fat piggish white woman calling a man a murderer after exoneration, and so, the clown show is again closed for repairs. Like Wade, we miss yew Keith. Ah, this, the stuff of mine, that doesn’t get a shout out on RM, like Polaroid’s, within reason, from death in Venice made sub urba and lame. I said, I’d explain it all, Rachel, ah but the suits on the fortieth floor beat me to it. I said I have a certain espiritu that mad men always use their dirges to hide. I am dejected, as would have liked to somehow be seen and evaluated by that alum from Jefferson High, if only to show not every Dago was an affable Jewish clown like Garry and Penny and the rest, and that I have always loved the 61 Cadillac, a classic more than any hot rods. I take it the download didn’t happen in time or correctly as my dashboard is gone. One of my ebuddies in Miami porno sent me an email to show that Copula who we both hate, imagine that, is selling a red camera, worth 33,000 dollars for 10,000. American confetti.