22 April 2013



I have been advised by some to keep my mouth shut about certain happenings, and all in all not a bad strategy, as said I was taking off until MAY Day, and have been flushed out of the brush of face book before even those finding themselves under surveillance now. But, on a happier Note, this is the anniversary of what was called Founders day, April 21st, on the Roman calendar the year 2766, where one gets their kicks. Mister Stupendous happens in year 2731, and Impiriumata happening on the 2753, so it has been a thread through my imagination. This is the day that Romulus the great took that bloody plow and killed Remus for having been a bit too Handsy, and at that moment 12 golden eagles, l’Aquila, came out of the sky from Father Jove, showing this wasn’t Cain and Able and these weren’t Jews, or Arabs, despite the passing resemblance. No Chosen people or master race here, from the beginning, from the foundation, sorry Bro, you have got to go. But then Rome is still there, despite all, still the most beguiling and enduring of all superpowers ever, as was said by a great show on pbs but which was pulled by the lovers of noble savages, in this case of course the Germans, you know, grandma, as opposed to the one about Arab classicism, which was taken down as happens when NPR gets the memos. If Christmas day is the only day the devil sleeps, as said in sweet and decent Italian fairy story, so today must Tom Shales, who cant understand the pull of Rome, takes a day to catch up on all the nuances of dire blood sport Sopranos which he missed, if he bothers to care at all. So, amid the unnoticed soot and clouds of ammonium nitrite and babbling lunchy New York congressmen never so happy, writings checks of playful fascism that even Fox cant cash, as we have our blond vestals on cue cry for those children who made it out of Kermit's swamp, if not a Toilet, do go to where the power lies, Remember the Titans, and read as a toast of Roman Rye, this excerpt from my massive book, done mostly for myself than anything, the first inclining of all art. I must say proudly I made it to the Romans, Etruscans even, as Copolla times shares his RED camera to any punk willing to pay, and Scorsese tries desperately to make his blood arts into something that AMC could show between zombies and the mucking up of things done better by Darrin and Sam and Larry Tate. Boy, it bothers me when the white trash make their tragedies about were they have to work, in bright lights, Vouging, or now at Dellafemina ad councils. A Horatian toast to the fat publishers row chick who lectured me about decency, just before the drones started to fly, and a drink to old Nicola, Bill C, Gore and Henry, lovers of Rome all, as remember the Tuscan line said by Ennius eons ago and placed by me in the mouth of senator Cornelius, speaking of fraying straps, “A Roman pacifist is a warlord who takes prisoners”, something even you arte not. Here’s and Idea to white folks so put upon at The New Yorker, quit-- and pick up a shovel. Its nothing I haven’t done before, thinking myself too good for the shrouding decay. In a masterwork called the Gallery, John Horne Burns writes of the Italay he saw in the war, and said spritely that the Italians had a push back in them, as opposed to the Irish, who stayed wounded all of their lives. Can’t you tell…? Salute.

Search: The media was kept outside of Watertown during the day-long search, that culminated with the discovery of the 19-year-old suspect who was found only after the lockdown was lifted


To paraphrase Machiavelli, the state becomes paranoid—Machiavelli like Ovid were favorites of Freud, --when the riches of the state are wholly owned by a crew of criminals, who see the only terror is their closets being busted into, and their precious gold being stolen, as who is more afraid of the dark then a criminal…? Pirates of the state like Shumah see pirates everywhere, always ready to assault the golden door, as did he and his plucky Kin…huh, lettim go ta back of the line like my precious nana Virbutz did, shaman Chuck can plaintively cry, keep the Ayerabs outtta the Mastres dis time, buuby…who needs some Tahhhhp…? Seeing old Boston Charley go back to form, Jonathan Turley’s paeans to Caesarism making him more jittery and nervous than usual, as msnbc gave us one white expert in fasciae after the next, well I was right and the pinkos are all owned by the war consortium that owns their Jewish lawyers with Roman titles, never a good move. The word Imperium is old Latin for police state, causing a stentorian to ask when Augustus called himself Imperator just whom is he occupying Rome for…? After all, Dear John Batchelor, I spoke only days ago of how prisoners were brought to Tyberius with their throats cut out as not to be able to speak, and a good acceptable clerk acting the role of notary Republic would imprimatur whatever case the patricians cops brought. And now,-- ta daaadh! But, as they wheeled out Minninio, like Chuck Strong you love your wops on iv drips, this is a triumph for Fox news and its Nero coo, wave the flag and cross your legs, Kimberly, as tank Gawd this happened as the white trash were asking where all the rounds went. How soon before the first flag drops, and white men speaking of public gallows now turn and speak of how they live under Tyranny. And too, terrorist is  a word well sued by Erkle and his white Heifer Candy of the heath bars, as the election is over and no longer must we placate the nigger stashed in tenements who feel a irksome bond with Palestinians beaten by sticks. I prefer, God help me, Rudy, at least not phoniest about it--But then it was talk like that that made Machiavelli be tortured by the di Medici, as they saw Italay not in the classical terms the Roman loving Nicollo did, but spindled as a going concern, which opened themselves up to Savonarola, as people don’t like being seen so openly as merchandise. As Nigger Jimmie is already onto the internet sales tax, as the truth comes out between him dancing to and from Wakes, as long as their on the same ways to the bag he has to pick up. But, I did notice that the terrorists are getting whiter, and please don’t ask me to sing along with Neal Diamond as you build tourism gallows after calling in Colonial Putin as the apparatchik from the inky dinky to break open the case. The sing alongs at the Gallows are too medieval even for me, as it bothers my inner Jesuit, but not enough for me to really care. I wonder shall their be added security at this Saturdays church weddings of cleaned and sanitized faggots...how could there not be...? Prosit!


Big mouth that I am, I always feel the need whenever these is a spasm of lynch mob mentality out there, to revert to my inner Jesuit, and say Enough. Not because I am so much a champion of anyone, no Peter King Irish -ly going about and buffoonery and between Grinders am I making sure the gruff Gumba-Jews see me asking for Blood that always turns out to be wrong, but instead I feel the Franciscan duty to something larger than Uncle Rupert’s or the electric companies bottom line. Consortiums were death of Italy, as far back as Veii, which can be seen in-- ANCIENT ROMANCE, AVAILABLE AT AMAZON .COM, as eventually any inner state can with enough money and enough creatures and yellers, with loud mouths and bullshitters cause the true prefecture of the nation to be submerged into the books of the consortium, who is doing the castigating. What bothers me Roman Antony more than anything this week, is the effect put on by Irish sod stew and stewed dirt gabbers, chicken hearted all, tough guys who act the part of some combo between Erik Severide, aren’t you missed Pontiff…?, WHO MY FATHER and Jesuits adored as the voice of God, who always never flew off the handle, and Bazooka Joe. Ah the arts and art of Martin Scorsese and Leo Gorsy, something the italics still bristle at, Jews too, but which the Irish see as their sanctimonious birthright. Ah But Murrow’s boys have been recalled by Imults Kelly girls, now sad that their weekly reader caliber canvassing incurred so many white faces, really cable news hasn’t seen this many white faces all in row since the Nuremberg trials, and now that the Fox Trot goes towards the welfare recipient status of our newest Tarpeas, well, all bets are off as the suddenly gastrulating and Irish day parade slinging and swinging, balled fists Rader Oreilly starts to make sure again the mezzanine and all the people in the dark know he, our Nora Desmond, is looking out for you folks. As he writes one hagiography of regicide after the next. I AM JUST glad to pieces he has never heard of Virgil, and would never attempt a Death of Virgil, already a masterpiece, which could make he and his ghostwriter head swim.

When the chicken hawks call out for the Roman Carmina of war, they don’t understand it, what with Jews and Irishman having avoided war most carefully as if a Chaney, as their superior cleverness, they think can be put to better sue as propagandists back home. But as Tranquillius said, All is Fair, and if you can take out whole villages, with wayward badly made GE War-bots, WELL THEN, Expect what you get. They are either soldiers or criminals, give them that much respect, as war cant just be a going concern, or else like Rome, you are finished. Perpetual war for partial profits never did any one any good. This morning I woke up and went to my email and found a letter from Amazon, a place I haven’t gone to to get so much’s a comic book since Christmas, again was asked if Id be interested in --Hannibal’s war. In this economy …? In Hannibal’s war, the Romans, who had a god of war, besides just Yahweah or Allah demanding scalps, took Hannibal in golden chains and parade him through these streets of Romea, to the senate, where he was saluted. Yes, General Mac Kane, that was a hell of a senate once. And in this showed a dignity, that they weren’t just killers, like at Cumae or Canaan,  who convicted themselves that God was on their side, and if fact called Hannibal the God of war, as who else but the Romans could bring him done…?, as he said with what Livy Calls ‘African cleverness’ and a smile on his bootblack face, his empty eye socket bandaged for utmost dignity. No need, I already read it. Like the Agricola, and read that the next time any of you Britanie’s think that you have supplanted the Jews as chosen people. Ireland fell to Agricola, my forebearer, in two weeks, something still bothersome to the carrying on drunkards, and a particular blue eyed Irish bigot nun I had, who thought that being called a credit to my thief race was the sort of thing that I would warm up to. You got the wrong wop, hunnnie.

I, Roman Tony, despise the backlash here, as to be honest and Romantically sound, one can not as Oreilly and his ilk do even now on MSNBC, make it a point of how the wedding parties that are strafed with anti aircraft fire are somehow to be fluffed off, and are so much a loss leader in our perpetual bookkeeping of patriotism, and then cry their usual Irtysh dirges, --to all the people who think I am an anti Semite as I said its Jews that have been kinder to me in Hollywood fallacies than anyone, and in fact, there is a reason I stayed clear of Lesley, after hearing how Momma Goulash, as my mother dismissed her, as I had no aspire to jump into the Frey of any Irish connotations, god knows. As she assured her daughter, who looked more Italian than not, that Gypsys had come and left her at their doorstep, to account for her Kinky hair. Wow. Mother of the year. Turrrra lutrrra lurrrahhhhhh, Oh God, give me a break. All I know is that if How to train your dragon Bilbo started yelling at me, I’d box his red and bloated ears and nose in, and we all know what that means, as national lampoon explained to our Catholic schoolboy delight how the Vargiiine Mahhry brought sour mash to Mother, is it Mother…?, Irrreland way back when.

And now, seeing the IRA defense team, against terreh-risrm, that’s rich. Of course darkies should expect drones, as Oreilly screeches about tyranny, you know now the election is over, and all, as there was a reason that JEWISH-ER fathers, Italians, Poles, the Wendy Mixture, disliked and discounted the always puffing always huffing, Irish, as they more often then not were the white trash who brought petaphila  into the convents, sorry. But true now as then. That’s why they are all distrusted cardinals now, they survived Aids, having made sure their concubines all had homework. And with Jesuits aplomb I don’t so much befriend the wild and crazy guys, as but, see the Roman ethic inherent here, don’t kill lest you be prepared to be killed, Peteah, Andrea and the rest of the continuum’s shareholders metering called the media. Be Roman, or do not. Ovid in a nutshell. Your blood is no more red than theirs, and about who started things, ah, you were the great empire who sides and bankrolled tyrants who tarred them like dogs. Either Go to war, or don’t, to paraphrase Napoleon paraphrasing Caesar. And, dear boys of Constantine, be prepared for what you become. I must admit as the old gray men garther to give a send off and a triumph to Bush the younger, it was dear Tacitus student Bill C., who spoke honestly about how they all wish to rewrite history, him included, an I would guess that decent W wouldn’t have taken that so much as a insult. Its as a liar would know, True. As True as Marcus Aurelius. As pushy dark skinned aclu take off, the ACLJ, as in J date, but again to be fair, I have heard low rent Hollywood sorts befriend me and tell me how much they dispise right wing, fox news watching, Jews as turn coats to them as I see the soprano crowd is to my pop. The war hounds get ready to spray relay their bullshit on command as One Irish fair skinned old drunkard bully like Wall Banger –a great American without a single scar, no to Roman me, Hanntity gets ready to demand war now that he is over draft age—no one would be over draft age should Roman Tony be praetor , bad for GE business in ways that Erkle is not, and I would be evil, the Calvinist word for POOR. But then I am no flag waver, I, am a standard barer. And in that Book Roman Bill, he read for fun, there is a moment where Vitillius, bloated king god, demands that a praetorian go and rip the head off a beautiful senatorial wife who rebuffed him, and Captain Marcus, the anti Sejanus, sais with Romantic pride, as he hurls the cutlass into the marvel floor, that he isn’t a killer, --but a soldier. Roman up, or don’t, but don’t be queens of drones, as Jews and Irishmen in an uneasy common cause, send off flying buttresses of death to make sure that they can be true button men in ways that even the vulgar Sicilian thugs saw as a euphemism.

I must take a break, as had a chance to do thirty pages of a Conan like take off, a horror heavy metal comic book, and racked my brains to come up with the Conan parody I did as a kid, --why come up with anything new, after all….? But in doing a Satan’s boy thing, late at night, half asleep, I fell out of bed and legs buckled under me, causing me to go head first into a television set in my room, which doesn’t work since Colin Powell Junior got paid. I have a blood blister on my forehead and am dizzy and tired, but, when I told Ma what happened, a dream of hell gaped before me, and I told her what I was drawing, she said it served me right, as you become what you think about all day. There is a serrated attitude to her before she momma boys you, a nice human twang that keeps her from being the kind of monster that Doris Roberts played all her life. She had a bad dream too watching cnn and their Dragnets without Joe Friday all day as we haunted a boy with an army legion, when all they had to do was follow the blood. See, it turns out Balki didn’t have a Gun, and amusingly as The little Corporal Putie- toot- toot lectures America with KGB charms, as we search for a Moslem with the strange name of Misha, who might have been behind this…oh someone tell Czar Floyd R. Turbo he should have made it Pedro, or at least Abdul, the Arab version of Guido at Fox news…oh, don’t get me started about Inquisitor Andie poo, I have to get ready to yell at the television about who Jones takes first.See, it is Roman and Romantic Antony amid the fivers and the cycles, who got both Rachel Maddow, and Micheal Savage at various times to mistakenly call Cannae, Cumae, as that is worth all the gunpowder I could hurl. Happy Roman day, happy cruelest Month, happy Roman new year, Cent Anni.

12 April 2013



If I may be so bold, I think I may have put the internet to its greatest and best use ever found by man—as a device to catch old Pinky and the brain cartoons unshown by cartoon networks that revel in shit. And, of course watch old Max Fleisher cartoons of Superman which enthralled me as a kid, even though they were old, then as we weren’t quite the assholes that you sexting free range fagots and whores of now were, thinking that nothing came before Mother avoided the sinks. The abortive country, the nuns told me often, becomes the Nazi country as they would know having left Poland and Rome before the real troubles, and eventual being wanted, a battle cry of Margaret Sanger,--wanted by whom, her…? Yikes!—turns into quickly being engendered as the Greeks, inventors of the cross and the abortion, would kill off misfired babies and some infirmed by not having Blue eyes and the like so important to An acre of women who all look like Jamie Farr. Hey, Sopranos wit is always catching. A long illness time has given away partially to at least a furor and a quickness at work, as again I can see things as innocuous as Mad Men as a slap in my face, I have that power, as can recall that before them was my own Ad Hoc, again like everything I have done with a vitality and a lack of Jewey minded horse shit and connecting guilt ridden-ness, which they seem to think equals depth. On the grand John Batchelor show, who makes it a point to speak to erudite people who aren’t just repeating what lapsed DJ Rush ahs told them he is to tell them, or worse, the heinous Mark Leh-vin, don’t call me Le-veen, who seems to do the shtick of saying he is in dire straights, as his party gets all that they want. Really, someone should silence him, as he is so overt that just in his pauses he gives the Obama game away, more than he should. On here, an accented scholar, not an Italian accent god knows, was trying to blame Tacitus for the third Reich. A nice try, but Tacitus, again I am gaining more admiration for him lately as reread his sad accounts of the cutting of masters of linguistics throats from which I gleaned, as I glean a lot more than I know, Canniolinus, as they were killed by Tyberius, his villain and were thrown into the Tyber. You’d think even a German would read enough of the surrounding works to know that the fascia always starts to fray and snap at the wrong times. Still only John would be so erudite as to devote an hour to Tacitus, not an obvious or often thing seen in Springer land. A cartoon company was interested in my Machiavelli in Love script, based on the Italian wonderful fairy tale Stone soup, but made a point to relay to me that my blog is, you see, hateful and bigoted and anté Semitic and all the rest, and I proceed to take the query and with some cuts like a Moyle, send it off to another company, as that is the point, isn’t it. The New York girl who liked me more than any white girls who thinks themselves keepers of the flame, told me, or I gleaned it, that I take too much time and effort with posts. Imagine that, and should just write column like stream of consciousness things. I will be taking a break until May Day, a holiday that Marx, sorry Hillary and you gals, who was a Roman Buff, got from the motherland, as he did Land redistribution and the hammer and the sickle. But to put things in perspective I guess, I will go back to long winding yellow woods of golden roads posts soon enough, as wait to hear back evasively from a comic book outlet, or not, a slight admiration to Roger Ebert, who though I said of him he had lost his voice because of using it to praise Martin too much, an ancient idea, what of mine is not…?,  and not without academic heft, yet, he never censored me, and in fact wrote back a few times,  perhaps getting his admiration,  poor fellow, when in response to a snerd who acted as if my discredit of Martin’s showed my lack of cinematic idealism, I SAID, MERELY, I am a river to my people. Lean will always out do greasy gumbas who lurch and sneer on command, as Soreeasy, Steppen Fetchetti, knows, as he did censor me for no worse thing than comparing his awful work to that of Nathanial Hawthorn. You make the call, which was worse. As some high yellow black abortionist swings in the wind alone and unsung, I told you all Niggardalia was over, kids, as black others are given million dollar bails because they cheated, as opposed to White Bellicheck, as the patricians don’t strike back, as much as keep calm, I know that this was the country that the Jesuits made me skittish about. The good-looking gals of fox think that not noting this nigger who loves blood is cleverness. Oh, no sir, it’s their usual cowardice, only old Kate having said peep. They aren’t, as Livy would say, paid for what they say as much as…I looked up a clip as am want to now, where a Russian actor was smothered in his own blood by a porcine actor who did his duty as a Wop wishing to get aheads, who wanted to work, as cha cha would say, and all I could think of, before having seen enough, it made me as squeamish as did the mob wives, all I could think of was the fact that in Big Bertha and the mafia cops I used comfortably numb, and I must somehow save that great song from the minstrel shows.

08 April 2013


Even though we have passed both dark ages and even Roman new years, I think I shall make this year, the year of the libretto. I have been told I have an operatic quality to my works, which again strange for a virulent anti Semite like me, is only a complement when coming from Jews, who as I have said have been kinder to me than any Italian lately, or white trash dog faced women, or the catholic league, who I take it who has tried to scour my and others work from the always needy and cash strapped face book, I do not care. Of course, having done Mister Stupendous in whole, maybe as many of four hundred pages when all was said and done, and In this Golden age, which a again Jewish gal called the closest thing to Juvenal she had seen since college, as she admitted me to John Stewart is too much the guy who asks you out to the prom two days before hand to be a real Roman satirist, and one cant imagine him having a dick much less using it in his writing, and again this coming from a Jewish girl who probably has a real resentment and suspicion of him, as I do the smiling wops of tv land. She then gave me a thoughtful and sweet ‘Good Luck’, tell me about it, and I have competed the ten year old broken coliseums called Ancient Romance, just to get it done, I think I shall return to a less strenuous assault on Parnassus and complete mere bits and pieces. I shall do Kingdome Gone, a pre Alan Moore take on the dying comics books I saw as a kid, and have a word out to a lady editor to help out as have made ‘All the honourable men’ a complete mess and mush, taking out and added so much, I have lost the story in a 48 page chapter. Too, am too tired to do so now, as will crib and copy every image out of old comics for KG, adding nothing, as that is the point, and have downloaded images of how to draw Tarzan by Kubert, just to get the sweetness and the pen and ink goofiness of comics before they were denatured. But perhaps next year, or later, I shall compete Rag, the comic so despised by so many who acted as if I was a monster coming into to their pristine Kirby world, and ruined it, the merely mentioning of how at its core the idea of Batman, a millionaire beating up junkies as a vigilante, the shadow with golden parachute, in more ways than one was far too queer for me. As in Rag, bitchy lover of literature, you know, pulps, Dore Duvall buys the hollowed remnants of Fee Cee comics, now named Allstar, and undertakes freeing it of fascists like Uberman, and sees in the inherent humanity of a character based on earth 2’s Superwoman, the sort of caricature that fan boys hate, who he thinks he shall remake into Vundergirl, as a geriatric fool, Bucky Arbuckle, the tony-verse Jack the hack, has went and gone all Fountainhead on the world, and wishes to take Jerry ‘the fairy’ Lieber out.

Superwoman always seemed to me to be like Woody's evil queen, the kind of woman even shlomozzels liked  before the sanitation process began, like how Seinfeld was attracted to Sidra, who could give as well as she got, before he went on to drenching brunettes with toilet water. On the internet I saw both documentaries about Stan lee and Johnny Carson described as ass kissing, by various who will be critics for food. Well, it is not ass kissing I once explained about the Life of Dante by Boccaccio, to a white chick,-- if it is true. I wonder if that woman who made a point at how mortified she was by Horace, the nice roman satirist, which puts Juvenal in a perfect light, --I’m sure the talking woman despised him, if she had ever heard of him, not that’s she probably read Horace nether. As Horace said it is honourable to die for ones country. As the drones fly I would love to ask, is it more honourable to from a distance, kill…?

[Early in the morning I was awaked again by a horrid achita, and had to incidentally whiz, and was shook by a continuously going radio, that Margret Thatcher had dropped her mortal coil and left us hopefully for where all Englishmen go, as Tacitus said, Hell. I was soaked in sweat, but thought she had dropped dead years ago. But, in this strange purgatorial recitations am in now, I recall as a last great student , in 1979, I had done a paper complete with crayola markers cartography, that we as America, there was still such a thing then, should indeed make common cause with the USSR, as was in ww2, against the Mujahedeen, lunatics all, who did things to the Aryan soldiers which no Viet Kong ever thought of, and call me a bigot, but giving any Arabs anything incindery is seen as a sin by Dante loving me. To the Amazon twerps who see canto Four as bigotry, Dante recalled what you Arabs had done in Sicilia, without even a Hannibal to goad you. But back then, as I thought I'd take sides with the Bolshoi over the Arabs, as Ovid wasn’t seen as impiety—TO A GOD WHO DIDN’T EXIST AND A HOLY BOOK THAT WASN'T WRITTEN WHEN OVID WAS WRITING, but if Semites teach us anything, like fecal book, all is a perpetual Now. Back then, there, a priest told me in my last vestiges as a good student, that Pope JP 2, Ronald Regan, the host of Ge theater emeritus, whose son amusingly keeps the fires burning on supposedly liberal Television, you know as a flammen--i'm not touching that--and Maggie Thatcher were a triumvirate that would oversee the death of their republics. I think again of my hero in AR, Titus Lauro, who was sad and told senator Cornelius as much, that it was a sad fateful thing to be so old and feeble and die as a war monger in a bed. It was a shame to him, and he tells Cornelius if anything he can do, it is to die standing in the roman-italic sensibility as after all, fuck DH, Mars was after all an italic god of the middle Italians before the seven hills. I was warned that these three were going to be the hydra that destroyed America as much as anything, as even Romans knew enough to march in the wars they started. I feet bad that old Maggie could die in way that the Italian a thousand years before Romulus saw as an insult. Die literally with one’s boots on, epic-ally, if one plays imperialist, in the ways allowed and made sacrosanct by tended gardens of drones, NBC. Really, I will watch Valerie Bertinelli, Daffy Duck, wild bunches, anything as after awhile, the swans go mute. I like when the hares begin to sing. I feel bad. As did i mention my feets hurt...?, in that she outlived all those coal and dole miners who were allowed to starve and literally freeze on that happy little island, going back to its Dickensian roots. I felt worse for Annette Funicello, perpetual Italian puberty girl, the gals of Anzio strike back, as Make mine girls with gates of goddesses anytime, and please as I see another show about Leonardo, who was about to be dug up to prove he was a fag, as if you’d didn’t know, because of a finger test, do leave my people go.

04 April 2013


It seems today I went to face book and find that I am again banished from the kingdom for thirty days. You think by now the precepts of Zoid would realize I’m not tailoring my verbiage to the needs and wants and taste of white women, a continuation of why I avoided that conceit in 1985 when I turned away from the chance to publish my book about my maternal grandfather, a fascist era cop, and the story that unraveled his life. Alas, I wasn’t about to ‘dingy’ up my grandfather, never met, as the chosen couldn’t have a fascist be too much of a hero, I was told you know, as opposed to the Jews killed by the politburo archipelago, later in Gorky Park, almost a note for note retelling of my book without the historical reasons, and thankfully to the household Jews about heroic Aryans, fuck ups or not. I don’t really care, as 212 people came to read my post xiii over one day in the end of march, which might be the real reason for censorship, as opposed to the post about Gore Vidal left out of Harvey’s FROM ACADEMY AWARDS NIGHT, that was three days then thirty I guess when the Pope was dissed, welcome to the dark ages, but if Sejanus teaches us anything, it is that sanctimony is fungible, and goes in both directions perceptually. I don’t really care about the student union of the web, which is face book as after all avoided Georgetown so the commons at drop outs from Harvard leave me cold, but is a easy way to keep in touch with buddies and business acquaintances, which frankly I stayed in better touch with by email, so there is a lesion always to be learned, as the Jesuit said. Like how the pope I despise now, grabbed a retardo child out of the Roman sea, and started to fondle him like a Cyrus, shameless, and too me heinously, but it made Megan’s cry showing this Jesuit has the dark arts of his creed down pat, but lacks a decency of the Jesuits you let die, something else I shall not forget as white women make their sanctimonious pies. And sanctimony sells over as the four letter queer network has gone over time about poor sweetheart bball players who had actually been yelled at, heavens forbid, and I wonder as Greenberg made his peons about gay slurs, you are a gay slur, Felix, with that Oaf who plays Nelson the bully next to you, and I thought more time was given to this than to a gal who was raped by the ND backfield and killed herself rather than be called names by the head high priest at the NAACP, seeing another rapist needing racial dispensation. Mercy rules do abound for the alpha males, a trick of nausia as never learned by sideline Negros and Jews who think the Stockholm syndrome is genetic. All night, on fan, people who recall being hurled into lockers by such sweethearts were actually saying 'boo hoo', literally I head a Chicago goon for a moment say 'Boo Hoo', ow!-and trashing the team, recalling in me a great Homicide: life on the streets, when some dweeb went off and shot the kid who was named mister basketball, a dream we all have nursed within the killing of five year olds which come seemingly on cue. Finally on broadband, I look up films on you tube of delightful Wendy in a purple swimsuit, her modesty is beguiling, and Orson Welles, who when speaking of chimes at midnight can make even Shakespeare seem wondrous in ways that our friend sir Larry, who harlequin face and overarching hammiest delivery is loved by me to the point he, and not Harry Lime Orson, is the figure of KEMETER in my mind, whose Henry the V was excruciating, can not. And there, if I may quickly say, if we all may quickly say anything, there was father Gore, who I adore, and with Charlie Rose, a bishop of the middlebrow who I don’t dislike, and Gore said, with usual aplomb, after making a great post stroke like mean and vicious imitation of the previously named Quee--Bill Bugeyes, Gore said that he knew as a handsome young man that the new York times, and no one else was going to tell him what to say. A Dying man he was here, but still steely with Juvenal wit and Petronius charms, our AC was in full Roman after the fall glory. Seeing him after finally seeing a first Game of thrones on a free hbo weekend, I realized it was the Franciscans like him, who taught me well, and how I did better knightly stuff as a ten year old under their auspices and the credos. As in fifth grade I write a take on Tasso, and the knightly creed and the romantic thought, hated by white women and effeminates, who are mute when the drones start buzzing, which as the priests told me is never so palpable and lovely and romantic as it is in anti war Virgil, who shows every wound and every muddy boot. They call that irony. But that first book about the holy grail began with a three page invocation to Mars, no less, as the priest, which told me always, whatever it is, respect the Shit. A moment of green laurel.