Trying to get a straight answer out of the Trump women, by whom I mean to include Donald who twitters so much he should wear falsies, is impossible. In a politically chickenly hence undeclared crime of seance society the rabid announced the fraud that I cudda saved John Lennon but that the woman’s text who supplied the evidence said nothing and is innocent of wrongdoing. Then, to make the crime a complete circle, they appointed Fenton Bresler, whose name is indexed to the National Association for the Deaf, to say that Reagan and Lennon were both Alpha-Males targeted by common enemies, so we know now that Lennon was secretly working with Reagan on the project of decapitating the student Left, best buds ever. The loathsomes far prefer those they say killed him to those who were semi-credulous towards his act. McCartney sided loudly with Bush and the War on Drugs, Ringo Starr committed atrocity defending those who released AIDS, not so secretly forging the name of Roberto Clemente on the travesty of torture and rape of deaf children in Pittsburgh, braying it was Lennon’s spirit seeking settlance through karma from Warhol Bank. Despite their sullen, putrid misuse and morbid agitation for psychiatric malpractice, the murderers don’t stand a chance of getting the truth to disappear. So what will the maniacs try to do instead? This should be interesting.
We know that my father was targeted in the AIDS attack Penny Histories held by Penis Gabriel because the ex-wives were involved in that program, so logically by working with the Christian Right on home invasion, the macabre poisoners could loudly profess protecting the innocent by preying on me in their pussyball war game for Neva Pornographic Corporation beginning in childhood. Sani Vann had her eye gouged out by a madame. The woman was furious that Vann cried when being raped. The customer was upset that the sex slave didn’t smile and glance at him coyly, he had paid good money. Yoko Ono is that sort of Pornographer, too. It’s what she did to little Jimmuh queebait. The title of her publication, “Open Your Box,” is psycho-Freudian. In English we call such a command: an emphatic. In other words, she is the sort of ripper hatter from whom the tall tale of Leslie Katz would have never gotten away, as it did from me, leading me to be castrated for failure to perform, slyly compensated for by Midori Goto’s shyster snipe about a blackbelt in feminism proven by cosmic mindrape utilizing a neurological pussywhip of seizure inducing savagery.
Comprehension, in other words, is so limited you could call it out the window.
It’s hard to accept about what Andrea Swimmer and CMU have to say about me, as it is to compare notes concerning the AIDS attack as represented by accomplice, but sometimes mutedly relevant media (the band, after all...did...play on), which amounts to the formulation that sex slander is stronger than injury. That is why the stupid Queers should have sided with me.
