Pittsburgh has an unpleasant tendency to belch its own legend the way their all-knowing provincial black folk there stand tall to defend cigar shops selling coffee mugs with the Confederate Flag, thinking it a principle entrusted to an ideal, like naming the Heinz Family honorary Africans for reasons of who knows what favors. They browbeat questioning them with the clear proof of greater wisdom. Clear proof? You know what we’re saying there, don’t play.
The legend Pittsburgh spreads about itself through the rumor mills is a ghost story. It has moments of true poltergeist. For example, when I visited, in trauma, the largest city in America then listed as without a homicide for a whole year, Boulder, Colorado, I ran into a Pittsburgh law school graduate who took me to a loft where his friends had lynched a rubber Tweetie bird doll in the bathroom, lanced it with razor blades, corrupted it with graffiti that would wow Skrewdriver and left it over the heads of those who entered the comfort station as an advertisement for what University of Pittsburgh Chancellor Mark Nordenberg would no doubt call, “The Nature of Reality.”
Pittsburgh’s ghost story mongerers are particularly keen to lisp by their yinz slang an allusion to a special provincial chair of education schooled by a special flank of special educators. There’s only one rule: don’t say special. It is a chair in the road, don’t take that space. So how did it happen that official Administration incorporated rape, murder and torture into the collegiate curriculum? I’ll help you understand. It isn’t just that Colin Powell had a word with the police for Robert Fripp of King Crimson who just found Jimmy thfo annoying.
This is the greatest speech in human history, so listen up. The Presidential Candidates in 2020 aren’t about to debate me, it’s all that they can bear knowing that I exist, a living witness that both Reagan and Lennon had the same attorneys before they staged the famous shootings a few months apart, a Hollywood Houdini caper for which there is a ghost script from Pittsburgh, written for them by their attorneys. They put on a Super-Movie, one told in our reality zone, a super-movie in which they murdered JFK as a production gift from John Lennon to his Japanese war queen. If John Lennon really died, riddle me this: how come their law firm had me on hand in both devices with a brochure that reads, “There is no such thing as objective reality only what the jury believes”? Riddle me this: how come their hep cat Cliff Robertson who played JFK in PT-109 also played in the pilot episode of Outer Limits delayed for his state funeral? And was above the World Trade Center in his private plane to watch on 911? Because he was protesting?
They have taken our broadcast system by force as one of their military objectives and are pitting it against our right to know laws promoting profitable military exterminations abroad with longstanding friends of Donald Trump like Warhol and Ringo Starr, hailing from Trump’s old friendship with Francis Ford Coppola that shows his cultural legacy is Marlon Brando. The book is John Lennon’s endorsement.
The assignment given to me as illegal homework is a derivative of Pittsburgh legend and my role is to narrowly miss winning what they construe to be a victory. The script brought up early on that I had, by Constitutional estimation, potential due to granted rights which Pittsburgh constructed in their mindset for a “status symbol.” My father, from Iowa, a WW2 Naval hero, was Chair for Philosophy of Education. I had the right to advance in our public school system. This was curtailed because I didn’t want to street fight anybody. Fighting is a rule in the Pittsburgh legend.
I was first characterized defective at the age of seven by a father on Marlboro Road near my home in a Jewish Holocaust Survivor Community who observed and intoned hatefully to his son, who made clear the verdict to me, that my shoulders sagged forwards. Marlboro Road also had a bellowing drunk whose abuse of his wife would curdle the skies, rumored to have been a World War Two veteran, a Siamese cat and in 1966 the spray-painted garage door, “I love Sira Siran.” Let’s play, honey.
While the murderers were crowing, “I love you, man,” making big bucks on child porno that Ono keyed to the storyline, the Federal Communications Commission allowed Penis Gabriel to broadcast a pre-fabricated, convention-setting, confirmatory bias to freshman intellectuals he called Thfo. There is no evidence that he ever even had to see the letters he already knew were there. Nothing infuriates the FBI like being told to do their jobs. They wake up screaming from the thought of it. Telling them to defend the rights of an American school child from a family of ancient heritage and they just call up bandito injun playmates of North Korea’s Kim and say how ‘bout that white boy? Asked to defend the civil rights of a person who was tortured and mutilated, they leap for their injections, sedations, controlling their twitch they settle down to Special Agency and ask, sure, and who does this queerball think is to blame for his castration? Granger Morgan? Well, good, that mean the Seattle Left GITS to confiscate his allowance for their closet Trump ventures.
It is true. There has never been a landscape more sick with evil than City of Seattle. The entire landscape glowers with hostility, secrecy and guile, targeting, poison, ill-will, psychopathy and hate. They practice openly as a status quo ante one of the arts invented by John Lennon, the art of dialectical hypocrisy. The only thing they cared about in the AIDS attack was getting in good with Donald Trump. Everything that Aaron Dixon and Rosa Clemente did was a screech to high hell over sexual trophies and tribute from the sex elite. That’s all their queers could think of. They came out knifing at the evidence of an X-termination program because they wanted AIDS to spread, they didn’t want to stop it, they didn’t want to capture the offenders, they didn’t care at all, they just wanted it to be the new normal so they could get on with the business of trafficking in the name of race.
When Pittsburgh identified me as a child too timid to fight, it brought out orgiastic fury from everyone around. Dr. Proctor called being slaughteringly wasted by armed, full-grown white men, being a sissy. The NAACP spread the hostility around, a sheltered little white whose papi was saved by atomic bombs wouldn’t fight back, it became a nationwide Rosewood led by Mickey Obama and Oprah Winfrey. It was easy for those indoctrinated with stories about a Conspiracy to Destroy Black Boys to compensatory code the situation for Tojo Ronin, monocled women of Axis Hollywood, into a justified! JUSTIFIED! Conspiracy to Destroy a White, A WHITE!
Donald Ostro, who knew what I being held captive for, speaking for Braunstein and McCartney, obscurely, but obviously in ostracizing X-slur, “if we don’t do it, someone else will.” This was the closing argument for “the people of Pittsburgh.”