Leslie Sanetta Katz, a Mellon-Morgan agent in the AIDS attack planning group, used to talk a lot about a “basis of comparison” when it came to rejection of me.  I don’t think this was synchronicity when it came to Geffen’s sudden death upload of Youssou N’dour yammering for the benefit of a British Globalist council. Instead, this was the smoking gun showing that the British had authored Gail Burstyn and were in touch with Katz through Westmoreland County’s planning Administration for the Reagan nightmare, rooting Chin I, a ululating deaf girl, as Sanetta’s neighbor.

       The Black connection in the Green Party’s claim of overpopulation maintenance through Injun virus control therapy set up a revenge sequence for the Axis power structure in the Bible Belt run by Axis Bible Belt wiz kids in British acid rock.   To see footage of Adrian Belew prancing around pulling his guitar prong to the harmonics of the song Red while gloating over his illegal carrot tape is to understand the side of human nature found in diaries of the Japanese soldiers who politically corrected Nanking.  Tearing mountains of wailing Chinese people apart with their bayonets, they remember, “we never have had so much fun in all our lives.”

       Despite this, the rabid British Royal Family aren’t really responsible for their own actions.   When it hears the words, “Old Yeller,” it reaches for its hepatitis injection needle. The foreign English perception of irony is encoded into its doglike slavery to its perception of superiority.  A good example of this is the ravenous automatic way a penis like Herr Sinfield thinks when it perceives the traditional image of the King of Hearts, or suicide king. This unfolds akimbo thusly into its sacred-o-pathic pseudo imagination in obvious ways from the telltale records.

        It is very difficult for the U.S. Government and Police Department to do its job against the Wiz kids of the Axis Bible Belt, and there is very little in the way of Academic remorse even from liberals either.   One reason for this often-noted hangdoggery that gives bray to the Trump fiasco comes from the fact that idealistically the historical studies departments eulogizes often and loudly the Liberation Theologists who took on Reagan and suffered martyrdom for the Church in Central America during the nightmare years, but then sided with the Dictatorial proclivities of the Catholic syndicates in the AIDS attack itself.  Part of this is abortion trauma. Even if you actually do feel abortion is wrong, the fact of the matter is that the murderers behind AIDS only saw it as a convenient moral abridgement, that’s all, something to gyrate about while spinning the mirror of a pointing fingered hand stacked with five aces and a disappearing suicide king.

          The baby bib of Duzzledorf arose in Dealey Plaza like the specter of Adolf who crossed the Rubicon into occupancy at the self-exonerating Oval Office, a mystical Ovary lodge.   The vanguard of Hollywood’s Axis tower of perceptions made no secret of Black connection dominant Two Virgins Pussyball. The collegiates went right along with the program banging out film after film, Battle Royal, Audition, Scene by the Sea, Shall We Dance, affirming their totemic allegiance to the genocidal Ringo Starr, a name straight from Jack Ruby’s Carousel Club in Dallas where Capitol Records sourced.   Midori Goto announced an aw it’s just human program of psychotic viciousness that was grafted into all sorts of publication, sneering her bizarre behavior a parallelo-gram of Feminist liberation from the brain damaged white tyrant.

         Trimester Joel Caplan’s entourage in Syphilvania touched hands and graced, oh, woeful teary girls, what do you feel feeeeel now that you see his agony, did he not defiantly pounce on your ecstasy in a way you did not realize?  Trained medieval scholars gesticulated over Nicky Hopkins and Nicholas Dibarno’s sacred score sheet for analyzing whether and where the lark stuck its tongue in Karl’s aspic for D.T. Pulverizing the queerbait in its pajamas as it suffered from the flu and wandered lost and childlike in the blood spattered front yard snow, a wound closed by the Valentine number of 14 stitches to its shunken head, the image portrayed by Sanetta and N’dour created an intellectual property slave like the abortion register of Foucault and Rushdie’s carrot, conveniently alibi’d by Reagan didn’t know for the Hallelujah Precinct of George Romero and Oliver North by Northwest.

In their sentimental muse over the holy question of whether man is of the earth or the earth merely a flesh wound of man, they remember fondly and sadly the crib watch of Nathan at the Ruskin, a Black muse overlooking the merchandise.