Kennedy kids were those of us intellectually aware of JFK and his students of action.   This is to be taken as distinct from his actual children only to the degree that we are of a different generation, and he was not our father.   It was a term from a time that is authentic. The enemy named us Camelot. My goal in this letter is to help you understand how to deal with your head in the year 2020 or so and what to do if America falls while retaining its name.   It’s hard to paint a picture of those times. The television shows I remember were Secret Agent Man, with its catchy theme song, and The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Star Trek came later with Batman, after he was gone and The Beatles took over.   The present Age of Climate Change has expectations of you that I will have to address. Although it is perfectly understandable, due to the violent, accomplice leadership, and betrayal by Seattle Queers, of the 60’s in the AIDS attack, that you would want to excuse yourself from addressing the criminally insane, it is easier for you, who are not viciously poisoned for reading, to take in some digest about it one last time to make good and sure you have it straight what is going on in Pittsburgh under the steel, virulent, multi-racial Hitleresque wings of Bill Gates and The State of Washington in the era of President Gruber, which is the appropriate nick for Donald Trump and a rational reading of the mystery.   The other half lives. If you have not already read my explanation for why I call Trump Gruber, I will make sure you do in this letter towards the end.

       The rabid have inflated my value beyond all insanity in order to render my life worthless to the licky chops.   Poachers killed JFK. Someone else will have to write the story of the mania whereby King Crimson actually sought to justify their claim that virginity proved rape, and tortured Jimmy Crary who they castrated, but it will be a doozy, no matter whose version sells.   I have something more important to deal with between you and I.

      Imagine being a Jew put through Auschwitz who was then blamed for Adolf Hitler.   Since we know from the holocaust community who tortured me and wrote the scroll that Warhol claimed for execution that holocaust survivors in Pittsburgh were involved someone must have thought of it because they blamed themselves for surviving.  It makes sense to the State of Washington to poison someone in the mouth because Seattle Queers were poisoned and so they took the side of the murderers who tortured me. They aren’t going to stop. The University of Washington is criminally insane.   When UW attacked me in Pittsburgh in 1974 with the help of Pitt, the linguistic anthropology dimension that the British used was clarified when the Karls would address me as, “You dub-buh,” which they meant to be taken by my childhood imagination for “you dumb…._____blank.”   It is very difficult to acquaint you by public address as I learn what they know, but you don’t have to look far, it is in their writings, for why they are cocksure, they talk of having escalation dominance through professional administrative dialectic, if I say poison they say paranoia and lock me up.  Hitler spoke of seeking, “the gleam of the beast of prey in the eye of youth.” At Tacoma Community College I see it everyday in the eyes of the students who know how they got over. If hard copy of this mail made it out of Seattle where the Postal Union participated in a ripper homicide of an innocent woman by facility who poisoned me in the mouth, an innocent slay (Inslee) I will be surprised, but I’ll sleep better knowing I tried to reach Massachusetts around the Republican leadership there.

       The illusion of justification can be rationally discarded.  This is not a defensive situation. UW are criminally insane and nothing is going to stop them, but we find the precedent for the method they used, the announcement of criminal intent, in the two faces of Pittsburgh provincial self-representation.   The case of Diane Draxinger is typical and notorious. Pittsburgh klan culture working on the script had provincialisms they called yinzer speak or Pittsburghese. One of these colloquialisms was, “play like,” as in “play like you love him,” for the kill, etc.   Draxinger played like she had been killed in a car crash to get me, a traumatized child looking for comfort to transfer my own catastrophe into my feelings of loss for her, after I cried and wailed all day long, she finally felt remorse and told them to tell me she was only playing because she didn’t think I really liked her.  Likewise Amanda Harcourt and the British announce that they have a right to murder students in criminally insane death experiments to test if the thex, say that again, Prince Chas., thex I thay, you thay it James, sex is the word, Charthles, was really in search for the cause of the war game or…..or what? Or a justification for ripper hatter hate mutilationism?   The murder acquainted me with his vestige pouting at me in a postal card, “I don’t wish to be involved in personal correspondence which is beyond my means,” while humiliating me as a deaf visitor, calling me a picaresque nobody offering affected rubbish, but at least he announced intent to be professional. No sooner, one of his snobs set upon weeping and wailing that I was not her Prince Fidelity as she leered with ripper mayhem from the old set of HAIR.   They gave me double heartbeats for being a neuroplastic hypnotized, seizure controlled golem following two-timing war games by attack prostitutes to prove the testing war game.

       That’s the easy sort of thing this letter contains.  I want to get to the UFO documents half, too, the fact that there was an atmospheric disturbance the night Manchester Guardian closed their Talkboard and just before the tsunami that melted Fukushima, that Alla Chertok was on me as a neighbor of Burstyn’s first friend Samuels at the time of Chernobyl, that Sierak asked me, “What is the name of the wave machine,” just before the meltdown tsunami, that they played a game of Carrie with carriers of the self, a rocky battle of suffering from torture in non-violence by which they measured out the loving spoonful of their ripper attack on the innocent they slayed, and the way that responsibility for the Earth is played as an academic umbrella for the blackout at UW the way the NAACP used Black grievance back home in Pittsburgh.   The Germans rearmed in secret, you should see what nightmares NASA is pulling under the cloak of calling earth a machine we need to radically monitor down to the heat in private homes.

         When Todd Clark of the Starz made one cameo appearance in the CIA safehouse of V.O. (Val Ostro) where they held a deaf child in semi-coma hostage who had been bukkaked in his sleep and talked of shitting in the holes of machete hatched heads, he wrote, “cameo imprisons disaster.”  The song he promoted most intensely ran, “Flame over Africa no explanation or romance, flame over Africa no one was given half a chance.” When the German rearmed it was under false assurances, too. Sure, the British are going to save the earth rippering innocent slays myuh, myuh, MYAWK!

         Arlen Specter knew one of my neighbors from Mack Truck who told me about Notch Babies, who slipped between the cracks of government oversight and said, “a dollar looks as good in my pocket as anyone elses.”   Playing old VO drax like, they phased out to Atlanis the secret world double and announced mayhem to get the Seattle Queers yawning about torture and brutally sinister ripper mayhem by the government of the State of Washington.  They coined a term for it with a chauvinist lisp, “weaponizing,” AIDS, and that in sum and totality is what John Lennon’s life top secretly stands for. When they dream night and day of murder and bomb with every penny they can muster over the forked spray of the queerbait’s prong who Donald Gruber, half of Hitler’s real name Schlickgruber called “O’Queery shoving clay in his prick,” don’t let them subject us to the hypocrisy of calling their gall as musical auctioneers by peace-making.

        “Why not,” the war cry of Cervi who force fed me a nerve agent in terror trauma, in the age of Diamond Dogs telling you what wuzzup, of Death Seed on King Crimson, of colonies of slippermen in the art of the rabid monster Penis Gabriel, was the war cry, too of Martin Sheen, when he fell on me with loud laughs of gunning down innocent people for the play within the play, a parochial Masterpiece Theater (to them) depicting JFK as the lord of the flies.