The perils of political correctness Pauline at Dialectical UW-ism are always peculiar grounds to feel contrite.  In making a decision to investigate on behalf of a minority group who I had never been part of, the risk I ran was much more serious than I knew because I overlooked one prospect that stands out, that they would be ungrateful all the more so because my research was so productive.  You can see now without much effort, examining Foucault and Donald Trump’s steering committee throughout the covid tragedy, which resembles nothing so much as Moe and Larry losing control of a big rig while Curly pulls at their noses, what Seattle Queer really is.  They had no intention of protecting anyone.  In their abysmal obsessive intimacy with a battered individual, they ply the usual tantrums of Seattle. They squashed the attempt to warn.

     This knifing a girl over a penny is a good example.   Everyone knows that Pittsburgh and Seattle are furious rip off artists preying on anyone that puts up a sign reading kick me I’m a compassionate bum.  The reason I have defended my rights as a person to be a millionaire, a published poet, a recognized scholar a compensated painter, a deaf victim of violent crime, is because I share the American tapestry whose goal is simply to be legitimate.  It’s really not hard to understand.  It in fact makes losses easier to accept because failure when trying is more ennobling than being ripped off.  In fact, the reality of the landscapes in Pittsburgh and Seattle are so well known and the perverse ingratitude so shocking and chronic that no one seems the least bit surprised that Donald Trump and his grand lobby from the Notre Dames decided to pour boiling oil on the whole thing.  These cities are full of the type to kick a fellow student’s notebooks.

      Arnold Schwarzenegger evidently wants to see his name in print.  The Biden-Karl Gang impinged this much.  It’s sad to see him smoogy Greta Thunberg after being made by Eastwood and Trump into their dancing bear when his fan club murdered Saoirse.  Arnold was after all a branch of the Kennedys through marriage to Shriver.  More to the point, he was part of the smash the schools one grand convo dungeon master plan over media in Pink Floyd’s the Walrus.  No one would have given me an hour of love with the fair Rosine without his consent, which reads like the moral riddler plotting a motive killing Saoirse for my benefit.  The Kennedys did not, any more than Jesse Jackson, speak out about how I was targeted for investigating the circumstances behind how I was tortured, or the terrible cruelty and sadism of targeting an impacted neuroplasm for a WW revenge gang who put FLASH cards in Seattle.

      I’m sorry you had to hear this.