Inevitably, it is necessary to compare the roles played by Greta Thunberg and Gail Burstyn in secret state media especially when the wise owl of the hour decided to pack her cubby fist into Obama’s as though Mr. Former President were somehow better than the reigning monarch of dungeon minded supremo, Donald J. Sergey Trumpovich, or whatever we call the temp worker in the Ukrainian Ministry.   I like the Pacific Northwest, in the NYPD Blues sense of “like” meaning significantly suspect, this region in the AIDS attack. The Stranger Newspaper in Seattle is named seemingly in conscious irony for the long-awaited upload that arrived at Donald Trump. Nobody did more for the Hitler establishment in America than Queer Seattle, nobody. I’ll tell you a little again to remind you of how it worked, but first go back in time to who Gail Burstyn was at age 13.

        Because I was raised under the Kennedy mission era, the idea of fascism in America came as a culture shock and I never got used to it.  I knew what fascism was because I lived in a Jewish holocaust survivor community and my old man was a WW2 Lieutenant by then in higher education.  I knew the unbelievable facts from readings I found near and around that children had been pushed en masse, living and screaming, into oven incinerators of fire.  I recognized that the napalm being dropped and the brutal reprisals for talking about it this way were evidence of the same. Gail Burstyn was from the region where grandparents had concentration camp tattoos.  I saw them occasionally in the marketplace. It’s important to remember that because, scripting the AIDS attack in the name of abortion, Burstyn is part of a Cold War Committee that gunned us into climate disaster supposedly in the name of waking us up, but what if in reality they are lying to our faces while working overtime in the attempt to finish us off.  Those ovens can make a brother mighty hostile.

        Greta Thunberg says that can’t be true, so did Martha Gellhorn, that people must just be stupid, but when I met through the occult lobby of Gurdiev a retired Pentagon Official named Jim Ha-german, hyphen added, he told me, “It is widely believed in the Pentagon that the earth just isn’t going to make it but who cares, I’ve lived a good life.”   People are lackadaisical about that because they want to go out with a whimper instead of a bang? Is that it? That same Gurdiev kluk are the ones who say that school policy allows Penis Gabriel to blow up the Jackson Labs, experimentally serially mutilate me, slasher Shannon Harps, put Saoirse Kennedy to sleep, and do whatever else it takes to make the Lennon kamikazes feel they avenged the spirit of their warlord for Yasukuni Shrine.  

      The rabid put on a BR, or Battle Royal of Two Virgins Pussyball, full of murder, just like the film, of student bystanders, initialled to Billy Rodd, a Rodd Family branch that went into CO2 fighting, from a namesake of great taxonometric expertise in the field of scientific CO2 production. Rodd was a lying witness to the brutal blindside attack by an armed goon squad hired by Ono and Warhol to torture me as a child, sneering that they want to throw me in the oven for their therapy.

          The lewd monstrosity was all over me with State Secrets and hip hop cajoling.  At my school, the fact that a mature, bachelor cannot utter the words, “I would go out with her,” without mayhem erupting in the student center is proof that a monocled, zoot suited, super-Zappa with a foreign English antennae is masquerading as a Marine in campus advisory cooking up the usual trigger happy libels against liability in the horrible Louis Kahn-job that came down in Pittsburgh, the ARK of WQED, offering Black women their piece of the action, in return for some vicious hooligan actions, lewdly panting the political slogans of He’s Dead, Jim and A.T.S. a band that had a lot less to do with American Temperance Society than it does with Artificial Tears Solution.  Their leader’s name was Evan Knauer, we’re even now, get it, and Matt Marcus Mark US, not well be, but be well, myuh, myuh, MYAWK!

           The question of being boxed in to a coming disaster zone by the mind of Donald Donald is the laugh in the shadows from The Stranger.