THE FIRCEST ROMAN LOOKED ASKANSE AT THE BURNING CITY…

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

The empire is in a sad place as Petronius said,  for a couple of hillbilly pigs who once said that the era of big gummite was over. Two weeks ago I said that Rip Taylor in Maine not only wouldn’t be a senator, a sadly demeaned term now, or make it to election week, or survive past my Leonid Augustine birthday. Timber. Why a gal asked me, interested in using my work. Because GRANDDADDY Bush held that seat, and the boys decided no drunkard Bluto was taking it with sweaty palms. Welcome to the Duchy of America. I say we look into the first stolen election since Gore's 1876, and that would be the 2005v election that Hillary as stupid enough to think was , like the least five years, done for the wife of a hillbilly rapist, who never could get a majority anyway. 

I don’t usually do this, as mostly post a essay a month, as my brother’s request, though I am still devoted to the résumé. But, don’t do social connections to my work, unless asked. But this woman has been awfully nice to me, as I never really care about getting accepted by anyone , but do bark back when I am sensing the sanctimony of clowns. As this third piece which she accepted was in fact the true requiem for the goon at CBS, if not all of television now, as I have found it funny that though overfed whyte chix, we must use astrix now to avoid the censors rats. The hated Oligarchy who hid stories about Rip Taylor in Maine in bulk, until  the phone call from Kennebunkport went to the Times. Asked by someone else how I was so sure that Rip would never be a senator, I knew from the histories of Italy no patrician was letting him past the marble door into grandpas seat. So, hags with flyaway hair and bad skin and pop bottle glasses think they rule the earth, that it is strange that when they aren’t braying, someone makes films about Barbie, Oppenheimer, serial killers and now, Ulysses. But the Romans you are allowed to hate amid the conquistador trash, they thought that Ulysses, a snide insult in the name as Jesuit told me, was the first war criminal. EVEN GIRLS I FIND ATRACTIVE AND CUTE AND INTRESTING LIKE Broey and Lindsay know that much. No fooling, actual GIRLS, know as much, so of course I root for its demise. as I can say I wasn’t  expecting Virgil anyway. The Hollywood J3ws laud the maker of that horse, but it was Virgil who said Aeneas, the first Roman, didn’t trust the idea of a Trojan horse. Or again, maybe that was Bill Clinton. Every wall written on is a triumph to me, as I neither tell or am told when I can say genocide, and don’t use tourniquets for my beliefs. We miss you Mario. 

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

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

 [unfinished crayon ad.] 

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

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

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

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

I AM THE AUGER. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

REQUIEM FOR A LIGHTWHEIGHT.

[accepted pre plannedenmic drawings. ]

So, the dire end of Colbert is nowhere near the national   moment that was   the end of Carson, and is closer to the mad mag--comics   endings of Howdee Doodee and a drawn out test pattern, which in the glory days of CBS, the great satire Green Acres called watching Ed Sullivan.  I really thought I had wasted the year, but did get my Father admired, Roman anti- Conan, and centurion Sunday comic in a collection, and now have even gotten seven more drawings   published, and with two maybes, so Signora Fortuna has her favorites and those who scream at the walls.  If THE AWEFUL UNCANCELLABLE Colbert doesn't get to dance On the graves of all those Italian grandmothers,  and he gets all the other con artists and midnight CLOWNS to join him, the mind reels at how many Monica jokes theses buzzards of power did spew. 

But, having thought the shameless and the filthy would rile the Colbert less day, even I was shocked, though why I am never sure, I guess like the syphilis the Jesuit training didn’t really take as they had thought, there was an either open disdain for his third act, or worse than that, a merest silence, as say the transistor who Hillary's smiling, witchy face was to be used as a stage tragic goat  mask, as freezing titty from which to get the curdled milk of Human unkindness disquieted as empathy for all but say Joe Calfano. 

Yes, dears I made the occasional white girl even English and genetically superior to me gal of empire look up his name, as the strgea Putana bonfires as somehow the national brotherhood week that Whoopee’s so declares, I made them again look up the list of names seen as unworthy by her and her bloated bleating betraying Husband. And how an Italian American at a Pub on the floss was again not that far away from  the Hannibal campaigns allegedly so beloved by her Luntian husband, but who can tell and who after all knows, as we all fall far , far,  behind, as I sense. But then, as I saw the end foretold of Biden as I only did, I have seen the Jesuit mind of Roman Bill a thousand times preceding this farce, I also said eventually Colbert, whom I hate over more some mere pretense of political belief coming, he end up screaming Ire in an abandoned theater. 

As it will for fellow girl shading. goon wop, Jimmy 2, like Bizarro, as it would have been since had there had been a champion for the partita who was not sending out death threats and tongue wagging or needing Letterman’s dirty handed admiration at the end no less, and who wasn’t a guy republican weeding his beer gardens in 2015. for the thousandth time, a witch causes a clever dirt bag to go careening into a whitewashed wall with a stagiest crook of crooked finger promising something other than merest Monica sex. 

The user who is Hillary, she wears no vobiscum tie, God knobs, and no Oviddian Vestal is she, and no laurels or wild flowers are placed in her barbarian flyaway hair, as those who followed and lied for her follow her off the  ends of the Medieval earth in scourge, and she wont certainly be around when finally the laws and tides and tempos of television take hold and in fact the tasteless goon on whatever All my Children or Almost anything goes has to go eclectically when the vicious Maus so says. Do be aware as Bela would say, she warns does Strega queen, that she again will be nowhere to be found amid the dreary scholars of censorship. Text. 

I think my father felt, if not responsible, then commissariate in my becoming sickly as a rather robust lad. And not too far or long after being hurled out of a low end thievery private I was not wanted at anyway, and I had a gutful in many ways of dealing with the two bit Mafia kiddies of then. And around then, he bought me a RCA lazar desk already then faltering in the days of the Madison Avenue wizards unaware of dealing with New Coke, and wit that already aging then dues ex machina came with it the large floppies that had films in their then pristine copies. With the machine came things like Citizen Kane, cartoons then torn off television in the beginnings of the age of white women always available to be there as screeching Mimi’ s when fatso sexualized husbands need a latest bimbo eruption gone. Along with that came the best of CBS dramas, the age of Gore Vidal, Reginald Rose, Paddy Chayefsky, et al. I think he thought his dismastment of my being offered that scholarship to Stanford for film, was better than what all had turned into by then. And a piece I wrote in the same way I tried last year to do a witch a day each day until Halloween was attempted this Easter time were of stream of consciousness attempts I sent them into a magazine which gloried in its being named for the cow manure that fertilized the fruited plains left by reseeding icebergs once. It was about this very time, connected to the times of now, and the editor of the magazine called it, I thought, perfectly for his own affectation, Sh==t, but asked me, amusingly, to send more. No, my shaper brother said, tell this professional man to keep the crud  he’s already got in the pipeline, or as I said, echoing Carl Reiner, the Terrencial -Zero Mostelllian narrator of Tonight at CBS the Rope, I don’t bomb three times with the same crap, to use his wordless eloquence. 

was this in a magazine called High Society, I seem to recall. 

But, sure that this spring would end up as little more than television citied marked time, instead as I wrote this have up to nine acceptances, as the drowning of Colbert into the asphalt as his eyes betray the fact that he in living color sees himself as a dead duck, or peacock as the case may be, I did a good job of not giving in or up. In act in the piece I may have recalled that I had from catholic school to the pits of a personally isolating placement I repacked up my résumé though recalling back, did get some drawings made and accepted then in magazines which Hillary voters and the zombies of Dworkin would call pornography, but which Madam Hillata merely knew what was in Hobbies sox drawers. I still keep the drawings, mostly Penthouse pets from those days, Melissa, Alexis, Jami, all of Clintons brunette dancing girls, the love of a curved ankle gees back to Cornelius after all, as I got my share in things and rags and dastardly broadsheets that Madam Le Frange first lady queen tries to have to pretend that Hubby didn’t devour once. Ah but all politics is after all the art of the hypocrite, Jimmies prove that, and for scans , rescanning these older pictures of these older woman by now, in their perfect Vestal loveliness, as the aged politicos make Clinton everything he always hated, 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=abH_k0YhL04&list=RDabH_k0YhL04&start_radio=1

I have resent them out using Chill subs, and have indeed gotten some, or most, republished in the résumé I now keep as magazines that advertised in the Lampoon with two inch black and white ads have been restored, re- legitimized, republished on the electronic Roman Walls that the internet can be only at its best. To the wholesome and decent Newerlkers and sacrosanct makers of magazines either pompous or asking for apologies for all the blonds they placed in along the way I can say still these works have a currant of electricity through them and then and now, I never had to beg for forgiveness as I have never tore a girls Bra off her body, as ma told me the one thing I couldn’t ever be and still be her beloved son was  rapist of these white trash hags, who think when not danining to be your wifely master, love to think you sit there and dream of fucking their GWB strewing titless bodies. 

a magazine's low rent playboy advisor "MM"- 1995

As since Saturnalia, I have watched the whole series of the only show done by the hated by my father Norman the barbarian Norman Lear that had a semblance of heart. It took me until forty to realize that indeed my pop was correct about almost all, but had somewhat playfully, somewhere to get a reaction, somewhat not called him and even my devoted to Italian mother as “Peasants”,  again thinking it funny when heard it said by Carl Reiner who played another paragon of television hating artist, first the new Yorker and then a satire, or better a trashing, of Pollock, as God knows he had something up his television needlessness about any kind of an art that didn’t use a laugh track or a pratfall, or Mary showing off her legs between beatings. Moreover, as summer becomes a lack of having to use the electric, as if that matters in our Arthur C Clark Halcyon nightmare nightscape, a Tokyo availing at every desk. 

MEGAMAN Captain Ersatz comic zine. 

I took the time to watch the arc, if it can be called that of the three Italian women whose show was taken over by the wasps that they, like their masters were sure they had to be given over to, as were they. Sadly, but not shockingly, as my father warned me of the TVites, like Norman and Stan Lee, parodies of the ethnics, whom he hated, and their perpetual hard sell, it was not for nothing that he appeared at the end, did Norman, as a television fairy, it was not my Aeneid bible who hated queers, like the great satire in Mad newsprint when I was fourteen. Then, my already outgrowing it for all but its artful deigns, and how the beloved Mort Drucker made a Christmas Carroll O’Conner, PEGGING THAT SAD END THAT ALL HIS SHOWS SEEMD TO come to an ending as did Maude and now re seen as did One day at a time. All ended with the JUST FROM Petronius calculus, and that a tragedy is only a comedy that didn’t know went to quit. At the end, with the ghosts of Richard Mazur, almost meathead, food luck against Alan Brady Junior, who was inscrutably missed as was the first daughter, the Italian carrot top Mom, had to be alas married at the end, and to no less than Doctor Johnny Fever, in his own ennui of a lackluster George Carlin who wouldn’t indeed have said Shell Shock no matter what he thought, Or didn’t. The Italian baby girl, beloved Beatrice wise ass once guys and doll as perpetual Betrothed to slickest Nathan,  Valerie Bertinelli is seen each night at various degrees of womanhood,  as she crabs at wards 50, but all’s here in the depressive, dreaded, year that  Biden wishes to return to so madly, 1984, when he was behind the degradation of the Hart Bypass, as I called it in a cartoon accepted once, see above, she was though poetry Italian girl pretty, declared and with the gait’s of goddesses, loved as the Anglican scribblers once did love their Bancoftian ladies, she though here is married to of all things a dentist, but as wasp one, or course. She is barren, this is up where makings certain all the menders of an ITALAIN FAMILY ARE EITHER GAY AND OR PREGENET. And the older sister showed the Italians of Manzoni, hell of Sicilian crime novelist Leonardo Sciacca, are not up for conversion scenes anymore. Gee, this is no world for Innominatos. She has to reparse the hole on the show, and a Mackenzie showing that a problem child is, at the Synagogue a real threat as David Susskind could have told you, or is it Soupy Sales....?, she abandons the child she had to give with some Gumba Jew, not as pretty as Valerie, But more sexual she couldn’t quite get the casting department at Viacom to get her a wasp who looked like the white goon who had to be jettisoned from Taxi. Ah we miss you Andy Kaufman, as I make sure that chosen model of now Jon Stewart has indeed yelled at the hump atoning with coffee until the little red light comes on and shows that Tinkerbelle of not liberalism is still hanging on. 

I don't like or use AI, as the Roman said, I can graffiti anywhere, let Augustus clean it up. However, I did perform a Nexus search anyway. These are results for   how   many   Hal reports, A Clinton did not appear on      during its final year on the air (May 2025 to May 2026).    As my Ma told me, to the Putani Haltati, Italian for sociopaths, whores of placement, we are all but help. You see as a loser to Sweet old Bill you have an infection worse than any VD has ever been. Back into the woods the Strega returns almost gleefully, as not brining the center of inattention is too close an echo to her narcissus of every Saturday night in Hot springs, and a narcissus, to  paraphrase Gore is someone worse off, in her mind, than you are. I must admit the artfulness here is more honest than much I have done and gotten accepted, even if I have tried not to out and out copy, as an answer to some Germanic Helga nun who learned all she needed  from bigoted cardinals who I always resented in a Roman charge. The art is more holiest and honest here, more real, thickly applied, mostly humblest crayon and flair, and admired more than not and even in some art magazines as colorful, fantasia more than not. F the sociopaths of Hillarys forest witches, my heart is with Roman Bill in the Shady Groves, anyway, as I still have maybe twenty some cartoons of then kept in a trapper keeper, drawings made and kept as an originals more a real resume than the collected lines of now. Take that she says to Colbert the Uncle Arthur of her Bewitched, with some delight over some slight she is sure she saw him do or say or not do or say when goaded as she alas for her next assault on the Caesariate  or Parnassus our Medea without the triaged Greek intonations, is certain she never trusted him anyway and cant in good conscious ever be caught dead near anyone so vulgar and maybe lose another six votes as she is one like counted souls to Dante’s Satan are indeed the most precious of menageries made, or not, causing the gloomy Lucifer to see the Dore joke is again is on he, they are of candied, breakaway,  glass.