This is a letter to the Police Department who have been wizened a long time to the idea that Jimmy Queerball was a no-count chicken on the make for virgins and pestering rock stars who started hearing voices.
Let’s play a game of the imagination. In this game of the imagination long-standing laws of the United States are shushed and brushed aside by higher powers like NASA, Penis Gabriel and Microsoft, International. Ruthlessness they say is their precinct, saving the planet their mandate and you are forbidden to discuss or examine their means, the premises or their past, even were you so inclined. In this bloodcurdling dominion when someone is marked for being too much fun they will never stop being tormented.
Behind the stage curtain of this game are the realities. Michael Tive, neighbor of Jeff Kennedy, who would sit on his porch singing, “Oh, I went to St. James Place and saw her lying there, so strip, so bare,” while Tive carried on about the people around him he called, “mental midgets,” had a father Ralph who showed up on my father’s last book before his Donohue obituary. We don’t know at that time what Tive meant, but we know by this time that Gellomini at Fulton School was a pun on Fulton Mini the XXX theater, tracing to Niles (like juveniles) Shortz, as in short people, who may have been who spray painting “I love Sira Siran,” on a garage door in 1966 where I was photographed, taken during the free smacks orgy of grab on the heist by the official sect in 1994 going to Jim Marrs. In other words those motherfuckers in the Trump menagerie aren’t just pedophiles, they are militant advocates for pedophilia as a mandate and super-draft they call a Gale Force. There isn’t any question that the idea behind the film Kids trivializing the spread of AIDS was a mandate from the assassins, all of the punk refrains and symbols in Diva show this fact was film semiotic laced into history in advance. Obama isn’t ashamed of admitting he is one of the Kennedy tomb raiders who got ahead advocating for the killers, why should I be ashamed of naming him? Robin Lipscomb, his favorite in Pittsburgh, was also Michael Tives. Celine Dion and Midori Goto continue working for that asshole to this very minute at SONY.
Mini, Midgets, Juve-Niles, shortz, comes up with very vicious children named Ronnie and Kasper who tortured me. Dr. Proctor just said I was a sissy, but how interesting that his faction is led by a seven foot tall black man, and that there was present a woman named Sissy Prettiman. You can’t always get what you want at Pamela’s Restaurant even if you order it and pay for it, but you can check the menu for the evidence that they are in the cargo cult of Nikki DiBarNO and Gail Burstyn, who said she was about ready to send me ESP signals.
If she did send them with Pener Gabriel, I have no doubt I would wake up in the morning being told how frightful to be so humiliated. Because the joke is on me, right Obama? How many ways do you spin a name game? Oswald worked at Jagr, Jagger as in Mick? Or Buttons, gimme that, McCormick? This was Jagr Stoval? Stove all doesn’t have holocaust connotations? Jagging as a medium for holocaust doesn’t either? Okay. When I heard the sad story of the woman who died of a brain amoeba in Seattle this week, I thought, well, Penis Gabriel and UW have another microbe to weaponize.
This semester showed that the goblins of the AIDS attack at UW are plying the secret treaty of genocide under the rubrics of ecological emergency, but something else than genocidal ecologists came out when I mused into the issue of Neanderthal Identity Politics, The metamorphic quality of the Neanderthal trope and its utility to nearly lampoon aspects of identity politics comes through even in fairly serious scholarship like Svante Paabo’s peculiar book in which he wrangles with the discovery of DNA in strange places like China, and creates a narrative grid of dominance and sub-dominance that reads like a tale from the unexpected. “We tend to think that modern humans were dominant over Neanderthals, as Neanderthals eventually disappeared. But our data actually suggested that gene flow had be from Neanderthals into modern humans. (p. 193).
The author insists on a sub-topic of confusion about his sexual preference. “All this secrecy and double play finally became too much for me,” decrying that, “not only did I have secrets from Mark, I had secrets with Mark.” This double life made Mark Mark reflect his own “father’s double life.” It is a curious mixture of relevance as though flirting with a half-hidden puzzle.
Throughout the mentalplex and hall of mirrors in the publisher’s selected sequence we find to some extent an acquisition by academic media of the hidden National Sport of sex ball, as though the entire carousing of Neanderthal genius for survival and mystery of play, announces its agency as a Cro-Magnon Klukker, emerging from the bushes with a burning spear to shout with fury over a hit and run dalliance of forbidden miscegenation, “Muh Fia~!” It was De De who instructed me that Mafia came from that, early on in Tive’s game of name it/bought it with Saudi investing Seattle queers and Sin D Rue D the crazy diamond.
When Youssou N’dour launched his deranged foreign attack on freedom of public streets in America, it was obviously all along from the Ivy League. With the predatory element built right in to the practice of government in places like Seattle and Pittsburgh, the goal of discrediting the United States of America comes easy for the attackers who own the mind of the world.
