King Crimson, which is the name of a rock band by his own admission meaning Lord of the Flies, snicker that I walked into their arms and am to blame myself for the manner in which they tortured me and lay claim to the better elements of my work, having been inspiring to me in a damaged childhood.   King Crimson are deeply implicated not only in summoning my murder, but the AIDS attack and script of Gail Burstyn. By contrast, my father Ryland, whose mind and educational powers they refuse to credit due the categorical imperative of foreign English war on Humanism, was probably a dupe of his old shipmate Bush, whom King Crimson are sycophantic attaches of.   Their godfather, the profoundly depraved, maniacal, shitty and evil Ringo Starr, who once had the honor of meeting my father, took a chance in targeting me not as a person, but as a symbolic American in a routine that sheds light on their insistence that the English Army (alone) had just won the war at a time when American servicemen were working a generation who carried true hope, the beacon of JFK and faith in our government.   They blew his mind out in a car and then told us to be instructed listening to them offer up songs to express our sorrow. How generous of them. They will never willingly credit anything about us that doesn’t serve their malice. My father was a hard-working, distinguished person who seemed to have wanted the best for me. He was a Naval veteran who there is reason to believe was murdered, too, by persons he sought to help and advance.  He was brave enough to speak his mind on issues like the war in Vietnam which he opposed, and the sort of enemies who marked him liked having that excuse. They might have even pushed him from very close to use intemperate language for their own effects. It is characteristic of the rabid never to credit my father, and equally characteristic of them to opportunize on the sentiments of local insurgents who resented our being white enough to help them and Donald Trump, their puppet master, now out of the shadows of network to pout from on high, who they really mean in their epigram, “Acknowledgement to D.T.” on their rip off title:  Starless and Bible Black. My father said it sounded like my thesis statement should be on: God, Guns and Rock ‘n Roll.

       In the 60’s, a graffiti started turning up in public toilets:  God is Dead ~ Nietzsche. Nietzsche is Dead ~ God. It may as well have said:  Adolf is Dead ~ Dewey. There was a legend released by Disneyworld Army command to popular libraries often repeated by G.I. Bill professors that Truman considered Mt. Fuji instead of Hiroshima but were afraid he would be embarrassed if the Little Boy misfired as a dud.   Didn’t happen. Nope. Hiroshima was the target and the storyline had another purpose. H was the first in a count of six to Nagasaki in a big HNT, hint, all calculated for a future project still on go. Another story by the same sage of Army command and popular library said that Hermann Goering, no known relation to Ringo or Carrie Gister, whose widow was later represented by Jack Ruby and his attorney.  They said he cheated the hangman. It was another necessary parable, because King Edward got his friend Hitler an eleventh hour rescue, just as Hitler had once helped Mussolini escape a prison, and Casper the Friendly Spirit was safe in Mendoza, Argentina, game on.

        Church of the Ill is the name of the game by Gail Carolyn Burstyn, Two Virgins Pussyball, from an Anglo-Japanese Secret Treaty as clowniac and klukker as the Crimson Oyster Cult, but definitely true.    The rabid who did it are thrilled at themselves for taking a man as priceless as my father Ryland to his grave with public notice, never upstage the sex dungeon master of The Rolling Stones. He will grab you like a pussy and squeeze so hard your nose will pop off.

         Sometimes a gnat can make a big name by pestering an elephant into a stampede.   Seattle leadership is like that, so is Pittsburgh. Izola Curry was kept in secret psychiatric wards, but whenever someone hears that she stabbed Dr. King with a letter opener, if they have sensitivity to the communication nature of the British, realize it is symbolic of something.   Why would a black person kill someone so obvious trying help their own people? Ella Baker used to whine about King’s popularity and try to cut him down to size. The Black Panthers and their ilk would rant and rage about him thinking himself: De Lawd!. There is a whole mafia of fish who would help the men who murdered Roberto Clemente and then steal his name to rape the sort of Pittsburgh children he loved most and omoja this a moral story.   Seattle is like that, so is Pittsburgh. Ringo squeezes them to get that from them. He holds out mega-bribes and creams it is justice. It is so common with these perverts that University of Washington, without shame, actually tried to recruit me, a man whose father they helped murder, loved one they raped, personally humiliated and chemically castrated without trial on a smear. Ahhhhuuugghhh. What a horrible, horrible world.

           The real reason for the myth of the bomb and Mt. Fuji is that Disney had noted the disappearing magic Mt. Rainier and knew about the Little Girl bomb, which is what they called AIDS, released by those behind the relative mercy of the 911 attacks, and it will be just like starting over when you forgive and Apology.   Not only is giving space-based weapons to Trump deadly wrong-headed for the ease with which his friends can tap into the computers, but you must reflect also on who he turned Ultrahigh on, the gloating voices of their insidious bedlam. It was a symbolic American to finalize the pulverization of JFK. No joke.

         When Mancine held me hostage in Wattenmaker’s dirty refrigerator as a child they took me to a lot of strange movies often let in by an usher through the back door (years later making me pay for the tickets).   One of them was a subterranean cult in a dungeon tunnel of a subway who were like mole people hollering mindless, “BARE DE DOOOOR,” which it turned out was something resembling the only thing they heard over the loudspeaker for years and years, a day’s work in linguistic anthropology by Jaime Carbonell at Carnegie Mellon.    

        Although it clearly shows the clever and shrewd mind of Penis McCartney and his hirelings, the idea of giving someone savagely ritually molested AIDS for freak revenge on the Steelers by bowling for dollars Seahawks fans is an idea that sucks.