Perhaps you have seen the video of a woman behind abused and held hostage by an ex-boyfriend who convinces him to let her take her dog to the veterinarian, slips a note to the clerk at great risk and manages to get him tackled by police, while herself being taken to trauma care. Had Peter Gabriel of Genesis been working at that clinic, the man would have been alerted, the girl locked in the room with him and subject to brutal gang rape by the entire staff. Gabriel would have stomped her and seethed that the fact that she lied in her attempt to escape proved she wasn’t a victim, and police would have backed him up because of his wow mystique. Then for thirty years she would have been mutilated and humiliated and worked to the bone in conditions of torture being forced to explain why she betrayed him.
Queer Seattle were victims of the AIDS attack, but they aren’t the victims anymore. Instead we have a culture here of murder, criminally insane, terrorist in the extreme, deranged beyond all reckoning, automatic in their reflexes, incapable of self-reflection, whose character is modeled on the Roman soldier in Life of Brian who shouts, “I like orders!” The history of the wretched insanity begins in Pittsburgh during the dawn of the AIDS attack in 1984, when the attorney for Penis Gabriel who set them up with their inflatable mindset announced against timely warning and in favor of market forces. No one gets out of here alive was the slogan that made the grade.
It is possible, despite their endless vortex of lying, to address some of their cosmotosis and shamanism (Made in China), but just barely. I’ll start with an example of their shameless abstraction. A belligerent queer Teddy boy, indexed to Penis Gabriel’s Teddy Bear song of egological self-promotion, unknown to many, but super-awesome to those in the loop, the important people, told a parable of an artist whose junk was auctioned at Sotheby’s for, slow down and say poignantly...millions...of dollars. Wow, neat, oh, man. Then, in response, the artist stood up and demolished the work, howling in a higher brand of cerebral intellectualism, “I told you nebber ebber to SELL my art.” Infinite came the clapping over the mystical penny by which they ripper murdered Shannon Harps.
Going back to 1984, at the beginning of the AIDS attack, we see exactly, too, how this traces directly to Donald Trump, but this is a wrong turn in some ways, because the Queers have a fallback position in loveslavery to John Lennon as their Key Concept. At the crossroads between the two issues, we come upon something reminiscent of Natsume Soseki’s Theory of Literature which mentions the view that readers are, shall I say, like surfers on the tide of immediate awareness. Loveslavery to the Lennon key concept vies with the material evidence showing that Donald Trump was hard at work making this play with Pener Gabriel in 1984. Loveslavery for Lennon was hotwired to loyalty to his bosom bud Reagan and Seattle itself didn’t stand for anything anymore. Ballard Pimp, a nickname online at The Stranger, shouted well into the 21st century, “we were defeated before we began!” as though none of the brilliants in Seattle had ever even heard of defeatism.
The rabid tell the same story a little differently, of course. They were concerned with the collective and a sense of belonging, well, the little matter of a pot of gold from Hollywood, too, but that’s not the main thing. To them it was far out, a done deal, to make it a matter of the question of character that stained JFK with Marilyn and made Oliver Stone smirk when leering at Dyslexter King concerning the great man of Lucas Studios statuary in D.C., his pap. Stone’s peculiar sensibility is the schaedenfreude of choice. In other words, Penis Gabriel convinced them with the help of South Africa’s Secret Service that it should be made an epic all about me as Her Majesty’s war toy.
Penis Gabriel, meanwhile, himself a bumpersticker head, convinced the very stupid that being non-violent meant hiding aggression, and vowed to liberate the aggression as a better way to defeat it than resisting it. On behalf of the truly guilty, naturally, but nothing matters less.
To accomplish this meant murdering anybody who talked about the evidence. The rabid seethed that I should be made to know the hardship of the street. I already did. I had been kidnapped and tortured as a child. The rabid denied it. The rabid continued to quank that Our Commonwealth was only served by the proclamation all together now in the AIDS attack, nevermind that the British deliberately withheld that it was an attack, a situation analogous to setting a whole block on fire because a person trapped in a kitchen fire didn’t want to die alone. Tragedy is real, but the progressives after power didn’t care about that, anymore than they mourned or turned off their headsets during the wildfires in California. Meanwhile, I tried everything imaginable to get sympathy and warning out, and to prove that there were culprits in attendance, laying in wait, war-gaming over the test. The rabid said no, the only way we will ever believe that is if you die with the afflicted.
In other words I was royally punished by the Queers for a daring attempt to get help, warning and rescue to them, just as they raped my deaf advocate and castrated me for refusing to engage in sexual conquest when baited by Pennsylvania Legal Society who said, “It wouldn’t have been rape,” as an overture to ruining me because I said it would have been. So, criminally insane people get the nod.
Stone worked with Sean Strub and Gail Burstyn evidently, and sent in Queer posseurs during evil hour to make the deal roll. Operating from Warhol Museum they had a lock on sensibility and loyalty. To understand the whole breadth of the problem, you would need to read a lot of material that took 30 years of work. I want to be paid for it, but I didn’t let being slaved for it stop me, because Our Commonwealth is unfortunately at stake.
