I EAT HEAVY METAL.

 

12 FEBRUARY 2026.  

So, a FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON TO THE WAY TO THE REVOLUTION WHICH WAS SOMEHOW GOTTEN TO BY ONE ASSHOLE ON CBS WHO CALLED America evil one night, over the fact that his sister wasn't wed into the cloak room by the always disheartening wop Pelosi, and too Reahcel ass Sybil ine, did guide the bloated pig of A Bigger Check to the parades, as a way he thought wed all forget and forgivable his often flicking his needy tongue at woman's asses without even the slightest of their own knowledge which, yon Raquel didn't get a sense of the a fathom of the styigain waters that flow below his pissing too close to whatever praetorium that allows him in or near.

After they had done their yeoman's work as so we didn't recall Reich Marshall Walz, and his frankly we are not communists level of a love of graft, and when that Paul Sands of American politics Frey was suddenly taken down and out over use of the Scorsese edicts about how they are willing to imprison and not, the apples as my father said, and how the overfed White lesbians willing to overlook a derth of black boys at the riots this time, they said they wanted more federal monies and on act, those who skin color dooms them to not being elites anyways to clean up their lefts behind messes. But, in what the Freeman call irony, the mother ship of the peacock network, out of the blue, or maybe not, when one can guess what the Latino shrewish Sheriff deems to be doing to be a one man wrack an investigation, although, maybe the sons of conquistadors are never as smart or corrupt or tragic or funny as the Romans ever were, ask Bill. Well, this just in, Jenna or J Fred or captain video, wherever you are, the mother of a National Biscuit Company Snow White found the cactus flowers fairy tale go more Baile than Grimm's, but not by much.

And, even Curia television magpies had to wonder why it was that all seedless political sustaining stations, tape of ducks and spit and all twine as the dreadful Colbert said with Caitlin Collins once, --not for nothing but I heard that Cattily Cathy ocne had TWO ACTUAL EYEBROWS, but alas lazared the top one off,... ogh, sorry last Hanna Barbara cartoon Steven, but that's a joke your coma inducing eye, thank Mad for that, reveled in-for sicne the sixties back to the Paladin you never was, and why is sometime who made fun of a princess with cancer still on television doing bad Mort Saul...? Now, they went gavel to gavel, or is it Romans ball peen hammer, Judge..?, they had gone wall to wall with the story, which didn't shock me, as I was reading either Boccaccio or Paddy Chayefsky since I was ten. What do you wanna do, Marty....?

But I'm not the Jesuit student at dotage, a third act, whom, against my better judgment is toehold into the corner of a weedy barbarian school of Athens, with fingers going in all directions but up, as Hillary, the dame stragea Putana she is, is lardy with private polls as a Sibylline text. Knows, she do, its time ye true masters of America are tired of the con game as she and hubby are defeated to being stranded at the senate subcomitte on peta-philia, as so goes the Grotesque of barbaric filth and middlebrow shamelessness. Oh, its only Middle aged wastland.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IXWNSb4nUDY

Thinking that I had indeed done what their hearts desired at some chill subs outlet, one would think they wouldn't be that threadbare and sanctimonious, but,... and sent in the title of the issue and such, as was told I must, even placed it in the dread ed Times new Roman pica, I had decied after all recalling the age whne all of our submissions were indeed in typewrote courtier new anyways. I had thought against even asking what it was this time that they without the Etruscan warmth had wanted and quickly exerted the email out. My blither had bought me a, as an earlier than Marti Gras gift of sorts. It was a Mad compilation he had found at some store, where indeed the older woman and younger ones who had gravitated towards him as they thank fully do not to me, speak of tiredness about hearing about war with Persia when all the rabble wanted was for WALZ TO INDEED GO TO JAIL. HE BOUGHT ME A MAD ON SHINY PAPER, WHICH I NEVER QUITE GOT THE JOKE OF THAT, AS WAS A CHEAP CARTOONIST USING NEWSPRINT MYSELF, THAT CAME FFROM A UNION BROTHER OF MY POP , which is alas now that Jon Stewart and other Jewish columnists have indeed battering rammed the doors to Oz down and no longer find themselves as Paley had, restricted out of a more gentlemanly 21.s. The Mad was an old cover I recalled where a Alfred E was , like Lucy and Viv making a roadside sign, and indeed as I flipped through it saw old satirical articles usual idiots, that were in fact were older when I was a boy and saw this Primer on the black arts of advertising, all first.

I saw the later, less newsprint, less cheap revisions of the magazine here, as opposed to collected and reprinted cartoons as they had been geniuses at reselling the same Baggage twice as ma would say of some, as it was about advertising, whicah they had always put down until, alas and alack, they sold time. Much like Jon Stewart to the Koch brothers desalinizing and shewing why he was no union activist, knish eater, Ben Shaw, Shel drawing in a new Yorker anymore, and when did he ever take his life into his own hands by using the subway...?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KCSvLl9Z17M

The roads are full of rivulets of pre Ashes to sashes Wednesday. A sun of apostolic and even a straining Aplu warmth attempts to break the deep frieze of the last month or so, as no matter what considerations are cashed by New York Jews and their BLACK, SOMETIMES THERE SOMETIMES NOT, SOMETIMES FIRED FROM THE WAR TOWER, consortia and buttonhole men, that you find that they cant quite put the stops on an economy that once was all that George Will ever seemed to care about. So, the more glossy reciprocating of old articles was if anything here almost so reverent it could play a church. In the magazine were old collected cartoons which had a artistically satirical bent that I adored once, but alas we've all become , or at least they have, a troop of F'ers who its funny, seemed all too shapeless in recalling with their spit vitriol when in fact like the hosue wop Dinero was indeed being rakes over the coals over whatever he had said that so bothered the great Queen dido and its husbanding Michelle, as the cleverness of Sicilians and house wops was shown by a sneering priest Dante, who said of the bags of shit that all Sicilians are, they would openly help the gross magician barbarians, my father was not amused but not surprised, as Johnny Bull and American Shylock, Zio Sam, would indeed show them in that unhappy little island. That in fact, after baldie Mussolini showed that he had gambled wrong on leaving the Italic cocktails for Palmolive and Perelli, that cone fascism was vanquished by Walter Cronkite soon enough to buy aughts at Marther's vineyard with the proceeds, that in fact The Agnelli Family would be gifted with whole scads of Italian farm land in the land of the now winter Olympics, and indeed and in fact, three times as many people would end ip in the penitentiaries of the Christian democrats of the avaricious than had been there under a Facsia that still hangs over Bride of Cuckies assembly of queens head. In the magazine, I would see the later un Mort Drucker who is a kind of Virgil in pieces published by me, by others. Called the American Decameron, of Madmen. I saw the less than afoul dodging of whoever this was, in color something even dc has never seen fit to do to Morts brilliant pen and ink work, as opposed to colorized She wore a yellow ribbon, and My darling clementine by John Ford, who was allowed to be hated by lunkhead Tarentino since they are certain something went out to tell the marching dykes they are to haye him anyway. I skipped along in it, and thought not even reading it, the no longer twelve year old me was not amused by it, as I thought of my own version of it theta predated thet HBO monstrosity, and how in a piece called Pin Ups 1962, a sleaze bag of the Larry Tate variety, a Clinton type that i've always liked more than apple polishing prissy Obama, its amassing what has become tragedy porn lately, and how!, AND I thought of an earlier version of Wendy Fiore beguiling me than, still looked for in old Penthouses, the girls that I HAD INTO THE COMIC STRIP I OFTEN MADE of scripts, as opposed to some fatter busty monster with Titian hair, and how in my attempt at it, the brunettes and the Italians were indeed this time not mere victims, if seen at all, in the Comedia dell arte and the stables of Norman Lear. And despite the usual whining of good wholesome Comics of then and now, the larger ad man company it was based on was not a mere slight of hand macgians curiosity shoppe, at all, but was based on the house of Dellafemina, who like a viperous Machiavelli shadowed an artsy in all things Bugias. There is a craft to the art of the lie, that no on gets by them, us, we, italics, as is seen now as Dellafemina took the mere shysters gambits of George Norman Rockwell and the Excedrin head ache and turned it into frescoes worthy of the walls of youths and the too stories Chaucer so adored, and could only get to a 27 TH or so, as it was after all the house of Della Famina that offered my sister a job right out of art school, which she declined, as back when she was certain sich things were beneath a woman who didn't want to sell out. Of course now selling out is the only politics that exist anymore.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jerry_Della_Femina

When some two bit unheard of comic book outlet dint understand the “story” behind a Roman Superman, I said I was just ho Thinking that I had indeed ping to do something, like my earlier version of Madmen where the brunettes and the Italians weren't just the allowed stereotypes and victims of the Jewish Wet-dreams that television was, as my pop warned me. When we came back home after a long cold spell I took a first opportunity to go to a dollar store and buy, what else...? , newsprint, to supplicate the thick 24X36” pages from occasional Strathmore pads of thirty pages that I cut into halves. It was hard walking out in these mounds of dirty snow, that were quickly dripping into puddles, and where I believe I heard Mamdami's career is headed as he somehow got more people dead over a snow fall than usually die in Carribidis islands allowing the always fronting Clinton's to come on down and play Lets make a deal with the survivors.

But. as I shuffled along like a Tim Conway sketch, with a bag like a pendulum in my hands, past me walked a tall pretty woman, a Jack Rickard cartoon come to fie, and not wearing a coat, even though it was not that warmed yet, though the lunar new year accelerate when Chinese and a insult when Roman is at hand. As she she hurried on the pillared porch, as one would see often in John Ford and again in whatever miasma of television that Tarantino makes. Tall, slender, but robust as ma would say, circles of brown reddish chestnut is the word I think, hair flouncing in the weak winter sunshine, sunlight. A curvy ass in jeans and a white lacy top, she barrels past, and I may have said something, acknowledging her march. She came into a past door, as I stopped on the already cracked pavements. She said a healthier Laurel and Hearty hellow to my this day slower then I brother. Did you say hello to the girl, …?, he asked me. I may have, I said, She sort of barreled past me. I didn't, he said, Hear your usual Grunt. Oh, I said, Why dont you dig yourself, pops, I said to get his goat. Oh, he said, Don't tell me you're watching that Modern Amos and Andy shit again, he said. Its just...I started, Its juts that two channels have been doing marathons at night about Lamont, I said, recalling before all become folded in on itself, no Mad incursions here, which I thought would nad must happen when garbage like Jon Stewart was out there making fat jokes over a fellow Chosen girl, as I , I said, Never took the sdi eof anymore over any one of the sisters of Venis, Verna Lisi. Here, kiddo, he said, and handed me the Mad he had bought and had in the car, I saw it and bought it for you, thinks are fickcing hard enough with these scumbags. It was he, I say here, who first calld Bloated Walz Reich chancellor Gobbles. After we walked in and I got back in he noticed and told me that the children's hour, the peanut gallery, the Captain Tvideo video rangers all want now more money to clean up Minneapolis. I'm sure, he said with a keen dislike of all those sorts, They wont release any transcripts or crime reprts,pr yellow sheets on their latest house wop who gave up his life for the Koch brothers not to have to pay that living wage that has gone away. Remember Big Phrama kid...? , he said, and shook his head, as a wop agitator who went got hislef Killed for slave labor as they sometimes do, the overfed white sisterhood and the sysops will think that some suckers with too much Melinian in their skin will have to clean up after the riots on parades of the American pee wees. He is a good Jesuit student, netter than I was as I am a pussy at heart, and he dispsies Obama and Colbert with Magndraola like smarts, where as deep down I couldn't care less, but understand his salty invective, as did the monsignor. Finally he thinks Clinton is getting what he always devised.

Who was that girl...? , I asked him as put on my house clothing. He looked out the black out shade we've placed up on the door and its my favorite Martian style of door windows. That is the girl from the parking lot, he said, Back when the completer fell apart. She appeared larger, bigger, I said, in the swaddling covers of her winged victory of tweed and widener coat. He had told me not to wave back to her, but he' s spoken to her on and off a few times, lately in the snows where again Madman Mamdami has been found by the saint Bernard's of a dingily open shiva media., Perhaps, I thought, ha[[ens that she wasn't waving at me, which had never bothered me much at alas I don't fall in love, or perturbed to, as well as my brother might. He did hear her crying the other day in the snows and the cold, and barked past the paper shades, What the fuck is going on out there..., he shouted in the gray dawning, as she was again openly crying close to the door.

But then, I said, that this country when caught in the Watership down , but with arts and a senate on its keel. I said it would and some world pay for every fat joke they made, and that signora Fortuna would recall as I do , every wince that George Will made whim it seemed that his every moment spent with Bill Clinton as Praetor so awas a tryely felt insult to the brain, wheras with radio windbag Limbaugh it appeared so, at least to me to be a Chaplinesque pantomime. I await the Colbert's and the wop piggy Kimmel to have their brains bashed in against the local statues of Pompey, or whatever the American equivalent is, perjaps a sign with golden arches of an abounded K mart. So, now, Vinnie, we return you from the trial of a sissy boychick who bought a gun like somehow all the barge queens do now, Demons in America, welcome to the spartan hinterlands, we feed the dogs and the horses before the woman, Rome was alas a matriarchy, as a glove was found, organically enough F Lee, has been found on the eroded trails out of Tacoma Arizona. We don't need to fight , to probe were right, we dont need to be forgiven...

http://antoniusradiocomix.blogspot.com/2026/02/me-and-radical-sheikh.html

After he was quite impressed by me again as were the priest who told me to avoid Northwestern with all my heart, if not other parts. It was you, he said, Who told everyone that the wrong person would be killed , the wrong people would be targeted by the wolves in chepa clothing, and it is now day 12 or so of a Today show weather girl emeritus story that blew the Rachel Maddow naggers and genetic Klan meetings, off the imperial stage. If that Today show woman cant protect her own mother from the creeps of wetback resilience, after so many raped as young ladies Italian women were massacred by new York trash in purple sashes, well, that would explain why it is that the polls gave shifted wildly and Trump is triumphant in ways that again fat bloated Jimmy's never do see coming. And now the fails become for those who thought the Satyricon will have lasted forever. But Bill Clinton has found out that subpoena does come from the Latin, real Latin, for Hammer, so how about that. No matter HOW SANCTIMONIOUS U GET, I WAS FIRST TO CALL the Satyricon a MASTERPIECE OF WORLD LITERATURE, and as mother was sure, that brunette that needy grasping Hillary supplanted will get her due. But, we have found out as the misfitted Sherriff of Nottingham probes the Sicilians may have been right about the hooligans of Fascism back to Caesar, that our Basile hags at the Rat squad Disney awoke to find that they have s lost a whopping Cleopatra like 200 million all in all on Snow White. The one where they thought CGI was a perfect way to make the monsters inborn as midgets. Providing perhaps the kind and well wishing gal at the Rat kingdom who took time to say shed love to see a stone soup of mine made by , you know, some one else, still, Disney wasn't the magical place to bring up any Brunette princess.

I was warned against Northwestern in the cold cold winds of the DC implosion.

ME AND THE RADICAL SHEIKH.

Note; As we are all lectured to by actual American citizens racially appropriating rap, the detritus of an Amirian empire long in grasping, Porto Rico they kept, Sicily would be theirs soon enough for television work, this piece is uncensored for the delicate ear of those who voted for segregationists despite the rooms full of radials in Gold lame eating at scammonies troughs. I sent this out about the fifteenth, but asked to flesh out the middle part, Racialism is catching, i kept the parts about Rachel Maddow on with house wop company stooge dago as pop called his ilk, Jimminy Kimmel, as like Tacitus I am the king of Juxtaposition and thought it was  perfect deliration of the salons and the poor Roman suckers left in the alps without again, Socks. To show i am the auger, the scene depicted here was played out by too many or not enough ceremonial rioters  and Palestinians dragsters at Targets and Walmart's across the fruited plane, and so, as the Bush familia finds itself not even at the Bill's Satyricon anymore but worthy of EC comics, You'll get yours Chuckie!, within hours a democratic judge said Trumps crackdown was indeed constitutional, like that word ever meant anything. As my wittier than anyone on midnight brother said, Looks like the Dog made the call.

10 January 2026

It is always sad to me to have to as I have since pop was around, take down the various accouterments of Saturnalia, as the God of madness and his feast days is always a resplendent and lovely time to ward away the evilest eyes which seem to then take over once the twinkling lights have indeed stopped.

So leaving it up as long as I could have, I guess I discuss, to the cold winds and dark afternoons of the windswept Parirea, the Jesuitical term for the great white north of Indian graves and such, as we sat here and quietly took down the green plastic tree that our family has always had a type thereof. Carefully I placed the glass, always glass as plastic was anathema to my mother and her hatred of the plastic river of junk that American was devoted to as George Will and his band of merry plutocrats who live in abject fear of not doing the bidding of Chairman Pooh, as though they may not have had a tin in Italay, what they did have was meaningful and even expensive in its own way, collections of worthless hardened dinosaur goop was a crime to her. And we have accordingly taken up her beliefs as no mother hater am I, as I do feel badly for well wishers and lesbian girls who befriend me at radical sites, as they seem to disposed a Emily Gilmore like brooding pressure, but my family was classically made correct as it had to be in ancient Italia, with a given and loving Ma and a father who was as cold as ice who taught us , after all, this was a cesspool in which wed never catch a single break.

So I do feel badly for them, although my mother did warn me, as I don’t recall when she was tall gallant woman who wore Dior fashions that such as she did amazingly enough to the point that old women would be a first sweat shoppe for a wayward Valentino, who was true to nothing more than the shmatats of the imperail streets, as so she wnared me of the type of familes i'd be involved with if married or even fucked a white woman of the sort that Jimminy Kimmel thinks is just senselessness enough to be a voucher on any prairie stand, as they just loved all the Ray rays and dumb Gumba Jews that they could thus conquer.

As I got the last colored ball off the tree, my brother came in and saw I was indeed watching the new years schedule of a whole night if one wanted to to catch Valerie Bertinelli, as that prefect Italian girl that I am sure that Jimminy Locust buzzed angrily at, as he dreamed all in all of a Kafka Nightmare where he would indeed finally, despite the puppeteers of beer and half eaten calzones and burps and gas as a punch line, would finally be made into the WASP he draped of being all along. I would hater to tell him that in fact, I don’t think it was the Italian parts of his bloated cartage, the beard wail not help him in his search for Gormenghast, that kept him from being invited to Chappaqua perhaps even still again my brother told me , I who had just met Dick Thornbergh and Hodding Carter, and both were very nice to me as appeared to have been when on on Johnny once, there was a reason, despite taking blood monies for local elections, even the democrats wanted no part of being too close to family annihilating Manderino, or Butchie as Ma called him, before and despite that fat that evil little watch man Coppola tried to turn them into Aida, if not even Iago wasn't in play.

Is this on again...?, he asked, I, he said, take it that She, [Valerie] still has the same effect upon this idiot, [referring to me.] There are, he said, No Beatrice's, you have to learn that, kiddo, he said, as I'm shocked some broad hasn’t taken you to the cleaners by now. You can watch, I said, Valerie on two different channels for two hours, if you'd want. Way in earth , he said, Would you want. Old shit, at least the Hot oi Columbus-[his actual referring to the title, now there's a show, that's a show, that’s a show!] isn’t from the last century. I guess he said, You have read enough Ancient stuff like Ovid, he said, And at least you're not a complete pussy like that Pig Clinton. He's trying to squash subpoenas again, so I guess hell die a Juvenal delinquent anyway. Again with the Valerie Bertinelli... He said. He has said this before as it does appear in some plays I have written. But then, I am not the kind of wop who was told in his A BIGGER CHECK pay to the orders of cash memo to eat shit and trash the Italian comic that even Dave once called the funniest man in America, or to spit ahcita at Megan Fox, as he'd been doing that since middle school anyways, as he sniffed after the sort of blonds that soon enough he;d find out Mumsies wanted nothing top do with Zero’s kid over there. it seems ABC is stuck with another Delta house without the truly vulgar charms.

Italianate wonder woman.

It seems sad to me that as a literal swan song, and while Palestinians were being truly prevaricated, a favorite word of the bubbling up with violence grange that the Bushes still ,as the roman lives are mute to them, they never realize that eventfully the plebs will crush their very dreams and hopes of a utopia of the Have a Koch and a emails boys as they'd find out too late that there are never enough bribes to keep the lid on the steam engines of all empires. Yes the Romans had steam engines, so sorry about that, but I did see some thing about some man named Edward Hubble being the first man to know of a myriad of galaezies in the infinite universe, which might be true to those who do not ever seem to dragoon statures of Leif Erickson as the Bush family accolades never read that far into it, but such a idea was aquatically first , or at least after the dark currant of white supremacists actually went Rome down with a thud, said by a mad monk named Giodarno Bruno.

And for that the trash with mortarboards and who parrot garbage until as I said revisions are sent in to them by the general Prinicpate, he was cubistically demeaned and discharged by the dons of the cowpaters that Oxford should have stayed as and thus have less shit coming from it. And I would never go to a school where unlike Grimm German fairy tale writers made sure no one ever thought they either read Ariosto, nor was , you know, German. I made sure unlike discretion liberals who refuse still to take the name of Rhodes off any scholarships they tap danced for exquisitely, or even a lesser version of a Fulbright scholarship, as being a recast to begin with is what jot them tapped in the first place. I made sure since i was a kid, at any interviews even my father told me was a panacea to their vitriol and where they find house niggers, sorry I gave the prerequisite stiffener warning that neither the Sopranos, or Whippier ever bothered with, and hillbillies willing to say anything like Barry the fairy and sweet old Bill, I would bristle as this crew of barbarians trying alas to take over now as best as they can, but with a old corpse name Biden showing what a loser he was, that they'd dare call Virgil propagandist, as it deems for too sad and well made for that. 

Ah But the Pastoral poems were in the Bill Clinton list of favorite books and nothing writ by Maureen dowdy who called that list of books “reeking of Garlic” on Charley Rose to a stone frozen face, when such is allowed, always, lest Marius whole lufe be coral reefs made up by the jawbones of lesbianism smiling too hard and laughing at the recently dead, and too, realizing too late, the Jewish Omerta of gray un-spokenness came crashing down on the dormers acers. It was or should have been a much different Saturnalia month had a daughter of Marvel comics hatting Martin Scorsese had gotten his frayed end in a throat cut by a son who never got enough dinners as pop was tallying us all, like the One day at a time Jewish circus owner, who took a show about estimable three Italian woman and turned them all into spics as to his always bluest eye, or off a few shades of cobalt, in for a lira and in for a Libra, as ma would say. Even the farther in this was played by Joe Callifano, and the super, a part offered to Cotellano but was passed on as a mafia fracture fairy tale itw as not, was not, hummmn, was played by original tonight show, Make room for daddy wop Guido Panzini to which, like Clark Gable , he can effortlessly come in and out of.

I placed everything in old lid attached Nike Boxes, including much of what was left from all the moves and all the cages as I admit to not having kept these all, like my drawings or so long, as circumspect as I should have done. And now, I wish I had them all, every drawing, every paragraph I had written on WPS. As during the cold return to winder and the days of the god of Porticoes, and the coldest winds of the dark ages that this fruited plane has never much gotten out of, the Pittsburgh Post Gazette shuddered down s one would have exacted as being a liberal rag is a lot easier to do and a Trumpian Vendetta and a stage devotion to a rapist his bloated fish wife is better done when and without having to pay out the local union brotherhood of thugs, as it was from a buddy of my father who worked at the only paper left, the Valley News Dispatch -Tribune review is left. So the paper lives where the prince ling openly was disdainful of old Brother William and his proclivity to have troopers gatherer up his bosomy, always, Hillie, women for him, and if that doesn’t reek of a moral to the fable, I don’t know what does. My father had told me to take my Prince Valiant down to the Valley news dispatch, a similar job was done by Calvin and Hobbs creator to get his comics published, but alack, I was sure I was far too good sniffing at Stanford Professors Fleas then for any of that, though now, of course, I wish that I had.

The early part of the feast of the god of Porches was hard in that not only did the cold pariea winds come whipping in from the great white north of Canada, but the instruments went completely haywire. On a Wednesday of this week I tiered to merely get on the thing to send out more work, those magic words which ends the emails of the suspicious, but, alas after some days, not only was I stupid enough to get the thing in ruins by listening to the magic box of porno and of African grifters, I was told to take the system restore back in time, and found unable to even get a keyboard that could still work and reapplied everything from a a thumb drive which also, irreconcilably, no, maybe not, failed saucing me to use a SC CARDS with half as much, et cetera…

Since that this is some cyclopes in the vista, as it were,we went to a few stores to at least go by these directions and at elast get a new keyboard. It was too soon for my tastes after Saturnalia to deal with having to spend this much time and money to get this box mixed, but felt I had to . I don’t know why I bother with asked for works, it never works out, as realities this year had a email from of all places one of the toilets of barbarian collections, and who called it all that before the sudden reawakening of white girls with their box lunches, why me, of course, The Met, whichever one that was. A place that dares call it self a metropolitan museum of art betwixt and between the various subway murders and the Barbie Constituencies who never other the good Mandami white women voters as after all, whats does any white women who have to be prodded with a bribing out applause sign in Ted Mack politico shows, if not last Roundups like Bilko, think that that rioting is what Negros do anyways, though it seems as the riots are called for Lucius, lest the boss Hogg go to jail, the black skinned have avoided the frozen north, bribery is indeed a proscribed crime mister Not Bill Clinton ever. I for one will not forgo or forget Billow, again ;Lothario Don Giovanni and albatross the lesbians on the move, if you dig action, you'll love cocoa or maybe drone gasoline, everywhere, and how he prided over exicutions in Little Rock, without the grace or feeling of old Pontiffs or how he was raking against color television in penitentiaries, as dearest Rachel didn't care who and what families were torn apart by three strikes and you're out then, servings Brunette number Five, as the Mad Magazine cartoon said of him once. As my brother said, they are alas amateurs, and no one will ever listen to Jimmy fucking Kimmel if they didn’t have to.

https://youtu.be/Cu1bH-4bDLg

We went to the Mills, I think, a large parking lot in the icy widener wings, as he would go in and look for a new Hot[ spot, I guess, throughput I was flying blond as usual with such things. I sat in the cherry red car, as I would have liked a Cowboy blue navy, but it is after all his, but then he was a cowboy fan back to North Dallas Pete Gent days, and I only came on the only true Captain America qb what ever there was.

He walked into the massive supertanker sized groceria, as this was whatever Bozoz has dained to leave, I got a second copy of a Franzetta calendar I didn’t ask for, and when I went to the site to if not co,plain or at least to get a return sales slip, that was when all the trouble started, when I tried to print the return labile as didn’t much like the first one I bought and dint want or need another this late into the year. Hummmmmnnnnn. Whatever, I had made a mess of things, and so, I had to be bothersome as usual I am, and ask him to take me to the various office depots still alive and functioning, as am down to no thumb drives and one sans disk care to hold the collection of somewhat disliked and sneered at art, which would make my father proud to know I still do amid the fat bloated wops of TV land, of which the bountiful Valerie at night at different stages is the only one I can muster a like for. He walked in, the large glass doors as it was stuffed with patrons, a superstorm reported coming, so buy shit loads of milk ladies, , even for a Sunday I noticed, a last hitting from the hell's heart to the reign-forest of Amazon and its ups perpetual Montgomery wards , without the charm of distance.

Just then, two people , as my brother would say “walked up” on the car, as I say there rumpled and as clever as a Colombo the only ways we wops are allowed to be without having to cunnilingus Hillary's tired old dick. Not that the Rolodex helped Cuomo over a Indus river valley colored enough for a white chick, rapper who was stealing black music five years ago. A sissy was here, and a larger , but not quite fat, girl. They were it seemed alike many at Frostbite Falls, always go dinged, fore sign radicals, and against cartoons in a following radical primer satire in Mad as drawn by Davis and gray goashed George Woodbridge. I DIDN'T LIKE THE LOOK OF AT LEAST THE MAN, OR WHAT PASSES FOR SUCH IN THAT PARTY IF IT EVEN IS A PARTY ANYMORE, AND ITS A ROMAN ADORATION I SHARE WITH BILL CLINTON, WHO AFTER ALL WAS NO FAN OF ANY STRAGGLING NINNIES AND FAT GIRLS WHEN HE ISSUED YOU ALL INTO HIS DREAM OF BEING PRAETOR, AND IF THAT MENT BEING PRO FREE TRADE OR CALLING WOMEN WHO WERE STUPID ENOUGH TO SUCK HIS VARIOUS PARTS, WELL THEN SO BE IT. WE BOTH READ I would guess as Jesuit students The Decline and fall of the Roman empire, and I recall the sadness if not bittersweet march through Paris at the end. They are already calling it the Paris Syndrome as people go to the city of blights and come away , well, ver shmenckin, as it were.

The one was a usual iron poor bloodiness sort, who sharper their man for all seasons hanger oin shrapnel teeth as hyenas of power for those occasional in which whatever scare it was, and this time it is apparatus at it lowest post Dukakis EBB AND WHO CALLED THAT ONE WAY BACK, …?, so this cant be as Niccolo or Bilbo's woudl call the smart move. Lie Lucas, someone tell the assorted revelations of Tolkien to not bitch so much, as my brother said, after you canceled the check from the rat squads. The girl with him as a butt chunky, fine by me, as I still recall along with the fake blood of Scorsese and Sunday night at the mob movies the dredged blood squibs used by Jews who wanted it deems a real think less like a paint and mere coke, cheeseburger cheeseburger cheeseburger already kept from the poor stupid Palestinians as who you crying for now leaves me quest with you're almost Kimmel like love of cleverly appointed props. She was windswept by now, as he appeared to slways be sidestepping his skeletal huffiness and leanness, or perchance due to it, consonantly with a a fever and or a meter that was always running. The fake Radical, he wore the usual strangely war surplus of an anti war activist which I guess looking back a few days he was not , neitker are any of them all anymore, as the checks are still made out at the arimentarium even if they have banished from the battleaxes kingdom where the ninnies with Croesus ethics, made their sissy smiling their rape jokes with aplomb so soon ago.

The radicals that GE will allow to do their Michel Steele bidding within reason, I recall the night all the brunettes were alas forced lost this rotten fruit fall too far from its war blood dependence trees, They were bitching at each other, and loudly as I slunk into the seat of my brothers car. The nuns called me a heir to the new journalism of vogue then so I will attempt to do just that without the forgiveness to poeticus that appeared to bother someone who was an editor at some place , a word press of sorts, and will play it as straight as I might. The two revolutionary, wickets too close to hell you'd think, came to my brothers ruby colored car, and the ninny sissy prissy queer who uoi know like Hillary juts hated that MAN show shit when it was yet to be called a satire, the last refuge of a stupid con artist, placed a sign meaning Anarchy, a black. sterner stuffed Rodger where the skull was replaced and the letter coming from the Phoenician symbol for House was placed on our car. She continued barking at the sissy, and which the grand and glorious racial priss took a white skinned, aren't they always, fist and smacked her in her rather not unattractive face. I could hear Donn Knots ask, Knock knock, ...whose there...?, Ka Ka who, Kaboom. I was slunk down but thought it isn't a golden age when a bit of a sis like this could openly deck his woman, as he thinks sadly the foot-soldiers clothes are transferal, which is strange when that fat blanket emperor is indeed yapping dog the last and latest Walz.

My brother inserted himself up in this ice storminess, or at least gloom, now came to the car where we no all were, as I had been drug into a fight that as usual has little to do with the political, as the fakes like Kimmel should take as a given all along., The brother who reminded me of Lamont Sanford and Trapper John when I was a kid, let out Get that fucking pentagram off of my fucking car he said, as he recalls more than I when every third nigger, sorry, in Malcolm's bestiary was indeed an FBI operative much like the cosa nostra from which they learned it. Like me , he notified I hadn't seen such a symbol of their Bushian Resistance since indeed Bushie the manga marda, water coloring, Tyberius in the broken bathtub asshole had to slink out of town, and left the whole mess to a first house nigger that you could say nothing about as no one at Bagram air force base, can hear you scream in his torture Costello. I'm sorry, the girl said almost instinctively to him and my brother waved it off, as he hates twerps like this more than I do. He wanted me to get no part of it. Go home with your abusive Carrie nataion, lady, he said, but another pointing at the glasses wearing sissy meant the next one was a sick to the jaw. HE STARTED BRAKING BACK WHICH I SAW AS A BIG MISTAKE, AS HE ONCE TOLD MANDERINO AND HIS POCKET WATCH MONSIGNOR that he'd track them all down like Marshall Dillon and beat them all to death when he was 13, causing the fat cigar champers to back off, as they knew at leasyt one of Jimmy's malatesta kids was nuts as was the father, and unlike me, more like European Ma, he did look the part of the bantam weight rooster Turk that my Father was all along, I said, he said, with a scary calmness, Talk that fucking bandera off of my fucking car before I take her arm of this poor girl and beat you to death with it. I think you'd better do it, the bleeding girl said.

Yon rascal acquiesced, and sheepishly took down the black flag off the antenna or whatever he had affixed it to, and started to back track, thinking that we Italians believe the horse shit that they shovel at the house coons and the spics and the wops that the polls are showing once again CNN has alas gone kerplock, and again Trump is doing better than the Cow-turds of porticoes jad thought, as not the gods thereof, never know what a satirical slide into home means. Walz, I knew, never had IT. 

After the effeminate took off the ragged it seemed homemade flag, the bankers and the Medici of previous assaults on Trump now want AI signed , if by Satan or Bumblebees lord or Trump, so be it, as Clinton , or the other, wanted too much devotional as they should have known when they became this expensive a date. Then, he took the prop signifies did the sheikh next to me, Italians are a mongrel race as some English writer said, or was that elfish homer German whatever, I say that bit when has HBO ever been averse to the diminution of Beatrice's,..., and he grabbed him a very by his tattered wetware beaten Brutus at the Mercenary theater Pea coat, and threw him angrily into a ironically called Jersey Warrior into which had been packed a stop sign and of course we had never parked here before.

Let me tell you something asshole, he said almost spotting at the radical for hire, I take it all the troops are menaced to Frostbite falls Minn. To again lose as did Hannibal at Zama ,but classicism along lesbians inst an arrow in the qiver though a lebaian did tell me that I was unfair and that despite being useful and busing the Kimmels and the Colbert's of the world, that the overdrawn dykes indeed have a soft spot in their hearts for Ariosto , especially when Antonio or Metrioculio or Brntis is played by Robert Goulet. Hey, Idiot , he said, this time as possessed as an epethete for me, remaining the word in all its metamorphoses, See, punk, the democrats in that Mausoleum , a senate of yours, they voted yea on these ice Bills, way back when that fat bloated pig Clinton cunt and his wife that whore, were telling us all what toughj guys they all were, motherficker, ...Ah I thought, there's the word that means he is engaged, as with my mother when she called someone a Putana, well that always meant hide the china. Yeah, fuckhead, he said, They all voted for these ice raids back when that bloated pig was railing against color television in the 1992 camping and he was presiding over crucifixions like fucking Pontiffs. I didn't know that the attractive city, juts my type, girls aid as she had purse Kleenex on her swollen lip. I know who you are asshole, he said, Go beat your girl friend somewhere else, see, I saw the blood you left on the door, cunt. Touch my car again, he let loose, and I saw you with your little device out there stealing wifi...if I see it again, I'm calling the cops cause they still are out there doing the work of the lawd and arresting anyone who is stealing copper wire from Verizon, asshole.

At this, a pretty, but short, glasses wearing brunette came out in the store's cashiers costume, and raced to our car, with a large parcels in a plastic bag. I saw her as her short frame and massive tits blurred all the way to the midfield of the parking lot where we , sadly I , forced him to park to get on to get a completely different thing sent on the 25th as seen on some chills subs somewhere. I don't know why I both as never got a responses from that Met shit as sadly to them dared write about the blue armor of the Etruscan which now is just a place that black Irish asshole, ro coin my brother word, must see TV doctor decided ,like the Romans that Tuscany was a nice place to stomp about, but he wouldn't want to move there. Here, she said, as she knew my brother as they all do, and I stay of crocus aloof, Here's your router, Mister Acri, we saw you bolt out without it, you paid for it, and then, she said, You Bolted out, we didn't know what was going on, but we saw the goings on here, ... before the woman could get out her sentence the ninny got up and ran away to, what else, a sparkling silver Canyeranro van, again we have never passed Silveralliaia of the Nuns, and he took off in a sparkling van, I don't know its name but it had a 2600 attached to the door, meaning something. On the rag tag trash boy chick, was a threadbare example of a checked Keiffiyeh, now ironically wipped off and landing on the wet cement pavement, a Palestinian occupational flag, like to the Sicilians there is no crime ever against them, certainly never to be seen with as much horror as a feathered Indian in Bonanza repeats or mostly a Myron Cohen joke, a remnant that is sued by the over fed American ninnies and NBC ant port in a plebeian storm, hated ocne by trash like George Will, not my friend and this bothered , I could tell my brother, who had seen the equal Roman curtailments of cloths of Francis or Romans resided to the drag sadly worn as only fashion by hags and pigs and starlets on runways like a merest scarf, age worn by barbarian slime and now, their children who hadn't fallen far as pop said from the hanging vines.

My brother barked at hum who did this cretin think we was wearing such a thing as if a Transvestite, Yes having never flicked my tongue publicly at women's clits I don't have to take dictation, I will use the Roman words Bushies, Rue Paul like catwalk affectation, of not a red ribbon like Hollywood signal of the decency found at the craft services. How dare you wear such a thing, he shouted, but it wasn't in the way that Jews kept an eye out for such accommodation, but he had a radical Jesuits devotion to the poor and the weak that comes from Francis more than any Lither who found God and lard in the same bottles and the same butcher shoppes. City of God indeed. He kicked some sludge and parking lot cold rain at him, before they got up and he raced away as a usual liberal solider, and the John Brown stayed his body right there as I was afraid my brother indeed was a radical Sheikh, like Plautus said, he looked the part, as he had with pompous overeating Jesuits would have throw this phony progressive as opposed to Roman Liberal well ladeedah, him across the river Styx, like a confederate dollar, if he could.

The woman merely stood there a moment, and quietly walked away. As she did, and we were driving off, the issued, abused, girl who somehow let some queer get away with such, to a point, saw me slumped there, and waved her tweedy gloved hand fingers at me, which caused amused me almost intrinsically to wave back. My brother slapped my hand down,as it was one of those moments that I OR ONE CANT EVEN make up, as he said, still fuming, Dint wve back at her, what are you nuts...? I know tehse fuckheads are ingratiating people, like they always do, as I wouldn't stand on the same stage as that Bloated Walz even for his petty cash bribes which. He said, I am certain he doesnt, I'm sure give out. Not at these prices, I said, as we went back down the road cut out of the opening to a plastic hell of florescent fire, in within yards of a lifeless forests of the midwinter or some discontents. As we drove off, with a large box in the back seat, and cutting off the Silverado, my brother is a master of the power move, he told me, Nerve let some whitey cretin yell at you, like Callifano he said, Yell at your abused wives, he said to the Clinton out there he never bought into and knew was a fraud. I dint take that shit from dyke nuns who were literate...always be intrepid, he said. This made me laugh.

Within days of the news paper age of read ink triumph for the union thugs, the morning paper announced that it was undeed as belly up like a great fish in the rivers of the new Republic, and too bad, all the pipe fitters and letter clickers were told with even some Christmas trees still then up that Gutenberg's invention, though the Chinese and Romans had movable type as wood blocking, hey Augustus had to make sure when he said something was Censored it was you know, Censored asshole!. But, even still, the rag that was once a lighthouse and a McKlatchy rage has found it just too much money to keep going , as after all the night I saw the Koch brothers buy Jon Stewart Time and or Soul or both or in a package deal, I knew that the oligarchies has taken over, again it’s a Roman word alerted, ears, no matter what Rabbi Boiney tells you, as did you indeed cut the Golden hawk we are eating on these festive days…? Well, the less newspapers pout there, Lois, the less that Jews have to be ver shmencken over the using or not of the word Genocide as they place on airs or do the dance of the virgin vails, again , from memory. As the worst part of the fat little Sicilian crying gain fraud, and frauds alas they do always go overboard which is why Sir Niccolo did say there is a fatiguing laity to evil after all, he will go too far to perturbed he w ast what he was all along and god knows, like smarter Bill now stuck with him , god only knows how many women will fall out of that closet ala Plautus and how this bloat with a exchanged face will or could even deal with it. As I saw in that awful week of sanctimony amid the slush that snow flakes turn into when bribes are their oiliest goal, and they forget, as if Busiaies to try to preen that getting out of the veracious imperial barcaroles isn’t their oiliest need, as even did sweet old Bill repercussion that somehow free trade and girl demeaning was a kind of better living through chemistry, and who bright that up when I was called a paranoid for ever thinking that Biden was, if not behind, then in the wings of your death cult. So, dearies, as one has to wonder how many days one can laugh it up with a Bush Daughter Julia, or a house negro Michel Steele or a Mackane operative, before even the niggling and goading inner ear voices start to wonder if the exchange rate that the lord of the lies always grieves was indeed as ma said, selling one's soul for Tin, at today's close.

Who would know better than the Italians, as opposed to the Sicilian …?, And he goes about sure to go after Dean Wormer, as ABC again puts its eggs in a wrong basket as it tries to somehow be able to make a television show out of Animal house as somehow it was done to MASH, without the blood and guts and vulgar try at the front, but was only a lukewarm Delta house that never much clicked. I wonder if Rachel dear, a palomine from way back, but I always am loved by nuns as Jimminy's ilk never was with his weed laugh and walkway targeting the Lenos and the little Foxes as he thinks is what got him where he is today, I wonder if RACHEL DEAR DID SEE HIM AS HE DOES HIS LIFE LONG ACT, AND IT WILL COME CRASHING DOWN AS HAPPENS SOON ENOIGH, HOPE YOU HAVE WATCHES TO SELL, Jumbo, as the third act of having you on my side isn’t something I, a reader of Marcus have to deal with.

I wonder if she saw where the sow doing his act at lame covered, eye boggling vulgarity at some awards show here South Park and he were never much welcomed at, even if there they were told in no uncertain terms of the apartheid of the revenge of the high school cretins, when he blabbed away that the worse thing that he could think of Trump still, departed it all. He called her a woman's name, Jennifer, as the Moms maybes of the earth now dare think they can avoid their hated and destroyer slurs by using proper names, which like Guido and Stan and Karen and such always can get their meagerness point across anyway without the words I often use just to see if anyone out there is still awake at the activity of the Lethe. Did Rachel give out I saw by clicker accident her Good I wont do Housekeeping seal of approval;. Did she wince a bit when she saw this, I wondered, or did she even care...?, already havaing been banished from a tower kingdom of Tina Fey and Paul Winchell and Howie Morris and your show of shows, and rape jokes and from where the Wild things or at least watering holed Rhinos no longer inhabit. Well Jimmbo was smarter than Carlos Mencia ever was. Grappa For everyone, except the wife who just hates that shit.

We came home and after a week of stationary store hunting, the white box router he bought after some hit and misses by me having never seen such a thing, it now went through and we got on eventuality, he is sure that somewhere noisome leeched out at least three cards of TRAC PHONE and other servers, as thinks it not forgotten somewhere that in my THE UNMAKING OF THE PRAETOR that I in a piece called the Last Walz spoke of his semaphoring hiding a sepsis in his fat little cowardly lion father, as as Oz returns to the file cabin ate of pre bellium after the only blond in the Roman pantheon, at least before Uncle Walt showed up.

It took me a second, as they say to get this essay as sent it was a simple 2000 word piece and then I was asked to flesh it out as the middle part was they thought the center of the bit. Losing Word and Works in wiping out the magic box it was hard to sue again Apache to get this redone, but Roman charted me pushed through. After a winter storm there was realized a need to plow through the work and finish it, as the scene at the local , though farther away Staples was played out once too often that week for the collected doggies with collected Targets, and so the commies have to Go, as Omar fears more than anything as all radicals without any portfolio but the stopcocks they filched do, do who are fake, a audit of the trees. also too many Italianate Angela's shut the golden door of the music of the spheres to the corpse of a sleaze bag dress maker, as Ma would have been this pleased to know oif Signora Fortuna sent out the doves she sued as the birds of prey. look it up, as I mouthed to the girl about the democrats having voted for all this once, to tear someone apart, as I , just by touch emotions, felt a gladness that the Italy that had been reduced to dressmaking saitre was sent to hell. 

A name that meant enough with a silent movie star handsome leading man as no Italian would be again, Brando and Fonda make sure that they know that gram's linage died out long ago, but not me, not for pop. Valentino, the mane whose medieval papers sonnets and crude drawings predicted Picasso or at least Brecht, over a priest who brought the Ritalin lovers to better ends than Roman tribunes and Shakespeare and Coriolanus ever do was fine by me. My mother would have loved to know that the hags of empire are being destroyed by the image of the oversexed as the war lovers call it, the dumb Brunette, wanted eventually known of. Dirty pool, as those are battle axes at the end of that wedding aisle. As such happens when a plutocrat selling paperbacks then percolators, is betrothed to a stripper at the house of Borgia's, which isn’t fooling its;lf with just any radicals anymore, or anyone , after all. 
 

We go a’soulin. Saturnalia 2025.

I think the democrats make better wussies than they make Spartans.

 

The best parts of a book I wrote in 2024 called the unmaking of the Praetor, changed to president as not many in freedoms land knew what a praetor as , god Bless education as cattle herding and writing scripts, wasn’t the more Italo Calvino parts in it in which I , like Ovid would meet a Glowering glum liquor stained Lucifer in old age in the shandy Groves like Clinton, or a deceitful republic killer, smirked with a  knife like Old man Chaney, as was shaped along by a beauteous Italiote sybil like Wendy, you know the kind the Bill Likes. I think the best parts were my more Machiavellian open eyedness, my sharpie assurance of what indeed was what, as I did have an inkling that Cheney was on the shores of the Styx even then and was about to go bye bye and take the republic with him. And Bill makes a perfect Sulla, from which we get the word sullen, the Romans were masters of language as a put down, as the brethren said only an idiot like Colbert must be that ostentatious with his smirking.

But, as it has been at least half published in anarchists and lefty magazines, as she points fingers at all, sometimes should tell Rachel Maddow she just dropped a bag of dimes with a GE stamp still there, the Jesuits made me a real leftist long ago, happy Saturnalia, yell, as what really bothered me about the Faggin shows like Bluto and Felix I noted than was that no one ever killed them as I indeed augured the plebeian circus of street action becoming a tiger that no mere  clerk could ride. And, in the last Walz, I then spoke about just how dirty to his eyeballs that whole parolee state was in Wm land as no one even thought to check as he was a gorgeous figure of sending other men’s sons to die in the breech, as unromantic a thing as possible. But what bothered me was that indeed no one killed either Jewface Jimmie and his fish wife or Herbert Anderson, as I have to note now, as the lesbians all make themselves look like Truman Capote and oversized glasses and white hair is the witch’s vogue, isn’t it funny as the woman told me, I was giving Hillary a bad rap. She not segueing from the pageboy helmet hair of power, her contact lenses, was no mere dyke and loved Ariosto and Livy like her deluded husband, and loved Shrews so much, she could hum along to all of Kiss me Kate.

 

All I know is that since I was a kid, the Romans were decadent, the Italian were corrupt and the chicken hawks and the good white chicks were never ever communist. Well, now what? …? When the commies and the Arabs take over the world will that still include NBC at the Saturnalia tree lighting…?

 

This country will never really go bankrupt or Byzantine or USSR or even Rome, as if things are bad, they will just find a wanting needy hillbilly like sweet old bill, and whatever he cuts and whatever he does will be fine cause the redheads at the tower or nearby will always tell us its good for the republic. 

 

 

Seeing Lana Lang billboarded for the zombie dyeing Colbert show, I would have asked from the infernal floor of CBS, now why as it we had to have a president who was the first to send out gossip about Monkey Business, gave Oliver North dispensation as somehow a senator is bellowed the pay grade of a lt Col from the bowels of the praetorium, and who after all was the first man to use Willie Horton against Michael Dukakis as he was always a good hanger on of the republican party anyway. No one made him present over having signed off on health care did they…?  Well, his specter still haunts the party of the people, the good lousy smilers with the knives, as why would someone at CBS , Tiffany it thinks it was, allow a smirking goon to have on its sanctimonious air people found to be too wanting to be caught dead at 8-H by the Olbermann’s mausoleum for Super train, Captain nice and the ruins of the Ponderosa.

 

I must ask if dear, sweet, Rachel recalls when I was prolific is distrurb—botheri—giving my insight to her about the under pinning’s of this hood channel of war incorporated that can dare be called liberal when Bess Myerson hag blond war criminal from the Bush interregnum junta, Gore is a favorite, perpetual war for perpetual profits, and when I warned her as much as saying someday even the fake smiles and the definition masks used by the demons of war loving at that armamentarium would indeed have the way as a house coon like Michael Steele could only commit. I ask if she recalled when I said that one day indeed she would be torn away from the armamentarium, --a Clinton era office man who befriended me alerted me that she sued that very word Armamentarium without a woof of satire, and that one day she would be thrown out of the kingdom, and the neighborhood of make believe would indeed purge her way out. Cause I wasn’t the one who was hurled away and had my Bloomy card cut in half or was forced to take the Cross-town bus to Kramden yards and dance for nickels in the Bronx. Cause if I see one more lezbo looking like Capote at the end, I’m going to puke. I mention this because I got a cartoon published by one of her sister hoods who fondly recalled the nuns I had, and that she had, and now with all those dead Italian grandmothers, it can only get worse. And this was the year I got an essay in which she figured called SIDE BY SDIE BY LUIGI DA PORTO published, as I said back when recalling that all fairy tales come from one cobbler in Naples, that you were going to need a better tower than the one you had Petronella. See, cause all I ever heard was that the Romans were decadent, the Italians were corrupt and that the holy J3ws were never communists. Now what…?

 

Another cartoon published this saturnalia season. A pretty Italian girl, ala Playboy, ask a question I recalled from my father when he told me, if one can demean and detest and discreet the race of Beatrice, the Etruscans, the Roman Republic and the Sicilian school who can’t they, and why not…? And dutifully that day a black head coach at the mister stupendous colored Michigan wolverines was kited to waste by accusations he got too close to the white women, as the coach who actually cheated and changed the playing field on purpose, eerily got out  of dodge as quick as he could to eventually beat the blackest team called the Eagles.

But the moment of the year and to be my waning mitigation for sweet old Bill, as I have lost whatever bloom was off that particular crown of thorns, did come, as not only was a pace passed om at the time called The last Walz did delineated my augers sensibilities that he was bad news even then as he unraveled in Prairiea, but too dead as a 99 thesis nail door Chenaye, spoken of in my Marius in the weeds, did keel over. And true to whatever Jesuit training still beats through that clogged fat stained cheeseburger heart, my man Roman Bill, he couldn’t in good conscious, if there is such a thing to him, be caught just as dead in the last requiem for a lightweight, as the Bush family, like the Sicilians they match bring their funeral march and call it a Roman triumph, he, the last Roman boy in love still with some Beatrice that Livia was sure she drowned in some imperial tidal pool somewhere, he couldn’t bring himself to even fake cry as the Shoguns daughter Peppermint patty watched through jellyfish eyed and the thick glasses all her ilk now sport. Too bad, Peppermint, but in the end the liar told the truth as he liked the most as in a land where Jimmy Kimmel and his wife, and I didn’t see his lips move once, pretend they are friends with George Will and the new yorker is kept as a cheap paper hymnal, old Roman bill, tired of the slog through the decadence WITHOUT joy, he couldn’t do it as someone cranks up the cotton gins of AI, that he couldn’t do it and play president this one more time said more than if he had showed up as he couldn’t Augustus Brian Blessedly thought he was ever show up in the now inviable cities of a purgatory that if made real this old man with a kickkackpaadywack give the earth some bones, he came rolling into hell and making a sign to ward away the evil that this man did, with a horns of the ends, he wanted no part of being anywhere near.

 

 

 13 December 2025 SATURNALIA ITSELF

I find myself enjoying the yearend holiday, more than I had figured, which I returned to its Roman roots since I was a kid, knowing the manger and its household Gods came from the grotto here Rhea the virgin kept her children hidden from Mras all those silent knights ago., why do I feel this way, I am not sure. But the perpetual 1964 cardboard and tinsel that was my boyhood Christmases seems intact as it hasn’t since Ma went. My brothers high school friend Payroll came by to wish him a nice festival, and my brother always gets him a bottle of high-end liquor, a Jim Beam or Markers mark,  or something, since Jack Daniels is for as sister Cecelia said of Marvel comics, for delinquents, as he had given me an early Saturnalia gift.  Word on a card, lest you think you can keep it. Its been hard to save these essays of the feast days, but I don't want to seem an ingrate and plunge ahead like Don martin mentioned above. but then i have an inkling from the geek Croesus and christian Solstice with the satanists, that is always their Micromanaging point. God rest you unmerried pimps and sluts, go live away from we...

 

 

 

Having said that the clown of midnight doing the bidding of witch hazel Hillary, or was spoke as I have guessed all along, Bush brothers who wanted the white house to be their own personal Tara, like Buddy Sorell I should have gotten a receipt on that one, when I saw that the fulcrum and set and ground zero for the killing of Ro, no meathead, learn political distraite, kids, learn what politics was taught to me by the Priests,--why did I meet Jimmy Carter in 1975 when Norman Lear comedia del Arte players were yearning for Russel from the best man as Jimmy was seen as a nobody in repeats,- as if that matters. But why alas was the prince-ling of the people at an antimonies lip orgy at Conan O’Brien’s house, Well, that was fate getting even while doing her nails as ma said, and a Wendy lookalike allowed the demonic to spin and dance as this time it was a worthless son who was gotten up against when his drugs were on the line. My brother as not at all as saddened as I was, his Machiavellian charms unperturbed he remarked to me, these people have bene trashing Sicilians and our Italians—[a good parent learned dividing between our Italy and Sicily-- For fifty years, how about the coeds that like Colbert that had the death threats made hood. I’m not he said, crying for Meathead and his son who never was picked up on fatso Clinton’s crime bills like black men around here who went to kail for thirty years over a third joint. Well, instead of that pig Goldman, he said, Don’t tell me about white chicks and their returning of plaster  of Paris Chachkas to some wasteland after the ruins that they left, maybe he should have made your beloved Calvino, kiddo, he told me, as all I could think as Conan’s name kept being mentioned all I thought was Colbert kicking the dog and thinking once again sweaty at the stage door cantina he flies at, Why wouldn’t it have been me. And then, Michelle First Tranny raced to be near a man who once was a Will and Grace punchline. whose costar plea agreement has been extended for weeks and weeks.

The radicals priests come to get us impeached,  limousine and lesser chic seem out since the hags in Pat Cooper glasses wanted to make sure we all went a’ soul in and were met up with a biggest black Friday in history that their love of pothers in poverty that my father warned me of as Milanese communism, didn’t make a dent, and which somehow the laid to sissy’s of the television machine didn’t ever get once for them. HE CAME IN MY BROTHER'S  B BALL FRIEND AND REMARKED HOW PRETTY THE TREE WAS AS HE CAN’T SEEM TO GET ONE UP CORRECTLY, AND MY BROTHER TOLD HIM THAT MY BROTHER, HE SAID DID IT. He liked the paintings of as they were called oversexed nymphs, what saints our lesbians be now, which was code for brunettes of which I have just sold another, and Payroll said I should market etches and sexualize Christmas back to again Roman roots that they hate. A super also came by and remarked on the decorations grateful to those who love war so as they cater for the Bush war dance. Speaking of which as was thoroughly shocked that an admired prince of Alan Brady Allana braaaaaday Alan brady Allan bradddyyyy like his god father Norman Lear also went down the Styx on a saturnalia week. This turn of a knife on a father, thoroughly saddened me, but a colder meaner smarter romantic brother thought such is what one gets as killing a father is the most unriman thing even a hypocrite can do. And amid this rebound Roman holiday, Father Saturn takes his madness toll. As of all people Rachel Maddow has retrained to the catholic church, I wonder if a tied up, scared, used by imperial goons, raped as a; Italian women were even in Dick and Laura’s new Rochelle where they’d be sent to die. It was part of this conversation scene. Of course, to my mom and the nuns this as a tower of literature and not ignored as it was at Ox=bridge. So, don’t say that Antony, a literate well-wishing literary figure told me, as he went to Cambridge. Ah, always the difference between light and lighter.

 

Sorry, but the patria has seen vestals killed before, whether the crime families like it or not. Next time you try to thin the herd, democrats, don't go to the crappy school that Richard Gilmore made fun of, that very night, as a repository for worthless millionaire children, then even the @Harvard the rabbi told my father to get me into was. Sorry fatso but we didn't all kill our Beatrice’s.

I thought. Was there a Lucia in a cell, bound and gagged and crying for the Rachel conversion scene, and will the unmarried hags hold it against her as any red, green alliance was already made in Seneca descriptions of saturnalia Rome…? I am, after all a real bitch. That was part of this equation. I could mention that someone called her the song of Bernadette as a snide remark but will not bother to repeat that now. It is funny though isn’t it, as I impressed a gal , a friend of Saffo who did take my cartoon girl despite some anger by the matrons of empire who think they studdabubba through the imperial games now with man hands and other jokes we may not tell, No Romans they ever been, can’t have perpetual war, that they love awfully War more than any Playmates with coal black hair, without leering at dancing girls, ask Tacius. Them Greeks are unreadable, …if not worse. But funny isn’t it though, a dead body, parents, found in Babylon, of a Jewish princeling who I rather liked and aped as a kid, a poor sap killed by a son, is all the Romanism beyond you clowns and shylocks…? But at least Andrew Cuomo can still win son of the year award. Funny though, now ground zero of the only death of the last five years to matter, no italic grandma stopped the circus much, as now a son kills a father, I said I saw on Persky=Danoff rolodex, we had them then, as the go to hippie dippy enemy of Jewish matrimonial. I thought it would be a politician whose death would make you desire novenas and requiems, but a clown who had slow burns in his DNA, so much the better, comedy turns to Tragedy tomorrow. All the devils and the demons, as the Fortunata’s and Wendy’s wince, all go to Conan house, to make the boy mad before he cut the throat of the poor man who like Alec Baldwin I rather liked along the way and wouldn’t have ever done this much for Hillary were it up to me. So, in my precepting that Steven Colbert would indeed sod Dyke drag cased the sapphic woman to accept my wonder woman of italic Camila stock, which she told me despite the overfed nunnery she found herself in, liked her anyway. And now Bill Hader’s name is brought up, and Christmas parties lose they’re The Apartment mad man decadence in exchange for a love of death that the nuns and my father warned me so long ago was your reason for being anyway. Now that Colvert is your Virgil, let him lead your through the enraged alegrias of hell, but again as Rachle Kramden would bellow watch your step. And all the clowns come out at once from an ambulance that heads towards the same cops who kept Palm springs safe for idolatry from going up on the feast of Janus anyway, showing again, Dante was right when he spoke of what shit the Sicilians make their manors, where the clowns and trash are born.

19 December 25.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=afifZfUkU8I

As I have spent a good amount of Advent, it’s always hard to know what the Franciscan pig Luther didn’t cut and paste from his beloved Francis, but then we never much know how much Bach stole from Vivaldi until he tells us, to the chagrin of whiteites, in replacing much done in Works in indeed Word, as in in the beginning there was only that, and maybe CompuServe. A rash of we really liked came to me, as ousted to acceptances, but one prickly queen was upset at my non u8se of commas which if he had Jesuits  as I did, he would have known that the comma is in fact the Borga like Splotch pop zing Don martin sound effect of the lawyer and the chiseler. And redoing an essay just for another year end acceptance, I am insatiable at such, outing the essay Saturnalia 23 into word sunnily a cascade of blue notes and all the commas talked there were seen as ungrammatically unneeded as after all every asshole with a word press thinks again, they are the New Yorker, who all in all gave me nicer receptions than many of the.  Cerf’s Up. 

 

And showing that Caesar is indeed still this Christmas is surrounded by enemies, fogs or merely Drizzle, who knows…?, the senate true to its inevitable decay and alliances made with praying mantis is queens who think they are pretty enough to be the grand dame that Senator Cornelius has a fondness for as the boys in the band all gravitated towards a Roman hated Hercules as tragic figure, they are irredeemable again, they snapped quickly into action by indeed letting Epstein files got forgetting about how and whom were on Jewish payrolls just as he was anyway, Where is Rick Sanchez after all…?

And true to their creed, despite now almost a decade of trash like Jimbo the Kimbo and smirking Herbert Anderson pretending what lovers of Hillary are they, no, in fact, soon enough even Court TV and every station in Gotham city did show the special Guest Villain the Riddler Bill as he was seen in a hot tub time machine back to 69 Ad,  as sunnily westward Christer’s how were assured they’d keep their slaves Priscilla, the newsletters and newsprint rags would that morning not be deterred from the glory days of sweet Ole Bill in his half naked Jacuzzi escapades, with who was redacted out in black to her Barbara Eden inferred belly button which has not been  allowed to be shown once by the scammonies’ power and the glory Cyclops as its master was busily blowing kisses at tweed negligee Happy. Without so much as the thought to take a knee to reflex forward when the rubber hammer comes down, they placed this under seal photo on the front page, abet under the fold, the New York Times only is circumspect about the word genocide, after all. As so I have seen your sanctimony at its best, and never much bought into any of it anyway. He, reportedly, does  rail and spits nails does the Marius in the Love canal with a great PR crew, no Glengarry and Richey Roma or Mamet play here as the Capri is built on a lesser con of a house taken over by Satan, as I have seen the results when Lord of the flies, now  gloomy on the side of the Hudson laughs away at what fells these hillbillies with Roman delusions be.

 

We went out for the first time since I went to see my doctor over a general malaise of digestive problems, and I saw an actual Band like in Guys and dolls Playboy cartoon from a Fairinelli faced Christmas holiday edition of a band playing a brass heavy On the fest of Stevevennnnnn, I stayed in the car as a knee feels like I was shot in my leg, but alas am getting Older as the powerful think they never are until their image in the hot tub arrives one-sidedly on their hidden from the Plebs front porch. And I thought, I was upset that Rob Reiner went in such a way he did. This is a parolee that pretences it’s a new Rome, if not worse, a new Florence, but then the hags of empires would hate Guido RENI IF THE comedy writing elderly JEW AT TOSCANINI TOWER EVEN KNEW WHO HE WAS.

But he is a giant to me as I am getting closer to the 365 complete drawings, I made a vow to Janus this year. I walked out into a Stapels like store and threw a dollar in the red basket, a be-speckled man in salvation dress blues looking like Johnny FIELDER, WHEN TELEVISION WAS GREAT AND Rob was always the Tippie hippie ditty yippie he was meant by Persky Denoff to be. He wordlessly and sly gave me a smile and a salute and I almost teared up, knowing my brother was in the supermarket and would use mere Chicken of the sea Mackerel if, like them all, there was no fresh. I saw the sign FRESH TUNA upon a giant glass window, but turned and went back to the Scarlett car, which I sometime bother him by forgetting it is the reddest car that I consistently see, you know, over there. It’s here the Coriolanus’s between heaven and hell and its adjacent doors, and tragedy can comedy that the overfed liberals just love, as pop warned me so, and want their sufferers to always be. 

He found a bag not much carried anymore Baklava, though not hard, and  called Whitefish, as that sounded too Carnegie Deli to me, slough again my father told me to eschew and avidly turn away from the television and film deacons of Stanford as it as a letter from them that upset him so, that I, an Italian seen by the brethren and the nuns as a Romantic Poet warrior type, a Roman through and through so fuck off Bush family and the Kennedy’s whose tragedies are too far in the past to make us all care anymore, that they would think I would jump at their allotted and allowed acceptance to their phony mortadella school house, over film and television. As my father wished for me to take my drawings of a Roman centurion, and italic wonder woman and of course, Roman superman and make even as a Sunday comic strip was more dignified that it was to have to be Scorsese and then worse, Kimmel to be allowed into their fat girls Amazon kingdom. There was, he said, more artistry in making Sicilian puppets than being one. We are not siciliano, so was never sure what he extolled meant.

So, the death of Meathead did bother me so, but the longer we go on to hear Albert Brooks as his Marck Antony, no offense I meant. As again, I adore Mister Brooks, but I keep wondering if the shiva was catered by Pepsi Ice, or his funeral games will come with everyone having taken steroids, after all. as we’ve all fallen far since Trust fund baby Anderson replaced Borsht Belt Larry King. They had a Larry David as Virgil. Our lead Friar, and a mission statement was given, and I felt empathy for Rob-Ritchie petri and his father so. How did mel brooks survive this man? I thought, meaning only exility was at work through the old Venice beach that was now sinking into the sea without the help of Lex Luther wo had gone before. It was  A bad year again I thought the beard eaters called it as they sniffed at the poor through their annus horrible, didn’t they though…? , but not so much, only for the elites and bribed and the pretorian sanctimonious, and you’re no Chris Beard Conan, are any of you, as it upset me to think that even if he was full of blarney and bullshit, or not why wasn’t his son ever dragged to jail for all the drugs he openly consumed. As opposed to Payroll, who was given a Clinton anti-Crime degree over three joints, Excuse me Mister praetor but you dropped your Kojak era Kee of coke, old man, and am not kidding.

 

We sat down to watch the warbling end of Gilmore girls, but alas in its dying swan song, with the ending you’d have thought that the fat girls for whom Melissa McCarthy was a guide and an incarnate, as one can sense the angers of the fat chick mezzanine when she showed up as merely pouncy on the ruins of SNL, it for some reason wasn’t so, not that Amy had had her creation stolen from her.

 

Before, my sister again closer the zeitgeist than I’ll ever be, said two brainy cute brunettes were turned into bobby sockers for a diner idiot and a smirking newsprint king, where is that money now as you shoe boxed from Indian casino money Pritzker…? so to hell with them. When on this show, the trysts fund baby was appalled that even in college, his wayward reversed Prodigal daughter, already seen as not worthy for skull and bones, and very shvitzed.  as if, that’s he dared to write an amended Piece about the rich sissy boys and lectured her as much, what light through yonder Glass ceiling breaks, my brother adds, Why doesn’t this fairy merely make the broad barefoot…? He is what, I was told by Monsignors, worse than I am.  and as Rori begged for forgiveness because of the new ASIAN AND DITZ BRUNETTE that was created in r and d, he had enough and said, Tony, get this shit out of here, he intoned, Yes, god forbid she tell the truth or even see anything wrong with anything as a journalist, they never heard of the Duke in his Domain, he said, He looked at me, Wasn’t that your beloved Gore…?,  he said, but I thought he was close enough. The daddy of Young Sheldon showed up as a pig at the trough, and from Salon, whoever rewrote this as certain to not bite any hands that would anger the ghost of William S Payly, as I didn’t really watch this show after the diner guy was made her Romeo, and they brought in brunette from Twin Peaks, who frankly her first refusal of the script showed that the glorious, smart alecky,  Lauren Graham was after all an understudy who would make the play her own, as the kind of girl who sadly was reduced to type by that, though always liked Sherlyn anyway a castaway in their dead sea of Blonds with always just raped eyes. 

 

24 DECEMBER 2025.

During Christmas week, I received an answer from a cartoon that is a sampler sort of thing over a one-page Sunday cartoon like page called “The Black Knight”. It was complimentary and wanted a higher resolution image of the work of the Roman centurion answer to Conan hat I made as a boy as an answer to that dreadful Conan, which like so much was a Tolkien wet dream of German superiority in Anglican Episcopalian drag, which even this faulty left has to admit no entering of small pygmies into the middle earth can ever really wash away Herr Jar jars stains of Mein Kampf meets Grimms, as he has never much heard of Basile to begin with.

 

I sent back that I would indeed get a higher than iPhone resolution image of the blackest knight, sorry, but the knights were had first under Roman flags wither they liked or not or more likely the always sissified angels will suddenly in a dime, or a Pound, turn and act like knighthood was too good for its filament of frock and rolls arts who unlike Elvis never have to worry about being called exploiters of black music as they even twist and shout and Isley brothers in YOUR face. This happenstance made the dower ness of Christmas that has been there now most of my life alleviate some, as my own father died at this festive time, and my mother decided with usual Italian stoic ness, that we are not all plate spinners and over-dramatic presonaggios as much as the really more blatant jews and their Coppola’s have made us, as when my father died at Saturnalia time, I think it was the 17^th of December 1985, it wasn’t me who choked and or throttled and or unkindest-ly cut him to ribbons along with a who thankfully survived in this wasteland a good 35 years more, but then when he went to Italay to find a wife who wasn’t a blond Americanized Emily, he made sure he did battle with a boyfriend pf hers, who as a radical and bandit so whenever the radical sheiks come to get them released, it’s never shocking to me who is on the cover of Newsweek, as that fascia on the walls of that geriatric home called a senate is firmly, like Augustus cloak, pinned as it were the Carrera marble  that the hill Billies made sure that they got delivered from Roman haunts.

I thought of how when I was a boy really, my father wanted me to go to  the Pittsburgh Press and try to get my Black Knight-Italianate Prince Valiant in the Sunday papers when we had them, but I was somehow beguiled by the life of Petrie to let go of wanting the material ghost of black and white Auntie Mame, Rose Marie to ask if mister Chayefsky was in his office. Now television alas has reduced itself to fat bloated piggish Bluto Jimmie the k, WHO WITH USUAL Siciliana charm and cleverness had to grow a beard, the liar must like Lon Chaney or Mel Brooks be the man of a 1000 faces last he lose his place amid the new missiles,  as Letterman did first, as affectation is catching, and he couldn’t think of looking like the same person who guzzled beer out of pitchers and who flicked their lounges at unaware women’s up skirted asses. He had to find more beards than one. And the bowling ball network ABC, so close to remembering Batman’s bomb like in mad magazine, has sheepishly abounded without much fanfare that his contract with the perihelia third station has been extended by ‘weeks and weeks’ , a line I had not made notice of or used as a punchline since Biden thought he was king of the world, and only it seems I knew if he did survive past when he was supposed to, well, then, the pretorian guard of Comics and late night Moreys would indeed burn that bridge when they come to it.

So, the idea that I am about to get the boyhood hero Black Knight, so often a pejorative to the mommies’ boys of television and their white stash women of conscious, see above, or so it was implied made a holiday in which I was already dyspeptic anyway seem less oppressive. We made a mom’s dimmer for Christmas eve, it must be in mob cookbooks somewhere by now, of a fish dinner, though I replaced mere fettuccine with fresher Tagliatelle, and with only cans of halibut and salmon, we made a sauce that none others, even Italians, had on the Sicilian colony called laughingly America, although the very name is as hated by a crew of fat schnooks this year with their Klansman granddaughters geometric proofs that my father warned me was what Coppola cleverly used as a spring board to some riches, that it was the name of an Etruscan city to which got crickets as once again, no clerks neither red not black, neither gospellers or Marxists can survive their own arguments when again as I impressed the nuns Jesuit pre law Antonius placed Maria Goretti on trial as showed a defense lawyers prestidigitation, that when it is seen now for Riener’s malicious kid, it can devolve into mere mudslinging.  

 

A few days before Christmas eve, I did go out though stayed hunkered down this season as much as any, and at a Family Dollar, I was confronted with the black ducted image of a bloated piggish man who an internal realization knew was the bloated bully of the catholic school my whole life was sent spinning out of orbit over as I wanted to leave it so much. A over full, blackest, eminence was recalled immediately by me as someone who frankly left me alone and didn’t dare hurl me into lockers, as he did many, sure that me or my family would beta that fat little piglet within an inch of his life anyway, as they were all sure then that my father, a doppelganger for equal to Lew Marie, he was told or sure that my father as somehow connected to Manderino, when specifically my stoic , Scorsese disposing of father as assuredly not. My elder brother stood at the Last store around here like it to have working freezers, and he spoke to some girl who I recalled worked there, and the moment he stropped his Siciliana crying about a dead mother to the woman , I made sure to leave quickly, having bought nothing, as didn’t want this time, him to make by me, as they say in my Beloved Spillane, but it again wasn’t as full of vitriol as it might have been. I walked out and went over to our car =, and told him I had seen someone in there, that this time, I didn’t want to see, he was behind doing that to me abstemiously, and I didn’t want right now to recall at all. I should have hated him more than I do, as it was his relative who made sure I was as a kid, weaned off of allowing the fat little boy from his future as a STEELER OR A PRO WESRLER WHATEVER, AND HE HAD AS HIS ILK DOES OPENLY MOLESTED A GIRL NAMED Violet. This causing already a dislike in me about her to enflame as it was not me or a father she often sneered about, who shoved my or his dick down her throat as an Eighth grader. There are is’ also a fruited plane out there that Hillary is not just blind to but hides with all of her might, The year ends with another bloat, another oversexed hubby, ladies, in a hot tub with the nymphs about, as I think. This IS WHO YOU KILLED FOR, Faries demons, whatever, there is the Duke in his unending domain, as not arnet you the Innomiato, Stevruni, neither sadly is he. You will find out, my brother tells me as he drives out and away from wallmarts newest insult, That’s the older you get, Kid, The less and less youll care about such things as big fat schoolboys who ever made it too anyplace. Vroom vroom. We bought canned fish, as all we have that night is pasta and bake d Baklava or Cod, as poverty was to my people the grandmother of innovation. 

 

 

 

Why did I do two sketch challenges this year, and was it only to fill up a want for 8- drawings in my self-imposed rule of 365 drawings in one calendar year…? I did it, less than opaquely the witches of October as an answer to the monstrosity of television and hbo Jewish in laws who made and make sure that witches are always the same, as fat little piglets like Jimmy the Kimmel are so predictable in their trashing of Jay Leno and Magen Fox dare anyone tell them they have been like so many later banished wonder women and warrior princesses as I became tired of how the Hollywood allegedly left be hinders made sure that even with a pretty Pleb  from Italic woodlands was always a witch and never an original vestal in the now darkie loving but as apparently racist as it’s ever been the case, at the magical kingdom. Some of us wops remember Collodi and Wally Wood fondly, as it was that dissevered of my elder brothers case of aging even then cartoon pocket books signets of Mad comics, at their best, and Plastic Sam and Batboy and Rubin and Smiling Melvin and of course Super-duper Man,  which seems a lot closest to the Superman who started to unnerve a Captain Marvel lover me than he was meant to, and is now inestimable.

I drew these pretty witches as I had made my own Italic  wonder women and warrior princesses which even though cast with a  penthouse pet like brunette on one of those awful sci fly channels, had to screech and grease and whale and whoop and be seen of curse by the heirs of the dreadful Will Elder as always lesbians, like the blonds they have chased after as does Jimmies aren’t, at least as they try desperately to wear the next beard,  lest anyone recall when like Rachel Madddow is allowed on that he indeed was not so beloved when he was flicking his Sacheecha stained burping mouth at an unsuspecting woman and pissed out his liters of Beer at whatever outdoor dumpster was handy. With the Sicilian  cleverness that has kept them hated by all continental Italians and gets them married to blond hags who can’t quite get to the Jewish folding money, we aren’t supposed to recall what they were before, when busty brunette aging pin up dolls in queer show’s said what they really thought of them, ah the word of Poppy DAMICLESE which always is in the back of their minds. Remember who is paid to laugh along with your once seen as dykey jokes, Rachel dear, and it has been a habit of mine, that eventually I am proven right, and am in the end liked more than the human trash that cleverness puts like and like together. He saw an act he hones as well or not as did Steverino, start to Frey after Magada Hillatata was sent away by a deceitful and always conniving and spurting hubby, start so to become more passe and disliked by the day, and as has happened before , as he picked up a pennant never his and acted like, as they did as SNL that all the confetti of the parades was theirs to behind with. So, I do hope from this far, Far, away that the next magic kingdom to find him as human ipecac purges the magical fairy land of the bloated pig, who scaly thought a beard was enough to make anyone forget or forgive that he again was a pig man in various hot tubs. I sense that Signora Fortuna, my devout mother to her, is out there sharpening blades, as the idiots find that a rat too rots from the head, first. 

 

 

I felt a usual ennui at Saturnalia as my dad did go now forty years agon these very days, and so that leave me with a haunted haunting feeling, as again I am sure no beloved son was I, and was in fact, wrong about everything that matters more than Gus and Liv in our weedy Golden arches laden swamp, pretending it is A Newest Rome. I felt badly too that I was confronted with the death of meathead in so squalid a way/ A television dragoon a Skeletor, Krampus lookalike James Carvell used this festive days to compare the dead Meathead Rob Reiner, who again like Orson Welles with Gore Vidal I seem to recall all of my life, to Charlie Kirk, who does have the difference of not having been killed and massacred by a relative. And then I thought it through…a posted at Rob=Ritchie’s page a while ack with one of those black-haired warrior queens, right after the death of the Shogun. The Mikado Prince Chaney, that looking again at the days of Alan Brady who again, I wished to be alike way back, I thought how sad it was that I read Italian masterworks that Penny if not he knew of, which were so hip and so cutting edge written no less in in the dark ages that never accorded in Italay,  even with that find awful church, and how that Persky Denoff universe seemed so very medieval to me. And now I think, as a Reiner killed his father, the worst crime a Roman can conceive of, am I the last man, Andrew, to recall and know what it means that word patriotism…? And, recalling my own father I am still filled with recriminations over he and my mom and me throwing Jesuits trained and adored sheep’s bladders and palimpsests back in their ethic traces, as my farther t6ried to warm me, they don’t just hand these  jurist papers and keys like the one held on Bushes trunks., Mycroft brother George Will who still haunts that Jesuit walled new Minerva’s temple, and now with Rob slaughtered as he was, it did bring me, as they say, down a peg or two at what this decline and fall and its drag queens of death have bequeathed to us. And I thought, how sad that we live in this Petronius satire-less decent, without even the refracted light of a Purgatorio to save us from the darkness. Somehow Alan Bradys scions kill each other, and not the one born to taken in by Lavern, perhaps unwittingly by Garry, the brother was always there as pop said willing to demean for a higher bracket, a goddess of thieves, but Hermes in Rome did always recall, who was a killer and was never forgiven over it. A Mercury theater.

Somehow the Reiner went to directly to the Manderino, who my pop did despise though a pretense of affability, and the knives , no less, did come ached, and I wonder as I watched the dick Van Dyke birthday celebration went on the Hot In Cleveland station, which by the way, not even a in memorious was shown much less a weekend of his best work was shown. I thought of my mother telling me of the Puzo inspiring familial killing story of that family of hoods and thugs which I am sure that the Reimer’s thought they aren’t even close to, but the Mediterranean or Middle earth, jars of a less than Kosher salt that can apply itself to nay open wound. I really thought that there would be a Roman bath but thought for sure it would be the couple of juvenile delinquents at South Park before now, but Conan, who made sure we hear mourners now that he didn’t want the cops or ice to find the indicated drugs paperless gardeners, as close to equity as the Hollywooders go. And or extras in the guarded house, made sure no eon called 911 when he was openly speaking of tilling them all. So, what exactly did Rob do, behind make films that told missile America that things were as Plautus said, the shame at the swan song as they w ere at the overture...? Ah look the American prisoner—OR BETTER PRAETOR, for whom he was a hagiographer was just seen not only barefoot but shirtless in his never-ending battle against monogamy. Lawyer we up, Conan, and that comes from a student  of Jesuit prelaw, so take that for that its worth, as again, you’re no Mister Mike. And Carson is out of the question, I kid tu not a bit. 

 

 

So, a water main nearby broke on the holy days as hope, no democrat De Sade am I, my Innnominatio's are allergic to evil as the great Calvino said of our modern master not penny dreadful writer Manzoni. In the church of the poisoned limes. I wanted to catch my beloved, newly found if not Beatrice, then Lucia of Jane Lynch, whom I adore her Nunnery like poisoned lips and how a Lucretia at heart she can spray piss from any verbal orifice. Alas she was not on the weakest link, as lately can’t watch the advertises of Rob and Laura and Buddy and Rose now that I know the ending. She wasn’t on, and the direful, brother hated SNL was on. They were one of the few places to actually speak of the left bled out Rob, and his killer son, as I do recall as a boy watching the early NBC ‘Saturday Night’,  when meathead was hosting after his friend, and reseen now in a stage discovery, Albert Brooks, easily the funniest white man in America still. One more knife and wed have a bit, or a tragedy, or whatever. When I see him wonder if they’ll have Pepsi ice at the Riener funeral, like Christmas any speaking of this horror drips away like a Dali masterwork. But, I did see the pretty fresh-faced loveliness of pretty Ann Marie of these days, the lovely Cecily Strong,  as once again the refugee from the Joke wall and Ruth and Artie and Lilly, like the wop goon from the sopranos lived Biden like lives of perpetually being at NBC. I watched only for her, as my mother’s ideal and belief in the idea of “the Belladonna” is something that I won’t go into here. By chance I did, and out came the hosts, the equally perpetually affixed to this show, Steve Martin and Martin Short. I am impressed by neither, but least of all by Martin Short who was after all great on Carson, but Americana died with the man from Nebraska as there is a Wiff of bottled garlic to the goons of midnight now. I was going to turn it, but felt so tired out by the last few days went to play a drinking game with the MAKERS MARK I BOUGHT WHEN MA PASSED,  AND NOW AM HALF THROUGH A BOTTLE, ONLY SUED FOR HOLIDAYS AND Columbus day toasts to the Etruscan's, and was going to take a Jackie as Minnesota Fats sip echo times I heard the name  Trump was mentioned, as I  knew though it was a replate STEGATZ AS MA CALLED WARMED OVER SLOP, it was strange to know that they no longer would emirate a praetor who could not stand up right ways on the tarmac.

The festivity of the decor was off putting, too much Silver, a trying to be hip- mas too druid to me, it looked like the worst Rankin Bass holiday special The Hunt brothers go to pray at the pagan jack frost. I thought of how I tried to send in work as a teenager, but no mere Jewry Pate Davidson Adam Sandler, in George Wills book the Italians have much humor but much satire even though it is their art form you do as Henry Morgan said, never well done. So, before Play it again Hope like Putter was attached was I. I thought of a sketch I wrote back then based on the commercial for a perfume with a failed angel called Charlee, and how I wrote a quick two-minute skit about a perfume called Capote. Pariahs with an Italian chancres grace, I knew where he and his show was headed as I wrote in the margins of Olivetti script perhaps a singer who lied doing Comedy from Lucy to night Court, Mel Torme could be paid to do the song, and they call it Capp=otay, and it’s here now Capote! In the early script, I thought I could do Capote as it were. A man in a Panama Hat stumbled and bumbled and fell across the street from the New Yorker and the Essex house, act.

 

I do not try to be that personal in theses epistles, but a bottle of that golden flower water was a last Christmas present bought from me to a sister who soon after was another unseen and uncycled and unmarked victim in their aftermath. Capote, the announcer said, the only true perfume for tranvestites, which such people weren’t better than us all, and did not have the Latin so Bushian removed to make them palatable to the Ponderosa in which Being there gardener Georgie lives his cathode tube life. and hid while the grandmothers were dying hoping to take their pound of putrid flesh from Corpse Biden, it wasn’t worth it,  as they become in a church that Fransis Baroni would rail against years before any Luther told the poor not to get their hopes up, as he was after all not an evangelist. At an angle to the smallish large flat television, a contraption my father despised, and haven’t I thought of his disdain for them as quietly Rob Reiner has become at long last a bigger trashed than Alan Alda or Ed Asner ever was, I looked away from the garland and this Warhola Nightmare of the other tinsel one finds when they dig past the first pile, the underworld affectation, It was a Gustave Dore Infreno of laughing fallen angels, to me, without the charms and without the artistry, but alas they like their wops as a lowest form of capitulating goon, don’t they do…? Tell Steverino, my brother said, another of my dismantlements that means more to him than I nearly recall him on Group wonderful much less anything else, Tell him, he said, To put an arrow through his head again, and this time, he said, Use a bow. Ouch, I said allowed as even my sister I think cracked up at that. we are Romans in the blood that always approves. He is after all Mean, mean, mean in ways I am certainly not as I am crippled with acquiescence as a great vice. The silver mine masquerading as a Christmas with the Midas family was depressive, as I looked upon what the Jesuits might call the Indulgences of Accumulation. Maybe the Franciscans after all, now that I think of it.

I SAT there in the glow of a chrome and yellow and mostly green tree they only call pagane and Roman when they didn’t put it up at Radio City, the good non bigots who have even invoked Rachle and her ilk to their The Apartment like Christmas parties, no less. My brother, is fuller than I, as I am truly trying to lose the weight and lost another three pounds at the last weigh in. My brother came in, wearing thirst and shorts, he had enough and was tired, but we pulled it off as best as we could. Happy Saturnalia, he said to me, though not officially so, he knows my jest. What the hell are you watching Olbremann? He asked, as I noticed that they are all sharing a similar face now.  What the hell is that hump doing on…he said. I laughed, mo, Not him, another Hump, I added. Snl, I said. Oh, he said, with a grunt showing he was no fan. God that shit is hurting eyes, he said, I came in here to get a fuking aspirin, for Christs sake, What the hell does he want, he asked,  He proceeded to gargle with salty water, see Mediterranean above, as he won’t use the Scope, he in fact bought for me. Isn’t that Martin Short…? he asked, I don’t know why you watch that Murder show strap, how many murders do you get in one building before they shut the fukker down, he asked. What are they saying, he asked. They are eroding each other’s Eulogy. Oh, he said, A Christmas miracle it would be if it were only true. Ma was right, he said with a keener Christmas aspect and a sharper eye than I have. Be careful what you call down on yourself, she was right, he said. Wait a second, he said, turning, giving me a quizzical look. Didn’t you, je said, Like you say stuff like that, like, ten years ago…? Weren’t You, he said, Talking about fatso Clinton type writing eulogia on file and doing Jessel with the put 200 grand in the hollow tree at Chautauqua, getting the cash was no problem, but lifting the hollow tree has gave me a Hioniah! Well, yes, I said, but it’s in theatrical domain, it’s Petronius in the public domain, I said. Yeah, like either of these two asshoels read The Satyricon…come on, he said, Yeah, you know what else you are, you’re poor as these asswipes keep stealing your shtick to look erudite. It’s the Christmas show I said, recalling the first one season of SNL and Candice Bergan and John Belushi flirting through the show and all, and now…I said, Were here. I thought of the film by Albert Brooks, I guess that it must have been then, Paul Simon’s America. What the dumb clever wop never underrates as he stains the lobby of Rerun and Ted Bessel, and smartly he thinks becomes a big shit in the cellars of Fridays and Joanie Loves Chachi, is how smarmy they seem, as I recalled how my own brother told me, and I was romanced by these same people once, more than always graspers ever have been, and I didn’t have to sell my soul like sissy Obama as they liked me better for not. My Brother me that they were politicos who he had to be servant to as a Favorite of  monsignor as Jimmy’s son who openly hated them more than to the point that Monsignor Fiscus warned me as a little boy I was with my pop, he told me don’t become like an anarchist like your brother, Antonius, as I come by my affectations truly. I sang along, so I bought a pack of cigarettes and Misses Warner’s pies, Cathy I say as we boarded a greyhound in Pittsburgh, I come to looking fer America. I kiss at you ma, obviously, but sadly miss the old man more, how can that be…? Who knows. Broadway monster so Mandy Potemkin, like the village, batches about the poor stupid Palestinians. Hey pal, I was remarking on Jeddah and received in the mail hot Roman superman’s torn to bits. I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why…counting the cars on the new Jersey turnpike…really Conan, with a house filled with self-absorbed self-appointed, self-encysted elites who probably had worse high school careers than I did, I speak as a well-wisher which my brother never much was, to him a lower case Letterman is by definition a third generation Xerox and you can’t touch Johhny’s tie. Ask not dear Conan named for the barbarian slug cited as a lover of death by an eventual suicide, and this year got my anti Conan comics stuff completely published, I shall never be devoted to the cross that fell on Italay worst of all. So, Conan, the silver bells, they toll for thee…