The reason why the new generation of Kennedys cannot run for President is that the men who shot them before will shoot them again. The government is occupied by conquerors and far from giving in they have taken 18 trillion dollars from us and done everything wrong to the environment assuring that the future holds a terrible war for survival over basic needs. The Beatles in Pittsburgh through Warhol sided openly with Donald Ostro whose motto was, “International Terrorism will take the place of Human Rights.” Most of the people following American politics were aware that Donald Trump made a sick remark about grabbing women by the pussies, but few indeed realized it was his confession to involvement in the Kennedy assassination, a jest-like exoneration of Oswald the Rabbit, and advertisement for the sort of violent pornographic hostage taking practiced by Ostro and Jack Ruby of the Carousel Club, all of which came out in the Neva Script known as the Texas Schoolbook, the type that Seattle Queers more or less routinely defend.
It is ironic that Deputies and Police would come over as F-Troop. The fact that a survivor status war game would emerge from a holocaust survivor community in a place called Pitt can only signify that it was prior ordained, yet the professional, paid, adult, experienced and trained persons who play dumb about that have a contrary mission of claiming a brutally battered and comatose, traumatized child cudda unnerstood all of it while still pre-adolescent and being nearly killed.
The carrot tape of Oswald the Rabbit, made by Terri V. and Don Ostro was made for TV and the mili-terri unit who earmarked me with impacted soundtracks for Terr-rapin Station laugh about me as a devil worshipper and invade my home computer to sport the tracker system of the virus by making my loneliness out to be a citizen’s Alamo in the pyre of learning. We don’t talk much anywhere and never did about Pener Gabriel’s Nasa Experience Park called That Voice Again or what it says about what Pentagon Disney really helped Lennon pull. Instead, key university Administrators leer that I was paid for my involvement in Semester at Sex with a sporting virgin spoil of the Neva Pussyball Foundation. Trump’s remark in other words was also pornography promotion and Hillary’s willingness to meet with him afterwards a signal of her liberationist character, supposedly.
What traffickers, however, are brilliant at, under the shields of agreement with actresses and actors in pornography, is working the switches of terror. Death threats don’t come in writing. In my case, what has long been sported as my willingness to go along with the assignations of the Federal Truman Show was running for my life and hostage behavior. I played my role while looking for help.
Federal oversight is always very disturbing. Dr. Bernard Wattenmaker, for example, was a talent hypnotist. Jimmy was a clay golem in his vicious hands. His son is documented to have given me a nerve agent as university vivisection research and I live under threat of arrest, forced into debt trying to escape them into school, for reporting anything about it. Sometimes, my inability even to do that is consequent of crimes defending the AIDS attackers committed by Axis Queers of Seattle, and I will back that up with a very salient example whose vignette also testifies to how serious the evidence for what I can report really is, despite their greasiest efforts.
At issue is a photograph of me taken before a garage door on which is spraypainted, “I love Sira Siran.” It is Kodak dated 1966. Why don’t I have it to show and prove this number? Because of the Warhol kooks who drove me to Seattle after forcing impoundment of my life’s work into the clutches of my mother Nancy Moore, who I will demonstrate birthed me as a sacrificial offering, for destruction. Trying to save it, I sent it to Jim Marrs. From there I was screaming in homelessness.
A lot of acid has been spilled about my character, and Gabriel ruthlessly uses his communication droning to loudly display me for a humiliated man, but the truth is that I respect my peers a lot more than they respect me. I don’t ask them to believe me on the basis of my testimony. It is not an issue of our friendship if they can’t, because I understand that words alone are only a person’s representation of experience. I have taken lie detection exams, but I would not say trust me. Instead, what has long been derided as willingness to go along with the war game due to what they caustically called, “subjecting the persona to successive degradations of the X-motive,” I needed evidence. I now have the postcard that proves what they did.
Meanwhile they have counted on victory. Greg Karl used to sneer at me after I was deaf and in severe trauma, “Jimmy is going to perform for us.” While you go barging first to the microphone at the Jump and Holler to denounce the white suck toy, you might bear some things in mind even about Jim Marrs. Jim Marrs received the photograph, responded and refused to respond again. The circumstances were a huge gyration that I was a grave robber of John Lennon. He worked with Oliver Stone, and never mentioned Reagan in his research. He also danced at Jack Ruby’s Carousel Club the night before Kennedy was shot to death. In Pittsburgh a very serious indexicality was DEN for pirates’ chest, and one of the ghouls in play was Jennifer Marsden.
Jennifer Rubin’s lookalike, who is all but named at the miniature concentration camp where I was tortured and gassed, an area known to have done such things to the retarded, appears in Neva cinema and when Trump released the JFK files there it was a remark, “It looks just like Rubin.” There’s a lot to understand, for sure, but not so much that I have gone over two pages at this point. Since I have to go back to school very soon, I propose to make this occasion three.
What makes the Axis Queers believe that everything they did is right, that they hold the cards, is money. It is their trump, to be sporting of the language in gyration. To have survivor cred they mechanized the quah-thing should not have a penny. They have noted my refusal to make a pledge. I have nothing against Queers, but they have produced enough foolishness defending their own killers
For me the psychological pretzel does not, factually, look the same way.
My mother had a lot of things in common with Gail Burstyn who she has long defended. She managed to give me a cross-eyed rabbit for Christmas after my eyes were snarled in nerve poison that scared me so badly I gave it back. She still has it on the wall where once stood her painting of Hitler Nuns. She also got her start with David Demarest, a CMU professor who was friends with Artek of Salk Labs and WQED, whose gang led by Debra Martin, called “The Student Union” lured me there for the set up. Burstyn gave me a book about a friend who gets ratted and asked to see the kid who had done it, “just to be sure that I hated you,” he says. At Joan Baez I found a 20 during the Nam war. I told everyone and thought I should keep it, mother grabbed it from me without explanation. She could tell when Ian Wattenmaker had gotten me to go poo outside by the way I was walking, but never again noticed anything happening to me. The Pitmans sent me home demanding I get into her purse and steal from her. The University of Washington expects the same.
Dinesh D’Souza I believe was the one who said that he would die on the streets before being in debt. The attackers have a morale of collection right in the script, “take away, take away my eyes, sometimes I’d rather be blind.” We’re supposed to cheer them and say it’s a new generation, the ends justifies the means.
Niles Shortz, who seems the most likely person to have painted our doors with Siran, grabbed half a Sunny Dollars while we were walking worth 500 dollars that was obviously laid in the street. I tried to persuade him to trade, because I had the other half already at home, he tore it up instead. The teachers of Jimmy Creary always have my number.
