Nobody has a monopoly on the bullshit that Pitt uses for rhetoric.   Those who do not do politics will be done, it’s the way of the world and so on.   No matter how they dress it up, the politics of the United States as told by Pittsburgh and Seattle will never be anything but loutish.   A case in point is Tupac Shakur. Deviants contort my sentiment about Obama into a death wish on Kobe Bryant. What wouldn’t they say? I don’t believe in using psychology to criminalize dissent, but I stayed away from Shakur because I didn’t want to be sick learning anything about him, I prefered to just celebrate his status as a dissenter and humanize him as a black person, but lo and behold the Wupac Injuncy was determined to hotwire him into my reputation.  The clowniac mind of Green Party black rage and their out-to-profit at the expense of the white dacoitery can be fathomed with ease by considering a rumination like, oh the white murdered Dr. King but we got those two Kennedy knowitalls, now. The fact that the same program killed both the 2 and the 1 is lost on subconscious loyalist Axis gruesomes all psyched out by Black Lives Matter jibbering from the South African Secret Service and their Yojimbo Moxyland. You tell campus detectives until you are blue, they just don’t get the concept of Yojimbo, like Ichiro batting left and throwing right there is just too much ambidexterity to the notion of playing sides against each other. So, given that nobody gets wise, it’s obvioiusly not going to be over until they stop, and judging from their playstatioin rulebook of syphilis that won’t be soon.

         The plastic reality hype of David Bowie and his pro-African Nazi Movement, the thin white duke Edward and Oswald Mosley reborn as the Flying Nun found a brother in Dr. Earl Ofari Hutchison’s stuff about assassination of the black male image.  I suppose that a black kid trying to protect his notebooks from a hostile black stranger his own age who hates him for accomplishing something in school is assassinating the black male image. I suppose that if Dr. Ben Carson covers his ears at Nasty As I Wanna Be he is assassinating the black male image.   Ofari just can’t get it through his head that there is such a thing as villainy and that identifying it isn’t discrimination; so he and the other sickos in the NAACP can quit whining that calling Reagan as brutal as the Axis is somehow proof of my racist stereotyping. Gah! The legerdemain of the sellouts always comes foot-stomping with Colin Powell’s crowd.

      When Bruce Lee says, “Be like water, my friend,” it’s due to water’s pioneering instinct, the way it makes osmosis and equilibrium as a solvent.  Water solves. These are the men who have been removed, the brain trust that stood in the way of Trump’s restoration of the Axis. This fact is quite literal when you get the background in Pittsburgh on Donald Finnegan and Edward Eisen, long known to have been in the apparatus, and a Jewish questioner of Bruce Lee.   Trump’s scriptwriters, Coppola and Brando, working with Warhol were the opposite of water. They set out to do harm as insoluble, and to bribe the burghers, posing as wisebeards, often securing Administration at Pitt. Pitt doee like dis here about Guatemalan syphilis experiments then doee like dat dere with poison in duh mouff. Working with CMU came easy, the money was good. The pimping was a laugh. Don’t expect help, my friend, there is none to find.

        Riback and Sparks are not a logical gang in the way that black rage would have you strut and those who do will just fall right into Penis Gabriel’s net of media as the cinema of perception.    What they are doing is a military rhapsody playing muse to Woody Allen’s theme of meaninglessness, working from a bank of victim grudge that is bottomless due to Treblinka and the Amistad announcing themselves mercenary poets of the Ark. I know this from what I ran into investigating the AIDS attack, from years and years of noting how they would have you think, how they do, what they say and the misinterpretations that they love to cause as an extra-sensory specialty, getting the results they want and the subordination they have killed to secure.  They are the Gremblin, making mischief in the air, destroying planes, surprising by fire on the Imperial Zeppelin, and always will be whenever America imagines themselves their own master over Brian Eno and his Polish tea party.

        In being sniped at by Japanese Ultrahigh enthusiasts for using the vernacular that was in vogue against the Axis, they always say that they want to see a mentality change.  Who doesn’t? But ultimately, I’m not Henry Wiggins. I don’t know how to defend the public, I am a special interest lobby. I care about those in my generation who were used by Moxyland, who were betrayed by Bowie and who still don’t know it, inevitably that means they will be weaponized by the Kroke Regoanov to target me.   

       In Spike Lee’s Do The Right Thing, the consumer kitsch of which drowned out my summons to properly investigate Mt. Desert Island, the argument, in the name of Trump, as spouted at Sal’s Pizza was over a picture on the wall.  The South African Secret Service served notice that Obama would be a corporate installation for cooperation with HitlerReagan and the NAACP miraculously cheered this genocidal miracle. Brother by Beat Kitano was filmed in L.A. as the perfect gesture for the thieving delivery of Kennedy’s kitchen to the beneficiary of the insurgency and his virgin fight club porno tripping.   

      I noticed the poacheresque mesmer of a Ringo queer lording over the image of Greta Thunberg at one of her talks, and it was no surprise.  Ringo can promote her, but he dare not let a loose cannon of climate change question the Beatles in the AIDS atrocity. They’d lose their grip by admission of the evidence.