At the time of this writing, I returned from King County’s Chinatown to discover that State of Washington has declared a State of Emergency over coronavirus after a death in King County of a man, like me, in his fifties and at risk from other ailments.   Beyond that being a statement of fact it is not really the issue of the day for me. Eno’s groupies coagulate around the Greta scandal of an image described as having the appearance of a sexual attack on her person. I haven’t seen it. It sounds devious and obnoxious.  Christopher Benfey has a book called, “A Summer of Hummingbirds ~ Love, Art and Scandal in the Intersecting Worlds,” of a number of writers in their age. Although many, myself included, like to think of Greta Thunberg as having excited the powers that be into a wonderful future entitled to an exclusive tour of the world in eternal celebrity and friendship from the public, there is another dimension at work.  Because the squalid parochial behind the AIDS attack now policing acceptance of justification behind the crimes of the Beatles museum where the rabid must always openly sexualize everything as a declaration for the sale of hate, the image promoted of Greta plays out in their home invasion dialogue as promoters of the pornography pyre, casing their prey as Humbert Humbert in Lolita.

       Okay, squirt.

       John Stockwell, a CIA tripdude who used to follow me around, not unlike Magistrate Pechman bribing the Left (to give dem a rest) said about little-Americas that when the supergiant US makes secret war on the truly weak it is bound to have some effect.   The neuro-scientists operating on Little Boy omoja’d their human bomb as a ticking Tin Drum with a frozen coma impacted and stocked well with closet information. The rabid meanwhile are selling their profile of me through the house of Ono as a license to do mayhem.  Seattle lesbians envision me lost in the walrus delusion dreaming of a newly adult Greta in my senile arms as I coo bad verse in an affected lisp.   

        Compared to this, corona merely issues forth thusly from Wuhan Injun casino alchemy.  The power to warn was duly subverted by a siege like claim on the right to do tellings and the rabid have done nothing but stacked the deck in favor of the attackers.   Verily I say that he is a she as they transform the human race by injecting the blood and the sinuses and so on.   

       Frankly, I would never dispute (s)Pitt’s tabernacle in their claim that I wasn’t the perfect dreamer that stubborn Greta has been.   However, Greta Thunberg’s speeches do have a beneficial effect upon me and many millions like me. Hearing her brave words has made me a better person.   As a satellite of the celebrity superstate known to get their attention this invites the contempt of Eno groupies in their rage of false compare. Despite this new Barack-aid of a contemptible poster mal-depicting the girl I have no intention of falling sucker into the glorification of anything this despicable from the franchise of media or whatever you call it.

       Having experience in the matter of Open-Your-Box Ono, witness of her film Fly, as an adjunct of Wattenmaker’s fly trap I do know that if it were up to Herr Warhola that Greta would be chastised for opposition to Trump in seedy secrecy as Xiu Xiu the new sent down girl.   The cowardly knavery of the call to her defense comes in flurries of I Love You cards mailed from the four corners to this new Emily Strange. It announces the pain, the pain of Toyah Wilcox, heavenly mother of the assassinated female image, bracing up to do franchise work upon the hooligans.   Her franchise claim to be splitting hairs in every detail while failing and refusing to concede first distinctions. One can only wail at the property claim unpledged whereby it becomes so horribly hard for an earnest woman to use virginity as proof of rape. The rabid pad their authorization by every manner of slander and lie.

         Eno groupies like to live by NEVA porno title logic, avowing that for attacker pimps to even feel abridged in their personal space by the terrorized eyes of assassinated deaf prey is rape.  They are so transfixed by Eno’s suave and his corporate office ethic that they just surrender, as his lyric assure, like Maude in the arms of John Wayne, the star of Gail Films, as we now know, a company from the 30’s.   Thus it is perfectly logical that they call dibs on Greta for the black man. How I got myself into this is lost in the pause caused by the wisebeards when I kept my hands off Ming Na Wen as she lay in my bed on a visit to my room.

       The exponential expansion of AIDS in the stigma boom meant nothing to Warhol because they were announcing their credo:  one size fits all as a sacrament. The glee with which the Eno groupies advance their mayhem would occupy a series from law-and-psy branch of Neva, pouncing on the moral opportunity with a titlesque:  Protesting Waif caught sight of ostro-size and announced for Bowiean human rights! The (s)Pitt tabernacle godfathers hiss that making prior agreement with the agents of the plot as signified for name agency proves their innocence, while the queerbait J.D. tilted a tip it.

      Perhaps the croak regroanov could regain her loss another way, announcing sarcasm for a consent, restage Dealey Plaza with Greta at my side, and the old gunners come out to watch, Clint Eastwood could do the honors, blasting the defsukke right between the contaminated eyes.