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…