The film Alien followed the syphilis vector. The implanted thought he had recovered only to be destroyed when the implant incubated. The Alien is territorially known as Tang. It isn’t clear yet whether Steve Tangney authored a murder weapon at the order of Seattle Police and Clint Eastwood, only, onlyo my computer auto-misspells, that so far it has gestated to a production room crime of Saoirse’s murder by poison as well, incubated towards examination of an interminable ear rattling that a doctor with a similarly eerily pronouncable name examined in advance planning by the dacoit Inslee, intimately, as is the Jap style, depradating on the mind of the gaslighted. The assassin follows the mind’s capacity to detect of her prey and plots accordingly, in the Trump/Biden junta style. The assassins have discussed their trail of clues at great length, a delectation, but don’t expect a jury to stay awake.
Karl, speaking for Sinfield, leered that the dialectic is established at the outset, meaning between paranoia and poison, figment and pigment, from the plan. By organizing themselves as though two separate teams, the murderers pass the ball back and forth between them in a game they co-authored and agreed to play in distraction from the pepper virus genocides they augment for civil entertainment, Trumpytune style. Not to play is to die anyway. Not to be cross, but the murderers stalking everything I love masqueraded as Amnesty International between a friendly face and notes like, “I love you, man.”
Some of us have long known that those who struck at Kennedy targeted the American Flag in order to upload a counter-Flag and that there is some resentment among those who remember the good old days. What escapes even those Kennedys who examined me for my sincerity is that the attackers use me as barometer of the Kennedy curse, a similar symbol of America to be butchered on the welcome mat of Ono’s rise to secret world power, which is what has happened through the Beatles investment in the mind and powers of Bill Gates, Trumpytune eld and purveyor of Pentagon Disney behind the pepper virus genocides.
The symbol of Windows (of the soul) is a grid of 444, rec-tang-ular, a cross and a swastika designed as a mouse trap. The war crime called Kasper for friendly ghost posits a Hitler forgiven arising for the might of Jesus. Trump and Biden have put the fondest dreams of the psychopathic Nazi Christian death cults into absolute dominion to do as they will, by any means they dourly dream, punishing the enemy who liberalled us to death with abortion and drugs and misguided dumbzines. Insley is a classic example and all he needs is one ragdoll to chew on. With that, Tulsi Gabbard is free to unveil her current line of Gestapo sisters.
Go run on home cryboy to your rich Kennedy momma’s shirttail.
The deeper the game the closer to the cushy dominion of the Israeli magnate McCartney, corpulent as Baron Fenring Harkonen with backstabblery, Sting’s forced tongue and licky chops. Putin a good word for Padilla. He is a current come Johnny to the cast of nets. If there is anything more loathsome than a west coast who created a species of university argument by which to frame and glorify Japanese revenge on America I don’t know of it, in light of the suicide of Foucault, the primary ghoul of Seattle Queers calling the shots.
The longevity of the inner clock / outer clock of the wind weatherman’s knife at the jugular vein, the claim that Crary cudda saved John Lennon but was hunting a virgin which Ringo Starr used to force through Mt. Desert Island, Two Virgins Pussyball, on campus murder, 911, the bombing of the USS Iowa, murder of Iowa Molly, the usual stuff from Amnesty International and Frippytune-tards who publicly made wow about the balls they said it took to murder Saoirse and two more members of her family, defines the lack of outrage about Covid-19. Go Black Lives Matters for Palestine, hehn. Cause refraction is the lead in to sexual conversion if you slave your life for Midori Goto, Lennon’s special Jane Bond in culinary custom.
You have to love Pittsburgh. While Ming Na Wen was whining that Reagan didn’t know for her smokescreen to follow script and lie about AIDS, her classmate and hired partner of John Shulman, Tom O’Connor, who owned the Flynn van that raced around schoolbuses at Kelly Elementary, to spread slanders about the dangerous Crary tuned the strum of Frippytune’s parlor on behalf of Shulman’s other partner Leslie Katz, the virgin Jewess of Beat-Les McCartney, O’Connor (topic) yammered, “James you got back from the island yelling, “I have solved the riddle! I have solved the riddle! There is no riddle!” And Shulman didn’t steal no books outta the Carnegie, too, now.
Having made short work for Ono of the AIDS attack, while circulating sly pamphlets, you will do what Israel says, to the Mayor about custodial civics in time of plague, Shulman and his lobby go right on strumming through Covid, the necessary evil for a more perfect union, a Greta good.
Pennsylvania is following a Bulgaria strategy where to reform public opinion about totalitarianism they pushed for maximum organized crime and corruption, foraging ahead towards the much anticipated backlash. Tangney, who poisoned me in the mouth for the Pigs and the Beatles was a Duquesne smoogie and classmate of the Inslee sponsored dacoit who murdered Saoise to compensate his bedwet for Rosa’s lack of hymen. Seattle wants to glorify the dispute of old Sirhan Sirhan that found his name spraypainted in 1966 out back my house where the kitten Serendippity was born before I was kidnapped and gassed by a poor man’s ether by the Pitman Quarrymen working for Braunstein, McCartney, Tive and Andelman, one of the lovelace marionettes. The Sira Siran painting disappeared into the cats paw of Jim Marrs who danced with Oswald at Jack Ruby’s Club for weeks before they collected for the pimp Bugliosi who was cryin’ over spilt milk as Neva’s sister Mancine would say for the performance team. The photo did that is. The actual painting on the garage was out back Katie Palter’s house. Mother told me to go nap with Katie in her bed one evening she was talking late and I got the eeriest flu I ever felt.
When we moved, I note of Marrs, I lost a spelling bee because the teacher told me to remember Arrid the deodorant, not the air raid of Dealey Death Valley, myuh.
Covering for Penis Gabriel, whose acid rock production team was doing Wishbone Ash, you wish you’d form a team with Midori and your boner but we’ll make this a Front Page world of Ash, when Lennon front paged their trick of a tale, Prebanic, Snyder and Tive coughed up Phil Dolence, like Condeleeza, to give condolence, He liked to say think of me when you see a hole in the wall or a filter and say Phil-ter. Try it with Palter.
Hard one, water under the bridge.
Most Americans have an aversion to the idea of another Civil War but the fact is that the powers that be pushing us that way are foreign powers, notoriously South Africa, whose Black Regality have a lot of cushy influence at Columbia. Cause re-orienting for Black Power United Globally or what have you helps cement over the destruction of American legacy and values. Oh, but their hearts are in the right place, myuh. The brainstormers are Elizabeth and Donald.
I think back to the day I embarrassed Elizabeth Blumenfeld when Israeli’s got me high at her Bas Mitvah and I laughed, ending up brutalized by Ruth Hammer’s hammer, sort of carried away like poor Carrie who Ruth Ginsberg Omened into two pieces with an elevator the night before she Gates’d into the outer stratosphere, and taken into the smut den of Donald Ostro’s where they Michael Reagan’s favorite scene’d me some more for Ono’s bedwet dumping carnal into my head that I wouldn’t repeat in the presence of a human being unless court ordered they were so evil. Two queers named Ron and Ron, and of course Todd Clark. Donald lived behind the synagogue where Beth was sanctified a woman, between them lay an Italian motor garage.
King Crimson tipped their hand long before they murdered Saoirse Kennedy in cold blood by teaming up from Attica State Prison nerve poison hothouse with Shawn Brooks who locked me out of a church when an armed gang came to kill me for being a rich motherfucker. This was put together by an English kid who was getting nasty and Edward Eisen, and Billy Rodd, and Saul Brecher, but shoving out of a church into the hands of Randy McCormick was Cynthia Lennon’s speed. They wouldn’t have hated you if you didn’t deserve it.
Marrs was a hustler and the journalism he did was to make sure he git to keep things like the Sira Siran item of choice for being the expansive curator of what they’d lisp in Pishburg to be the Mars-den of thieves. Richard McGarvey took the cake in a tract about pushing the persona “into a gaseous paint chamber” while making “sympathetic vibrations” in “a lifelong project.” Cradle to grave snuff films by the Richard Corporation. Ringo Starr has the poacher legitimacy of Bill Cosby to ground his stuff in real world company, but his use of Manson Family for porno and snuff had the help of Romero and Polansky.
Ask Shannon Harps, to spin a phrase in the manner of Brooks’ brother from Kenyon College, Mr. SDS (Stuart David Sheppard). They’re the good guys in N-burgh.
