REQUIEM FOR A LIGHTWHEIGHT. 15 MAY 2926.

[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, 

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. 

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.