Now that we know about the “Noah and The Good Kind” reasoning (that the hanky-pank States put into the Frankenstein logic behind the AIDS attack) a number of facets do also fall into place.   If someone tells you that I am not really being used for vivisection as a function of the long premeditated moral atrocity, my advice is to just forget it as one has to forget the idea of Germans who helped the abomination before.  Pennsylvania is notorious for encampment of displaced concentration camp workers under the rehabilitation programs of the CIA. The Shah of Rock, Sir Shah McCartney, is just one of the Illuminogarchy who played Pussyball for the show of dragon fire.

       The hate-tripping from Warhol is evidently reactively prescribed to make very dangerous outing them.   Lewis H. Lapham had terrible gall, Burstyn gall, in calling the damage of horror brutality on a deafened child the trace elements of fear.   LHL, which also stands for his place in cinema heritage, Last House on the Left, s citadel that he himself besieges, designated me a marked man before the tinkling on the tufted floor by little belles.    A notorious and zany defender of child smut, this berserker from the krieg centers of New York is a dandified Ribbentrop trying to get a fellow senior citizen assassinated from afar. Together, Lapham and Midori Goto have done permanent damage to the safety and reputation of the United States.

       The reason I have little particular interest in Trump is that in the trillion year scheme of things I realize that even his big perch is peanut heaven, but I also share Martha Gellhorn’s discouragement, disappointment and rage that some terrible infant, she called an insane pygmy, would do danger to the earth and all of our children.   So it’s a Zarathustra paradox. I care about those who are tottering before bedlam, as I do, as Martha did, and try to put what she gave me, a little courage, to good effect. How unsurprising, in Warhol, the age of Orwell, love songs mask evil. It is a tragedy the malicious gloaters intended to be a pressure cooker. An essay like this is not easy to vy by with ranting soloists who finish their studies of the unreachable by smashing guitars.

        Americans are a tragic study in self-contempt who refuse to admit to themselves that we are good at what we do almost everyday.  We are like, in fact, the reality behind the stereotypes we promote about Muslims. Why we ended up on the slide to ruin as a society is a lot easier to answer than how.   Since everyone knows why, envy, of race, of class, of age, of sex, of achievement, of medals, or learning, of potential, I prefer to answer how because that is much more indicative of what is actually wrong.   It happens by a twist of reasoning.

        The twist of reasoning can be seen in a Trumpian Brazil where they heedlessly burn the rainforest pursuing the Car Loan agenda.   It was very studied in the lead up to Dallas where they played a game of Let’s Shoot Kennedy (LSK). Dallas Jail was a nasty place, one where deals were made and kept secret with the sort anyone would rightly fear, a place of hell in a South made deeper than Mississippi.   Gail Burstyn wrote about little Jimmy, “I liked your last letter so much I think I’m going to have it framed,” and even though she took the IRE out of “Squrl Hill,” the Japanese baroness of New York and Warhol was encouraged to steal my face for her tawdry death row saga. Britain had the whole idea down pat, go do dissertation, slave.   Stockwell was in Bar Harbor with Elizabeth Banwell and after Seattle banned me, Tantliger broke in, my stomach acid soared and the bank put in an attendant named Wiswell. One of their charmers lisped at me, “If you wash I’ll be offended.”   It’s a Ringo Ring upgrade of Pitman’s, if you don’t do what we say we’ll beat your face in.

      All this despite the fact that the nerve centers showed meditation long predating appearance of the story.  DIVA has my birthdate, an allusion to my hitchhiking adventure from Pittsburgh to St. Louis just to hear the coward Fripp play, and of course, a mythical mesmer in bird tongue of the coming Ladies of Obama.   Unfortunately, for David Bowie’s mystery series, plastic reality and the Ancestors aren’t really all that compatible.

       Plastic Reality gave us Abdul the Terrorist on KDKA Radio, actually Adam Eisenstat, and while Pishburg was promoting total fraud as the right to lie in the name of free speech, John Seitz told us stories of how the British get furious if anyone shock jocks them back.  This is the phenomenology of a total scam drama club. In noticing that the Proctors and Brooks Family have the same father and son names, I am only mentioning that Proctor, in supporting Brooks, had not the slightest visible presence at the incidents he misrepresented with what must have been malice in the name of a void idea of Provincialism that normalizes child mutilation pedophile cinema.  The NAACP ask a lot of questions but pay no attention at all to the answers.