Donald Trump and Rosa Clemente have long worked from two sides on the same organized dogteam attack targeting me as some sort of blond irony.   The hatred was stoked by the Jewish Community in Pittsburgh after I was brutally kidnapped and tortured as a child, making me confused and putting me on a very low rung of the right to my own life in our horrific society.   The two primary tiers of privilege, the high finance class of New York City and the privilege of social belonging that is ruled among the poor by those who did military service, all see me as a chewn up and spit out insult to their superiority.   On January 22, 2020, in City of Seattle, possibly to write themselves into a script as African Warriors! Warriors! A set of hustlers staged an argument and opened fire on a crowd. At the end of the day a self-typecast of the city’s usually belligerence forced me to confront his glaring, confrontational eyes on the bus home.  If it isn’t organized, the idea of organizing such activity wouldn’t be against their rules here in UW’s ville.

        Using Amnesty International to pick on somebody with the blessings of the Police and Teachers’ Union is what Hillary Clinton’s comrade in arms, hired by Yoko Ono, Amanda Harcourt, Penis Gabriel’s retainer, just does.  She committed so many crimes of hate and evil in the name of a Reagan lawsuit against being named by his prey for having committed abomination that the predators are back in bloodlust demanding the right to take a souvenir to hell for a storyline, an ancient Japanese premise of revenge.   I literally do not have a friend. Even knowing that the Pitmans who kidnapped me and let me go home off and on for good behavior set in motion the obsessive-compulsive generosity they used a nerve agent to make me a human robot for, the Clubhouse Movement gave no review of my offer to grant them a seahorse given to me by an artist (don’t like a gift seahorse in the mouff) in their minds for safekeeping until it was required that I do homage by offertory.  The other clubhouse poisoned me in the mouth, and said such things about a video from my hard earned Japanese collection, now we want you to give it to this individual, why, because it is his birthday is why and you aren’t from this state.

         Now, with a few facts like these on the table, you realize that Trump is putting on a show, an opportunity to use a piece of human bait to watch what the Jericho Movement is capable of doing, much like genetically modified bees, dangerous, deadly, but made in Germany and packing a wallop in the paranoia of security tears whipped up by Greta Thunberg, because zuclear science will save the day, man.    The murderer Penis Gabriel gnashes with exploitation of the typecast curve, he is the walrus, a hustler posing as himself to show that someone could be posing as him.

        Police do what they are told:  Look Down!

        What the psychiatric clique of Seattle got away with was pornography by locking me into hostage status with an ultimatum to perform if I wanted any sort of information about the purpose of the pyre which was obvious: a stage managed setting for the Federalist extermination program AIDS, plain and simple.   They roiled up the Black Union with tall tales about the white! The White! Through what the family of a psychiatrist from Attica State Prison named Wattenmaker called “the neighborhood kids” they disturbed the waters of rumor with libels about a sacred Jewish virgin promoted by King Crimson’s wiz kid Robert Fripp, golly gee man of spy technocrats in Germany and England, a genuine techo-injun.  Now that I know it was them they want me to die for insulting the vutrins.

        That’s just the run of the mill day to day, hand to mouth picture for me out in the land of people who take without thanking where I occupy, without hurting anyone, a very low rung of the right to exist.   Their argument, that there isn’t any other way but organized crime to defend the boat people about whom they really and truly top secretly care is to work the bedlam of Trump for slavery, see? Magic and presto, save the world, and lo~! Wuhan, say no more.  Mega-buck men like Martin Sheen have their back. He came in to the homeless den for one of the sickest pedos in Pittsburgh, the darkhorse defender of child raping, branding iron gangreners Vince Eirene and left me with a Clint Eastwood autograph by hook and by crook.  Defsukke! We want that autograph! It is our birthday! Kowtow, after making off with the deaf white suck’s wife! Reagan knew his terms for revenge and Trump was the mere executor for whom Rosa Clemente did the favor, that’s a’ gal.

        All this horseshit about me not being a team player doesn’t add up in the least.  I’ll believe someone wants me on the team the day they leave me alone for an hour without behaving like the sound of my voice is an offense against nature.   

        It was, you know that don’t you?  Oliver Stone who called his dishonest, but accurate film JFK a counter-myth to a myth.  Why do I bring that up? Because New York City’s stationmasters wove the murder of Tupac Shakur into the name of James MacRyland Crary without my consent on behalf of Yoko Ono’s game of anything goes spite and malice, what he walrus lackies call new rounds of happy, sad and evil.   Police: Look Down! Now with this new mythic defense of sacredity from the street where superstitious wisdom cultivates intimate knowledge of the gang chittlin’s of dogmarama language values, heed. We slay the name that sullies our door.