In the World Series of 1960 a 2nd baseman named Mazeroski stepped to the plate in Forbes Field and put a ball out of the park in the bottom of the ninth over the right field wall which my dad Ryland could see from his window at the Cathedral of Learning. The winning run in the 1960’s World Series came a week before I was born on Oct. 20, 1960, a window into the world noted by Jewish Holocaust survivor occultists in the neighborhood because six months from Hitler’s birthday. They ran their fingers through my blonde hair. My first word was “gasses,” which to me meant glasses. Over my living room as I went through infancy was a painting of three Hitleresque nuns. My father Ryland, from Bush’s ship in the Navy, taught at Teachers’ College with Eisenhower in the last months of whose term I was born. Father would occasionally call me Sam.
American Heritage is what made me a special target of hatred for University of Washington. They writhe at the mention of Plymouth Meeting where my family were Pilgrims, seething the Native American casino mindset, we will see yet, little boy. Where I live at present in Tacoma there is a mountain called Rainier that even on fairly clear days can sometimes completely disappear. In Thomas Mann’s book Magic Mountain there are two dueling intellectuals Naphta and Settembrini. Although an involuntary engagement on my part, the UW high seat impinges their challenges on my discourse, most recently the suspected poison attack in Wuhan that came on the heels of adding mouth poison to their many acts of war against the idea of American Heritage as a blessing rather than a curse.
In describing several horrors visited upon me, it will be necessary to capture the content of discourse in newspaper journalism because it happened while my absent grandfather Ward was a copy editor at St. Louis Post-Dispatch after years with Miami Herald, who called him their secret weapon in WW2 and his beginnings in the Dust Bowl with a manual typesetting machine and later with Wichita Herald. The enemy in this case is a gang from Britain working from Warhol with Donald J. Trump. They set upon me as a prize for Japanese pornography with the help of the NAACP and attacked me blindside in a kidnapping conjob by slaughtering blows in an isolated, boondock gradeschool of Pittsburgh. University of Washington sociology is as incredibly brazen as they are sly.
The rabid make considerable final call of their claim to a defect in my character which I will answer to my credit against their manufacture and smears. The direction of their smears is meant to cover up and ward against recognition of my investigation into their corporate adventure in Wuhan. The attackers like to keep things current. They hold the power now.
To character, there is a fundamentalist diversion about that. Many people don’t care to study the sun and since the study of pornography is the most direction metaphor the attackers made a film called The Devil Behind the Sun promoting the history of Unit 731 as a function of the unnameable attack. By contrast, although the Mehta Family around my grandmother’s account for Butcher-Singer Bank and Wells Fargo had a good housewife nearby who signalled, “Blush, blush,” her virgsion of glasses meaning brush your teeth, part of the Union indicator message system, made short work of my … ability … to live by the standard of Distinguished Citizens of Poplar Bluff married 66 years, now under investigation like everyone else by my obligation to JFK, betrayed by Pitt, and shunned by his family, named in the Texas Schoolbook as an offense against reason, there is no question that I attempted to live up to this standard and held myself by it. This caused some confusion of text when I appealed to an acid rock band because of their song about Rembrant. I am a high school graduate of the Pennsylvania Governors School where I studied with a Pultizer winning poet from Colgate and had the Night Watch picture on my wall, sent to me from The National Gallery, all the years I grew up. This terrorist foreign English band were behind the dogtag with UW that I must go, and were using intellectual soothsay as bait.
My father recognized them for bums and said that their best friend, also in popular rock, made self-pity his vocation. Tragically, I assumed that such people were too aloof to be concerned with me. What they did was horsestrap me into a stolen Lincoln Continental and gassed me in a place called Kings Estate. When I tried to get help, they claimed they were mitigating Black Rage towards me as a snitch over child pornography by pouring chemicals into my neuro-traumatized state that snuffed the electrical circuitry of my heart, giving me diabetes and erectile dysfunction, all while calling it revenge for the Dixons.
This story isn’t secret. I’ve told it to Mississippi, Alaska, Milwaukee, Boston, Nebraska, what have you. To quote one of the assholes behind the atrocity, “no one seems to care they carry on as if nothing was there.” This isn’t to say the FBI did nothing. It is time-honored for them to regard the invention of eaves-dropping equipment as reinforcement of Hollywood’s idea that American society is about who sleeps with who. They wasted no effort contracting sexual assignations on my body for promotion of the killers. This blog is my testimony about how Federal Child Pornographers chemically castrated me for testifying as a witness to the AIDS attack in their promotion of a very vital response to Climate Change, preconfigured from the past by an angry holocaust community from WW2 in charge of industrial science. The murderous humiliation was an auction war game from Warhola-Ono. British Royalty betrayed my defense papers by promotion of libel on Penis Gabriel’s SO, having suckered me by forging representation to extrude their impacted persona in a network of profiling arranged with Billy Graham hillbillies loyal to the ripper hatter Robert Fripp whose espionage rock from Ian Fleming’s occult circle announced the government poison affair.
Although I am deaf and diabetic, with no income, I have considered evacuating Tacoma where Seattle psychiatric are celebrating my inability to finish my bachelor’s degree by one math class I was ill-advised to take for the credit needed. The problem is that much of the violence that recently claimed Saoirse Kennedy’s life as a whim on this saga spinning by the Trump menagerie comes from the East. Since my mind is still fairly lively, I write as much as I can afford to, and seek readers for their own good.
Naphta sits on the magic mountain playing roulette by Hollywood random acts of spite and malice, leaning back in his chair, smirking at Settembrini, tapping his pipe and lisping, “What you the do say now, dogeyes?” Settembrini replies, “what a magnificent strategy, to embark on a doublecross as a form of mitigation making sadism slaves of your own victims. Bravo, maestro.”
