Watching the slanderers in the mission houses of bedlam justify how they played key individual roles setting up the bonus attack by lying in Seattle, while they abandon their ex-girlfriends to atrocity as merry apologists, you would think I would say, told ya, but I don’t feel that way, I’m honestly scared and still very sorry they have always chosen to be so trashy and vicious to me.  I don’t enjoy the thought of a single person on earth succumbing to the bonus attack, not one.  It’s too ugly.  

      The rabid pranced for a few moons on stages they hoarded and occupied about not being a model man.   Then, out of the other side of their forked tongues they derided a child whose very mind they hotwired with a nerve agent, obscenely abused, as required to prove “its” perfection or face death.   The rabid are so pathologically obsessed and driven by a syphilis of reason’s foulest cunning, bent on a trillion dollar act of humiliation on helpless prey, that it is easy to see their names going down in the end in a firestorm of murder and cruelty, and virtually impossible to see it ending any other way.

        The true nature of British progrock has never been charming.   In politics, it is always best to moderate the arrogance of peer bluster and bravura with occasionally reality checks, and to the extent that publishing houses prefer not to see the real nature of characters whose stuff they sell, the artists are always a little careful, but the murder and ripper hatter side of acid rock isn’t entirely kept hidden and weirder than thou types ride high taunting the margins to come out and outdo them or else.  It’s a precocious little game for the spoiled.  Sort of an epic with three dummies, like Autobridge.

         Ian Wattenmaker, a special Israeli in the Burstyn script, charged to do brain surgery and murder after years of brutality and sadism, a convenience to satirists, used to call dollars by doll hairs.  This is the language of The Doll House by Kzetnik and his intellectual contribution to the hogshead of real fire in Dallas.   From Carousel Club to Pittsburgh Film Makers was just a hop, skip and a jump when you pour on milk.  Lesbians provided the pornography overdubs with catcalls while pussyball was arranged by SONY through a typically sleazy underworld act by the Pittsburgh NAACP indexed to Gutkind; old Testament Autobridge as an epic by derisive hatters on the make with lesbian porno servers.

        Pittsburgh is notoriously incapable of detecting their own characters.  They don’t care if I tell you what they have done, it gives them a sexual feed.   They look for excuses to hurt people and have a neuro-ledger of mutilation and suffering they alternate with orders for orgasm.   Pittsburgh’s ongoing ritual of abuse stars more than Warhol can name in a week of rolling credits, but Greg and Leslie rank premier.   Wattenmaker had a poster on his wall unfit for children called Disneyland After Dark and another reading Chicken Little was Right.   Unable to detect their own character they laugh at being exposed with the retort that it’s nothing they haven’t done before; which is what Amy Klobucar means by she knows you, Auschwitz was partly an American convenience hammered out with the help of Prescott Bush.   

      Trump is just doing what he came to do with the help of his linkage concept council arranged by Oliver Stone and Vladamir Putin.  Xi and Trump worked together on the class action, unto the presto, Trump is evicting migrant children under a Roosevelt law no less.   Using language to emotionally destroy a sensitive poet the Kenyon dude from the church they locked me out of when an armed gang came to kill me for being what they said was rich motherfucker used the expression, “a tractor ran over his face.”