So, the issue at Tacoma Community College who advertise themselves as a “military-friendly college” is whether the gang here, not saying you Hoffa, is acting in agency for the comment of Steve Langer, “I’m not sorry for anything I did only that it had to be you.”  Meaning, it wasn’t something that could or had to be attributed to me personally but rather what I symbolized. You can’t explain attacking a child blindside, but you can explain slaughter of a symbol. When I told a girl from China at the Tea Club about the way Oswald was shot and then convicted she said, “I’m sorry but that is so funny,” and giggled.  Seemed like a provided remark by the cultural competence correctness gamers. They’re good at that sort of let’s see how he likes it, stuff. It’s not that I really care, it was, I admit, awkward for me and made me feel my age, but ultimately it reinforces my view that it’s past the point of no return between me and the other students. For one thing the hidden transcript, as we call such things in Linguistic Anthropology, is that death is so commonplace when the issue is the AIDS abomination, that Seattle Queers have already sided with Steve Langer, seething with sadism that I don’t even have it.  Even if they changed their minds, it would be too late. I’m not interested.

        Prof. Mburu must have figured I wouldn’t pass the exam.  He kept saying that on the day of the exam they would all be celebrating.   To my amazement, they do, I know, need money, but it still surprises me that the college forbid me to drop the class.  The desk even asked me if I was from Boston which the psychology division at UW would know, due to their promiscuous and diabolical profiling, I associate with a violent individual from Pittsburgh who went to school at Harvard and was an agent of Warhol scrawling the Neva narrative that Ono wanted sandblasted all around me for their war operations.   It’s always Trump for them that they managed to use me for pornography as a traumatized and hostage child and then show I like the stuff as a deaf and isolated old man.

     The murderers who read me (friends never do) don’t care about my emotions or personhood.  They just deliberately torched a billion Koala bears while an interpreter at the school mawkishly bangs on about his new old deaf dog.  However they are playing for freshman sensibilities as a tagteam, assured of the base, freshmen, I forfeited. The interpreter with the new old dog, named Bear, seeing an oriental woman behind me who I didn’t know was there said, “He wants to get around to sit in the other chair.”  He, did you mean she? We buy into the impact statement that Yoko Ono IS John Lennon ...wow... and use gang language as a weapon to conveyance like.

       So, for now, I get to be scorned and laughed at by those who built the frame that the school stage set, claiming that the Neva Production of rape themes going on around me in the collegiate sector was somehow a projection of my psyche.  They came using names like Evangelia Karmas, they venture ho to do raping of deaf Jeannie from Korea for teaching me sign language, to fulfill my cries of protest against the direction they were leading in tone towards the only witness to his own mutilation.   Extensive investment, time and money, is in play. They sincerely seem to feel, a good many of them, that they are making some sort of argument that explains that they didn’t even bother to warn the AIDS generation of a plan to take free love from them by a pyre.  No warning, for them, was one of the brainwash rules. Obviously, the British shouldn’t have promoted into the minds of gullible children traumatized by the war and mayhem in the streets the idea of free love and then reply with bondage school, but they did, and that is done with now.  We hear no end of their sidelong brays, bellowing with distractions.

        The Japanese generally don’t adjudicate, so the America that accepts Yoko Ono’s deranged and evil experiment isn’t particularly interested that the execution of JFK and me, JC they call me, were a statement of contempt for the values of how Japanese semiotics saw Hiroshima, as hitting below the belt, calling us half-a-man, telling half-truths, and worthy only of half-lives, symbolically.   When Richard Roehm, a brilliant, brave deaf man and advocate, my coach, understood this, and praised me for explaining clearly enough that he could understand, he signed his own death warrant. A group art statement in high treason, called a collective, clocked to comments like Monty Python and David Bowie, “I like orders,” and “we don’t want to be changed,” respectively, and who don’t want to be reasoned with, is part of the Queer Seattle Fight Club scene.  This incident, and the money involved in the black markets, is one reason the Japanese so gloated over Van Gogh’s Sunflowers when they got it. You may be in the dark about the revenge on the little boy of the radio man off the coast of Japan, but they aren’t. For them, what is humanity after fallout? The theme is even well-known in Asia, the melancholy of Harp of Burma. I donohue is that good with such Asian harps of mystery at TCC, not saying you, Hoffa, but whoever it is won’t rest on ceremony.  They will never admit that their criminal insanity is not my paranoid schizophrenia, not even after the Green Party killed Shannon Harps or after the CIA gunned down Donnie Chin in the same scheme of warning.

        Cultural competence, so often what TCC means by it, is really just mauling the meaning of things when it comes to profit motive.   Warhol and their bedfellows are terrified that I will secure legal claim to the outrages they used me for. While I can certainly omoja Bear the interpreter as bridling being characterized as part of such a syndicate, the killers have an insurance policy they evoke all the time, so they can’t really say I hurt their names.  For me to hurt their names someone would have to believe: One, that John Lennon staged his death. Two: that I am not responsible for it. Three: that I don’t have the right to testify in my own defense since by their own estimation my defense is stillborn. Amusing but ultimately a thing to hate.

        Death is so common and widespread in the AIDS attack that expecting those who have scapegoated me not to demand death is clearly a joke.  It reasons out for them in the same way that the death of JFK reasoned out for Dan Rather, Reagan, Jack Ruby, Melvin Belli and Oliver Stone, it reasoned out as show business.  Oliver Stone knew the fatal head shot was Jacqueline Onassis when he made the movie and it was all part of a big laugh for him. When he attacked me in the neuroplasm that his alliance at Pitt led by Dr. Proctor and Cyril Wecht had impacted they used the name Evangelia Karmas.  Not to challenge you with Poetic Math that some can do and others can’t, but while working the Asian lines of nom de guerre for Mitch McConnell’s alliance with Aung San Suu Kyi, not saying you Hoffa, but I donohue would miss how they indexed Evangelia Karmas to Evan Knauer’s profile of the queerbait when it went to hear him play in his band of He’s Dead, Jim and then Eva Sani except someone who would miss T. Simon Farasani when released after an Urgent Appeal from Amnesty International and arriving in D.C. where Hypatia Feminist took me to hear him after I appealed to them about Leslie Sanetta Katz and Tami Simon, T. Simon of Sounds True, the latter her friend and also an associate of the Dalai Lama.  But whoever they are who miss these things obviously they are greedy partners of Pharmaceutical companies who never studied poetry.

        Midori Goto arrived in this craven broth as the New Ethnic Icon, promoting the color purple, but how I know from campus politics that Black Lives Matter are part of a South African Secret Service conjob is long experience with University of Washington and Penis Gabriel.   Midori Goto shouldn’t have participated in an atrocity detonating a nerve injury impacted in a slave child her corporation took hostage as a lucrative murder ploy for Yoko Ono, who we got as a deal for sacrificing JFK, but having failed to pussywhip the seizure trauma victim into slavery to King Crimson’s brutal hired child assassin, who the Queers sumptuously nicknamed Kasper or more affectionately K., she had the golem castrated which I didn’t see fit to run by the snickering Chinese girls at Tea Club.   I do know however that the sinister natural language labs at Carnegie Mellon who made the carrot tape were promoting Andrea Swimmer and her Chinese boyfriend for Peter Shell just as surely as Gail Burstyn’s boyfriend, Justin Chang, was at school with Midori Goto. Believe it or not, Goto got the Burstyn letters them very selves for her control tower, a weird scene at Carnegie Mellon over what Lew Lapham brayed were “priceless forgeries.”

         The intellectuals who ran riot over our society have made great students out of hoodies.   You could easily challenge the vows and bloodoaths of the NAACP by pointing out that the South African Secret Service publicly mocked us, that the presence of Sir McCartney’s Ann Coulter type queers in Pierce and King County are adorned with his papal license to do obscenely cruel mockery because that’s what John Lennon stood for, man, so hehn.  There is a policy issue there. You could point out that Blacks have raped women in Africa, that the Hutus massacred Tutsis by the droves, that blacks were involved in slavery, are suspected in the murder of Donnie Chin, not saying by me, Hoffa, and they were in on the AIDS attack, in fact made it politically correct to act like zombies in favor of pussyball tyranny.  But the really revealing thing comes when told we all should study what I did, everyone should study African American History. Oh, okay, so I studied Black Psychology, African American History I and II, African Art and Philosophy, African American Literature, the History of the Pittsburgh Region Civil Rights Movement, always making A’s. What did they say? So what? What happened when I tried to discuss a black issue topic in the student government center?  Black Power brow beat me, you is the white, 86 million died on the slave trade middle passage.

      Well, I know he was a racist but a man who tried to make peace in a war also claiming millions of lives, and who was supported by the NAACP, Woodrow Wilson, in the midst of a very vicious and horrid, needless war, illustrates that maybe we should care more about how we treat each other than historic grievance.  His remarkable desire just to see the war stop, regarding nothing about it but peace itself as a prize to be won, is still inspiring, although its temper would hardly survive in the modern moment. His works are pertinent to common sense, now we know that can be seen as contemptible and subordinate, but also about the obligation of civilized man to make good on both equity and charity between the nations.   This was not a man hiding a fist in pockets of fur. He worked himself to death trying to sway the voting public that their interest was a Commonwealth of Nations. Blacks have played for the Axis in their violent politics because the Axis told them it would mean revenge, but really, the obvious truth is, that by attacking an innocent white child for the Axis they just made the Axis laugh and say boy will we ever think twice before trusting them with our kids.  Surely, that’s why the wild witches cackle.

           What goes through Penis Gabriel’s mind when he sets on me with people from Auburn and named Auburn to be military friendly about the bears torched by the Harps players in Australia Karmas is tampering, get a laugh and hate them cause only Lennon ever really mattered, torture the queerball and make him hate, too, so he can’t say he’s better than us.

           Did Trump author the Burstyn letters?  Is that what we have to face? What if the High Court found him guilty?  Would they sentence him to death? Or would that be assassination, too?