GORE VIDAL’S THE DEATH OF KERMIT.

24 AUGUST 2026, ALL DRAWINGS PUBLISHED. 

On my actual birth day I think, I heard the somber but pratfall news that a house or company wop as my pop called them all, a bloat named Vincent Pastore, or Conquering shepard if I recall my fathers little yellow Latin book correctly, dropped dead as a Sicilian closet doornail. This was to my snide pleasure, as I am always glad when I hear that absolute wop is alas lived out his creed to its less than Alberto Moravia end, as if my dad taught me anything it is that the wives now the only woman word seemingly aloud as I have placed elsewhere, and the over and underfed piggish flyaway hair bad skin and pop bottle glasses wearing hags and cows do like their wops to be the kind tat no one has to apologies for the watching of them buffoons on a less than silencing summer Sunday night, I was glad to hear it that once again a fat piggish ape man wop had no so much died, and dropped over dead to his love of carbohydrates, but in fact was more like a Sicilian puppet of rotting wood come crashing to the Jewish tamers tile floor, more like a Oh Calcutta than any commedia dell arte that had been thrown,

Oh, I was glad to hear it so, and saw the vengeful NY Post and its superiors at the Wall Street junta , our happy little neo con rag, work quickly to act like something important had happened here to someone who again made the Italianate misdeals of asking the Jews now on the rag and whom will find it hard to buy that sprit of devotion ever again, blame Hillary as you drive through the Poconos, and another pupazio bites as they say the saw dust of another circus tent, or it is caught under the wheel of a gypsy wagon, who can , outside their hairdryers, ever really know for sure,

And I wondered as heard it and the strange parody of somberness mixed with a few laughs over what Sicilians since Scorsese have been able to accomplish after the dogs of Paddy and any Discrepancy of dignity was turpentine away,I wondered did the New Yorker, as it had so famously in the mistrals of essay writing called the death of Calvino by Father Gore, did that rag as he insinuated, send anyone to saint Patrick’s, it had to be that didn’t it…?, did the middlebrow low browed glasses wearing Hillary coven now fearing being called communists or showing Gore again as right when he said, no fan of the junior senator form Wisconsin once, he was no RFK, would unequally have to be given a strange due, and thus, all the mid level apparatchiks of the white Vatican hill are busily truing to cleanse themselves of the communism that Joes in Mourning again never saw coming, I guess having never read much less adored Sallust,Ah what fools these war loving mortal chicken hawks be,as the plagiarist Willie stole, as I had an inkling if mentioned at all, old Vince was either too dark or too white too big a clown and not conquistador enough for the Jewish and white chick interlopers and translators to even much care, as in his requiem for Italo,Gore implied that the best fabulist this hell hole my father called an empire of weeds and highways could ever do would be the mourning period for Carson’s Brutus Joan Rivers, who even as a kid, I never found that witty,

Tired of the older woman in Cleveland show anyhow Valera takes a brunt of diminution from the exhilaratingly vapid and once cute Wendi,I did notice it is the poor English girl who takes the most facial hair jokes from the to me un take bale Betty White who I have grown though never liking her too truly despise, And she showed when Beatrice Arthur was asked why she was so cold and businesslike towards betty and didn’t really allow her periodontal feelings to poison the set, trooper Bea knew that the sortie of open locality that she could have shown was best in spurts, and the layer Roses open distain for the gal from Frazier was a tad too much,

I turned it to the even more dreaded and disliked Everyone loves Raymond, a sort of egotism that is allowed by a wop as he if it is certainly not caught dead in the Romans gardens of Italian rye, as this caste system of Jews playing Italian Stereotypes up and down were in mid show and allay, the poor unmitigated botch who is the put upon wife, the beatings that are implied as much are seemingly not as bad, as she made a mention how she as from a Normal Family, i. e ,a WASP’S PAPER HIVE, the honey inherent in Virgil’s bees and or Crackola crayons no where to be found, she has too tough this brunette that it is implicated no real American would so want.  

She is victim of la familia,when in fact she leads this dumb dago by his bulbous nose as one could guess the interpreter Jewish creep who Letterman brought it to make sure again this all didn’t go off the rails and journey into anything that could be misconstrued as a dumb dago daring to push back against his harpies shrewish wife, showing the Clinton’s blueprint for a happy marriage is indeed as American as Cherry

Pie,No matter what HAL IS PROGRAMMED, THE TYPE SEEN HERE IS ALL THAT THAT THE SANCTIMONIOUS HAVE LEFT, and so, waiting for the later METV having to replace the two hour block of Raymond and his studdabaubba mother hitting every note this far from the wife in Barney Miller, I found that , never watching it, still the interlopers at world wide Pantaloons were certain to get their moral in, and that even the blond children he had somehow with this reactionary cow witch, were held back in preschool, a joke about failing finger-painting that they were rescued to repeating, juts in case you missed the point, I thought I couldn’t stand Debra, but found myself now rooting for her. 

My mother did so despise that fat bloated ruin from the age of Barney Miller, Doris Roberts, closer to horrid Jewish hated mother than any Italian woman she knew , but then these whose imprimatur is behind this Raymond garbage as it was with their Jewish Theater, the sopranos, well, they worked both sides of the Venetian street like a shylock does, It was a glorious day to her, even she heard that bloated monstrance flopped dead of too much guilt and Brisket, as this open diminution of all those typed Italian woman who married Jews for their seasons of comfort didn’t erase that everything indeed gets into the act, Her Facia Procello, exactly what it sounds like scale, her Pumpkin jarhead on cues, Jacccuse , laughing, everything about this studdabubba bothered her, as I let my own reactions more from her than from a stoic father, who could care less and who would have been not shocked to see Meathead be killed by his own son, a cut throat closer to a Manderino than any Roman radical he might have preened to be behind the Xanadu walls, So when the old bag dropped dead, it did pleasure that she had outlived another enemy of hers, AS SHE WAS WHEN SHE HAD HEARD THAT CON ARTIST Mother Teresa, who openly spoke of her lack of faith, of while willingly taking monies from juntas and Babydocs, She knew that the admirations of that great mezzanine out there for Italian woman or Italians ar all was ephemeral at best, and that the new found by me sudden knee jerk hatred for Raymond and his minstrel show and his yelling and screaming Your show of shows skit turned into a a gaggle of Jews doing sepia face to even be on the Cyclopes at all, showed she was indeed correct, as she, like sweet ole Bill, and unlike his leech steerage forever wife, knew that Signora Fortuna will always get her last laugh on anyone who thinks they can pass by or easily through. 

Just in waiting to watch the Golden Girls at night, a last gasp that METV had to retain some audience, and billboards them incessantly, and again tired of a show starring Wendie Malick when the Beatrice who is Valerie was right there for Juno’s sake, I saw Raymond again for a first time in a years full of Mondays, as I’ve avoided him and his Herman Munster brother and Il Duce father, a hippie killing Joe, and the poor put upon brunette wife, who couldn’t have been a brood mare to bring more blond retards into the world, I noted that they made sure even with blond hair, the retarded boy is a Sicilian who smiles and shrugs through life, a boy man who was thought of as just so funny, until they realized though trashing the wops is a HBO specialty, well there were one too many fagot jokes for a curia that is in a virtual spin as Arabs again, true to their once Jewish insinuations, brought more scansion that was uneeded nad kept more money with white husbands of racial lefty hags than is needed in Italian folktales called political science.   

Unlike the Cambridge professor under  the apple tree had to say when an Oxbow , Oxbridge, oxford, sanctions was there to say that Sir Isaac was again a fraud from the land of the scribblers and plagiarists, like Chaucer and Willie, though I’ve always liked Geoffrey, that the name of the heinous name of the whitey twin wop half breed pom Raymond, and that Isaac said nothing that this original paper chaser said could be found in the works of Galileo if not older back to Roman architectural digests, Isaac said he merely stood on the shoulders of giants‘, But then one can hear the Godlily speaking to Moatzart by Salieri in music that predates a little night’s, or a midsummer’s nights there of, The politicos of now trying to find their ponies, of targeted for Eqquis, stand on the shudders of no one, especially not Niccolo or Giucciardini, lest they had seen it all coming,

Why did I dream about a x rated theater back in little Chicago, which I know left to the rats and the a gaining sluts of Valley high…? It seemed to be just that in the abandoned  dreamscape, the old time some lights broken marquee, which I would have bought had I had the money than to so it and be a legitimate Theater, A girl I knew then, we had become teenagers by now, bargaining already in the hidden ties and leaves of old Bill, a priestess of Bacchus from that time, a magnet she’d explain to me in a memoir censored on a writers site even before voting for a segregationist was seen as something they’d have to do at least until they could sign a contract to hopefully and which I root, ruin Tolkien as that recitation German so deserves, She was at the box office, here, that glass booth that Ovid said was indivisible from the strata of sanctimony that one could get.   

As I said we were teens by then, she an requisite exemplar of the Italian girl remade from Beatrice as Rape victim then my mom and the nuns warned me so, hourglass as the bargaining brunette starlet said of her double duty bra, as she was curvy in the way that the white girls ere indeed not having been.   She wore a uniform of her post, pored into a white blouse and showy skirt barely covering her massive and powerful Venus thighs as she was a symbol of all which the wop older men had to resign and repeal, and her candy bar colored short hair a short bob that was in places black and were told not to be, AS THEY THEIR MOTHERS TOLD THEM HAD A TARGET PAINTED IN LIPSTICK there on the white silk sheer shirt she wore and somehow, before I’d deal with an axis of some fagot and his stragea tom boys and I’d give in and give up, was seen as aloof but likable enough.   

My mother did warn me before I just gave in, that there were awful white woman she told me to eschew, and that they’d do to me as they had to many an Antony and Mario, Guido and Jimmie, that they’d cry rape when gram found out that they were shtupping a wop, and some used a Mediterranean calculus to hit them up for not only sex but cash from the beguiled white trash girls, and soon enough she knew of gumbas right and left who were suddenly paddy Wagoner away when Priscilla, her catch all name for the white chicks she nad the nuns despised, would point a finger as the molesters of Laura’s went happily rolling along.   Thanks of that Elmo and your Hal, remember when that, as so many italic boys found themselves in jails and worse, penitenetaries that  perverts as the church held itself up on pillars and stained glass of child abuse.   Soon enough, the Irish drunkards of the bluest eyed, bluest states, an affectation that the democrats didn’t want when tool and   died by the National Biscuit company, that they’d rewrote the law with a  codicil called the Romeo and Juliette defense, irony abounds.   It emended that their  bobby’s and buddies and sonny boys were caught up in various dragnets along the way.   As I turned over and upsides downed  I was looking for a Candy Loving of my own, the last thing I would do would be impregnate a white woman, older woman came on to me the most, how fukk the jails would have been then, as this night after I watched Raymond most despite myself , as the great Gene Siskle would say of the mob acts of various buffoons like DeNiro and Fishy Pechje, there was a level of keeping it all comic, and they never net all the way into their minstrel show to show upon what sewers it was built, Dante’s map of hell no where to be even alluded to.   In my script for a reunited Gilmore girls just to show what I could do, but a sharper than I am brother told me no one, not them or anyone else wanted to hear anything about it.   

In my pocket, I pulled out, like in the joke, as I sauntered towards the old theater owned by the local outfit than, where woman who were on soap boxes and then porno whims as I was a kid were shown , I found some slips of paper from those bourgeoning days of my own,I had written about the early invaliding into the x rated movie palace, but it was no big deal then , and I’d find as I wrote in that novella so disquieting to Hillary Voters even before the coming fall, the girl with the ironic but maybe not Italianate name, she had told me about the priests who had a keen eye for gals like her, and not always falling all over themselves for the alters boys, which was a butt of Jokes as it were before was had to ehar the incessant apologies from those who paid Gumba Jews on the peacock network along the way or at least until Larry could play a now seemingly missing along with many of the Assembly of Queens, Bernie.   In a midsummer’s night.   Shadows offending ,

The papers were of a boyish attempt impressing many, of a space opera of my own, as I did get people Italian actresses and Chakhas to ask why Italians are missing so, and not just the grand mothers who were used as human guinea pigs for a Imperial Pooh who, is certain to not expose himself of any Politburos and yet still Byzantine steps, Behind me, on the fifth avenue that went straight to my fathers candy store, there was the ruination of a war of the world walker saucer on its no longer diabolical legs, but broken in pieces, as they walkway s get, as no one understood the dirt of the west as well as the maker of Django, the now lauded and no longer a joke in the mouth of Quint from Gun smoke, Corbucci whose again Italic Genius in often spit at as indefensible by the collection English teachers who think they are the found of knowledge or at least Gilded laurels.   I saw I had the slips of paper that were my own 2001, as I try here to write this in a simple clear way as did Arthur C Clark, who being from Kings College, was free of the royals and the imperialisms that now give us ginger Prince ling with the mullotto wife, havening to rerun to the happy little inland as here in the hinterlands, he is , alas, a no one cleaning his Blind wound, I didn’t expect Virgil from Noland to begin with,

There. On the brick wall of the relic theater, that seemed to me since my mom pointed it out the inner sanctum of the italic love of sensuality that is now verboten by the barbarians and their love of death, evasively if able to be taken three times a day with milk, sugar optional.   I saw the poster of Django by the now triumphant and admired Corbucci, remade by a mongoloid wop I never much liked anyway, who replaced Franco Nero, and like Italian with whoever he thought he had to placate, Always a ruination. The sonnets about that girl I knew my hostess as I snuck intro the skin flick theater, and her being openly, even demeaned, for being molested as the Italian girls could take you happened once, as layers would tear any woman apart as a way for the cloaked Prothonotaries and monsignors to fulfill their true love of gifted girls , as I wrote the attempt at my own Space Odyssey, as already had write out my Germanicvs, a Roman story mute to Stanley Kubrick once finding out Spartacus wasn’t the stand in for any tied to Negros that he was assured by Howard Fast he was, took his make off of his Roman epic, The Monolith is too as Roman as anything, Ovid's wall that moves and revivified when whispered at.   As to me all the writers of Engelterra were indeed plagiarists at heart, and that Shakespeare was again to Dante as John Lennon was to Buddy Holly, Not a compliment.   I did resent  Elmo’s Hal reading, if it can be called that, my work and joke it discombobulated that red eye which I now more than ever not worth Martin Balsam’s basso profoundo voice.   Being a Roman satirist at ear, I called the machine becoming if not sentient, sarcastic, a word it was told not to endure, and I renamed it ‘LSID, like in Mad, and instead of Brahms, I placed in the Funk Brothers and Martha and the Vandellas, and the then before sadness Stacks and Sonny Bono as opposed to Bono,Yet the town was not as abandoned as it is now, and the faced of the half recalled metropolis was art deco as much as anything,

Sadly, the Clarkian attempt as the Bell Service and Howard Johnson’s pleadings the music of the spheres was replaced instead with a tackiness to use a word dared used by Hillary about the gold Lemay of the white house, as if it was not abused enough once that she had her Jethro Husband right in the pearl necklaces, and the pay toilets, perhaps it wasn’t the sky they so polluted as the cities of the Infernal underworld, where my mother told Doris Roberts to be encased, At a late summer dusk I suppose it was, see about the basic tridents of italic arts like politicos elsewhere and the laws of physicists that are made mute by the atmen as by some to act like as opposed to Politics and paper money banking laws and the sonnet, that magic realism inst as an Italian con job as any, 

The marquee streaked with dirty lights, then flaked open as the sky started to become puce, I guess that color is, as it my training as an artist that causes me to be as poetic and anyone ever disliked, The giant D for Datolla, the name of the family who sold out the seats to the magazine age of Spinning Swedish stewardesses and deepest throats, when I did sneak in under the girds auspices, again no one cared or made a second notice that a young lady was working there, fie the local hoods, I found it less a holy sanctum of any Venusians goddesses as it was a sad hallway of men with broken lives, shrewish wives and windbreakers that Norman Lear didn’t ever much touch, as he knew where the lines always were, A toy was dirty on the ground on the street that wan and was not at the same time, like the sword of light that GIGI never even thought to steal, lest he get the same fashioning from the Kelley girls of the new Yorker that GV wrote about happening to the man who didn’t need the Viking praise that others yearned to get, and who sealed his fate, did Italo when he unlike Marquez from his colletid gilt, turned on the communists rather than be a plant in that Prague spring, The frog of the sesame swamp, Fervid Davis’ reality street, was now left as a broke toy on that street leading towards the Allegheny river.  As I write this,  in the laconic dog days of the end of Leonid summer, a woman on Curia television is being allowed to twist in the dog day afternoons wind,  as to come to her defense  would make Rachel Maddow be against her masters at Merck, and what with her being banished from the kingdom at the armamentarium, well, …so sorry unlike Dagolike Beatrice and Estelle doing their wop shtick that is funny and light and heartfelt, I wont find Boy man Romano’s CBS ABUSIVENESS  to ever be as funny as I never though he was.  

The anger that Elmo’s HAL had at my work, it is not so much sentient as it is keeping scores, tripped over by me accidentally, was that words like Hags were sued, HAL is awakened, and yet, a blanket use of Wop incessantly was not, But then the liberal polling stations think they are experimenting at tenth levels , or at least 9. And then, shades of Charles Portis, and the old west this weed empire still is, there was Raymond, mono mondo as my mother demeaned a realer one to us, hung from the retile, a half dead corpse and for some ungodly but after first blanches understandable recitation of my midnights, Romano hung there, the Jew who stole his act to paper over unlabeled Jews we may never get, another unknown comic at the Cyclops, despite the casting, and for some reason, the put on wife with whom he had a You Tube revivified hatred for “the wife“.   As is that too much to ask for that this honking wop hang like the drawn charcoal enemies of Borgia’s whose dangling death were the first true politic cartoons…? Is that too much to ask for…? I hope to see him as he was here, with a signage reading DIED OF AIDS nailed to his trunk.   As it took a second look to realize how venomous this blond brood sire is, and a new found liking of her caused me to note his open hostility to the wop and the Jew unsettledness that she summed even then to have the mezzanine of her side at each line.   So,  the unnoticed by me before Patria Heaton, a playable Elaine, stood there is a Heavy Metal iron brazier wearer, though I never thought of her as a Julie Strain of any sort swords in the immoveable suburbs that the Italians have been resorted to, cast to,  and Bellona out fit, as I recalled when death dealers in fires and ice, didn’t use big pharmacy spreadsheets.   

 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. 

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

 [unfinished crayon ad.] 

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

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

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

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

I AM THE AUGER. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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